rebel scum

The last patrol together had been… relaxed. On your side, anyway. Maybe a little too relaxed. You had missed a couple signs you should have caught, let your attention drift more than once while walking the tree line. Nothing dangerous had happened, but Joel had noticed. Of course he had. The man noticed everything.

Still, the whole lecture had felt unfair.

When you rode patrol with Joel Miller, the man practically absorbed the entire job himself. He checked the tracks, listened to the wind, scanned every ridge like something deadly was about to crawl over it. Half the time he handled things before you even had a chance to step in.

Trying to assist often felt like showing up late to a fight he had already finished.

So yeah - maybe you had been less attentive than you should have been. But it wasn’t because you didn’t care.

It was because when Joel was beside you, the world felt… handled.

That realization had landed right as he was finishing his little speech.

And instead of apologizing like the sensible part of your brain suggested - maybe slipping out of the stables before things got worse - you had planted your boots firmly in the dirt.

“Who then?” you shot back, folding your arms as the words came out sharper than planned. “You're gonna be the one teaching me? I’d love to see you try, old man.”

The moment the words left your mouth, you knew the last part had been unnecessary.

Joel had a particular talent for getting under your skin, but calling him old man had been like flicking a match into dry grass.

The reaction was immediate.

He went still.

Then he released the horse’s reins without looking, letting them fall loosely over the post as he stepped out of the stall. Each step measured enough that your instincts kicked in before your pride could stop them. You weren’t even sure when your own boots shifted backward, but the space between you widened all the same.

Joel’s expression didn’t change much.

That was the unsettling part.

His eyes stayed locked on you, dark and assessing, like he was already calculating something.

“Well,” he drawled after a beat, voice calm in a way that felt more dangerous than the shouting had. “That’s not the worst idea you’ve had.” Another step closer. “Been hearin’ you skipped more’n a few of those self-defense drills lately.” His gaze dragged over you. “Let’s see how tough you act when someone actually puts you on your back.”

And that was how you ended up trudging through ankle-deep snow on what should have been a perfectly quiet afternoon off.

Because you couldn’t keep your mouth shut.

The wind dragged like cold fingers through the trees lining the path to the training barn, snow crunching under your boots with every step as you replayed the moment in the stables for the hundredth time. If you had just walked away - if you had swallowed your pride for once - you’d be somewhere warm right now.

Instead, you had challenged Joel Miller to prove you wrong.

And if you were being honest with yourself, the irritation between you two wasn’t exactly one-sided. Getting under Joel’s skin had become a strange sort of sport. The man had a way of grinding against your nerves until you snapped back without thinking.

Apparently the feeling went both ways.

Your breath curled in pale clouds as the barn came into view, the big wooden structure crouched quietly beneath a dusting of snow. No voices. No movement. Just the faint creak of wood shifting in the cold.

You reached it later than the time he had given you.

Technically by accident.

Mostly.

A small, petty part of you had slowed your pace on purpose. Let him stew a little. Pissed people made mistakes. And today you had every intention of knocking Joel Miller down a peg or two.

The barn door groaned softly when you pushed it open.

Inside, the air was colder than you expected, the structure barely insulated from the winter outside. Your boots echoed faintly against the packed floor as you stepped in, shrugging out of your thick coat and shaking snow from the sleeves.

“Joel?” you called, voice carrying through the wide space.

You draped the coat over a small wooden stool near the entrance. If this training session looked anything like the handful of drills you’d bothered attending before, you wouldn’t stay cold for long.

Movement would fix that.

The training area had been mostly cleared out. A broad patch of packed dirt and old mats where Jackson ran its combat practice. Last time you’d been here it had been crowded - laughter, teasing, half the patrol crew watching each other stumble through holds and throws.

Now the place felt different.

Quieter.

Dim light filtered through the high slats in the barn walls, dust and hay drifting lazily through the beams. A few old crates were stacked toward the back, casting long crooked shadows across the floor. Somewhere deeper inside, a loose board creaked softly with the wind.

But most notably - no Joel.

You suppressed the thought that Joel Miller was almost never late. If anything, he was the kind of man who showed up ten minutes early just to glare at everyone else.

Still.

If the universe decided to make an exception today, you weren’t about to complain.

“Joel?” you called again, already turning back toward the door as you reached for your coat. “If this is some kinda joke -”

A faint shuffle cut through the quiet behind you.

Subtle enough that it could have been anything. The wind blowing through a crack in the boards. A rat scurrying somewhere in the hay.

But your brain, helpful as ever, supplied a different thought.

What if something actually had happened?

Joel slipping on ice somewhere behind the barn. Old men did that, didn’t they?

The image made you snort a quiet laugh as you stepped deeper inside, heading toward the darker end of the building where the stacked crates sat like squat shadows.

“Joel?” you called again, tone lighter now.

No grumpy Texan clutching a broken hip greeted you. Just scattered hay, dirt, and the faint smell of old wood.

Then you noticed the tracks.

Boot prints pressed into the thin dust near the crates.

You barely had time to register them before something slammed into you from the side.

Hard.

The impact knocked the air clean out of your lungs as your body was driven backward into the stacked crates. Wood rattled violently behind you, the force of the hit folding you against it so abruptly that even the instinct to shout died in your throat.

All that escaped you was a strangled breath as the world lurched sideways and suddenly felt very, very close.

You only managed to catch yourself at the last second. Your boots slipped in the dust as the crates rattled behind you, but instinct kicked in before gravity could finish the job. One hand shot out, bracing against the wood long enough to steady yourself before you stumbled back into the more open space of the training floor.

And he followed.

“What the actual hell was that, Joel?!” you snapped, the words bursting out before your lungs had even properly recovered.

Joel Miller stepped out of the shadows like he had all the time in the world. The dim light spilling through the barn slats caught the edge of his shoulders, the familiar broad frame moving toward you with the same steady patience he carried everywhere.

He didn’t answer.

Just kept walking.

The deliberate silence set your nerves on edge faster than any insult could have.

Without thinking you took a step back - mirroring exactly what had happened in the stables earlier. Your heel scraped lightly over the packed dirt before you forced yourself to stop retreating. Straightened your back. Planted your feet.

You refused to give him the satisfaction twice.

“So…” You cleared your throat, hating the faint tremor that slipped into your voice anyway. “How are we doing this? Thought these things usually start with rules. You know. Demonstrations. Maybe someone showing the hold first before -”

A low chuckle slipped from him.

It carried about as much humor as a knife.

“You honestly think that’s what it looks like out there?” Joel muttered.

He rolled one shoulder as he moved, the motion stiff enough that you noticed it immediately. The impact must’ve hurt him too when he slammed into you. He masked it well, but the brief tightening of his jaw gave it away.

Still, the look he gave you afterward made it clear he didn’t care.

“Oh, darlin’,” he added quietly, voice dropping into that slow Texan drawl that usually meant trouble. “You’re in for a rude surprise.”

Two seconds.

That was about how long you had to swallow the sudden spike of unease rising in your chest.

Then the panic got burned away by something hotter.

The sheer audacity of this man.

You took two quick steps backward, widening the distance and shifting your weight the way you’d been taught during drills. Feet planted. Knees loose. Hands lifting instinctively toward your chest.

Fine.

If Joel wanted to play instructor like this, you’d show him you had actually listened during those classes.

Unfortunately, you were still underestimating just how serious he was about the lesson.

He moved before you could fully settle into your stance.

One moment he stood a few paces away.

The next he was on you.

Your hands shot up higher, ready to intercept a grab - because that was what the drills usually started with. Wrist control. Balance breaks.

Joel didn’t reach for your arms.

He swung.

An actual punch.

The movement came fast enough that your brain barely had time to process it. You ducked on instinct alone, dropping your shoulder just as his fist cut through the air where your head had been.

You avoided the worst of it.

But not all of it.

His knuckles clipped the side of your skull as they passed, the glancing contact sending a sharp buzz of pain through your temple that made your ears ring.

“Jesus, Joel!” you barked, staggering back a step as your hand flew to your cheek. “What the fuck -”

“Thought you might try talkin’ your way outta trouble too?” he grunted.

Another swing followed immediately.

You barely avoided that one too, stumbling sideways as the punch cut past your shoulder close enough to stir the air.

And that was when the realization finally clicked.

He wasn’t actually trying to hit you.

Not really.

If Joel had meant it - if he’d put his full weight behind those blows - you’d already be down. Nose broken. Lip split. Maybe worse.

This was controlled.

Terrifyingly precise.

“Of course not, you idiot,” you shot back, breath coming faster now as adrenaline started flooding your system. “I just -”

“You just what?” Joel cut in, circling closer. “Thought you could coast through patrols and let somebody else watch your back, kiddo?”

“I just thought -”

You never finished the sentence.

Because that was when he closed the distance completely.

One moment he was a step away.

The next his hands were on you.

His unyielding grip clamped onto your shoulders before you could react, momentum carrying straight through you as he hooked a foot behind your ankle and swept your legs out from under you in one brutal, practiced motion.

The world flipped.

Your back slammed into the old training mats hard enough to knock the air from your lungs in a sharp, involuntary gasp. Dust puffed around you as your vision flashed white for a split second, stars scattering across the edges of your sight.

You barely had time to register what had happened.

Because Joel was already on top of you.

His weight settled in fast, knees pinning your legs to the ground before you could kick free. One hand locked around each of your upper arms, forcing them down against the mat with a strength that left very little room for argument.

You tried to twist.

Tried to buck him off.

It didn’t move him an inch.

Joel leaned slightly over you, breath still steady despite the scuffle, his shadow falling across your face in the dim barn light.

“Weren’t thinkin’,” he muttered, voice low and rough. His grip tightened just enough to make the point unmistakable. “That right there’s the problem, darlin’.”

“Okay, you know what -” The words came out between clenched teeth as you bucked against his hold again, muscles straining even though every logical part of your brain already knew it was pointless.

Joel barely shifted.

Still, the flash of defiance in your eyes caught his attention for half a second. His gaze dipped toward you and he made a low sound under his breath as he adjusted his weight to counter your movement.

It wasn’t much.

Just enough pressure in the right places to remind you he was still very much in control.

He waited.

Actually waited.

Like he expected some brilliant comeback to fall out of your mouth.

So you gave him one.

“Fuck you, Joel.”

The words snapped out sharp and immediate, and before he could respond you twisted your hips hard - throwing your weight the way you’d been shown once during a half-forgotten training drill.

The motion had a name. Something about breaking a mount by shifting the opponent’s balance.

At the time it had sounded like wishful thinking.

But somehow - 

It worked.

Almost.

Joel’s grip slipped just enough that you managed to twist sideways beneath him. Your shoulder rolled, your body following the momentum until suddenly you were face-down instead of pinned flat.

You didn’t wait.

You scrambled forward on instinct, boots digging against the mat as your hands clawed for traction in the dust.

Behind you, Joel sucked in a sharp breath.

The knee you’d driven into his ribs during the maneuver had clearly landed better than you’d planned.

For one brief, glorious second you thought you might actually get away.

Then his hand closed around the back of your belt.

The jerk backward was violent enough that your progress stopped instantly, your body sliding helplessly over the dusty mat as the inches you’d gained disappeared in a heartbeat.

Your fingernails scraped uselessly against the ground.

“Damn it -!”

You barely got the protest out before Joel leaned forward again.

One hand seized both your wrists, yanking them behind your back in a single brutal motion. His grip tightened until your arms were forced together, the angle making it impossible to twist free.

A second later his knees settled heavily against the backs of your legs, pinning you in place while his weight pressed down just enough to make resistance feel laughable.

You opened your mouth to curse him out.

Then you felt it.

The rough scrape of something fibrous brushing your skin.

Rope.

Your stomach dropped.

“Okay - Joel, wait!” The words came faster now as the cord circled your wrists, tightening with practiced efficiency. “Hold on a second -” The rope cinched tighter. “I said wait!” The sharp edge of panic in your own voice caught you off guard.

Joel didn’t react.

“Give me one good reason,” he said simply.

“What reason do you -?” You twisted your head, trying to glare up at him over your shoulder. “This isn’t funny, Joel.”

“It ain’t supposed to be.”

You squirmed beneath him as he pulled the knot snug, the rope biting just enough to make the reality of it sink in. It was too tight for a mere training unit.

You weren’t slipping out of that anytime soon.

Your body shifted restlessly under his weight, trying again to find leverage that simply wasn’t there.

Okay.

New strategy.

“Alright,” you muttered quickly, forcing the words out before the tension crawling up your spine could take over completely. “I get it. Message received. I should’ve paid more attention on patrol. That one’s on me.” The rope tugged tighter. “This is still unfair,” you added stubbornly.

Joel’s knee slid upward slightly as he finished securing the knot, pressing into the small of your back with deliberate weight.

“Fair?” he repeated. His voice carried a faint edge of disbelief. “You think the folks waitin’ out there care about your sense of fairness?”

You turned your head against the mat, cheek scraping the rough surface as you tried to look back at him.

Joel didn’t appear the least bit rattled.

His brows were drawn together the way they always were, deep lines etched across his forehead. The familiar salt-and-pepper beard framed a mouth set in that same firm line you’d seen a hundred times before.

But there was no anger now.

No smirk either.

Just a calm, steady focus that somehow felt worse.

You weren’t sure what exactly he was determined to do, and something about that thought made your chest tighten.

“No, it’s just…” you started, words faltering as you tried to find something that didn’t sound like outright surrender. “I wasn’t expecting you to be such a -”

The sentence cut off when Joel suddenly shifted.

His weight lifted from your back without warning.

Relief barely had time to register before his hands caught your shoulder and hip, rolling you over in one smooth motion.

You landed flat on your back again.

Joel settled over you almost immediately, kneeling around your legs the way he had earlier - only now your wrists were secured behind you, leaving your arms completely useless.

The position pulled uncomfortably at your shoulders, the rope tightening each time you moved. But you decided very quickly not to complain about that. Comfort clearly wasn’t high on Joel’s list of priorities today.

“- such a committed trainer?” Joel finished dryly.

You glared up at him.

“Such an asshole,” you corrected.

Your body twisted again beneath him, instinctively trying to knock him off balance. Your hips jerked upward, attempting to disrupt his center of gravity.

Joel barely shifted. If anything his crotch pushed into your center just as much to secure you.

“Newsflash, darlin’,” he muttered. “World outside Jackson ain’t exactly known for patience.”

You huffed out a breath, rolling your eyes despite the position.

“Yeah, alright. Point taken.” You shifted your shoulders experimentally against the rope. “So untie me already. Pretty sure the lesson stuck.”

Joel didn’t move.

Didn’t even look like he was considering it.

Instead he adjusted his weight slightly, settling into the kneeling position like someone getting comfortable for a long conversation.

Your stomach sank.

“Doubt it,” he said. The words were calm. Almost casual. “Lesson ain’t even started yet.”

Something flickered in his hand then.

Metal catching the faint light filtering through the barn walls.

And when your eyes dropped to it, the breath caught hard in your throat.

Joel had a knife.

For a moment you just stared at it. Then - unexpectedly - even to yourself, a laugh slipped out. It started as a short breath and turned into something sharper, almost incredulous.

Because this was Joel.

Joel Miller might be a lot of things - grumpy, stubborn, occasionally insufferable - but he wasn’t some deranged lunatic who’d decided to start carving people up during a training session.

The man patched fences for neighbors after long patrols. Helped haul lumber for repairs even when he’d already pulled double shifts. Joel Miller carried himself like someone who’d seen too much of the world to waste energy pretending to be nice, but you had never once seen him be cruel.

Rough, yes.

Unfair? Never.

So this?

This had to be part of the scare tactic.

A prop.

A way to drive the lesson home.

And hell… it was working.

Your laugh lingered a little longer than necessary, the sound edged with nerves you hoped he wouldn’t notice. When something overwhelmed you, that was usually how you dealt with it.

“Alright, alright,” you muttered, rolling your eyes toward him. “You can cut the theatrics now. What exactly are you planning to do with that?” You tilted your head slightly, trying to keep the tone casual. “Pretty sure the council won’t be thrilled if I walk back into town with knife wounds from a training exercise.”

You aimed for cool and unbothered. Joel’s eyes flickered briefly over your face. The faint tremor in your voice hadn’t slipped past him.

“Knife ain’t just for stabbin’ people,” he said flatly. “Might need to sign you up for a weapons lesson too while we’re at it.”

Before you could respond, the blade moved.

Not the sharp edge but the flat, dull side. Cold metal brushed lightly across your cheek.

Your head turned instinctively, trying to avoid it, but Joel followed the motion easily - guiding the blade downward along the line of your jaw and throat.

A slow trail of chilled steel.

The tip continued lower, slipping toward the collar of your shirt.

You stilled despite yourself.

The point of the knife tapped lightly against the first button of your flannel, clicking softly against the plastic.

Then the next.

And the next.

Each small contact felt absurdly loud in the quiet barn.

“Don’t see you doin’ much fightin’ right now,” Joel observed calmly. His chin tipped forward slightly, gesturing vaguely toward the position you were stuck in beneath him. “Someone got you pinned like this out there… what exactly’s your plan?”

“I wouldn’t get caught,” you shot back automatically.

Joel’s mouth twitched.

“If an old man can do it half asleep…” he said dryly, tossing your earlier insult right back at you, “I ain’t too confident you’d fare better with a group of raiders.”

Your eyes narrowed.

“If it were raiders,” you countered quickly, “I’d already be exactly where you said I’d end up. Dead somewhere in a ditch.” Your gaze flicked pointedly to the knife. “They’d want my gear. My rations. My weapons. Not my patience.”

Joel’s grin tilted sideways.

Not amused.

Just… knowing.

“You sure about that?” he murmured.

Before you could respond, the tip of the knife slid neatly between one of the lower buttons and its thread.

Your brain barely had time to register what he was doing before he twisted his wrist slightly.

Pop.

The button snapped free.

It shot somewhere over your shoulder, landing out of sight behind you.

“What the - Joel!”

Your head jerked up instinctively, more offended by the destruction of a perfectly good shirt than anything else. Still, something deeper shifted under your ribs.

Because Joel was right. Being captured out there - especially as a woman - wouldn’t end quickly.

Wouldn’t end kindly.

The next button popped.

Adrenaline flooded your bloodstream in a sudden rush and your body bucked beneath him again, instinct overriding reason.

The blade slipped. Not deep. But the point grazed your skin just enough to leave a sharp sting across your stomach.

“Watch it, jerk!” you hissed.

Joel stopped. But not out of concern.

Out of calculation.

Slowly the knife lifted from your half-open shirt and returned upward, the flat of the blade resting once again against the side of your neck.

“If I was one of them,” Joel said quietly, leaning closer, “and I had you stuck like this beneath me…” His voice dropped lower. “Best start pickin’ your words real careful.”

He was close enough now that you could see every line in his face.

Close enough that he had to see the flicker of fear creeping into your eyes.

And he didn’t stop.

Didn’t pull back.

Didn’t soften the pressure of his weight holding you down.

For one alarming second a thought flickered through your head.

He wasn’t ignoring your fear.

He was letting you sit with it.

Maybe even - 

Enjoying the effect.

Your breathing slowed. When you spoke again, your voice came out colder than before. Enough that it caught his attention immediately.

“Yeah?” you murmured. Joel leaned a fraction closer, watching you carefully. “Then listen real close, Joel.”

But instead of the clever insult he was clearly expecting…

You gathered saliva.

And spat.

Right into his face.

Joel jerked back just enough that the dull side of the knife scraped lightly along your skin. The movement was quick - reflex more than intent - and for a second his brows pulled together in something close to surprise.

Then he huffed.

And laughed.

Not the dry little breath of amusement people in Jackson sometimes coaxed out of him. Not the brief exhale that usually passed for humor from Joel Miller.

This was different.

The sound came as a real laugh that rolled out of his chest before he could seem to stop it. It carried something sharp in it too - something edged with challenge that made the skin on the back of your neck prickle.

You realized, distantly, that you could probably count the times you’d heard Joel Miller laugh on one hand.

This one felt… new.

“Alright,” he muttered, still chuckling as he dragged the sleeve of his jacket across his face, wiping away the spit without much ceremony. “Go ahead. Act like a brat.” His dark eyes dropped back to yours. “Let’s see how far that attitude carries you.”

The knife returned to your shirt.

Before you could react, three buttons popped in quick succession.

Pop.

Pop.

Pop.

The sounds echoed in the quiet barn like small gunshots, fabric pulling apart under the pressure of the blade. Within seconds only the top button still held, the flannel hanging open enough that the cold air slipped easily against your skin.

Joel rested the tip of the knife against that final button, his gaze settling back on you.

“Tell me somethin’, darlin’,” he said, voice quieter now. “When does all that stubbornness finally turn into beggin’?” His mouth twitched faintly. “Be real interestin’ to hear you whimper for once.”

The knife didn’t move.

It waited there, hovering against the thread.

“I’d rather you stab me,” you shot back immediately, forcing the words out before hesitation could betray you. “You’re not getting a single plea out of me.”

It was a lie.

You both knew it.

The tension in your chest was already tightening, nerves and adrenaline twisting together into something that made your breathing shallow.

And yet… something inside you refused to back down.

Part pride.

Part curiosity.

Because a small, reckless voice in the back of your mind wanted to know just how far Joel Miller would actually push this lesson.

Surely not that far. Right?

You gave yourself a second to remember exactly who was sitting on top of you.

Joel Miller.

The same man who had barely glanced at you that one patrol when you’d slipped in the brush and torn your shirt on a branch. The fabric had ripped at exactly the wrong place, leaving your cleavage embarrassingly obvious for the rest of the trek back to Jackson.

Joel had looked away almost immediately.

Barely a second.

Like it hadn’t even registered.

That Joel Miller wasn’t about to take things further just to prove a point.

…Right?

And if he did…

Your stomach tightened unexpectedly.

Would it actually be so terrible?

“We’ll see about that,” Joel muttered.

The knife twisted.

Pop.

The final button gave way.

The front of your shirt fell open completely, the two sides sliding apart under the pressure of the blade as Joel used it to push the fabric aside. The cold metal drifted slowly down the center of your stomach, tracing a lazy line over your skin.

Your belly rose and fell beneath it, each breath a little quicker than the last.

“Not even gonna try bargainin’?” he asked, eyes lifting back to yours.

“What for?” you muttered, a little more breathless than you meant to sound. “Don’t exactly have anything worth trading.”

Joel’s grin tilted darker.

“Oh, I dunno,” he said quietly. “Seems like I’m gettin’ a pretty decent view already of what you gotta offer.”

Something in your stomach flipped unpleasantly - and not entirely with disgust.

“Try me, old man,” you shot back, the insult coming out sharper than intended. A thread of nervous energy slipped into the words despite your effort to sound confident. “Bet you wouldn’t even be able to.”

You held his gaze stubbornly, your own grin tight with defiance.

There was plenty of spite in it. Plenty of tension too. Because you still weren’t completely sure what Joel actually wanted here.

To scare you? Or rather something else entirely…

The jab made him chuckle again, deeper this time. His shoulders shifted slightly as the sound shook through him, his weight pressing more firmly against you for a second.

Then he leaned forward.

The knife disappeared between his teeth, clamped carefully by the handle so both hands were free.

Your stomach dipped as Joel’s fingers hooked into your belt.

Opening it took him almost no effort at all. He worked the buckle loose with the same calm efficiency he seemed to apply to everything, his other hand planted beside your head for balance. The knife still sat between his teeth, the metal glinting faintly when the dim barn light caught it. The grin around it was unmistakable - broad, wolfish, the kind that showed just enough teeth to make your stomach tighten.

Your breath hitched the moment his fingers found the button of your jeans.

That was when the realization finally settled in fully.

He wasn’t bluffing.

“Joel…” The word slipped out before you could stop it. It wasn’t exactly a plea - not yet - but it carried something close. A last attempt to catch his attention before the line you’d been dancing around disappeared completely. His head tilted slightly at the sound, like he was waiting for the rest. Waiting for the begging he had predicted earlier.

“You don’t have to,” you added, quieter now. “I get it.”

The sharp edge of your usual sarcasm had faded from your voice, replaced by something more honest - tension, a flicker of fear… and an uncomfortable thread of anticipation you didn’t quite know what to do with.

Joel’s mouth curved slowly at one corner.

The grin that followed wasn’t kind.

His fingers finished undoing the button, lingering a moment at the metal of the zipper without pulling it down. Instead, the back of his knuckles brushed lightly across your center through the layers of denim and cotton, the casual contact enough to make your body twitch in surprise.

Your hips jerked instinctively, trying to shift away from the touch even though the movement accomplished very little.

Joel adjusted his weight slightly, leaning back just enough to free the knife from his teeth. The blade slipped back into his hand, the flat side drifting lazily across your exposed stomach again.

“Bit late for that, ain’t it?” he muttered.

Before you could respond, he leaned forward again.

The knife drove suddenly downward, the blade burying itself in the mat right beside your head with a dull thunk that made you flinch hard enough for the ropes around your wrists to bite.

Joel’s chuckle rumbled low in response.

“Besides,” he added calmly, shifting his weight again, “I ain’t convinced you actually get it yet, kiddo.” His free hand returned to your jeans. “You’re still thinkin’ I’m gonna stop here. Scare you a little. Let you walk off and hope the lesson stuck.”

His thumb caught the zipper. Slowly he dragged it downward. The sound seemed absurdly loud in the quiet barn.

“All you’ve done so far,” Joel continued, voice steady, “is prove you only understand somethin’ once it’s right in front of you.” The zipper reached the bottom. He clicked his tongue softly. “And I ain’t exactly confronted you with much yet.”

“I - I’m gonna scratch your eyes out!” you snapped.

Joel’s brow lifted faintly.

“Be real curious to watch you try that with your hands tied behind your back,” he drawled. “Truth be told, you oughta be grateful you still got ’em.” His tone remained casual. “Seen what raiders do when they’re worried about people fightin’ back. Fingernails, teeth… anything sharp tends to disappear real quick.”

He paused just long enough to make the words settle. Then shrugged lightly.

“Think I can manage you just fine with your claws intact though.”

His hand slid forward again, fingers brushing the edge of your underwear where the open denim now left the fabric exposed.

Your body reacted before your brain caught up.

Your hips jerked upward, the motion automatic.

Joel noticed immediately.

“Now there’s a little fight,” he murmured, the darkness back in his voice. “Thought that tough brat already ran off and left me with somebody a lot more nervous.”

Instead of answering, you twisted harder beneath him.

Your knees drew upward slightly, boots scraping uselessly against the mat as you tried to shift your weight enough to disrupt his balance. It only gained you a fraction of an inch, but the effort felt necessary all the same.

Beside your face, the knife remained planted firmly in the mat.

A silent reminder.

Too close for comfort.

“When this is over,” you muttered through clenched teeth, “I’m gonna make you pay for it.”

Joel huffed softly at that. “When this is over,” he echoed, “you’d be dead in a ditch somewhere.” He tilted his head slightly, watching your expression. “That’s the theory, anyway.” His hand slipped forward again, the rough pads of his fingers brushing lightly against your hip as if testing the reaction.

“In practice?” he continued. His gaze flicked briefly down toward you, as his fingers slipped under the soft cotton of your panties, sliding slowly through your folds, way too wet already for the situation you were in. A slow grin followed.

“Seems like you’re not exactly hatin’ the lesson as much as you pretend.”

You tried to fight it.

Tried with everything you had left in you to keep the reaction from showing, to stop him from seeing what the smallest touch of his hand was doing. Pride alone demanded it. But when Joel’s fingers slid just a little deeper, gathering the slick wetness there before circling lazily over your clit, control slipped through your grasp all the same.

The sound that escaped you was small.

Barely more than a breath.

But it was there.

A whimper.

Joel froze instantly.

Not pulling away - just stilling, the pressure of his hand remaining exactly where it was. Then he leaned forward, lowering his head until his ear hovered close to your lips.

“What was that?” he murmured.

You clenched your jaw. “What, old man?” you muttered back through your teeth, trying to sound unimpressed even as the tension curled tighter in your stomach. “Can’t hear… anyth -”

Your voice faltered.

Because his fingers started moving again.

Slow circles, each motion stealing another piece of your composure until the bite in your words began dissolving into something softer, something harder to contain.

“…fuck,” you breathed, the sound slipping out before you could swallow it back. Another whimper followed, one you tried to stifle by turning your head sharply aside and pressing your lips together.

Joel huffed quietly. “Oh, I can hear those moans just fine,” he said, voice low and amused.

His fingers shifted again, sliding deeper before nudging forward to your entrance with a careful pressure that made your back tense against the mat.

“Just caught me off guard, that’s all.”

Your hands flexed uselessly behind you, fingernails scraping against the mat as your body reacted without asking permission.

“Didn’t realize you were this desperate for it,” he went on calmly. “Could’ve saved myself the whole training lecture if you’d just said so.”

“Don’t - get too excited,” you forced out. Your face remained locked in a scowl, brows drawn tight with irritation, but every small twitch of Joel’s hand kept betraying you anyway. Joel’s mouth curved faintly.

“Funny,” he muttered. “You look like the one getting excited here.”

Before you could snap back, he pressed two fingers into you, stretching you unexpectedly.

The sound that tore from you echoed far louder than you would’ve liked in the quiet barn, bouncing faintly off the wooden beams overhead. Heat rushed through your skin despite the winter air creeping through the walls, your breath coming quicker as your body arched against the pressure.

Joel let out a low hum.

“Well now,” he murmured. “That’s a helpful reaction. Good girl making it easy for me.”

The words good girl slipped from him almost lazily, like he wasn’t even thinking about them.

But they landed.

Harder than anything else he had said.

Being called a brat had been annoying. Something to push back against.

That?

That slid straight under your skin.

Joel shifted slightly above you, his hips grinding forward just enough that you could feel the effect of the situation for yourself. His hard cock clearly visible - and noticeable - through the denim fabric.

“Gotta admit though,” he added under his breath, “didn’t figure you’d let me get this far.”

Your chest rose and fell unevenly.

“Didn’t exactly have much of a choice,” you shot back.

Joel snorted quietly.

“Would’ve stopped the second I saw real fear in your eyes,” he said, almost casually. “That much I promise.”

His fingers moved again, angling just right, the motion pulling another involuntary arch from your back.

“Didn’t expect quite this much anticipation, though.”

Then he withdrew.

Just like that.

The sudden emptiness left you staring up at the rafters for a moment, trying very hard not to look as disappointed as you suddenly felt.

“Anticipating the moment I get to wipe that smug grin off your face,” you muttered.

“Sure,” Joel said mildly. “All talk so far.”

He shifted his weight again, giving your hips just enough room to move - but not enough to actually escape. Before you could twist away, his hand caught your arm, gripping firmly as he rolled you over once more.

The cold mat pressed against the bare skin of your stomach as you landed face-down again, the rough surface biting lightly against your skin.

“Haven’t seen much proof otherwise,” Joel continued. “Well… close to none…”

You could feel the weight of his gaze moving over you as you squirmed beneath him, ineffective against both his strength and the rope holding your wrists.

Then his hands returned to your jeans.

Before you could brace yourself, he dragged the fabric downward in one swift motion, shoving the denim down to your knees and leaving your legs tangled while your butt was suddenly exposed to the chill air of the barn.

“Look at you…” The words slipped out of Joel almost under his breath, less a taunt and more an observation that had surprised even him. His palm drifted across your exposed backside, the touch unexpectedly light at first - almost thoughtful. The calluses of his hand dragged slowly over your skin, tracing the curve there.

Then his fingers tightened without warning.

They dug sharply into the soft flesh, and the sudden sting ripped a startled cry from your throat before you could stop it.

Joel exhaled a low, amused breath.

“Easy now, darlin’,” he murmured. “You tryin’ to let the whole town know how hard you’re fightin’ back?”

The old barn swallowed his voice and threw it back in faint echoes. Winter air leaked through warped wooden boards, brushing cold against the parts of your skin left bare.

His other hand tugged at the hem of your flannel, pushing the fabric upward just enough to expose the line of your back. His fingers wandered there, following the ridge of your spine like a path. They traveled upward, past the tension between your shoulder blades.

From there, they slid higher still. His hand buried itself in your hair and Joel closed his fist.

Your head jerked back as he pulled, forcing your spine into a sharp arch. The position twisted your face just enough that he could see part of it - your clenched jaw, the stubborn crease between your brows.

“Should’ve gagged you,” he muttered, studying the way your expression flickered between anger and something far less controlled. “That’s what a raider would’ve done. Wouldn’t want you hollerin’ for help.” His grip in your hair tightened slightly as he tilted your head further. “You want that?” he asked, voice dropping lower. “Full experience?”

His knee planted firmly beside your hip, grounding your movements. The other nudged your legs apart a little more, creating space as his free hand drifted back down between your legs.

The moment his touch returned to your wet center, the sound that escaped you was impossible to disguise.

He huffed out a quiet laugh against your ear.

“Well… that settles that.”

His fingers resumed their slow movements, and your body reacted before your pride could catch up. Your words tangled in your throat as sensation swallowed them whole.

Joel felt it instantly as you clenched around his digits.

“Can’t lie,” he said after a moment, voice thick with amusement. “Kinda like hearin’ you make those sounds.”

You tried to respond immediately, some sharp retort ready on instinct - but the rhythm of his hand stole the thought clean out of your head.

It took effort to gather enough focus to speak.

“Funny,” you managed eventually, breath uneven but grin stubbornly tugging at your lips despite the pull in your hair. “You’ve said more in the last five minutes than in all our patrols put together.”

Joel clicked his tongue.

“That’s ’cause you never had anything worth talkin’ about, sweetheart.”

His hand slipped away from you abruptly.

The sudden absence again left a hollow ache you refused to acknowledge.

A moment later, the quiet clink of metal broke the air as his hand moved to his belt.

“That is,” he continued casually, working the buckle loose, “until now.”

You couldn’t see him.

That was the worst part.

The outline you’d caught earlier through the denim of his jeans had been enough to plant the thought firmly in your mind - but without seeing it now, you had no real sense of what waited behind you.

And it was coming.

That much had become unavoidable.

Joel Miller was going to fuck you.

Before closing the distance, Joel leaned forward again. His grip in your hair loosened just enough to guide your head slightly to the side.

His lips brushed near your ear.

The scrape of his beard against your skin sent a small shiver down your spine.

“Wouldn’t mind refreshin’ these lessons now and then,” he murmured. “What d’you think?”

His hips rolled forward slightly against your backside as he spoke and you could feel his rock-hard cock against your skin. The pressure alone made it very clear that whatever came next would be anything but gentle. Or small.

Your reaction betrayed you instantly.

Despite every ounce of pride screaming otherwise, your legs shifted apart a little farther - limited only by the jeans and underwear bunched around your knees. Your hips lifted instinctively, pressing back toward him.

Joel felt it.

The chuckle that rumbled out of him vibrated straight through your body.

“That ain’t an answer, darlin’.”

You squeezed your eyes shut.

Your lips stayed sealed for a few stubborn seconds longer.

Then the words forced their way out anyway, your head giving a tight nod against his grip.

“Y-yes… Joel.” The admission came out strained, breath catching halfway through. “I… wouldn’t mind that.”

“Mind what now, darlin’?”

You swallowed the last ounce of pride left in your body. “Wouldn’t mind you fucking me.”

You barely had time to register the shift behind you.

One moment there was the pressure of his cock lining up at your entrance, the heat of his body crowding yours, the grip on your wrists keeping you arched and exposed.

The next - 

The breath punched straight out of your lungs.

Joel moved in one hard thrust, leaving no room for hesitation, no careful pause to let you adjust around his girth. This wasn’t patient. This wasn’t gentle.

It was rough, immediate, and entirely on his terms.

The sound that tore from you never had a chance to fully escape. His hand left your hair in the same instant and clamped firmly over your mouth, muffling the cry against his rough palm.

Joel groaned low behind you, the sound thick with the shock of it.

Your breath came hot and frantic through your nose against his skin as you struggled to drag air back into your lungs. That first impact had stolen every bit of oxygen from you.

“Fuck, darlin’…” Joel sounded strained as he leaned forward, pressing himself closer along your back. For a moment his forehead rested against the back of your head while he steadied his breathing and settled into the rhythm he wanted.

Despite the brutal beginning, he slowed.

Not enough to make things easy on you - far from it - but enough that the movements stopped feeling like a single overwhelming blow. There was a rough kind of control in it now, a measured pace that gave your body just enough time to keep up.

You mumbled something against the hand covering your mouth, the words lost in a garbled sound. The strain had tears prickling at the corners of your eyes.

Joel huffed softly.

“Wouldn’t have pegged you for such a good girl,” he muttered near your ear, the words carrying that familiar teasing edge. “All ready for me like this.”

The praise sounded almost mocking paired with the relentless rhythm he kept.

Then, unexpectedly, his lips brushed briefly against the side of your neck - a fleeting kiss that contrasted sharply with the roughness everywhere else.

Before you could process it, he shifted again.

His hand slid away from your mouth, leaving your lips parted as you pulled in a shaky breath. Instead, he grabbed hold of your bound wrists, using them like a handle to pull you upward into a deeper arch. The position tightened everything, forcing your back to curve as his other hand dug firmly into the side of your hip to steady you.

“Let's see how good you take me like this.” You could hear the grin in his voice.

“Will you ever shut the fuck up,” you snarled breathlessly, your voice rough from the air you’d been fighting to catch.

Joel laughed behind you - gravelly and clearly entertained.

“Actin’ tough ain’t gonna do you much good right now,” he replied.

Another sharp thrust stole the rest of your retort, a broken sound slipping from your throat before you could stop it.

“In the end,” he continued casually, “you’re gonna be the one babblin’ nonsense… ’cause the only thing left in that head of yours’ll be me fucking you senseless.”

The blunt boldness of his words hit harder than it should have.

Joel had always been many things - stubborn, gruff, irritatingly calm - but this kind of filthy confidence? That had never once crossed your radar.

And damn it, it worked.

Heat built relentlessly in your core, faster than you wanted to admit. Embarrassingly fast.

Joel noticed once more.

“Look at you,” he muttered, almost amused. “Already cockdrunk.” His tongue clicked softly. “Wouldn’t be much of a lesson if you were enjoyin’ yourself too much, now would it?”

The words sent a spike of panic through you.

You twisted your head, trying to catch sight of his face over your shoulder.

Surely he wasn’t serious.

Joel paused just long enough to lean down near your ear again.

“That is…” he added thoughtfully, “…unless you ask real nice.”

The cruelty in it was obvious.

He wanted it. The attitude stripped away, the stubbornness broken down until you were the one begging for more.

And the worst part?

You weren’t nearly as far from it as you wished.

“Joel…” you swallowed hard, your voice suddenly tight. “Please.” The word slipped out before your pride could catch it.

“Yeah,” he murmured, voice softening just a fraction. “I got you, baby girl.”

Another deep slam made your whole body shudder involuntarily as he bottomed out once more.

“Gonna take real good care of you,” he continued, almost conversationally. “Might turn out you’re useful after all.” There was a faint hint of that raider roleplay creeping back into his tone, the mock threat hanging between the words. “Keepin’ you around’s startin’ to sound better than ditchin’ you out there.”

You let it slide. At that point, resisting the game would have taken more focus than you had left.

The tension building inside you climbed higher, tighter.

“Joel… I’m gonna -”

“There you go, darlin’,” he muttered, his own voice rougher now, the control slipping slightly. “That’s it. Show me how you can come on my cock.”

And when it finally hit, it tore through you hard enough to make the world blur at the edges. For a few seconds you forgot everything - where you were, what you’d been arguing about, even your own name.

Joel’s hand returned to your mouth just in time to muffle the loudest part of it, the sound trapped against his palm.

“Beautiful,” he breathed close to your ear as the aftershocks rippled through you. His grip on your wrists tightened briefly. “Wouldn’t mind seein’ that again.” He shifted slightly behind you. “But this barn ain’t empty forever,” he added, voice still low. “And you already got me so close.”

Before you could even process the implication, wondering if he would really fill you up, he pulled out, leaving you abruptly empty. A moment later hot ropes of his climax landed across your back, your bound hands, and the wrinkled fabric of the flannel pushed up around your waist.

Joel’s grunt came staggered, the sound dragged straight out of his chest as he worked through the last of it. One hand was clearly still wrapped around his length, last droplets dripping down and slow strokes guiding the final waves of his release while the warmth of it still marked your back and hands.

Beneath him, your own body hadn’t quite caught up yet.

The remnants of your orgasm still pulsed through you in fading ripples, muscles clenching instinctively around emptiness now that he’d pulled away. Each aftershock made your breath hitch, your nerves still firing long after the moment itself had passed.

The strength drained out of you all at once.

You sank fully down against the mat beneath you, cheek turned to the side as the cold surface pressed against overheated skin.

“Fuck…” It came out hoarse, barely more than a breath.

Behind you, Joel shifted. You could hear the rustle of denim, the quiet sounds of him putting himself back together, but you didn’t have the energy to turn your head and confirm it. Just lifting your arms felt like more work than you were ready for.

“Yeah,” he muttered after a moment, voice still thick. “That about sums it up.” There was a faint grunt as he adjusted his belt. “Could get used to training sessions like that.”

The comment hit your ears just as your mind began catching up with the rest of you.

Your wit returned the moment he was no longer slamming into you.

“Wouldn’t do your back any favors, old man,” you shot back from where you lay.

The sarcasm came automatically.

There was movement beside you that finally made you crack your eyes open.

You caught it just in time.

Joel leaned forward toward the floor, reaching for the knife still embedded upright in the mat where it had been planted earlier. His fingers closed around the handle and he yanked it free in one smooth, forceful pull.

The metal flashed briefly in the dim barn light.

“Careful there, kiddo,” he said, voice lowering again as the knife traced lightly along the line of your spine.

The cool steel sent a sharp shiver through you.

“Taught you a pretty solid lesson the first time about runnin’ that bratty mouth, didn’t I?”

The blade slid down between your bound wrists.

With a quick, practiced slice, the rope gave way.

The tension disappeared instantly as the fibers snapped apart.

“Don’t mind turnin’ up the heat next time,” Joel continued, cutting the last strands free. “If I get the impression you’re still too stubborn to learn.”

The moment the rope loosened, you moved.

Your arms came forward instinctively, and you twisted beneath him to roll onto your side and then upright, pushing yourself into a seated position, pulling up your jeans cumbersomely while he shifted just enough to allow it. Joel settled back on his heels in front of you, watching as you immediately began rubbing at your wrists. The skin there was red, angry where the rope had bitten in. You circled them slowly, working the stiffness out.

“Maybe,” you said after a moment, lips curling slightly, “you’re just a shitty teacher.”

The smirk that followed was impossible to hide.

Joel’s answering grin was just as quick. 

“Sounds like I wasn’t clear enough then,” he replied. His voice carried a tired edge now, the exertion finally settling in, but it did little to hide the faint spark of satisfaction underneath.

For a moment, he simply looked at you.

His gaze drifted over you again, slow and assessing.

Then he pushed himself upright and, almost casually, extended a hand toward you.

You ignored it.

Instead you scrambled to your feet on your own, tugging at your clothing in a half-hearted attempt to put yourself back together. The flannel hung crooked, your jeans still unbuttoned and loose around your waist, and you weren’t entirely sure what you were supposed to do next.

Joel solved that uncertainty by stepping closer. He closed the small distance easily, his broad frame towering over you.

Before you could react, the cold tip of the knife lifted beneath your chin. It nudged your face upward just enough that you had to meet his eyes.

“Better head home now, darlin’,” he said quietly. “And maybe pray I don’t catch up to you to drill the next lesson into that pretty head of yours.”

Your throat tightened.

You actually gulped.

One hand clutched the ruined flannel closed over your chest while you held his gaze just long enough to let him see that stubborn spark still burning there.

“Yes, sir,” you murmured.

Then you took a step back.

Joel didn’t move.

He simply stood there watching as you pulled your coat on and made your way toward the barn door.

You didn’t run.

Not even walked nearly as fast as you could have.

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The rumble of a throat clearing snaps you out of your reverie.

“Librarian.”

Your palm slaps against the surface of your desk as you whip your head up, your wide eyes falling upon a stock-still, shiny wall of armour. One that you might’ve seen before, stalking through the market streets. Just never up close.

Swallowing, you straighten your back and fail to come up with a reason as to why you’d just been lazing about on your desk.

God, he’s tall. And broad. You might find him slightly more terrifying than you already do, if it wasn’t for the green baby.

The Mandalorian’s silver armour glints in the low light of the library as he shifts his weight onto one foot. A pair of enormous eyes watch you from over his shoulder, leathery ears flapping against his helmet. For a short, mortifying moment, you can see your face reflected in his chestplate, and what you find is a pretty dumb expression.

So, you stand from your chair and put on a smile.

“Hello,” you greet them both quietly, hiding the timid quiver of your vocal chords. “Can I help you find something?”

“Yes.” It’s one word and yet, devastatingly, it’s so raspy and deep and… The baby blinks at you as one of its claws reaches further up his companion’s pauldron, then its nail catches on the wooly cowl underneath and tugs the fabric. The baby slips a few inches down the Mandalorian’s shoulder, constricting the fabric around his neck.

“Ah,” he hisses, casually reaching behind his back before the baby slides all the way down and plops into his palm.

“You’re… giving this to me,” you ask, dragging the question out.

The Mandalorian stands at your doorstep. Unreadable beneath hard shiny metal and illuminated only by the entry light of your home above your door. The chilly night air bites your cheeks but he stands unfazed.

“As a thank you,” he explains. “You were a big help to my kid and this was the only thing I had that seemed like something you’d enjoy.”

All you did was give his little green kid some medicine. It’s not like it was even your first interaction with the infamous hunter. He’s stopped by your apothecary a couple times. Passing by so swiftly you hardly even knew he was there if it wasn’t for the lingering stares from other customers. If you recall correctly, he only ever picks up supplies to replenish a med pack or bacta spray for wounds.

Until you suddenly found him at your doorstep the other night with his adorable little green baby in his arms. The poor little guy was running a fever, coughing up a storm, and had even refused food for over a day. Any parent would be frantic. And so you didn’t even think twice to let them inside.

Luckily your small shop is attached below your home, so you were quick to find the right tinctures for his illness. The Mandalorian paced circles in your kitchen as you administered the medicine and blotted his kid’s little forehead with a cool damp cloth. It took some time and a lot of reassurance to a very nervous father, but after a few hours the fever broke.

You sent them home with some herbal tinctures and even some homemade hard medicinal candies for stubborn coughs and that was it. Hardly any words were exchanged between you that night that didn’t pertain to the child. Only a heartfelt thank you, goodnight, and a promise to pay you back somehow. You assured him that it really wasn’t necessary, that you were glad to help.

You’ve admittedly always been curious about the man. With his stoic demeanor and a reputation that preceded him like lightening preceded thunder. He’s somewhat of a local legend, menace, and hero all wrapped up in one. And now he’s at your door. With booze. Definitely a man of his word, this guy.

“You’re giving this,” you repeat with astonishment. “This whole bottle, to me?”

“Yes,” he answers again. “Is it a special one or something?”

“This is Andoan wine,” you emphasize, holding out the clear glass bottle. “You can only find these on Coruscant now. Very delicious, very rare, very expensive.”

“Is it,” he asks nonchalantly. “I’ve never tried it before. But I hope you enjoy it.”

“You really don’t have to,” you tell him.

“I insist. I didn’t know the first thing to do so I appreciate your help.”

You chuckle. With your limited interactions, you’re starting to see that he’s short and to the point with his words. Almost like he’s not entirely used to speaking with people.

“I…” You nearly argue it again but decide against it. He really didn’t have to give you such a lavish gift for something any good person would do in a situation like that. It was only natural. But at this point, refusing him might come off as rude so…

“Thank you very much.”

The Mandalorian acknowledges your gratitude with a tilt of his helmet, then turns on his heels to leave without another word. And for some reason, you linger at the door. You watch him go down one step, then another, then-

“H-hey, Mando?”

Your sudden call stops him in his tracks on the stair case and he turns to look back over his shoulder. The dim light gleaming over his steel.

“Yes?”

“I…. w-well…”

You’re stammering. Just come out and say it.

“If you’ve never tried it… would you like to share it with me?”

He stands there silently looking at you and the awkwardness crawls your skin.

“I’m not busy at the moment and it’s not really in my culture to drink alone.”

Culture your ass. You just want to drink with him. It’s unclear why in particular but… you’re curious about him. Other than the company of his kid, he seems alone. You wonder if he prefers it that way or if it’s for another reason entirely. Either way, the offer was worth a shot.

There’s more silence and the only noise in the air comes from the gentle chirp of some lava crickets and the breeze brushing the trees in the street. And it’s in that moment that regret starts to burn in your stomach

He’s gonna say no. A pause like that doesn’t necessarily mean yes. But it would be rude not to offer, right? A bottle this nice doesn’t come by these parts and it’d be a shame to drink it alone. It’s reasonable to offer the gesture. After all, he went out of his way to come here from across town. It’s the least you can do to show your appreciation in return.

“Alright.”

The word that falls out of him so effortlessly hits you like a punch to the chest. Are you nervous? Absolutely. But how many people can say they shared a drink with the Mandalorian?

A few minutes later, you find yourself standing on your tip toes, grabbing a couple earthenware ceramic cups in your kitchenette cabinet while Mando stands in your living room. His helmet follows the various potted plants, momentos and knick knacks from your travels littered around your home. Even tracing his gloved fingers over some of them.

“You have a nice home,” he says. “I didn’t notice before. Very lived in.”

“Lots of junk,” you joke. “You can say it Mando, I won’t mind.”

“My place is still new. Doesn’t feel like a home just yet.”

“That’ll change over time,” you assure him. “After a while, your home becomes a collection of memories.”

His attention gets drawn to a particular item on your wall. It’s an old worn down canvas satchel bag that hangs on the wall. At one point it was a life line. Now it serves as a reminder that no matter how hard life gets, showing a little kindness can go a long way for someone.

“What’s this memory?”

“That? That memory is what got me here.” You smile to yourself as you wipe down the cups with a clean kitchen rag.

“A few years ago, I was on Pantora with just some spare change and the clothes on my back. I was desperate to leave so I ended up hitching a ride on a freight ship. I worked on the ship in exchange for a ride to Corellia. Their language was difficult to learn and I had a rough time getting things done because for some reason everything was written in the native language and not aurebesh. On a stop to Tattooine, I accidentally labeled a pallet of coaxium as a pallet of scrap metal. That “scrap” was sold to some Jawas and by the time everyone realized my mistake we were already halfway to the next planet.”

“Was that before you came the Nevarro?”

“That was the reason I came to Nevarro,” you clarify. “It was their next stop so they dropped me here.”

“Ouch.”

“Yeah, ouch,” you laugh. “Anyway, I guess one of the workers felt sorry for me and left me that satchel with a couple credits and some ration bars inside. Buuut my mistake turned out to be a blessing in disguise. Nevarro turned itself around. I have my own little business. I’m even able to save a little bit of money now. For the time being, things are comfortable. I’ve hopped around the system a lot as you can see. But… this is a place I can always come back to.”

“Something reliable,” he adds.

“Exactly,” you say softly, smiling at the sentiment.

You look up at him. And you didn’t notice as you were cleaning those cups that he’s now completely facing towards you. His visor is trained on you. And it’s then that you realize how small your home really is. Because Mando is broad.

His crossed arms accentuate his wide shoulders. His chest plate follows the lines of his trim torso. Even those plates of beskar armor can barely hide the bulk of his biceps. Your eyes briefly, briefly take a tour at his waist line before you realize how incredibly rude you’re being.

He’s a guest. And a customer. Don’t. Check. Him. Out.

Heat starts to rise in your cheeks. Focusing back on the cups, you round the kitchen counter and walk over to him.

“I’m sorry. All this talking suddenly got deeper and I feel like I haven’t really introduced myself. We’ve only ever passed by each other before,” you chuckle, shaking away the nerves.

In hindsight you should’ve just introduced yourself the other night, but truthfully you were in care-taker-mode and it didn’t occur to you at the time. Plus you didn’t think you’d have an encounter with the man again other than seeing him briefly in your shop every so often. But he seems like a nice enough person with the limited knowledge you do have with him. And after tonight you’re bound to cross paths again. So you happily extend your hand out and give him his cup along with your full name.

There’s a couple beats of silence and you’re starting to see that’s his default. But it doesn’t stop you from second guessing your words as if you’re crossing an unknown boundary. There’s a slight tilt downward with his helmet and he responds with a regretful “I’m sorry, but-“

“You don’t have to tell me your name,” you immediately add. “I know there’s… principles you must have. I just wanted you to know me. That’s all.”

Another beat passes before he finally reaches out to take the cup in his hand. He repeats your name and the way it comes out of his voice holds a whole new flavor. Soft and curious even through the warble of his vocoder. It’s almost like he’s seeing how it tastes.

You like it. You like it a lot.

“It’s nice to meet you.” The voice wears the vocoder like a veil but you still catch a hint of a smile by his relaxed tone. No real logical way to know for certain, just a gut feeling.

“Likewise,” you smile back.

“So,” he exhales. “You want to know how two Mandalorians drink?”

“Sure. Sounds educational,” you joke.

With a tilt of his helmet, Mando steps further into the living room area and you follow behind, cup and bottle in hand. Walking over to the couch, his gloved hand reaches for the small round pillow resting there. His smokey grey cape flows over his shoulder and for a moment you’re mesmerized by the movement. As he turns on his heel, his fingers release the pillow. Letting it fall to the thin rug with a muted poof.

“Right here.” Mando gestures to the floor and you waltz over to take a seat on the cushion, crossing your legs. It doesn’t escape your notice how he doesn’t grab the only pillow for himself. Opting for your comfort over his own.

He takes a minute to look around the room. Probably checking for anything reflective. Then with a swish of his cape to the side, Mando settles in the floor behind you. When his back presses against yours, you expect a wall of cold hard metal beneath the cape. But instead there’s warmth. Strong and firm, but still warm and giving.

“It’s customary to sit on the floor when drinking with a war band. Usually outside around a fire. When it’s just two, it’s back to back.”

“Aaah,” you drawl. “Very practical. I like it.”

The top of the bottle comes off with a pop and the rich scent caresses your nose like a hug. After pouring about two fingers worth into Mando’s cup you pour one for yourself and settle in.

“Are we drinking to anything tonight ,” you ask him.

“Not sure. How about…,” he pauses for a moment before deciding. “To that Pantoran who gave you the satchel.”

That makes you laugh out loud. But you can’t help but feel a little pleased at that. If it wasn’t for him, you wouldn’t be on Nevarro, wouldn’t have a home. And you definitely wouldn’t be drinking with Mando tonight. For that you’re especially grateful.

“You know what, yeah,” you chuckle. “To the Pantoran.”

Mando extends his arm back to reach your cups and you meet him halfway. Letting them touch with a soft clack.

“Cheers.”

“Cheers.”

There’s an unclicking sound and you sense that he’s probably tilting his helmet back to drink. You ignore the small tinge of disappointment that he didn’t take it completely off. But it’s understandable. He doesn’t know you well. Even drinking like this with an outsider is probably a big deal for people of his creed. His back presses a little further against yours as he takes his first sip and you take yours.

The wine is rich and dry, and a bit smokey. But the underlying taste of tangy fruit blends well with the flavor. Going by the color, it has to have been bottled for a decades. The alcohol runs warmly down your throat and settles like smoldering ember in your stomach. It’s like no other alcohol you’ve ever tried before. Not even close.

“Hoooh,” he hisses after that sharp bite of alcohol.

“Yeah,” you agree knowingly. Already sensing that this bottle is getting finished tonight.

The conversations flow pretty easily after the first drink. He tells you about how his boy came into his life and how he suddenly found himself being his father. You tell him that you can only dream of having a parent like him because you never got to know yours. You half expected he would cut the interaction short and only accept one drink. But when you offer a refill, he gladly accepted which warmed you from the inside.

Admittedly you ask a few curious questions about his creed and he indulges you a bit. And he asks about how you got into medicine making. But for the most part you both stick to easier topics like current events on Nevarro, work, and food. Eventually two drinks turn into three and somehow you’ve both dipped into topics like past relationships. Which is dangerous territory after drink number three.

“It was baaad, Mando. I’m telling you. I mean, really! Who gives two shits who makes more money than who? Or am I in the wrong here?”

“Nah, definitely not,” he replies. His speech now more relaxed but a little raspy from the alcohol. “Honestly, he sounds like a little bitch if that was his main concern.”

“Yeah! Like, what is it with these men and needing to feel superior in such bullshit, inconsequential ways?”

“You seem strong willed. Weak men are intimidated by that.”

“Yeah well, then every man I’ve met in this galaxy was weak,” you groan. “I mean, c’mon. Am I that intimidating? Is it the yapping? It’s probably the yapping.”

“I think someone who’d be deterred by something that trivial doesn’t sound worth a damn anyway.”

With that, you let out a deep sigh and slump against the man behind your back.

“Eh, you’re probably right,” you exhale. You toss back the last little sip in your ceramic cup, savoring the flavor.

“You know what, it’s fine. I’m fine. I’ll just be that shop girl around the corner who throws herself into her work, makes her little remedies, and stays happily independent. I think I can live with that.”

A pause streches between you.

“You don’t sound too convincing, Shop Girl,” he teases.

“Shit,” you tsk.

You both wheeze with laughter, your bodies rumbling against one another and it’s so… relaxing. He’s surprisingly easy to talk to. Perhaps it’s because he doesn’t say much. Or that what little he does say is said with a sincerity you’re not used to. Or you’re drunk. It could very well be that.

But in a galaxy full of deceit and unknown dangers, it’s refreshing to talk with someone as honest as him. He’s authentic, unapologetically so.

“Hey so… can I ask you something?”

“You’ve been asking things this whole time,” he teases.

“I know, but… it’s technically a helmet question. And you can tell me to fuck off if it’s too much.”

Mando hums and the rumble reverberates through your body, nesting warmly in your chest. He’s settled comfortably against you and it makes you feel close enough to ask what you want to ask. After thinking it over he gives you permission.

“Can’t wait to hear this,” he sighs with a little amusement.

You smile. To your surprise, he actually has a good sense of humor. A dry, blunt one . But humor nonetheless. You run a finger over the rim of your cup, finding a little more courage.

“Mando… Have you ever kissed anyone before?”

It’s a simple enough question, right? It’s within the ballpark of the topics you’ve been discussing. And you’re both adults. It’s not like it’s inappropriate…Right?

Oh god, you really are drunk…

Regret rises with each passing second and you wonder why you even brought it up. It’s probably some kind of insult to his creed to ask something like that. 

“Too much,” you broach gently.

“No,” he says softly. “You’re not exactly the first person to ask that. Doubt you’ll be the last.”

He pauses for a moment to find the right words. Then with a heavy exhale he gives you an answer to your insanely intrusive question.

“I was pretty young when I took the creed,” he states. “Ten, twelve maybe? Too young to be interested in those kinds of things. Never looked back since. To be completely honest, it’s not even something I really think about in adulthood. Never understood the hype.”

“Sooo, I’ll take that as a no.”

“No,” he breathes. “Never kissed anyone.”

Never kissed anyone? Never felt a person’s soft lips against his own or graze his skin? Does that mean he hasn’t gotten to experience more than kissing? Licking? Biting? Or…

Do not finish that thought…

“Huh… Well, that’s a shame,” you say without thinking, quickly adding “-but at the same time, I completely understand it too! I mean, it shows a lot of self discipline, you know? To resist that kind of… temptation. Most people don’t have any reason to be disciplined enough to stay chaste. I can admire tha-"

“I said I’ve never kissed anyone, I didn’t say I never fucked.”

Thank… the Maker… you’re not face to face. Because the way your eyes bulged just now would’ve been downright embarrassing had it been caught. He didn’t just say sex or even screwing. The Mandalorian fucks. The alcohol in your blood seems to conjure a brief glimpse of what that might look like before you find enough coherence to shew it away.

“…oh,” you breathe out, effectively stopping your rambling. “I-I guess I just assumed…”

A deep exhale blows out of his nose. He hums, seemingly entertained by the foot you’ve put in your mouth. But also making the air light between you.

“Well, you assumed wrong.”

The humor in his voice settles your nerves a bit. Thankfully there isn’t an awkward air at the sudden change to such a topic despite hardly knowing each other. And oddly enough, it feels easy to talk about it for that very reason.

“You’re rather chatty when you drink, Mandalorian. I feel like I’m learning all sorts of things about you tonight.”

“You’re right,” he breathes. “I spoke without thinking, I apologize.”

“No, It’s fine. I don’t mind at all. It’s a relief to know there’s a man under all that armor and not solid metal.”

He hums again and the noise stirs something in your chest.

“Well, even so… It’s late… Probably best if I stop drinking.”

You look into your empty cup. Then glance over to the bottle with barely a drop left inside. Something inside you wilts. There’s nothing to keep him here any longer…

“Yeah… Me too.”

You’re not sure if you wait for him to move first or if he’s waiting for you. But both of you remain still for nearly a whole minute. Silent and hesitant to end the night. As comfortable as it is, you feel Mando’s back lean away from yours and you miss the warmth. You turn on the floor to find him standing up as he adjusts his helmet clasp and places his empty cup on the table.

“You were right. It tasted better shared,” he admits. A satisfied smile curls your lips.

“If you learned anything about me tonight, Mando, it’s that I am always right when it comes to liquor.”

“I appreciate the hospitality.”

“I appreciate the company.”

You place a hand on the table as an anchor in an attempt to stand up and follow him to the door. But as you try to stand straight, the room spins and your knees buckle.

Nope. Not doing that.

You sit your ass right back down on that cushion before you make an even bigger fool of yourself. Quick to respond, Mando catches your free arm. Making sure you land back down safely.

“You ok,” he asks, concerned but with a hint of humor.

“Pfft. Yeah, I’m good. I think I’ll just stay down here for a minute,” you chuckle, running a hand through your hair and closing your eyes for a moment.

For sure you’ll have a hangover tomorrow. Shit. You work tomorrow. There’s a couple things you’re running low on, too. You’ll have to request an order through the trading guild. That’ll cost credits. Maybe if you get that Chiss man again you can manage a trade and he can throw in those dried flower buds for that tea that keeps getting sold out.

You know you’re already a bit dizzy. But behind closed eyes you feel like your head is swaying. Or rather… that it’s being moved. Something warm and firm holds your jaw up and when your eyes flutter open again you’re met face to face with dark silver.

The Mandalorian stands barely a foot in front of you. Visor fixed down on your face. Maybe the wine has made your brain slow but it’s only when you follow the path from his shoulder and down his outstretched arm that you realize what’s holding your jaw… is his hand.

With a subtle pass of his thumb along your cheek you can feel warmth starting to pool in your face. Awareness pricks the hairs on the back of your neck when you realize your position. Sitting on your knees, face barely level to his waist as a wall of steel and muscle towers over you.

“Your cheeks get flushed when you drink,” he mutters.

When I drink. Suuuure.

“Now you know,” you mumble without thinking. It grants you a satisfied hum from his helmet and you feel it travel through your ears and under your skin.

“Now I know…,” he repeats.

There’s no movement, no words. But there’s something thick in the air. It’s heavy and enticing. It’d be so easy to get wrapped up in it with any sudden movement. You look up at him through half lidded eyes and you get a gut feeling that they’re meeting his. You’re not sure what his are giving away. But yours have to be hinting something you’ve been trying to hide all night.

With a sharp intake of air, Mando steps back and releases your face. Your head drops a little at the loss of support and it follows his direction as he walks towards the front door with quick, heavy steps. With a press of a button on the wall panel, the door panels slide open and just before he steps outside… he stops. Not looking back, just standing there at the edge of your home with his stand still resting on the doorway.

“Don’t invite me in again.”

And then he’s gone. The door panels shut swiftly, leaving you alone and more confused than when he showed up at your door.

…what?

•

Din wishes he could say that the first thing he thinks about when he got home that night was his sleeping kid safe in the crib. Or at the very least about how incredible that wine tasted. But after he undressed and collapsed down onto his bed half drunk, the only thought he couldn’t stop thinking about as he stared at the ceiling was…

Damn… it’s been a while.

For the past few years, Din’s life has flipped around a number of times. Between barely scraping by as a bounty hunter, saving an orphan kid from an imperial psychopath, losing said kid, then having him return and be by his side to reclaim the Mandalorian home-world, there’s not much time to indulge those kinds of needs. But just because Din found himself being a busy father later in life doesn’t make certain things dead.

No. Everything felt very much alive and kicking by the end of that bottle.

Behind closed eyes, his room feels like it swirls. After that wine, his body feels loose and relaxed. Something he rarely gets to experience these days. Images dance across his closed lids. Delicate, slender hands around a handmade cup. A pink flush on smooth skin. Plump tinted lips between his fingers, softly parted and begging to be touched. The intrusive impulse to dip a finger between those lips was so strong he could feel his hand move into the action before he could even think to do so.

All thanks to that one question. That simple, innocent question activated a deep part of his brain that lay dormant. And then he decided to shatter the care free atmosphere by with a crass remark about sex.

Never in his life has he regretted saying something so fast. You barely even know each other. Admittedly, Din isn’t exactly a refined person, far from it actually. But after his third glass, any semblance of manners flew right out the window. His mouth did the walking with little thinking involved.

Yet, you didn’t get uncomfortable. You handled the slip up with humor instead of getting offended or something just as bad. Using humor to make the air light again. It surprised him how easily you did it. How easy the conversation was all night, really. It’s not everyday he’s able to let his guard down with another person.

Once he was aware of that, he became aware of everything. How late the hour was, how drunk you both were, and how your bed was right behind where you both sat. Only separated by a simple room divider. Even when he tipped up his helmet, there was a heady herbal scent from you that kept swimming in his nose and it was just as intoxicating as the wine. He couldn’t trust himself to stay any longer. And now, in the safety of his own home, he finds himself preoccupied with a mountain of questions.

What kind of person are you? What’s your daily life like? What other places have you seen? What troubles you? You seem to be rooted here in Nevarro for the time being. But from what you’ve mentioned about your past, you have a kind of nomadic life. What happens if he… if the kid gets attached and you decide to move on to another planet? But then again, it’s not like he’s not one to talk though is he?

Loyalty. Solidarity. These are things that have been etched to his core since childhood. But giving those things to something that could be fleeting? That’s a risk he’s avoided for most of his life. Those kinds of wounds never heal.

But as much as he tries to distance himself, it’s not always in his control.

Three weeks go by and they couldn’t end soon enough. When he offered to work with Teva (or Blue as he usually calls him) on a case-by-case basis, he figured they’d be more involved than the bounty hunting trade. He’s spent up to a month off planet at times in order to capture a quarry so it’s not exactly new to him.

But that was when he had the Razor Crest. With a cot to rest in, a weapons locker, and supplies readily at hand. In that regard, the N-1 leaves much to be desired. Plus Din’s back isn’t what it used to be and long rides in that ship are killer. And to add insult to injury, this last case with Zeb was especially complicated to resolve. It left him and the kid completely drained.

After finally landing back in Nevarro with fresh credits, there is absolutely nothing Din wants more than to just go home, bathe, and sleep for at least a day. But he’s got a very hungry green mouth to feed and there’s no way Din is fixing up any dinner tonight.

Street food it is.

“Alright, we’re making this quick. In and out. I’ll get you as much food as you want and you can pick out one sweet. Not five. One. Got that?” Grogu tilts his head at Din curiously from where he follows behind on the cobblestone street and he’ll just take that as a yes.

Dozens of food stalls are gathered at the main square in town as he approaches. Adorned with all sorts of neon signs, string lights and colorful banners. It’s a busy atmosphere filled with people laughing, vendors calling out for customers to stop by, and sounds of clanking and sizzling as they cook.

Din gravitates towards the skewers stand. He knows Grogu is going to down ten of them by himself so he opts for something easy, filling, and cheap. He catches sight of those spicy chunks of fatty meat searing over lava coals and his mouth waters.

“Okay, which onesss-“

Din reaches down to pick up his son only to find the street bricks.

“-Sssshhhhit,” he hisses under his breath, glancing around. This fucking kid. He knows better than to run off.

The crowd is thick and it’s getting dark. He scans through the sea of people and vendors but doesn’t find that familiar pale green.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

With a tap of his helmet side panel he switches to the tracking beacon screen. After enough scares like these he’s learned to have a tracker sewn into his clothes at this point.

Blinking red arrows come into his view and he follows the path. Not caring whose shoulders he budges or what food he knocks out of someone’s grip to get through. The red arrows turn yellow. He’s getting close but there’s still no visual of the kid and he’s starting to panic. He pushes through, scanning side to side and calling out his name in an orchestra of noises without reply.

Yellow turns to green and he’s still out of sight. He’s tiny and easy to miss. Grogu could be anywhere, he could be in any one of these stalls. What if he’s taken? What if someone else is tracking him? He could be picked up by a total stranger and taken away again.

Just as that thought crosses his mind, there’s a small separation in the crowd. Big floppy ears come into view and he’s definitely been picked up. But it’s no stranger that holds him.

“And here comes dad~” A voice soft as silk rings inside his helmet.

Relief floods his body as well as caution when he taps his screen clear. Only him. Situations like this only happen to him. It could’ve been Karga. It could’ve been anybody. But it had to be you that found him.

It was barely two minutes. But within those two minutes Din’s head flooded with every worst case scenario possible. And here he is. Happily babbling in your arms like he didn’t just give his dad a fucking heart attack.

“I know, I know,” you assure him like you can already tell where his head’s at, trying to speak over all the noise. “Don’t be too hard on the little guy. I already gave him a bit of a lecture for running around at night.”

Din wants to. It’s honestly his first reaction. But a cooler head prevails and he decides against it after a second thought. He reminds himself (once again) that Grogu is still young and that getting angry would only make things worse. What matters is that he’s safe and that he managed to find you.

“At least he won’t have to hear it twice,” he exhales, pushing out the stress sitting in his lungs. “Sorry about him.”

“No, no sorry needed. He’s smarter than he lets on. At least he ran to someone he knew. I’m glad I was around.”

Din opens his mouth to speak but ends up falling short with his words. Now that some of the stress has left his body, his eyes take you in at a second glance. Unclouded by the adrenaline.

Your hair is tied up with a pin with a few loose pieces falling at the nape of your neck and around your face. With the heat persisting into the night, you decided to wear a thin strap tank top that hangs low on your chest. It exposes miles of smooth skin, from your shoulders all the way down the arms wrapped around his kid. A dusty blue apron wraps around your waist over some baggy cargo pants so you must’ve came here right after work. There’s a glow from all the neon lights that adorns you and he has to will his mouth to move before he gets caught staring.

“Here.” He extends his hands to you. “I can take him back. Thank you for catching him. C’mon, bud. Let her get back to shopping.”

“It’s no problem,” you assure him with a smile. Your hands hooks under Grogus tiny arms and start to pull him off your torso. “Back to dad you go.”

But the moment he’s barely lifted, he cries out in protest with a shrill whine. Refusing to leave your side. You pull him back in instantly and run a soothing hand on his back.

“Oh! Okay, okay. You can stay with me for a minute,” you giggle in a sugary voice to Grogu. Bouncing him on your hip.

You both exchange a look of surprise (as much as his visor can give off anyway). What kind of person are you that Grogu prefers your embrace over his own father? He doesn’t know whether to be jealous or impressed.

But it’s getting late, they need to eat and get home and you probably need to get back to your own errands. Din’s hands extends again to take Grogu but you shake your head with a little smile. Letting him know it’s not an inconvenience to you.

“Here, wanna help me pick out some sweets?”

Grogu coos at your request, toying with the glittering silver chain pendant on your neck. You rest his kid on your hip effortlessly and the motion of it pinches something deep in Din’s chest. Turning to the assorted trays of sugared fruits on skewers, you list the various kinds for Grogu to pick out. Talking back with him like you can actually understand his little babbles. You answer him with “ooh, that’s a good choice” and “these are my favorites”. 

Din just stands aside, watching the way you both interact and it’s admittedly a bit pleasing to see how natural you are with him. Most people think he’s a pet at first glance. Karga treats him like a newborn. Talking gibberish and doting on him despite him handling a 50 year old. You, on the other hand, just treat him like a regular kid. And it’s refreshing to see.

His son’s head spins back at his father with the biggest set of sparkling inky eyes and Din can see the pleading question in them. He tilts his helmet at him and reminds him “one”. Those large ears deflate a little and you giggle at the interaction. Din offers to pay for your skewer along with Grogu’s as another thank you for looking after his son (again). The vendor gathers the treats in paper wrappers to take to go.

You turn to ask Din something, but it’s covered by the noise of yelling and cooking. He tilts his head a bit lower to try and catch what you’re saying. Then, without hesitation, your hand finds purchase on the pauldron on his shoulder. Prompting him to lean in closer to you so you can speak within earshot.

“It’s been a minute since I saw you last,” you remark with a raised voice. “Everything good?”

Shit.

For a second he freezes. Partly at the lack of distance between you, but mostly because the last time he saw you he stormed out of your place like it was on fire without so much as a goodnight. You’re probably wondering what the hell that was about and he honestly can’t answer that himself. Although your expression seems more cheerful than troubled. He crouches closer to your ears and replies with caution, hoping to avoid the direction of that conversation.

“Yeah, we’ve been um… traveling a lot lately. I get contracted by the new republic pretty often these days. Leaving him behind with someone whenever I’m off planet for too long doesn’t seem fair to him so he’s always by my side no matter what.”

“Ah, that makes sense. You usually stop by for medkit supplies so when I didn’t see you last week I figured you were away.”

Din mentally smacks his forehead. Right. Of course you meant the shop. Because what else would you be implying to a fucking customer? You’re just making small talk. Something he has never really gotten the hang of. Seems pretty damn easy when he’s drinking though…

“We actually just got back. Too tired to fix something up so I figured I’d grab us something quick and easy before heading home.”

“Ugh. I feel that. When I get home I’m crashing on the first soft surface I see,” you groan, still bouncing Grogu on the curve of your hip. Those hips…

No. Stop it.

“Busy day,” he asks and your eyes roll upwards.

“Busy week,” you exclaim. “I swear I think about quitting at least once a day. But I like it too much. Plus it’s the only thing I’m any good at. Otherwise I’d probably be some kind of criminal.” You pause then laugh at the thought before adding, “then you’d probably have to hunt me down, huh?”

That… is a scenario that he already knows is going to stick in his brain for a while. It’s such an enticing thought that he doesn’t bother to tell you he’s not in that business anymore. A tiny part of him would much rather have you think he’d chase you. Obviously you’re not serious, but he can’t help but lean into the joke.

“I don’t know,” he says unconvinced. “Might be pretty easy to find you. All I have to do is look wherever there’s street food.”

A laugh bubbles out of you and there’s a strange feeling that radiates in his chest at being able to make you laugh. Pride maybe? No, more like… satisfaction.

“Don’t underestimate me, Mando. I know my way around the outer rim. I’d make you work for it,” you say. Taunting him with a knowing smirk.

A smile tugs higher on his hidden face. The thought of you making him work for anything will no doubt be food for thought later. And instinct tells him that might’ve been your intention. But two can play at this game.

You’re already nearly face to face but he inches even closer, almost close enough for metal to meet skin. Ensuring you catch every word right into your ear.

“I’d like to see you try, Shop Girl.”

Your eyes grow a little wider at the sound of your nickname and he takes pleasure at just how effective it is. It’s another reminder of that night. A name that was spoken within an intimate atmosphere that only the two of you occupied. And by your expression, that same thought crosses your mind too.

You bite your bottom lip in a smile. The same lips that were between his hands. The only lips he can’t seem to forget. The shape, the color, and how fucking edible they look. He’s even noticed how they pout a little when you’re concentrated on a task. More questions surface.

What do they feel like? What do they taste like? What makes a kiss so good that everyone can recall their first?

The bubble created is suddenly burst by the outside world. The stall vendor gleefully hands over the candied fruit over the counter in their wrappers and you take them with your free hand. Handing the mixed one to Grogu because he couldn’t decide on just one flavor. Reality returns to Din’s head and his thoughts immediately sober up.

What the hell is he doing?

He tears his eyes away. Even if you can’t tell, looking at you like that for too long feels wrong. You’re a good person, you’re trying to live a normal life, and what you’ve told him you’re not looking to get involved in any drama. He has to keep reminding himself of those things.

That same instinct to leave hits him again. Because that urge to do something he can’t take back flares up again and it’s best to not give that feeling any more energy. For both your sakes. He gestures his hand in a hand-him-over motion, signaling to you and Grogu that it’s time to go.

“Alright, time to go kid. Say goodnight.”

Grogu whines with a mouthful of sweets and a face covered in sugar and it makes him chuckle to himself. Din would normally find the defiance a little cute, if it wasn’t for the stunt he pulled earlier. You carefully hand him over with both arms leaning in close and again he feels another pinch in his chest at how carefully you exchange him.

Your bare arms graze against his clothed ones and he pulls away the second he has hold of his kid. He ignores the small current of electricity from the contact and maneuvers Grogu into the crossbody bag to his hip. Which, of course, makes him protest.

“Nope. You had your chance. Now you get the bag.”

“Aw c’mon,” you scold “He was just playing around. Now he’s in bag jail?”

First the kid and now you? He can tell his son no, but it might be a little harder to tell you that.

“Yeah, yeah. Maybe next time he’ll think twice about running off in a crowd,” he groans.

Once the kid is settled in the bag, you follow him down. Crouching down, you sit face to face with Grogu as he stuffs his face with the candied fruit. Resting your free hand on his fuzzy head as the other holds your own skewered treat.

“Kay, little rebel. Go stuff your face with some good food. And take it easy on your poor dad, alright? He’s not built for that kinda stress.”

“What’s that supposed to mean,” he asks, kind of amused by your ribbing. He can count on one hand the people who are undaunted enough to make playful jabs at him.

Your lips twist and your eyes take a tour up to your brows as you think of your reply.

“Hmm… just the way you get a little impatient sometimes. You were like that when you brought him over and paced my living room for an hour,” you chuckle. “You seem like the kind of man who gets antsy when something’s not in your control.”

A smile threatens to crawl his face. Pretty presumptuous. But he can’t deny how true that statement rings. Especially nowadays when it’s not just himself he has to worry about.

“Maybe so,” he replies with a hint of humor in his voice. “Patience isn’t really my strong suit. Although this one seems to enjoy testing it.”

“Patience is bitter,” you muse as you rub the top of Grogu’s head with your thumb. He coos with delight and the softest gaze glows on your face. Then from your crouched position, your eyes glance back up at Din and add, “…But the fruit is sweet.”

His jaw flexes beneath his helmet, and heat now courses through his veins.

That can’t be a good sign. He already enjoys your banter too much as it is. But that look just now was dangerous. It dredges up thoughts he shouldn’t have about you. Thoughts like kissing someone he barely knows. Feeling skin on skin. Showing you what a man like him can do to you compared to the boys of your past.

He saw it all over your pretty face when he held it in his hand. That flush on your cheeks, your dilated pupils. Hell, he even saw your heat signature rising in his helmet screen for fuck sake. There’s an attraction and that’s fine (and not completely unreciprocated) but it can’t be anything more than that.

You and him live completely different lives. There’s no need to uproot your peace and get involved in his complicated affairs. Even if something happened, it wouldn’t be long before the allure of the suit and mystery people usually perceive of Mandalorians would turn into repulsion.

That’s how it’s gone before. That’s the way it is.

•

You’re a bad person. A horrible human being and a shameless lowlife. Downright beyond saving.

I’d like to see you try, Shop Girl.

The damn sentence won’t stop replaying in your head. It’s not just a nickname. It’s a nickname he gave you. One that’s covered in underlying context and memories that only the two of you share. One that peppers your skin with goosebumps when it comes out of that raspy modulated voice. It’s even worse when your brain starts intrusively placing it in all sorts of sentences.

That’s it, Shop Girl…

You’re doing so well, Shop Girl…

Bend over for me, Shop Girl…

That last one has crawled into your dreams more often than you’d care to admit lately.

You need to get a grip. It’s just an attraction. You’ve been alone for too long and you’re getting all wound up over a smidge of attention. He’s just a regular decent person with a kid to take care of who also just happens to have an amazingly muscular body and a voice of sin. Simple as that.

Right. Simple.

After that night at the food stalls, the Mandalorian and Grogu have been visiting your humble Clinic Shop on a more frequently. Usually you'll see them a couple times a week if they're not on one of their long haul trips. Missions? Jobs?

It's not like Mando has any reason to let you know ahead of time. But when a week or so passes with no sign of silver or green, you can't help but feel a little down. You've come to look forward to seeing your regulars. But they grown to being your favorite customers.

And if you're being honest, theres a growing part of you that feels tied to the man in silver beskar. When he's here, the part blossoms. And when he's gone, it feels... wilted. It's unexpected and confusing to say the least. The closest feeling you could label it is homesickness. And truthfully, you're not really sure if you want to feel such a heavy thing towards anybody right now.

There's a lull in the store this hot muggy afternoon. You've already finished your prescription orders, restocked your shelves, even watered all the potted plants outside the entrance. Since you finally have some down time, you figured you might as well get to making some of your popular tea mixes.

On the back counter, you have a variety of dried herbs, flower buds, tea leaves, and a few large mixing bowls. The scent in the shop is incredible right now. Swirling around on the wind propelled by the metal fans around the shop. Spiced and aromatic with a hint of fruitiness. You let the smell fill your lungs and relax your body as you place measured scoops of the mix into small paper bags. A bead of sweat tracks down the back of your neck. Even with pinning your hair up and the strapless wrap you chose to wear today, the heat of the day still clings to your damp skin.

A cool glass of that Andoan wine would be so good right about now...

Maybe it was instinct, or maybe there really is some kind of invisible tie. But something makes your head tilt to the side and glance at the open entrance. And it's then that a glint of sliver light reflects on the stucco walls. A flutter of anticipation strikes through your chest and your eyes are locked at the entrance. Then, that familiar Silver T-visor and a pair of floppy green ears peek around the corner.

The smile that spreads across your cheeks is so big it almost hurts.

"Hey," you exclaim from the back of the store. You leave your station and excitedly make your way across the store to the pair as they step inside.

“It’s been a whi-“

“Ah ah, sorry," you cut Mando off mid greeting, halting him with your pointer finger. "Grogu gets first dibs.”

Mando shakes his head but you can tell he's humored. Turning his hip to the side and giving you access to the canvas crossbody where Grogu resides.

“Even though I'm a regular customer," Mando retorts.

If you didn’t know any better, you’d think that sounded a teensy bit like jealousy. You smirk, giving eyes only to the little green baby.

“Not when you’re as cute as him.” You say, placing Grogu on your hip and giving him little scritches on his wrinkled head.

“Isn’t that right, Kid. Mando wishes he could be half as cute as you.” The child coos at you and Mando shakes his head. But you can tell by his body language that he's at least a little amused.

You walk back to the back counter with the kid in your arms and Mando in tow behind you. And the feeling you have in this moment is oddly... domestic? You're not entirely sure if that's the right word. In your life you've never experienced domesticity. But you figure it's similar to that homesick feeling you get.

You place Grogu on top of your station and pull out an herbal lollipop from your apron for him. You like to keep a few handy for kids and they also help with coughs. The kids inky eyes gleam as he babbles and plunges the sugary candy in his mouth. 

"Any chance that delivery for those new Pharmakits arrived yet," Mando asks, leaning a hand on the counter next to you.

"They did," you nod. "Any chance you're planning on taking on an army on your next trip?"

He shrugs, tilting his helmet to the side in that way he does when he's being aloof.

"Doesn't hurt to keep one on hand. You never know."

You hum in acknowledgment but inside a pit forms in your stomach. The danger he faces whenever he goes on these "jobs" isn't lost on you. Lately, it's been on the back of your mind more often than not. On his last visit, when he asked about ordering stronger meds and triage supplies, it hit you just how much his long absences affect you. And just the thought of never seeing him or his little boy again stirs up something vile inside.

“You seem to be busy today,” he remarks, pointing out all the open jars and mixing bowls with various dried leaves and herbs.

His remark takes you out of your thoughts. You must've been silent a second too long for him to change the subject like that. With a deep inhale and slight embarrassment you shrug off the negative thoughts and ground yourself back to reality.

“Yes and no. I’ve been restocking while it’s dead to keep busy.”

He leans in a bit to get a closer look at the contents of the bowl. Close enough for you to catch the scent of smoke and musk on his clothes.

“You’re mixing… tea?”

You hum a yes and nod.

“Tea can be used for lots of medicinal purposes. Many people prefer natural remedies to pharmaceutical ones. I try to have a mix of both.”

“So this is medicine?” You sway your head to the side, trying to think of the best way to explain the purpose of the tea.

“Kiiind of. You could say it’s preventative.”

“What does it prevent?”

“Pregnancy.”

A clearing of his throat follows your answer. You turn toward him with a smirk and a raised brow but his visor has now turned away your face.

Most fearsome bounty hunter in the outer rim, everybody.

“You asked, man,” you chuckle with a shrug.

“Guess that’s on me,” he says.

“This is actually one of my best sellers,” you tell him. You grab the wooden scoop and raise up the floral mix, letting the various petals and herbs rain back down into the bowl. The motion makes the sweet scent drive up in the air. “I have customers tell me they don’t leave the house before their daily brew.”

“I’m glad business is going well for you,” he deflects, making you fold your smile in your teeth. And suddenly your brain sees a prime opportunity.

“You know, Mando…,” you drawl as you mix the petals. “If you’re ever in a pinch and you need some, I could give you a sample.” The way his helmet jerks to face you almost breaks your nonchalant smile.

“That’s um… very generous but it’d be wasted on me.” His body straightens stiffly and you can tell the topic makes him a bit uneasy. But you press on anyway.

“You sure? You can never be too safe. I’m sure any visitors would appreciate it.” He sighs deeply and turns away, shaking his head in annoyance.

God, this is too much fun. Teasing him is so easy. If it wasn’t for the helmet you bet he’s sweating right now. He might look cool and collected. But after drinking with him, you know there’s in fact a man under all that metal.

“I’m sure,” Mando confirms. “I'm not seeing anyone at the moment.”

And there’s the answer you’re looking for.

Was it a bit sneaky? Yeah. Yeah, it was sneaky. But it rules out the theory that reason he told you not to invite home again was because he’s currently taken. It’s still an enigma as to why. But honestly there’s still the gut feeling that you did something to make him uncomfortable that night.

Maybe you crossed a line with one of your questions. You tend to ask a lot of questions. Your filter also isn’t everybody’s flavor. Even so, you had a great time talking, even joking around with him. You’ve come to cherish that night in your memory. And the thought that you obliviously might’ve said something to offend Mando in any way makes your chest ache.

But if that was the case then why has he been stopping by your store more frequently since then? He always says he’s restocking his med kit but you get the feeling there’s more to it than that. Almost as if he’s checking up on you. Making sure you’re doing ok. And above all, that’s what scares you.

It’s scares you how good that thought makes you feel.

“Picking up an order!” An unfriendly voice bellows from the entrance where a Trandoshan man in fine robes stands waiting. “Name’s Samir T’ar.”

It takes a second to snap back into action. But you slap on your best customer service smile and leave your task for later. Rounding the corner past Mando and the kid and walking to the Medicine Cabinet. Wiping the non-existent dust on your hands on your waist apron.

“Hi, yes! I’ll grab that for you right now.”

The Trandoshan stands waiting at the counter as you sort through the assorted orders in the glass case. Looking for the right name tag and plucking the tied linen bag. You dont turn your eyes toward him, but Mando’s pressance is all your body is aware of. You can tell he’s miandering through the shop, looking at various items on the shelves. Which, to you, is a bit funny since hes been here plenty of times by now.

Is he playing the curious customer right now because there’s someone here?

You rest the tied bag next to the register as you run the total. All while the Trandoshan taps his clawed fingers impatiently on the check out counter.

“‘Kay with the compounded medicine and the herbal soak salts, that puts you at… fifteen credits today.”

“It was twelve the last time.”

“Yyyeesss, some of the ingredients for the meds were hard to come by this time around. Outer rim shipping routes, and all that,” you smile, trying to humorously reason with the man.

“And that’s supposed to be my fault? Just make it the same price as before and I’ll be on my way already.”

Ugh, great. One of those.

“I understand where you’re coming from, really. But fifteen is pretty fair considering the initial cost of acquiring ingredients of this high quality. Can’t beat the price compared to those New Republic clinics-"

“Nonononono," he waves with both hands in disapproval. “I’m not paying a single credit more for something I can make myself.”

That’s kind of the point of it buying here, right? To save yourself the trouble of making it?

“Sorry. Price is firm," you say confidently but kindly. "Buuut, how about if I throw in a couple sample heating pain patches. Free of charge,” you chirp, unfazed by his condescension.

Work with me, guy. There’s a man packing heat in the back…

“How about I give you ten for the order and leave? I don’t need you to peddle your-“

It’s a hand that shuts him up. Not yours, as much as it twitches to swipe that bag and toss in it the trash. No. This hand is big. Leather clad. And planted firmly on the counter between you and the customer.

“You can pay the fifteen or you can leave. But what you won’t do,” Mando leans in towards the Trandoshan for effect. “-is talk to her like that again. Make your choice.”

With his chest pressed to the back of your shoulder, you struggle to not squirm. You can feel his heat on your body. His frame eclipses yours from behind. The smell of gun smoke and musk caresses your nose and you die a little inside. But it’s his words that make you want to melt into a puddle.

He didn’t just ask, he demanded for you to be treated with respect. Not that you can’t hold your own when it comes to defending yourself against snarky customers. But the way Mando didn’t even hesitate to intervene on your behalf. It stirs up all sorts of thoughts.

Oh maker, you really are a shitty person. The man stands up for you and all you can think about is how hot he sounded.

The Trandoshan swallows hard. Mando might as well a knife to the guy’s throat with the look of silent terror on his reptilian face. Without even breaking eye contact with Mando, he stuffs his clawed hand in his pockets, and pulls about 20 credit chips without counting. Letting them clatter on the counter as he tosses them.

“H-here,” he stutters. “Fifteen is fair.” With that he snatches his order from the countertop and makes a hasty exit.

“Have a nice day~,” you sing-song as he scurries out onto the street.

You shift your eyes up to Mando, his palm still pressed flat against the counter with his other hand thumbing his belt. His visor follows the customer as he leaves and you can tell that his body language doesn’t relax until the he’s completely out of sight.

“Fucker…,” he mutters under his breath. When he finally turns his visor to you, he finds a knowing little smirk on your face.

“What?”

“You know, if you really wanted to scare him, you could’ve just pulled out your blaster.”

His visor turns away and he takes a step back as if he’s been caught doing something out of character. And if it wasn’t for his confident stance, you’d almost say he got a little flustered just now.

“I didn’t like the way he spoke you,” he grumbles. Which only makes you giggle.

“You’re right,” you agree with a serious tone. Slamming your palms on the counter. “That’s the last straw! I’ll have to close and resort to a life of crime after all!”

Although you can’t read his face, his body language says it all. He tilts his head to the side in a way that can only mean “are you fucking kidding me” and it only makes you smile harder.

“C’mooon, it’s funny,” you say. But he’s still not charmed.

“Does he always treat you like that,” he asks like he needs to know for certain.

You fold your lips between your teeth to hide your smile. He’s concerned for you and you can’t help but bathe in it. At least for a little bit.

“And if I said yes?”

“I’m being serious.”

“It’s fine, Mando. It’s really not a big deal for me. Look, if I let every snippy customer get to me, I wouldn’t have a business. I’m a big girl. I can fight for my honor all on my own, don’t you worry.”

“That’s not the point.”

“Yeah? What is your point then?”

He steps in closer. Forcing you crane your neck to face him. Your backside unconsciously presses against the back of the counter and you’re pinned. He’s impossibly close. Close enough to see your eyes reflected on the inky black screen. Knowing he’s captured your full attention, he hits you with a bombshell that devastates you.

“I wouldn’t let anyone disrespect you when I can do something about it,” he says crystal clear, lowering  his voice. “If someone gives you trouble, they’ll deal with me before they mess with you... Understand?”

That shuts you right up. Your playful expression falls, now replaced with silent astonishment. He keeps saying things that reach deep inside you, making your chest tight. Words like that make it hard to breathe.

You feel utterly captured and it’s no wonder he was the best hunter in the outer rim. Because even though he’ll defend your honor and call you sweet nicknames… all he has to do is stand his ground in front of you to make you feel like prey. And fuck, do you wanna be caught…

“Ok,” you breathe when you find the courage. “I understand now.”

“Good…”

Silence streches between you and it feels as though you’re both waiting for something to happen. Something that feels like it’s been teetering on the edge since the night you drank together. It’s connected and deep in a way you’ve never experienced before. You can tell it’s something he’s afraid to say out loud.

What you’re both afraid to say out loud.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t add anything to his statement. He’s got you locked in his gaze with no escape. And for a moment you wonder if he’ll take hold of your jaw again. Goosebumps rise to your skin because it wants so badly to close the gap.

Suddenly, a call rings from the vambrace on Mando’s forearm, abruptly breaking the tension. At first he hesitates to address it, still locked onto you. But after the second ring he lets out an aggravated sigh and steps away to check the incoming call.

You walk back to your work table and mixing bowl of tea to give yourself something to do while your breathing returns to normal. Scooping a measured cup from a large jar of dried leaves before adding it in.

Grogu sits with his little feet dangling over the table, now finished with the lollipop and looking at the candy-less stick with droopy ears. And before Mando turns to look, you sneak his son another herbal lollipop from your apron.

"Don't tell your dad," you whisper, pressing your index finger over your lips. Which earns you a happy little "Batu" in understanding.

Mando is pacing around now. Conversing with a gruff sounding Lasat. You don’t eavesdrop per se, but words like “new lead”, “investigation”, and “high-risk” get your ears to perk up.

“Shit,” he sighs deeply once the call is done. Planting his hands on his hips.

“Work call?”

“They like to keep me busy, that’s for sure. Best not keep them waiting.”

“R-right! The pharmakits."

You walk towards side of your shop in the back closet where your new inventory sits in their delivery crates. Grabbing one case but then after a second thought grabbing another before turning back and handing them to Mando. When you return Grogu is already back in his father's tote still nursing his treat.

“Couple things," you disclaim, handing the cases to him. "Keep these in a dark cool place if you can. Heat can spoil some of the medicine. And if you ever find yourself needing the epibacta, I’d advise you to take in a safe place. This dose will knock you out cold for a while. Emergencies only.”

He takes the cases by the handles and gives you a nod of understanding.

“I appreciate it. I’ll try to avoid needing it.”

“Just… be safe.”

“I will…”

Another beat of silence. At this point it's starting to feel like you're waiting on the other person to break the ice. But after a moment, he clears his throat.

“Well... Until next time, Shop Girl.”

“Until next time,” you repeat.

He really should stop calling you that. But you just can’t bring yourself to stop him. What do even tell him if he asks why?

You turn to the holopad on the front counter and check the inventory list to give your hands something to do. Chewing your bottom lip as walks towards the exit. One step, then another…

“And thank you,” you quickly add before he steps out. His foot stalls just before reaching the street and you tap on the screen pretending not to notice. Your eyes glance up to him, catching his helmet peer at you over his shoulder “…for stepping in.”

“Anytime,” he says softly. He step out into the street and you exhale a breath you didn’t know you were holding. You lean on the counter with your chin propped in your palm, now free to watch them go without notice.

Grogu turns back to look at you one last time, his tiny arm fighting against the fabric of his bag before popping out and waving at you. The adorable gesture makes you giggle. The little guy must know exactly how stinking cute he is. You wiggle your fingers back at him from behind the counter. Mando takes notice of his kid, turns his head back, and finds your gaze.

For a moment, everything’s frozen. People cross and mix in the street between you. Life seemingly goes on like any other day for everyone in town. But in your eyes, there’s only him. Only bright silver fills your vision. After a moment, Mando raises a hand for a final farewell, and in the next, he’s gone. Blended into the crowd.

An ache spreads in your chest, and that confirms it. You can’t deny that what you’ve been pushing down for months isn’t just an attraction. Strangers can be attracted to each other but he feels like anything but.

You like him. You like how you feel when he’s around and how safe his presence feels. You like that little skipped beat you get when something you said earns even the smallest chuckle from him. You like that he trusts you around his kid.

And you love that he keeps coming back.

You’ve tried to rationalize as just a simple customer acquaintance. But you can’t keep kidding yourself. Its always felt more than that. And you want to know more about him.

At the end of the day, you roll down the metal doors of your humble apothecary and walk the same 15 steps up to your home as you do everyday. You bathe, put on your most comfy shirt and sleep shorts, make yourself a simple meal, and wind down for the night. It’s been your routine everyday since you made this place your home.

Only tonight, despite all your trinkets, all your memories, and all your comforts, tonight your home feels a bit empty. Like something important has been removed and you can’t place what it was. With your dinner bowl in hand, you almost take your seat on the couch before thinking twice on it and choosing the floor of your living room instead tonight.

You actually find it to be pretty comfortable. More grounding. You only wish you had something warm to lean back on.

•

Din thought Guild Master Greef Karga had an inflated ego. But High Magistrate Greef Karga makes that Karga look like a Jedi monk.

He finds himself sitting on a leather chase with his legs propped on the window ledge in Karga’s high tower office. He watches him spread and maneuver a 3D hologram model of Nevarro and the town. His voice filled with ambition as he explains all his new projects for the upcoming year.

“We’ll put the lodges here, here, and here. They’ll have access to the hot springs in the crawling canyons and docks will be built around the water edges. I’ve spoken with that lovely Twi’lek bathhouse owner and she’s spending her best architects to Nevarro as a personal favor to me. It’s going to be the jewel of the rim I tell you!”

Much of the dialog goes over Dins head. Mostly because he’s dead tired and currently operating on less than four hours of sleep. They only landed a couple hours ago from another grueling mission. He partly listens to Karga’s plans, partly watches Grogu quietly sit on the hologram table as he stuffs his mouth with blue cookies his “uncle” has given him. But mostly, Din gazes out one of the many windows in his 360 degree office. Watching the sun set over the canyons and turn the sky a dusty pink.

The shiny bronze protocol droid shuffles around the office with a silver tray with two crystal glasses of spotchka. He offers a glowing glass to Karga who gladly takes it. Then the droid starts to approach Din with the platter, offering him a glass as well.

“Uh no no, he doesn’t drink,” Karga quickly corrects, taking a momentary pause from his plans. The shiny droid fumbles a bit, flustered, then offers an apology before scuttling away with the tray.

Mando doesn’t even bother to correct them. Too much energy. It’s true, he’s never accepted alcohol in front of Karga. Especially in those early guild days when trust was low. But even to this day, Din doesn’t drink around people.

Well… most people, that is.

An image of last time Din saw you pops into his head. That thick, slightly mussed hair tied up with a hair stick. Dewy skin. All smiles and laughter. You wore a deep blue torso wrap that time, His eyes kept following the lines of your collar bones and all that exposed skin seemed to glow in the reflected sunlight in the shop.

And those lips. Those goddamn pink tinted lips that he can’t get out of his head. If that’s not the definition of beauty he doesn’t know what is.

Your teasing is something he’s growing used to. But that day you pushed too far. You weren’t taking him seriously and you shouldn’t be the only one who gets to tease, right? When he cornered you against the counter, he made it known just how serious he was about defending you. That flush came back to your cheeks and your breathing had picked up. You had no idea, but your eyes had found his and it made heat pool in his lower abdomen as he got lost in the color of them.

In that moment, Din wrestled back the impulse to lift you up on that countertop, spread those perfect legs and-

“-Right, Mando?” Karga’s voice interrupts just as that train of thought was getting good. Din turns his visor over to him.

“Hmm?”

“You just agreed to let the kid spend the night here.”

“Right. Yeah,” Din scoffs. “Was that before or after I sold my ship to the Jawas,” he replies in a gruff tone. Karga doesn’t find the sarcasm amusing.

“Alright, alright.”

“Maybe I’ll sell them my armor while I’m at it.”

“I get it,” he exclaims. “You weren’t even listening! I was talking about the space port proposal and I can’t even tell where you clocked out. That's not like you, Mando.”

“I’m tired. I just got back from a long trip.” Kargas eyes glance between Din and the window he's been looking out from.

“I wouldn’t say tired. More like… Distracted.”

He says the word with an insinuation Din would rather do without.

“It’s nothing,” he deflects.

“Hey, you know me, Mando. I’m not one to judge,” Karga says, throwing his hands in the air. “If there’s anything on your mind I’m all ears. Money, politics, work, women-“

“There’s nothing to discuss. I’m fine," Din deadpans.

Kargas covers Grogus ears, who is too preoccupied by his munching to mind.

“Sounds like you need to get laid.”

Maker...

“You’re sordid,” he grumbles, shaking his head and turning back to the window. Karga just laughs. Amusement written all over his wrinkled face.

The arguments were one of the main things that changed between them over the last few years. Now they bicker like two old friends instead of two business associates. But one thing that has never changed is the way Karga tries to pressure him into revealing things out of him. Imperfectly human things.

He’d offer Din all sorts of things like spice or Twi’lek bathhouses just to see if he was capable of being tempted. And right now… there’s only one other person Din can think of capable of doing that.

“You know what I think? I think you’re starting to outgrow this lone wolf lifestyle of yours,” he speculates. “You’re a father now. Don’t you think the little one needs a mother?”

Dins helmet swivels back to Karga.

“Don’t you think you should stick to governing your town?”

“I was just getting to that," Karga exclaims excitedly. "You know we really should consider moving a few of the-“

“Here we go…,” Din sighs to himself.

What should’ve been a quick visit has turned into a one sided yap session. It’s been a couple weeks since he left and he’s eager to re-supply for his next run with Zeb. He’ll need to head to the square at some point as well. His home is in desperate need of a re-stock. And of course, a visit to the clinic probably wouldn’t be a bad idea if he’s already in the area.

Even from up here, your store can be seen at the far corner of the plaza. And every couple minutes, he can see you. Popping in and out of the small store and rearranging some of the potted plants outside. People greet you from the street and you turn to wave back.

It’s getting harder and harder to find excuses to go there that sound necessary. Last time he was there he picked up two new pharmakits, even though another two regular medkits sit unopened in his home. He’s been buying that energy tea you make, despite him being a kaf drinker his whole life. He keeps going back for shit he really doesn’t need. But if he was pressed to give a better reason, it’s mostly because he feels a need to check on you.

True, Nevarro has become significantly safer, but that doesn’t make it safe. Especially for a woman living completely on her own. You’re a kind hearted, giving person in a galaxy that does nothing but take. And someone like that should be protected. He’s looked the other way too many times in the past and he doesn’t want to be that person anymore. And plus the kid enjoys the visits.

Sure, the kid. Keep telling yourself that, Din…

A chiss man with a floating pallet of goods approaches your shop entrance and your attention turns from watering the plants to greet the vendor with a bright smile. You speak animately. And it would normally be endearing, if it wasn't directed towards another man. In the privacy of his helmet, Din grimmaces.

He shouldn’t be surprised. You’re well traveled, knowledgeable. It’s no wonder you’re able to buy products from so many places. But this particular vendor is getting a bit too close for Din’s comfort.

As usual, you talk with much enthusiasm. Sparking a conversation with the man. It’s clear you’re familiar with each other by the body language you both give off. And he’s not sure if it’s because you regularly get inventory from the man, or something beyond that.

You turn around on the balls of your feet to dip back inside the shop and as you do you’re completely oblivious to the way the Chiss’s head tilts to the side so his crimson eyes can roam your backside. And the only reason Din caught it was because the binocs in his visor seem to have unconsciously been turned on by his finger on his vambrace.

You return to with a small wooded box and open the lid to show him mineral salts, the kind he’s seen you make herbal soaks with. The vendor offers a large lidded glass jar of some kind of dried purple flower buds from his cart. With the added exchange of some credit chips, there’s more talking and smiling. Something he said makes you laugh as you sign his holopad and Din has to flex his fingers to stop them from clenching into a fist.

Enough. Stop watching.

The mental check forces Dins attention to shift back to whatever Karga keeps droning on about. You can associate with whoever you damn well please. It’s none of his concern who you do business with or what your personal life is like. Din nearly turns his visor away. But out of the furthest corner of his eye, he catches something he can’t tear away from.

The distance between the Chiss and you has suddenly shrunk. The moment unfolds in slow motion as his eyes chew on every second. The Chiss steps closer to lean down then…

Din’s arms uncross when the Chiss leans in close to your face. And before he knows it, the fucker plants a quick peck on your cheek. And you return it! The whole exchange lasts less than a second before you wave each other goodbye and he goes his separate way. You return inside with the product like nothing and Din sits there, completely rattled.

What… the fuck?

Was it a casual kiss? Did you even know that he was checking you out? If you did, was that a friendly goodbye gesture or was it flirtatious? That son of a bitch gets to walk around with bliss on his cheek all day now. Oddly enough, that’s what puts Din over the edge. A complete fucking stranger knows how your lips feel and he doesn’t.

Never in his life has he harbored thoughts like these. It’s downright pathetic. He feels corrupted.

“Fuck it,” he growls to himself beneath his breath.

“-Anyway, back to my point. I was considering having a port built for- hey!”

Before Karga has a chance to monologue further, Din has picked up his son from the edge of the desk—grubby hands still clinging to the bag of cookies—and has placed him right into Karga arms.

“I need you to watch over him for the night. I’ll come back for him in the morning.”

“Okay then? Fine by-.” Din doesn’t bother to listen because there’s no ending to that sentence that matters to him in this moment. He makes his exit, the slide doors opening as he nears them.

“Hey! Where do you think you’re going all puffed up like that?”

“I need to settle something,” he tosses back before letting the doors shut behind him.

The sun is getting low and a few other vendors are starting to take down their signs and close their doors. You’re probably getting ready to close up for the day yourself. Hopefully he’s able to catch you before then.

Each step on the cobblestone is heavy with purpose. And it's not unoticed the way several people on the street see an armor clad Mandalorian and scurry out of his way with a petrified look on their faces. But right now he doesn't particularly care. Right now everything in his head is clouded with the exception of one objective.

From a couple stores away, you catch him approaching from your peripheray. And he's not sure how to describe it, but it's like something in your body language softens when you see him. Your shoulders become less tense, your eyes gleam, and you cast him that bright toothy smile that could stop any man's heart.

“Ah! Hey! It’s been a while, Mando! How’s-“

“I need to have a word with you.”

Both your expression and your hand freeze momentarily in place, minus a suspicious quirk in your brow.

“Okaaay, you have my attention,” you chuckle, but there’s a nervous tone riding on it. “What can I do for you today?

“I need to speak with you," you tells you bluntly. "Privately.”

Confusion paints across your face and your smile falls a bit. Understanding how serious his request is.

“Like, right now,” you ask hesitantly.

“Preferably, yes,” he answers.

“Ok, yeah sure. Um… I’m just about to close up and we can head upstairs in a minute.” You start to turn away but then quickly turn back to him and immediately add “or we can go somewhere you’re more comfort-“

”It’s fine,” Din quickly interjects, stopping that train of thought. “This won’t take long anyway.”

You blink at him a couple times and give him a quiet “ok then” before turning around and preparing your shop to close.

Seems that Din’s command from his last visit was taken seriously. Regret over those words washes over him. If he’s being honest, being inside your home again sets off several red lights in his head. But he’s already on the verge of blurting out something teetering on the edge of his brain. Better to wait until he’s behind closed doors and away from any prying eyes. Or flirtatious vendors. This shouldn’t be complicated. He’ll make it quick.

He decides to wait around the corner of the shop where the stone steps meet your front door. He leans against the wall with his arms crossed and his finger nervously tapping his arm brace. After a few minutes you round the corner with your bag over your shoulder and lead the way into your home. Instinctively, he looks around for any eyes before entering and closing the door behind him.

“So where’s your boy,” you ask, tossing your bag on the couch and walking towards the kitchen. “I have to say I’m kind of surprised not to see him on your hip. You seem inseparable.”

Your voice is chipper but he can tell by your stiff body and lack of eye contact that you’re not entirely comfortable. For a moment Din reconsiders this encounter. But no. The sooner he this bug out of his system the better.

“He’s… spending the night with a friend,” he answers. Grabbing one of those ceramic cups from the cabinet, you fill it with water from the sink and he’s starting to think that you’re only doing that to keep your hands busy.

“Aaww, a sleepover? Is it his first-”

“If you don’t mind,” he cuts off. “I’d like to get to my point.”

“Oh… Y-yes, I'm sorry. I’m rambling,” you say sheepishly. “I’m just…,” you take a deep breath, rest the cup of water on the counter, and lean back against it. Eyes fixed to the floor.

“…it’s just what you said the last time you were here. And the way you approached me earlier, you seemed kinda… I don’t know, upset? I know you don’t wanna be here so I’m wondering what I did to upset you that you’d come here.”

Damn it… He’s such an asshole.

He should’ve never said that. You've been thinking this entire time that you’re at fault for his shitty social skills. Truthfully, with the way that wine had his head so deliciously foggy, he had to leave before his body did something it was aching to do, begging him to do. But how does he even begin to explain that?

“You didn’t do anything,” he answers immediately. But thinks on it once more. “Well… technically you did. But I’m not upset with you.”

“You’re not,” you ask him sheepishly.

“I’m not,” he assures.

A beat passes in silence as you chew over his words.

“Okaaay,” you say with a smirk, “now you really got my attention.”

That mischievous tone travels through Din’s helmet, in his ears, and settles warmly in the pit of his stomach. Something about the combination of your sweet voice and relaxed shift in your body language makes this whole interaction even more nerve wracking.

“Sooo, you wanted to talk to me about something I did?”

“Right.”

“Okay, sooo...” He feels you urging him to continue but now Din finds himself more cautious of his words now. If you’ve been silently worried about offending him the last thing he needs is for this to come off wrong way.

“It’s… a bit hard to explain,” he exhales. If he could pinch his brow right now he would. “To put it plainly, the night we drank together, you said something that’s been… stuck in my head.”

“Was it the thing about the name?”

“N-no.”

“Was it the Pantora story?

“No.”

“Was it the comment about knowing my liquor? Because I like a drink from time to time but I don’t have like a problem or anything-“

“No- Can I finish,” he asks impatiently.

“Okay, okay. Sorry. Go ahead.”

“When we were drinking, and talking… we said a lot of things and got into some deep conversations. And at one point, you asked me if I ever kissed anyone before. I said no back then because… I've never given it any thought in the past. But now it’s got me… curious.”

Your quirk your brow at him.

“Curious how?”

“I want to know what it’s like,” he answers plainly.

“… Sorry, what?”

“I need this… curiosity out of my head. It’s driving me crazy and I need it out of my system. So I figured… since you’re the one who mentioned it in the first place, you can help me kill it.”

“You’re… Okay so, hold on…,” you say with a shaky breath. “Are you… asking me to kiss you?”

“That’s… an oversimplification. But yeah.”

“You’re asking me to be your first kiss? Am I understanding you right?”

Maker, you ask a lot of questions. Are you always like this? You did the same exact thing when he gave you the wine. On any other day it would’ve been endearing but he didn’t anticipate the conversation lasting longer than a minute. Now his request sounds more and more lecherous with each passing second.

“I won’t bother you again after this. You have my word. It’s completely casual. Just killing a curiosity.”

“There’s a preeetty common phrase about curiosity and loth cats that goes differently.” A giggle tumbles out of your mouth on the tail end of that sentence and humility crawls under his skin.

“Sorry to waste your time.” He starts to turn towards the nearest exit when you step in to stop him. Placing a hand briefly on his arm in the space between his armor and the contact sends a current of electricity up his spine.

“No wait, don’t be like that,” you toy with him.

“I’m not laughing,” he spits. But you still have the nerve to giggle.

“It’s okay, Mando,” you laugh assuredly.

“No, it’s not. It’s ridiculous. I hate it. I hate that you put this in my head.”

You fold your lips between your teeth to try to hide your amusement. But you still can’t help but crack a smile a little at his frustration. He basically just confessed to having this obsession for months and he can tell by your smug expression that you’re enjoying how incredibly uncomfortable he is about this.

“You’re right. I’m… sorry,” you say under your breath. Trying to fix your face.

There’s a beat of silence. Stepping in closer, he tilts his head down to you. Locking you in his gaze. He takes pleasure in being nearly a full head taller and the way your breathing picks up before he says in a low gruff voice…

“No, you’re not.”

You smile behind your hand as your eyes dance across his visor, unknowingly locking eyes with the man beneath. You know you’re not sorry, just like he knows he’s not particularly sorry either. It’s not just this moment. It goes back to every interaction you’ve had together. The banter, the nicknames, the visits. He’s as much to blame as you are. And then… you slowly you shake your head, agreeing with him and confirming his suspicion.

Fuck, you’re cute. He hates that he loves how cute you are. He hates himself for not being stronger.

“Ok,” you nearly whisper. Looking up at him with the sweetest eyes. “I’ll help you.”

•

“Is all this really necessary?”

Din currently sits on the floor of your living room. The same spot as last time in fact. Your were the one that insisted on it and honestly he couldn't bring himself to tell you no. Since he sat down in the soft carpet, you've been flitting around your home turning off lamps, closing blinds, and covering any reflective items. Which, admittedly, he's greatful for. But the more time he spends here, alone with you, the more he's not going to want to leave.

“It’s not everyday you get your first kiss, Mando. I wanna make sure it’s a good one. I wish I could re-do mine.”

Gloves fingers flex and stretch restlessly on his knees as you approach the last lamp sitting on a side table in the living room and pause.

“Are you sure about this?”

Fuck no he’s not. But the sooner he does this, the sooner he can find some normalcy in his head again.

“Flip the switch," he says in a low modulated voice.

You fold in a growing smile before taking a deep breath and flicking the switch. Bathing the entire home in inky darkness. The silhouette of you through turns to hues of thermal green and red, carefully maneuvering through your living room by memory before finding your seat in the floor in front of him. And with slight hesitation, Din reaches up to remove the last barrier he has.

“Can you see anything?”

“Not a bit,” you answer.

With that confirmation, he unclasps the chin strap and slowly lifts the helmet up and off. He blinks several times to adjust his vision before finding the outline of the table and placing his helmet there. On the return, his head bumps into your outstretched hand. Not knowing that you had moved.

“Agh.”

“Sorry sorry,” you pull away. “Give me a moment, I’ll find you.”

Your hands search in the dark for him. He can’t see much but he can tell your hands land on nothing by the way the air between you moves and he doesn’t feel any contact on his person. So he reaches out, bumping into your arms and taking hold of them. Following the line of your forearm until he reaches your hands.

“Here,"  he murmurs. Gloved hands wrap around your wrists and gently lift them up. He guides your hands forward until…

You let out a small gasp when your hands find the warmth of his bare face. Soft and giving as opposed to the cold, unyielding beskar. Their movements are slow and explorative. Running your thumbs over his stubble. Surprisingly his hands don’t release their grasp. His leather clad digits press against the racing pulse in your wrist as his thumbs run over the back of your palm.

“This help?”

“Yes, thank you,” you whisper.

From sound of rustling on the rug, Din can sense your body leaning in. Your breath brushes over his skin for a moment before something warm presses against his chin and it takes a second to register that it’s your mouth. You ease him into the build up and he’s greatfull for it. Jaw. Then cheek. Then just grazing the furthest corner of his mouth.

And then… contact.

At first it doesn’t feel like much. Just something soft and warm pressing against his mouth. What most people refer to as a peck, he assumes. But it’s when you barely pull back and return for another that a shiver wracks his skin. Your lips lock in the return, molding together in perfect unison. And it’s fucking electric.

Just by feel alone, he senses that your lips are slightly open. So he mimics you. Giving his jaw just enough slack to respond as you go in again. The sensations have his mind in a thick fog. The soft flesh, the sweet taste, the faint suction. His skin feels like there’s live wires going off underneath. Giving in completely, he finally returns the kiss. Pressing into it with more confidence.

You hum against his mouth, and he dies a little inside.

That’s when the real hunger builds. There’s a slow simmering heat rising between you now. Without thinking, his hands grip your wrists a little harder. Pulling you in closer. The kiss grows a bit stronger with each return back into each other with no loss of contact. Lingering longer and breathing against one another.

He feels your head tilt more to the side and again he mimics your movement. The break only lasts a fraction of a moment. But in the re-entry, the tip of your soft tongue happens to brush his mouth. Sweet wetness coats his bottom lip and it’s in that instant Din feels all restraint leave his body.

Taking your face in his hand, he kisses you open mouthed, inviting you in. Your tongues slowly graze one another and if he fucking died in this moment he’d be ok with it knowing that he got to know how you taste.

The hunger becomes unbearable. Soon enough the breathing becomes heavier and the air becomes hot. Your arms end up wrapping over his shoulders, pulling him deeper and he’s more than happy to dive further. Another small noise escapes your throat and the vibration travels through his entire body.

He needs to feel you. To taste you. Devour you. He needs you.

A break for air is the only thing that throws him back into semi-consciousness as you pull away. The heat built up between you makes him dazed. Hot breaths fill the small space between your lips as you lean your forehead against his.

“Mando?”

“Yes,” he responds in a raspy whisper. A few moments pass as you collect your words and catch your breath.

“Is this really just about curiosity…?”

Your words lean more towards a statement than a question. There’s no point in denying it now. As much as he tried to convince himself or rationalize his strange request, he does feel a pull towards you. Much more complicated than just attraction. The more he sees you, learns about you, and talks with you, the more… inevitable you feel to him. There’s a gravity to you that he can’t escape from. Nor does he want to.

“Yes and no.”

“What does that mean?” The breath of your question brushes the heated skin of his cheek. And right now, he can't think of any answer that wouldn't give him up.

So he lets it fly.

“It’s not just the kiss I’m curious about.”

The silence in the air is thick. The only thing between you are the sounds of both of you catching your breath. It’s possible he might have ruined everything with that one sentence. But it’s the truth. It had nothing to do with the kiss and everything to do with you. Your kindness, your banter, your hospitality. All of it.

There’s no way of telling what you’re thinking at the right now. It’s in this moment that he wishes the lights weren’t out so he can at least read your expression. But then after what seems like an eternity, your forehead nudges against his and you blow a deep sigh of relief. Arms still draped over his shoulders.

“Oh good… I thought it was only me,” you confess with a skittish laugh.

And that tightly pulled restraint finally snaps inside him when he hears that.

Without any hesitation, he dives back in. Kissing you like a man starved. Just like that night, he feels drunk. Only this time it’s on the taste of you and the feeling of your hands finally on him. It’s that thought that drives him to rip off his leather gloves and toss them aside without breaking contact once. His bare hands find your waist and the strip of bare skin between your shirt and linen pants.

“Is this what you meant,” you pant. “When you told me not to invite you in again.”

“Yeah... it is.” He pants the confession as his mouth trails down the line of your jaw and finding your neck in the dark.

“That’s a relief,” you chuckle. “I was worried I offended you.”

“The only thing that’s offensive is that I can’t see that pretty pink flush on your face right now.”

“Should I get a blindfold,” you tease.

What a fucking woman. The mental image of you in a blindfold, only a blindfold, pours fuel on an already blazing fire. But for now, he’s more than ok feeling his way around tonight.

“Next time.”

It comes out of his mouth confidently and without hesitation. Because you both know there will be a next time. He’s bitten into the forbidden fruit and now he’s addicted to the taste.

With a simple shift, his hands dip beneath the thin fabric of your shirt and find the delicious heat of your soft belly.

"Lay down for me."

With your arms draped over his shoulders, you eagerly comply. Slowly dragging him down with you. He careful not to press all his weight on you—being crushed by beskar would definitely kill the mood—but it doesn't stop you from pulling tighter. Craving connection. All while Din rains wet kisses and soft bites upon your pulse.

So this is what your skin tastes like. Slightly salty, sweet, and smooth between his teeth. He might eat you whole if he’s not careful. He nips at the skin of your exposed collar bone and you writhe. Arching to press your chest to his. So he decides to give it some attention.

“Take it off," you pant with an neediness that drives him pull the damn shirt off in one swift motion.

His bare hand crawls up your sternum. Exploring the valley of soft skin free of any restricting fabric. The moment his fingers find the stiff peak of your bare breast he pinches eagerly. Earning the sweetest little whimpers from you as his mouth works on the other nipple. Biting and sucking the soft point. He can’t see a thing in the dark, but what’s lacking in sight is made up by sound with the delicious breathy moans you let out for him.

“Mando…”

Fuck, does he love the way you call out for him. Every touch, kiss, and  suck he gives elicites the most gorgeous sounds out of that perfect mouth. The sounds to straight to his cock, now painfully stiff. It's tempting to just dive into you right now. But he's waited this long. So why not take his sweet time with you. With his face still burried between your breasts and you fingers raking through his hair, Din feels a press of your hips against his armor. And he needs more.

“Shop Girl…”

The nickname doesn’t catch your attention. You’re either too lost in the moment or too breathless to answer. It’s only when he uses your given name that your body perks up and you give him a raspy “yeah?”.

“Do you want this," he asks.

His right hand has found its way to the waist band of your work pants. Ready and waiting for your answer. You try to grind against his hips but he presses your hips down firmly. He knows damn well neither of you want to stop. But he needs to hear it. There's no going back after this.

"Is this ok?"

He doesn't know if you're unsure. Or if maybe your trying to meet his eyes through the darkness. But there's a long pause. Only the sounds of heavy breaths and the pulse beating hard in his ears. And every second that passes has him hanging on the edge of madness.

"Yes...," you finally breathe. "I need you."

She needs me.

The words leave him winded. Months of questions and pining suddenly feel well worth the wait just to hear those words. They not only affirm going further, but the bond that's been steadily growing between you. Not a single ounce of hesitation survives after he hears that. And with one hand, Din loosens the tie of your pants and dives in beneath the fabric of your underwear.

By feel alone, Din manages to pull your pants down to your thighs and you kick them off your feet. His hands roam over all the smooth exposed skin and he can only imagine how perfect you must look if you feel this good. The tips of his fingers finds the dampness between your legs, running along the seam, and he slowly pushes inside until his knuckles meet your entrance.

You release a soft gasp and he swallows it with a deep kiss. You both sigh into each other's mouth. As if you need the other to even breathe. Din's lips never leaves yours as he does an experimental curl against the fleshy part of your walls and you arch your body against his.

“This where you need me," he huffs against your lips. "Right here?”

“Right there... Perfect..."

"I wanna taste you." The confession comes out before he can even think about it.

"Then taste me, Mando."

He can hear the smile in your voice. The taunt. And he's more than happy to reciprocate it.

He rises above you and you whine from the lack of contact. But the loss doesn't last long. Because before you even can register what he's doing, his head has already lowered between your legs.

"What are you- ah."

That gasp you let out when his mouth envelops your pussy is downright tortured. Good too know you were just as desperate as he was.

"Fuck! I thought you meant... You were gonna... Shit..."

No fucking way would he be satisfied tasting you on just his fingers.  The sweet tangy flavor explodes over his tongue and he groans. Fucking hell, you taste good. He doesn’t even know what the hell he’s doing but that’s sure as shit not stopping him. He drowns in you. Lapping and sucking on your swollen little bud and loving the way it makes you cry out. Two thick fingers pump into your wet heat as you melt in his mouth. Such a fucking treat.

You writhe beneath him. Squirming and clawing at anything to hold on to as he works you up. Eventually your hands finds his hair again. Taking a fistful and pressing his face further against your cunt. The sting on his scalp makes his cock twitch in his flight suit and he groans.

“You want me to make you come, Shop Girl," he mumbles against you.

“Yes.”

“Say it.”

“Make me come, Mando... Please…”

He doesn't break pace, doesn't falter, doesn't change a damn thing what he's doing because he can feel close to the edge you are. You tighten around his digits as the pump in and out. And with a firm suck on your clit you let out a strangled gasp.

"Oh Fuck! Fuck! Mando!"

Your breathing becomes short and shallow. Panting so hard right before holding your breath and tipping over the edge with a strangled cry. You come long and hard. Trembling so much he has to hold you steady by the hips.

Through the waves of your climax, Din continues to eat you. Lapping at your perfect pussy like it's wine and he doesn't waste a single drop of you. Even sucking and licking his fingers clean as you lay breathless before him. They come out of his mouth with a wet pop and he can’t help but let out a small breathy laugh.

“I’ve always wanted to try that…” he confesses.

You let out your own exhausted little laugh and he can already tell he wants more. More laughter, more of those pretty sounds, more of you.

It's with that in mind that Din starts pulling his cape off.

Piece by peace, he silently removes his armor. And after a few moments, a second pair of hands joins in. You fumble in the dark with his chest piece first. Helping him out of his armor one section at a time. They fall to the carpet with a soft thud along with the crumbling pieces of the restraint he’s built since that first night.

There’s no signs of stopping. You keep giving him more. More heat. More yearning. More questions.

What makes you laugh? What gives you pleasure? What makes you feel good and whole and satisfied? He needs to know.

And now that he’s gotten a taste, there’s no way he’s leaving here tonight until you’ve both had your fill.

•

If this is what happens when you invite the Mandalorian into your home, let your door never close.

Getting to your bed was easier than you thought it’d be in pitch black darkness. The only thing keeping your ‘bedroom’ separate from the rest of the home is a wooden lattice divider from the ceiling to the floor.

He lays you down on the soft futon on the floor and you open for him like a flower. Two strong palms drag and paw all over your body as his mouth works magic on yours and it makes you dizzy with desire.

Maker, he’s so good with his hands.

His body separates from you only to remove his flight suit and you whine at the loss of contact. Naked and panting for him. Within seconds he’s back on top of you and the feeling of his bare skin against yours makes your head spin. With everything so dark you wonder if this is even real. Maybe this is all a fever dream.

“Are you gonna show me how Mandalorians fuck this time,” you tease against his lips. Calling back to when he showed you how they drink. With your bare legs around his hips, you tease his resolve by running your inner thighs over his sides and you’re rewarded with a low hum. The hand supporting your neck slowly drags forward to find the base of your throat.

“You don’t need to know how Mandalorians fuck.” His wide grip gently squeezes the sides of your throat, just enough for you to feel the power in those hands. “Just how I fuck.”

Holy shit. You thought him gripping your jaw was hot. But this? This might’ve awakened something you didn’t even knew you wanted.

A whimper escapes you only to be muted by his mouth again. His tongue swirls with yours with a hunger you’ve never knew was there these past months and it’s such a relief to know that you weren’t the only one pining.

Mando’s mouth travels to your cheek, then jaw, finally finding purchase on your neck. Biting and sucking as his body presses into yours. He’s insatiable right now. There's no doubt that you'll find yourself covered in marks when the lights come back on.

You’re so lost in the moment that you almost don’t notice when something hard and warm presses against your inner thigh. Out of nowhere, a thought you haven’t even considered before decides to pop into your head at the very last minute.

“H-hold on!”

Your hands find his shoulders, urging him to pause. His lips unlatch themselves from your neck the second you blurt it out. Instantly propping himself above you with his hands on either side of your head.

“You want me to stop?,” he pants.

“No… Hell no. It’s just…”

How do you even begin to ask this?

“Um… I know I probably should’ve asked earlier but… you’re human, right?”

Mando blows out a low chuckle, understanding your underlying meaning. He feels human, from what your hands can tell anyway. He could be like his kid for all you know. It’s not that you’re not willing to go Inter-species, but your experience is mainly human. Plus with the lights off it’d be pretty difficult to figure out fitting things.

Taking your hand from his shoulder, he presses it against his chest where you can feel a dusting of hair. His skin is hot, damp with a thin layer of sweat and his breathing is heavy. He continues to lead your hand further down his torso so you can feel every hill and valley of his muscles. Eventually your hand hits a trail of hair down the middle and then…

Oh shit.

His hand guides you along the length of his cock. Encouraging you to explore every ridge from the thick base all the way up to the damp tip. He’s stiff and hot in your palm. When you give him a firm squeeze he groans and twitches in your grip.

Oh shit.

“Does that answer your question?”

The human part, definitely. Fitting is still debatable.

He lets you handle him. Giving you free rein to tug and tease as he bucks into your hand. He groans with pleasure and the power trip you feel knowing exactly how you affect this fiercely disciplined man makes the pulse between your legs throb harder. After a minute, his hand snatches yours to a halt, making your grip around his cock tighter.

“Show me where you want it,” he demands in a gruff breath. And you do just that. Pressing the damp tip against your clit. The contact sending a jolt of pleasure up your spine.

“Inside,” you plead. “I need you inside me.”

With an impatient huff, his hand comes down to take hold of your leg behind the bend of your knee. Spreading you wide and teasing your entrance before pushing himself inside. You gasp at the initial stretch, digging your nails into his shoulders. Mando curses under his breath and as he pushes you worry for a moment if there’s an end to him.

It’s slow, deliberate. Feeding his cock into your tight cunt until he’s pressing the limits of your walls. You shudder together when he’s completely sheathed and his hands grip your hips so hard his fingers dig into your flesh.

“Mando…” You throw your head back. Arching your whole body, waiting it to adjust to him. “Fuck!”

“I knew it,” he pants. “Fucking knew you’d feel good…”

He splits you in half and before you’re even ready the first hard thrust hits you. You whimper from impact and he thrusts again. Pinning you down by your hips to keep you at the perfect angle. Soon he sets a steady pace as he fucks you into delirium. It’s too much, he’s too much. Yet you moan and whine for more like each thrust might be the last. He feels incredible and you can only claw at his trim waist as it moves for you.

“That’s it… Good girl… Taking me so well… I wanted this… I want you to know every part of me.”

His words plunge into your chest like a dagger. Laced with a meaning that goes far beyond sex. Because you feel it too. You wanted him to be closer. You wanted him to know your name, know you. Even if it took this long to get here.

You feel one hand find your leg. Hiking it up so the back of your thigh lays flat against his chest. His hand drags up and down, caressing the soft flesh without losing a beat with his thrusts. A kiss presses on your calf and your head feels like it’s spinning. One moment he’s rearranging your insides and the next he’s giving your body sweet affection.

Tension builds in your core. Growing tighter and tighter with each hard thrust. Usually the second orgasm is more elusive to chase on your own. But this man is about to push you right into the next one not five minutes after the first one.

“Don’t… Stop…,” you pant. “Don’t stop, I’m so close, Mando…”

“Come for me... Let me feel you."

Then it comes. Tensing your entire body before coming down like a crashing wave. It’s spreads through every inch of your body, making you pulse and shake beneath his frame. You cry out in the midst of the euphoria, clinging to his shoulders, and everything feels so right. He moans along with you, feeling every tight pulse around his cock and letting you ride out the remaining waves.

“That’s two now, Shop Girl. You gonna give me a third?”

You let out a breathy laugh, still coming down from the clouds.

"I... I'm not sure I can," you chuckle.

"Yeah, you will," he pants. Amusement lacing his raspy voice.

Without out warning, Mando takes both your legs. Placing your calves over his shoulders as his leans forward. Folding you in half. And with one hard thrust, his cock drives back into you at a deeper angle. Your back bows and you swear you see stars in the blackness of the room. His lips land on the corner of your mouth and kiss their way to your lips. Offering a soft apology after the roughness. His strong arms are propped around you and you feel eclipsed under his broad body.

Soon his rhythm picks up. Becoming more desperate as he chases his own release. The room fills with the sound of your bodies meeting and you don't think you've ever heard anything more perfect. His panting picks up, his moans become louder, and the quivering breaths he makes when he finds a particularly deep spot will no doubt live in your mind rent free forever.

“You wanted me bare, didn’t you,” he huffs, pressing his damp forehead to yours.. “When you offered me that tea? You thought about me coming inside this perfect cunt, didn’t you.”

Caught red handed. Sure, you wanted to know if he had a partner as well. But the thought did cross your mind when he cornered you against the counter. You wanted to know how he felt bare, with nothing between you. Even dreamt a few times about it.

“Yes… Fuck, yes! Please! I want it!”

“You gonna come with me, Shop Girl? Hmm?”

“Maker, Mando! I’m right fucking there, please! I… I’m… ah-“

His firm hand grips your jaw. Whipping your face back to him so he can cover your mouth his. He kisses you deep, open and messy. No technique, just raw desire as he eats you alive. You moan and whimper against his mouth with each debilitating thrust he makes. He drives into you faster, harder. Relentlessly pushing you closer to the edge.

When it arrives, the orgasm hits you at full force. Wracking your whole body in convulsions as you scream, actually scream against his mouth. Your toes curl, your nails dig into his back and your cunt squeezes on to him for dear life like he’s never allowed to leave again.

Mando hisses through his teeth and he's right there with you. Ramming into you with relentless force as he chases his own release. His face dives into the crook of your shoulder and his arms scramble to take hold of you and he loses control. Letting out a sharp groan as he comes.

“Fuck.. Fuck,” he shudders in your ear. “Agh!”

His hips jerk against your body, driving himself as deep as you can take him. You feel his cock throb as he pumps into you again and again. Filling you to the point of spilling out and it’s... everything. Connected in such a profound way you’ve never felt before. In this moment, it’s hard to tell your bodies apart. You’ve melted and mixed and you never want to separate.

You ride it together, mold together, lose control together because you both knew it’d come to this. In the end this was inevitable. And in a galaxy filled with unknowns, in this you can be certain. A connection like this is few and far between. It’s real and raw and rare. Resisting that feeling was never an option, so why try?

Even in the climb down he doesn’t stop. Those hard demanding thrusts slow to a gentle drags as if he doesn’t want to finish yet. Hands glide all over each other’s bodies, soothing the other. All along his tense shoulders, you pepper soft kisses to his skin. Easing you both down from the clouds. He hums in the decent and it lulls you into an exhausted bliss.

Everything feels hazy and soft. You’re not sure how long you stay melted together like this. Minutes? Hours? But it’s needed. After a while, the breathing becomes steady and a soft, drowsy satisfaction settles between you.

“That’s the first time someone's come inside me,” you quietly confess. For a moment, Mando absorbs what you just said. Then you feel him prop himself in his elbows above you.

“Really?”

“Yeah…,” you breathe. Running your hands up the sides of his neck and resting them on his stubbled face.

“You know… since we’re sharing firsts tonight.”

He smiles and this time you’re able to know for certain by the feel of it in your hands. Leaning down, his forehead finds yours in the dark and you don’t think you’ve ever felt so whole before.

“I’m your first, huh,” he breathes. “I like that.”

There’s so many layers to this man. Quiet and withdrawn. Rough and demanding. Soft and caring. Each one is a trait you’ve come to cherish. You’re not sure if you love this man. But you’re definitely starting to fall for him. You can explore that treasure box later though. For now, you’ll take tonight for tonight and let whatever comes next between you arrive in its own good time.

“Me too, Mando...”

•

•

•

💕 THANK YOU FOR READING 💕

The helmet tilted slightly toward you.

“Quiet,” he shot back immediately, voice low and edged with the same irritation while looking down.

Very much down.

Because while the two of you had been sprinting through corridors trying to shake the men chasing you, this tiny hiding place had appeared during a frantic scan of the hallway. Without pausing to debate the idea, Din had grabbed you by the arm and shoved you inside.

He followed a heartbeat later.

The security panel had slid shut with a quiet thunk.

Only then had the reality of the situation become clear.

The space was barely large enough for one adult standing upright. With both of you inside, it became an exercise in awkward geometry.

Din stood with his back pressed firmly against the sealed panel. One armored arm braced against the wall in front of him, creating a makeshift support so he wouldn’t lose his balance in the cramped quarters.

At least he was standing.

You, on the other hand…

You lifted your gaze slowly.

From the floor.

From where you were kneeling.

Directly between his legs.

“Oh, don’t you dare tell me to be quiet,” you muttered sharply, craning your neck to glare up at the visor. “You’re the one who got us into this mess in the first place.”

Technically speaking, you were right.

Months of working together had built enough trust that when Din proposed the job, you hadn’t questioned it much.

An easy contract, he had said.

Quick entry. Quick exit. Minimal guards.

Simple.

Every single part of that description had turned out to be spectacularly wrong.

The artifact storage facility had recently made local news - something neither of you had learned about until far too late. Apparently publicity had inspired the owners to double their security.

What should have been a short operation had turned into a crawling nightmare.

Air vents.

Abandoned wastewater tunnels.

Forgotten maintenance corridors that hadn’t seen maintenance in decades.

The two of you had spent hours creeping through the guts of the building just to reach the prize.

Still, the effort hadn’t been wasted.

Your hand instinctively brushed your pocket.

Inside rested the object you’d come for: a Kyber Resonance Shard, a fractured piece of crystal rumored to hum faintly with residual energy when exposed to certain frequencies. Collectors paid absurd amounts for relics tied even distantly to the old Jedi traditions.

You had managed to lift it cleanly from its display.

Unfortunately, the display had also triggered a silent alarm.

Minutes later the corridors behind you had filled with guards.

Not just a few.

Dozens.

The careful stealth of the mission had evaporated instantly. Instead of sneaking out quietly, you had been forced to fight your way through the first wave and run before reinforcements sealed the building entirely.

That was when the plan changed.

Getting out immediately had become impossible.

But hiding?

Hiding might buy time.

Eventually the guards would assume you had escaped the facility entirely. Once the search widened outside, slipping away would be far easier.

At least, that had been the theory.

Which was how you ended up here.

Wedged inside a maintenance cavity barely wider than a locker.

Kneeling awkwardly on the floor.

Directly between the legs of a fully armored Mandalorian bounty hunter who filled most of the remaining space.

You tilted your head again to glare up at the dark visor hovering above you.

“Yes,” you muttered under your breath, “this was definitely your brilliant plan.”

“Maybe you should’ve listened when I told you the alarm might trigger,” Din Djarin muttered sharply above you, the words low and tight through the helmet’s modulator.

You snorted quietly.

“Helpful warning,” you whispered back. “Shame it arrived after I had already pocketed the shard.”

You shifted slightly on your heels, trying for the third time to relieve the pressure building in your legs. The cramped position forced your weight awkwardly onto your calves, and the metal floor beneath you was doing nothing to improve the situation.

Your muscles protested.

“Next time a meteor storm smashes into the Razor Crest,” you added dryly, “I’ll be sure to warn you afterward too.”

Din’s right foot nudged lightly against your leg.

You couldn’t tell whether the movement was meant as a quiet command to shut up - or simply an attempt for him to adjust his own balance in the ridiculous configuration the two of you had been forced into.

“If we get out of here,” you continued under your breath, shifting your weight again, “remind me to avoid any future jobs that involve stealing.”

The response came immediately.

“That from the master thief?” he said. Even without seeing his face, you could hear the faint crooked humor in his tone.

Months of working together had trained your ears well. You had learned to read the small inflections beneath the helmet’s mechanical filter. The subtle changes that meant he was smirking, even if the visor hid it completely.

You had seen that smirk before though.

More than once.

Because you have seen his face many times now.

The first time had been an accident - an unexpected glimpse of his face during a moment neither of you had planned.

The second had been necessity, when he’d taken a nasty hit and removing the helmet had been the only way to patch him up properly.

The third…

Well.

That had happened in the narrow bunk aboard the Razor Crest, sometime after both of you decided that surviving too many dangerous jobs together had earned you a more… relaxed way of blowing off steam.

Originally, the partnership had been strictly professional.

Lately, things had become a little more complicated.

“I wouldn’t mind switching back to bounty work,” you murmured, glancing up toward the dark visor. “You know I’m better at luring targets out than you are.”

A faint pause followed.

Then he replied quietly, “A little too good at it.” The final word slipped out in the soft cadence of Mando’a. “Mesh’la.”

Thankfully the darkness inside the cramped storage compartment hid the warmth that crept across your face.

You had never asked him exactly what the word meant.

Something affectionate, you suspected.

Something he said with an ease that made it feel… oddly intimate.

Even filtered through the helmet, the sound carried a certain weight.

“Don’t tell me you’re jealous, Din,” you whispered, voice tilting playfully. “Is that why you picked this miserable job? So I wouldn’t be flirting with half the galaxy while we worked?”

Your hand lifted almost absentmindedly, sliding along the side of his leg. The motion was half reassuring, half teasing as your fingers traced lightly over the armored plating before settling there.

“Focus,” he said quietly. But the word lacked its usual bite.

“Not much focusing I can do down here,” you replied softly. “We’re stuck waiting. Let me keep my sarcasm - it helps pass the time.”

Outside the sealed panel, the facility remained silent for the moment. No footsteps. No voices.

Still, both of you kept your voices low.

Better safe than discovered.

“You could start thinking about buyers,” Din said after a moment. “Once word spreads that the artifact disappeared from a secure facility, the list of interested collectors will shrink fast.”

You shrugged lightly, the movement barely noticeable in the cramped space.

“Let that be my headache.” He knew you would handle it. You always did. “You,” you added, glancing up again, “just focus on choosing our next job with a little more care.” A faint smirk crept into your voice. “I don’t mind spending time alone in a room with you,” you murmured. “But this setup? Less appealing.”

Your gaze lifted.

The visor angled down toward you.

“Think so? I can’t say the view is terrible.” There it was again - that invisible grin you had come to recognize.

Your hand, still resting on his shin, slid a little higher along his thigh. Your fingers tightened briefly in a light squeeze.

“Careful,” you murmured. “You know I like pushing my luck.”

“Focus,” he repeated again, though the command sounded slightly rougher now. “We need to be ready to move the second an opening appears.”

His tone still carried its usual seriousness. But there was something else hiding beneath it. A quiet thread of tension.

“I can focus just fine,” you said softly. “I’m practically meditating down here. Feeling like a damn Jedi.”

You shifted again, trying to relieve the ache building in your legs.

As you moved, you rolled your neck slightly - 

 - and accidentally brushed your head against his crotch.

The reaction was immediate.

Din shifted abruptly, a quiet hum escaping him through the modulator as he instinctively pulled back where little to no space was left.

You blinked, then slowly looked up. A wicked grin spread across your face.

“Well now,” you murmured, lips parting slightly. “Don’t tell me…” Your voice dropped to a playful whisper. “Din Djarin,” you teased, “are you actually getting turned on by this?”

You didn’t wait for an answer.

Instead your hand moved higher along his thigh, slipping beneath the edge of the segmented armor until your fingers found the softer resistance of the flight suit beneath. The fabric was warm from his body heat, taut where it stretched across muscle. You let your palm settle there for a moment - just long enough to confirm what your instincts had already guessed.

And there it was.

A slow, unmistakable firmness growing beneath your touch.

Your mouth curved slightly.

Well. That answered that.

“Cyar’ika…” Din’s voice dropped into a low rumble, the word dragged through the helmet’s modulator like a warning trying very hard to sound stern.

Except the tone betrayed him.

Half caution. Half something else entirely.

“What?” you murmured softly, fingers tightening through the fabric in a deliberate squeeze that completely contradicted the innocence of your question. “Should I stop?”

His breath caught.

“This is not the place,” he said, words slightly uneven now, “and definitely not the time.”

A faint inhale followed, sharp enough that he nearly stumbled over the last part of the sentence.

“Seems to me we’ve got plenty of time to kill,” you whispered.

Your hand didn’t slow.

If anything, the motion became more deliberate - testing, exploring his length through the layers of fabric while your eyes stayed locked on the dark visor above you.

Whatever sharp retort had been forming died instantly when your curious squeeze shifted into a slow, teasing stroke.

Din’s helmet tipped back against the wall behind him with a muted klonk. The hand braced against the opposite surface tightened, his fingers curling slowly into a fist as if he needed the pressure to steady himself.

“You really shouldn’t…” he muttered.

But the growl beneath the words lacked conviction.

It sounded less like a warning directed at you and more like something he was trying to remind himself.

Meanwhile your hand had already found the seam of the flight suit.

You slipped beneath it.

The moment your fingers brushed bare skin, Din’s hips shifted instinctively against your touch. A quiet roll forward.

A reaction he clearly hadn’t intended.

“You keep watch,” you suggested lightly, your voice barely louder than a breath, “I’ll keep you entertained.”

Your fingers wrapped fully around his cock now.

The muffled sound that escaped the helmet in response sent a small thrill down your spine.

You had seen Din without the helmet before. You knew the expressions he tried so carefully to hide from the rest of the galaxy - the tightening of his jaw, the way his eyes darkened when you touched him just right.

But this?

This was different.

With the helmet still firmly in place, you couldn’t rely on facial cues at all.

Instead you found yourself reading the language of his body.

Every small shift of muscle.

Every subtle change in the way he held himself above you.

The signals were clearer than he probably realized.

And right now they were telling you that you were very much on the right track.

His length twitched faintly in your grasp.

Yes.

Definitely the right track.

“You’re being reckless,” Din whispered after a moment, his head tilting slightly as if he was still trying to listen for sounds in the hallway beyond the hidden compartment.

“This entire mission has been reckless,” you replied with a quiet smirk. “I’m just staying consistent.”

Your hand moved again.

With a practiced motion you eased him free from the remaining fabric, the flight suit sliding aside just enough to reveal his length completely.

Especially from your low position you couldn’t help the brief flicker of appreciation that crossed your mind as he stood towering above you.

Your legs had been aching moments ago from the cramped kneeling position.

Now the discomfort barely registered.

You shifted slightly, adjusting your posture so you were better aligned with his cock in front of your face. Your gaze traveled upward for a moment before settling again on the task at hand.

Almost unconsciously, you wet your lips.

Your hand gave him a few slow strokes, deliberate and unhurried.

“You should stop,” he hissed quietly.

You smiled faintly.

“I haven’t even started yet.”

Leaning forward, you pressed a soft, almost reverent kiss against the soft skin of his tip.

The thing was,  you had never been particularly patient. The teasing kisses you had started with didn’t stay gentle for long. As you closed your lips around his tip you could feel a tension coiling through Din’s entire body and you could hear the change in his breathing.

The quiet restraint he usually carried with such discipline began to slip. A low sound escaped him - muted by the helmet but unmistakable.

Above you, his free hand found your hair. Just threading through the strands in slow strokes that felt almost absentminded, as if he was grounding himself in the sensation. The movement sent a clear enough signal on its own.

You were doing exactly what he wanted, that he did not want you to stop at all.

Encouraged, you took him in deeper, the tight space forcing you to adjust carefully as your tongue circled his soft skin. Din’s hand moved from the side of your head to the back of it as you leaned in further, the grip tightening just slightly as instinct took over.

For a moment the two of you went completely still.

The closeness of the compartment left almost no room for movement anyway. The faint hum of machinery somewhere inside the walls vibrated through the metal around you while you both adjusted to the new position.

Din’s breath hitched again.

“Mesh’la…” The word slipped out rougher this time, dragged low through the modulator as he looked down at you. The dark visor tilted slightly, studying you in the dim light filtering through the vent.

“You look… perfect like this.”

The praise landed like a spark and a shiver ran through you.

Your hand slid higher along his thigh to steady yourself while the other braced against the wall behind you. Slowly you began to move your head, careful in the cramped space, finding a rhythm that worked despite the awkward positioning.

You slowly started to move your head, taking him in just an inch more before rolling back, catching a breath. Spit glistened on your lips and his soft skin, even in the shady dark light of this makeshift hideout, the air inside the compartment growing thick and humid as the seconds stretched.   

Your own pulse had begun to race now and heat coiled low in your stomach. You could feel the wetness between your legs growing although he did not even touch you fully.

It was almost frustrating to realize there would be no space for him to return the favor here - not with the two of you wedged together in a compartment barely big enough to breathe in. Not to speak of the lurking danger outside.

But you had no doubt, the moment you made it back to the Crest, he would remember exactly how to repay you. And different to now he would take his time with you.

For now though, the focus was entirely on him.

Din’s grip tightened slightly in your hair as you relaxed your jaw just a bit more, to take him up to the hilt. Before you could settle fully into your pace, he guided you forward with a firm pressure at the back of your head, pulling you closer with a sudden urgency that stole your breath for a moment.

“You take me so well,” he murmured. The words vibrated through the helmet’s modulator, sending another shiver down your spine. Your lungs protested briefly at the fullness, but your mind was far too focused on the effect you were having on him to care much about that.

Just before the pressure became too much he eased the hold, letting you pull back enough to breathe again.

You inhaled deeply before leaning in once more, eyes slipping closed as you focused on the rhythm he gave you. Your fingers curled into the fabric of his flight suit for balance as you let your tongue explore his full length, feeling every vein and twitch. He felt impossibly hard now and you longed for the moment back on the ship when he would bury himself in you, hips rolling in that infuriating slowness he always used to bring you closer and closer to the edge.

Above you, Din’s movements became less controlled now. The subtle tension running through his body and the twitching of his cock told you everything you needed to know.

“I’m almost there, cyar’ika,” he breathed quietly. Then his helmet tilted downward again. “Look at me.”

You obeyed immediately, lifting your gaze to the dark visor looming above you. Your jaw softened slightly, preparing yourself for the moment - 

 - but suddenly he froze.

Every muscle in his body went rigid.

A sound echoed faintly from the hallway beyond the hidden compartment.

Footsteps, distant enough but approaching.

The situation became instantly absurd.

You were kneeling in a cramped maintenance cavity, his cock buried deep in your throat, both of you frozen in complete silence while someone walked somewhere nearby beyond the sealed panel.

Din held himself perfectly still, his grip tightening in your hair in a silent command to stop. To wait.

You felt it.

You understood it.

You ignored it. Your tongue moved again in a teasing flick against his underside and his throb told you how he ached for the sweet release. A strangled hiss slipped through the modulator.

The footsteps grew slightly louder as they passed somewhere down the corridor.

Din’s fingers clenched in warning. Not yet pulling you away, but very clearly telling you to behave.

You didn’t.

Your hands slid around the backs of his thighs instead, gripping firmly just beneath the curve of his backside. Then you pulled him closer, deeper, stealing your own breath, all while keeping your gaze fixed on him.

That was all it took.

Din’s head fell back against the wall with a silent thud as the tension snapped.

The insulation of the compartment and the distant machinery thankfully swallowed most of the sound. Outside, the footsteps continued past without slowing.

Inside, you had no choice but to hold steady as the wave finally broke and he spilled into your mouth, his warm cum coating the back of your throat and dripping down.

True to his earlier command, you kept your eyes lifted to the visor above you as you swallowed around his cock, taking every drop of him.

His fingers dug sharply into your hair now, the pressure almost painful as he fought to stay quiet through the release that rolled through him.

The footsteps faded down the corridor.

Only once the silence returned did Din finally exhale.

The breath came out slow and shaky.

After a moment he carefully pulled his still hardened length away, the movement making his tip bump lightly against your lips as he straightened.

“You…” he muttered, voice still rough. “…are an absolute menace.”

You leaned back slightly, licking the corners of your mouth before flashing him a satisfied grin.

“Happy to be of service.” You gave him a small, mocking nod.

With practiced hands you helped Din straighten himself back into the flight suit, smoothing the fabric into place before giving the front of it a light, almost condescending pat.

“Good as new,” you murmured under your breath.

The grip he had held in your hair finally loosened. Instead of the sharp hold from moments ago, his fingers slid through the strands in slow strokes, brushing your scalp before drifting down along the side of your face, tilting your face upwards by the chin. The gesture carried none of the urgency from earlier - just quiet warmth.

“We’re going to have a conversation about your sense of risk assessment once we’re back on the ship,” he said after a moment. Even through the helmet you could hear the grin in his voice. “Can’t take you anywhere.”

“Speaking of taking me places,” you said, nodding toward the sealed panel behind him, “you think things have cooled down out there yet?”

“I certainly have,” he replied dryly. The helmet tilted slightly as he listened for a moment, the faint sounds of the facility humming through the walls around you. “Seems quiet enough. Might be our best window.”

He glanced down toward you.

“Can you get it open again?”

Your lockpicking kit was still tucked safely in your pocket. After all, the panel had sealed itself automatically once you had picked it the first time and Din had shoved you inside. Your part of the job hadn’t exactly ended when the door closed.

You pulled the tools free with a quiet clink.

“What exactly are you contributing to this mission again?” you asked with a crooked grin.

Din awkwardly stepped over you in the tight compartment so you could shift forward, bracing yourself on your knees while you reached the panel controls.

“Because as far as I remember,” you continued, sliding the picks into place, “I handled the theft, the lockpicking, and the tension relief.”

Behind you he shifted his weight against the opposite wall.

“I’m making sure no one stands between us and the ship so I can repay you,” he replied calmly.

The panel hissed softly as the locking mechanism disengaged beneath your tools.

He leaned closer.

“Now hurry up,” he added quietly, “before I make you.”

You didn’t need further encouragement. You scrambled to your feet quickly - only to wobble immediately as your legs protested the long minutes spent kneeling.

Pins and needles shot through your calves.

“Stars,” you muttered, shaking them out. “Did the Jedi deal with this kind of thing all the time?”

Din didn’t slow.

“Less talking,” he said simply. His hand closed around your wrist and pulled you forward down the corridor. “More moving.”

Waiting had been the right call.

The frantic security sweep from earlier had thinned considerably. Most of the guards had clearly moved their search elsewhere by now, likely assuming you had already slipped off the premises.

Still, the path back to the exit wasn’t completely empty.

Twice you had to flatten yourselves against shadowed corners as patrols passed nearby.

Twice Din handled the problem when stealth alone wasn’t enough.

Before long the familiar shape of the Razor Crest appeared waiting at the edge of the landing platform like an old friend.

You sprinted the final stretch. By the time the ramp lowered you were already breathing hard.

Din reached the cockpit first, vaulting into the pilot’s seat as the startup sequence flared to life across the control panels.

You stumbled up into the cockpit seconds later and dropped into the copilot chair beside him, chest still rising and falling as you tried to catch your breath.

But the grin on your face refused to fade.

From your pocket you produced the prize.

The Kyber Resonance Shard caught the cockpit lights as you tossed it lightly into the air and caught it again.

“Well,” you said, leaning back slightly as the engines hummed louder beneath your feet, “that was an experience.”

You flipped the shard once more.

Din said nothing. His gloved hands moved across the controls with steady precision, initiating the final departure sequence.

The ship lifted smoothly from the platform.

You glanced sideways at him.

“What do you think this thing will sell for?” you asked, turning the crystal between your fingers.

Still nothing.

A small flicker of unease crept into your thoughts. Had you pushed too far earlier?

You cleared your throat. “Maybe we should take more breaking-and-entering jobs,” you added casually.

You tossed the shard again - 

 - but this time Din’s hand shot out and caught it midair before you could.

The motion was so quick it left you blinking.

Without looking at you, he engaged the hyperdrive controls with his other hand. The Crest lurched gently as it entered hyperspace, the blue tunnel of stars stretching across the viewport.

Din turned the crystal over once in his hand. Then set it on the console. Only after that did he rise from the pilot’s seat. His broad silhouette loomed over you.

“Bunk,” he said.

Just one word.

No humor left in it.

The tone wasn’t angry.

But it was unmistakably an order.

And stars help you - you obeyed it eagerly.

You were out of the copilot seat in a heartbeat, heading down the narrow corridor toward the sleeping quarters.

Behind you, heavy footsteps followed.

You reached the bunk and climbed inside just as the familiar sound echoed through the small cabin - 

The quiet hiss of a helmet seal disengaging.

Your grin widened.

Propping yourself up on your elbows, you stretched out on the mattress and looked toward the doorway with open anticipation.

You had worked with Din long enough to know exactly how this was going to end.

He always believed in settling the score.

My Masterlist

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You kiss his head before scrambling out from beneath his arm, noting that even though you have black bed linen on, you’ll have to hope all of the blood dried upon it washes clean before pulling on your robe and going to seek a little cleansing of your own body. 

“You’re up late,” your dad comments as you enter the kitchen after showering and dressing. You do the greatest double take in the world at seeing who else is there with them. 

“This is early for Grace,” IV speaks, standing at the large cooker, checking the progress of the bacon in the pan before him. “She usually runs on vampire time.” 

“What the hell are you doing up?” you speak, moving to him, kissing his cheek. 

He rolls his eyes. “Obvious, ain’t it?” A nod gestures to the pan. “Cooking breakfast for your parents. Thought you could probably do with a lie in.”  

His wink gives nothing away to them, but of course, he knows exactly what you were up to with his siblings during the early hours. Your slightly embarrassed smile has him chuckling a little, putting his arm around you and kissing your head. 

“Now you’re up, I’ll leave it all in your capable hands.”  

Smiling, you give him another kiss. “See you in the evening. Love you.”  

The words leave your lips before your brain can even process the statement, but you know you do, especially after seeing him put in this kind of effort with your parents. For him, it truly is a sign of his commitment to you, to push aside his own deep-seeded hatred of humans and be attentive to them. He doesn’t exactly look happy doing it, but it’s a small victory you’ll happily take, and a huge step for him, too.  

He nods, winking. “Love you too, sugar.”  

Oh! All you desire right now is to go upstairs after the rapid trajectory of his blur and entwine with him, but with two expectant parents, you cannot bask in this, you and IV both finally confessing such romantic feelings toward one another. It doesn’t mean that his sentiment ceases from tingling in your chest like glittering sunshine. 

No, while following him upstairs is off the cards, you can, however, stand and oversee the frying of bacon while grinning like an idiot. 

“He’s, erm, he’s very quiet, isn’t he?” Your mum speaks, jerking her head in the direction IV vanished in. “There’s something about him that, I don’t know, seems sad?” 

That’s putting it mildly. “I won’t go into details, but yes. His life as a human was horrific, marred with neglect and abuse. It’s why he doesn’t really like people. Trust me, for him to stay awake and do this for you both? Huge.” 

Your dad tuts, shaking his head. “Poor kid.”  

That’s a surprising reaction, given his thoughts the previous night. It surprises you so much that you clip the desire to correct him, too, choosing not to remind him that IV is no kid at over thirty years older than him. It must be strange for someone to get their head around, though, being that he’ll never age past thirty-two.  

“Oh, babe,” you mum gasps, while you plate up the bacon, moving then to where the poached eggs have been drying on a piece of kitchen paper. “Horrid, absolutely horrid for him to have gone through that. Makes me want to give him a big mum hug, but he probably wouldn’t like it, would he?” 

Your eyes widen immediately, moving to place the already sliced bread beneath the grill on your way to the fridge to fetch the butter. “No, he wouldn’t. Mind you, he surprised me with this. I wouldn’t try it, though. He’s... yeah. Bit of a work in progress.” 

Assembling the food, you note that your work in progress made enough for you too, likely on the off chance you would rise early enough to eat it, taking a seat at the table with your parents.  

“So, are you any easier with the idea now, dad? Of this being the life I’ve chosen?” you ask tentatively after a few mouthfuls of food have passed your lips.  

He looks thoughtful while chewing through his toast, taking a sip of coffee. “Yes and no. I’ve got to be honest with you, ginge. I don’t really like the idea of you playing girlfriend to four of them, and ending up effectively married to them all, too, obviously without the legal paperwork since you can’t. However, I can’t deny what I see, and I see they make you happy.” 

“Is this you giving me your blessing?”  

Lamentably, he shakes his head. “Not really, but I won’t try and stop you from living your life. I suppose I’ll just have to get used to it. Your mum and I talked about it last night, and I was awake a while, thinking about it. What she said to me sank in a bit, that you’re a grown woman. Just because I don’t like it doesn’t mean I have a say in trying to stop you from making your own decisions. Ultimately, though, I don’t like it. I just can’t really deny you of your decision, though.” 

That’s better than anger and all out refusal to see things from your perspective, you suppose. “And you, mum?” 

“Mm,” she hums, swallowing her food. “I like them, from what I’ve learned so far. It’s going to take some getting used to for me, too, but I see very clearly that each of them utterly adores you. I also feel reassured you aren’t in any danger either, so if blessings are what you’re after, I happily give you mine, babe.” 

Beaming, you lean to kiss her cheek, watching as she pulls a face. “Away, with your bacon grease lips!” 

Ahh, a little levity, the three of you sharing gentle laughter. It’s been a tense twenty-four hours, but you’re relieved that it could come to some kind of resolve. Even if your dad isn’t fully on board, at least he isn’t actively trying to interfere. It means come three months from now, when you will bond with your vampires beneath the black moon, you can do so with absolutely nothing holding your back. 

Not that the opinion of one man ever could, regardless of his familial tie to you.  

“I think, given the events of yesterday, this is the best outcome we could have hoped for, short of his full support,” Ves speaks later that evening, once your parents have departed and you’re enjoying the quiet tranquillity of his bedroom. “It’s realistic that he isn’t going to be all smiles and sunshine over it, this set up so unconventional to anyone other than us five all in it together. I’m pleased that your mum warmed to us in the way that she did, though. Her panic was still a little palpable, but fuck, if that woman didn’t work her fucking arse off in at least trying to understand it all.” 

She did, but as you learned from a few text messages received, it wasn’t without a little help. “Mel messaged me to see how things were going, and she said she sat her down and had a talk with her before they left, reminded her of the fact I’m a grown woman and that she had to at least give all of this a chance to settle in her brain and try and understand it. Also, that just because it was different, it didn’t make it bad.” 

He smiles at that. “Your aunt seems like my kind of person. Feel free to invite her to stay any time you like, darling.”  

You’re sure he might regret that when she’s seven beers deep, singing loudly to anything by Kasabian, her all-time favourite band. “I’ll bear it in mind.”  

Settling back into Ves’s embrace, the soft firelight painting golden shadows on the walls, you let yourself breathe for the first time in what feels like days, the air tinged with relief that everything is now out in the open. The weight of tension that had been knotted through your shoulders ebbs away with each gentle word Ves murmurs, his hand tracing idle circles against your hip, and for once, future anxieties are quieted, replaced by a tentative hope that, while things might never feel simple or normal to the world outside, this peculiar, fiercely beloved life you’ve chosen is beginning to find its footing within your family. 

“Should I wear a fancy dress, come the black moon?” you ask him after a few silent moments, “you know, since it’ll sort of, in a roundabout way, be me marrying the four of you when we ultimately bond?” 

He chuckles, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “It isn’t really a ceremonial exchange, but if you want to then you should. It’ll be more about what the moment means going forward than anything else.” 

“I’m looking forward to it,” you reply, resting your chin on his chest. “Well, not so much that I know it’s going to make you ill, drinking my blood.” 

His eyes mist a little, looking away from you for a flicker of a second. “Hmm, no. It’ll be worth it, though, for this to happen. And whatever does happen, no matter how ill it makes me, I want you to remember something. I did this with you out of nothing but the purest love for you, and for my offspring. Because I have never loved another woman like I do you, my beloved Grace Evangeline. You are never to forget that. Promise me that you shan’t.” 

You’re struck by the sudden solemnity of his words, leaning to kiss him. “As if I ever could, you remind me all the time.” Kissing him again, you gently rub your nose against his. “I promise.” 

He strokes your hair, his smile so loving you feel it radiating its warmth into your chest like moonbeams. “Good.” His hands then grasp, pulling you atop him, wandering over your curves as your kisses begin to gain heat. “Not too shagged out by the joint efforts of my offspring, are you?”  

Smiling shyly, laughter edges at your breath, resting your face against his chest with a quiet groan. “No, I’m not. Never too tired for you.”  

Turning you onto your back, he sits up, pulling off his dark blue sweater before slotting himself between your thighs. “Words I’m very fond of hearing.” 

The bloom of arousal flourishes deep inside you, just from this, enjoying his lazily delivered kisses, his hands teasing the straps of your top down, the button front nimbly undone. As each bit of your skin is revealed, it is kissed by him, his dark blue eyes seeking yours as he stops for a moment to gaze fondly upon you.   

You gasp softly when his mouth seeks your neck, his thumbs circling your nipples through the thin fabric covering them, continuing with his removal with a flick of fingers beneath your back, your bra cast upon the floor along with your top.  

A smirk tilts his lips when your breasts spring free, Ves shifting down, cool breath fanning over your skin. The prickling pain of his teeth nipping the curve of your breast makes heat rise up your spine, his tongue circling the teeth marks he left. A guttural grunt pools in his throat when you reach down to grasp his hardness, his cock feeling as humongous as ever in your grip before between you, his jeans join the other pile of clothes, your long skirt and undies following. 

“Mmmm, bloody hell,” you murmur, Ves moving back to kiss you once more. “You’re always like a fucking iron bar, aren’t you? 

“When will you ever cease to marvel at it?” He asks, making you giggle a little. 

“Perhaps when you don’t find it so entertaining when I do.” You reply, coaxing another groan from him as your thumb swirls the pre-cum soaked head, feeling it bob in your grasp as you bite his bottom lip, granting him your mouth when his tongue seeks yours.   

The heat between you sparks wildly, his mouth going back to attending your breasts with greedy nibbles and licks, unable to get enough of them, the taste of your skin, the feeling of your nipples pebbling tight against his tongue. 

While his mouth is occupied, he begins to slide his hand up your thigh, your legs parting for him immediately as he shifts in between them. “Mmm, good girl.” He tells you throatily, appreciative of how quickly you granted his access.   

A shuddered breath leaves his mouth when he reaches your sex, finding you glistening for him already. His kisses always leave you hot and syrupy, though. His fingertips stroke a teasing dance across your folds, not quite touching you and in doing so making you soar, biting your lip as you arch into him, seeking his hand wantonly.  

“Patience.” He chides you softly, his rumbling laughter quiet, like distant thunder, his lips once again at your throat, kisses trailing to your clavicles.   

His reverent touch eventually explores your slick petals, soft and inviting to him as he opens you, like a dew-covered flower, your wetness bathing his skin. He traces soft circles around your clit, causing breathy gasps to leave your mouth, his touch beyond expert. This vampire, he knows your body, every last inch of it.   

A flush of pleasure winds in your core as his fingers begin to move more rapidly, your little bud hardening, pushing out from its hood, wanting to feel as much as it can of him. You tingle and shake, your nectar flowing like a stream, your scent intoxicating to him as he kisses you fervently.   

You throb to feel internal gratification, your hand now pumping his cock wildly, the moans he makes into your kisses causing you to feel a tornado in your stomach, all guttural and animalistic, the rumble of his arousal igniting to your senses.   

“Please, Ves. I need you, I need to… hahhh!” You wail incoherently as two long fingers slide into your heat, your lover wasting no time in any kind of build-up and giving you exactly what you crave.  

He watches you intently as he fucks you, your eyes entranced by the play of the muscles in his arm, flexing with effort as his fingers assail your slippery walls.   

“Touch yourself for me, while I finger fuck your beautiful, tight little cunt.” He growls, taking the hand that’s wrapped around his erection and placing it to join his between your legs.   

His head dips, watching you as you begin to stroke your clit, the glimmering you feel from both his stimulation and yours strong and pulsing, your groin burning. His cock twitches against your thigh, fluid oozing from the slit onto your hip, his arm still flexing with effort as his fingers pound you savagely. 

You need him though, need those many inches of velvet encased steel, taking your hand and guiding him towards you. You think all is about to be sated, but instead he nestles his cock between your folds and instead of fucking your hole, rubs his length against your slit instead.   

It’s tantalisingly erotic, being stimulated by every ridge, every thick vein, the head of his cock slipping and sliding over your clit as you both moan with wanton hunger, your hands flexing at his shoulders as you share heated kisses. 

Every single way he offers his cock to you invokes sexual magic, but none more so than when he’s actually inside you, a point you both reach soon, too fired up, desperately needing to be joined to savour the deliciousness of his tease for a moment longer. 

The slide in is effortless, your body so ready and keen for him he meets no resistance, Ves breathing hard through his nose as his mouth crushes yours, his cock claiming you, hands bracketing your ribcage as he bottoms out and retreats once more.   

He drives back into you harder this time, your moan pouring from your mouth and mingling in your kisses, his tongue swirling with yours as your fingers stroke his hair as once again, he fills you to absolute capacity.   

Your cunt grips him, making him shudder, stopping for a brief moment to enjoy those muscular twitches around him before he starts to thrust once more, one arm hooking under your leg, the back of your knee at the pit of his elbow as he pushes it further forward, deepening the penetration.   

You mewl in response, your hands gliding down his broad chest as your body undulates against his, hips rocking into each thrust, the exquisite deepness of him filling and emptying you spreading tingles up your spine and down your legs.   

Each punt has your body softly shuddering, your tits bouncing with the force he drives into you with, his head dipping to suck your nipples in turn before his tongue once again explores your mouth.   

A circular motion of his hips bearing down into you, his cock hitting every angle, every depth, has you crying out, your fingers pressing to his mouth as he sucks them between his lips, tasting you on them, groaning as his eyes, like twinkling garnet in the firelight, find yours. 

“Couldn’t love you more if I tried,” he whispers, nuzzling you, “not even if I lived my time all over again.” 

He feels heavy within your fluttering walls, dragging tingles from you, igniting the coiling pleasure as his pubic bone presses your clit, the majesty of his body starting to stir the fires of your release, harder, faster, the friction tighter as you begin to clamp upon him.   

Your breathless wails fill the room, coupled with the deep, guttural grunts of your lover, cursing in your ear, repeating the word ‘fuck’ in a deep growl again and again as he loses himself to you.  

His hips seem to disengage as he pounds you mightily, your muscles milking his orgasm from him as white-hot annihilation consumes you both. He moves gently thereafter, slower thrusts, every last bit of his seed spilled deeply inside your quivering cunt, enjoying the little flexes around him as he strokes your hair, kissing you softly.   

The rest of the evening is spent enjoying lazy relaxation, flitting between the four of them, enjoying a long bath with IV, going to cook and laugh until you cry with III, settling to watch a documentary with Ves and the early hours finding you quietly reading in the library with II before being taken to his bed to cuddle before dawn breaks. 

As the sunrise ascends, you find yourself drifting between wakefulness and sleep, a soft cocoon of contentment enveloping you after the long, intimate night. It isn’t out of anything even verging on disquiet, though, more allowing the happiness of your life to bloom brightly as you lie there and take stock. There is a delicate peace in these moments, a sense of having carved out a place for yourself where love, acceptance, and belonging aren’t just fleeting. They are yours, given freely by your vampires, woven into the fabric of every new day. 

“What’s all of this?” II asks, up a little later than you, coming into the kitchen to greet you with a kiss where you sit amongst a jumble of scribbled notes and a laptop with too many windows open upon it. 

You gesture around at the disorganised chaos in note form. “My plan for starting up on my own. Well, the tentative ideas surrounding it. My first-year plan, my five-year plan and a hell of a lot of brainstorming where I’m probably contradicting myself!” 

He leans over your shoulder, scanning the piece of paper laid before you. “You’ve spelled facilitation incorrectly. Only one L.” 

With pursed lips, you turn to him. “Spelling mistakes aren’t what I need to be pulled up on!” 

“The devils in the details, no matter how seemingly inconsequential,” he winks, and you give his cheek a little bite in retaliation. “Stop it,” he chides, popping his fangs. “Mine are bigger.”  

“Spelling mistakes aside, does it all make sense, what I’m planning?” you ask, II drawing up a seat at your side.  

“Hmm.” He reads through the jumble of notes, organising them into piles. “I’m no businessman, not by any stretch of the imagination. It all seems reasonably cogent for what you aim to achieve, though.” 

“And it doesn’t fall short in my expectations and projections? You’re not just humouring me?” 

He snorts softly. “I just pulled you up on a spelling mistake, love. I am not the type of vampire who’d blow smoke up your arse just to please you.” 

True, he isn’t. “I do appreciate that about you, your often brutal honesty.” Pausing, you then go over your notes again, a little flare igniting in your chest. “Website, shit! I need one and I’m bloody useless with all of that guff!” 

“Hmm, but Teddy isn’t,” II reminds you, “being the computer genius that he is. I bet he could probably assist.”  

You’ve been so consumed by the little details that you completely forgot about that, closing your eyes and shaking your head slowly. “I’m such a twat.” 

“No, you’re not,” your vampire reminds you, wrapping his arms around your shoulders and kissing your neck. “You just need to pull back from it for a while and relax. How many hours have you devoted to this so far today?” 

“Three.” 

He moves his head into your line of vision, arching an eyebrow. “Grace.” 

“Okay, five,” you confess, moving to tidy everything away. “You’re right, I need a break. I’ll clear all of this away and go and spend some time with Teddy, ask him about the website while I’m there, too.”  

II agrees that it’s probably the best idea, leaving you free to head back down to your cottage and pose the question to the man himself. Handy, really, as he’s expecting you for dinner. 

“Shit! Oh, my Jesus! Do not catch fire!” 

Pausing by the lounge door, you take a moment to let it all sink in with you, the atmosphere, so warm and cosy, and Teddy’s usual strife with anything kitchen related. It brings a little tear to your eye, realising in this moment just how much you miss it now that you aren’t living here full time any longer.  

While there’s nothing to stop you coming back for your scheduled nights here with your best friend, it won’t quite be the same. A lot of memories have been made in this house, dating back to your infancy, visiting your beloved grandmother here with your mum a couple of times a week, right up to taking it over as your first proper home, student house shares and dodgy flats with questionable landlords aside.  

It holds a beautiful sense of nostalgia, and while you had thought of selling it to Teddy rather than continuing to take rent, you know that while you truly have no financial need to, you simply can’t sell your beloved cottage. He can rent at a reduced price, you decide, and live there for as long as he desires. It will always be yours, though. No matter that you shan’t dwell within its loving walls any longer. 

“Darl? What are you burning?” you call, a blonde head poking around the doorway shortly before you enter.  

“The tea towel,” he speaks, holding the slightly charred item in his hands, the corner still gently smoking. 

Taking it from him, you go and run the corner under the tap before binning it, glad they were a simple Asda purchase and not any of your beloved Kath Kidson ones. “So, what are you making for dinner, and can I help?” 

“Steak and chips with all the trimmings!” he announces, furnishing you with a freshly poured glass of Merlot. “And you can get the plates out, I’m almost finished.”  

Going to the cupboard, you take out a couple, helping him further by stacking up the dishwasher once he’s done with the various baking trays and pans before you both move through to the lounge.  

“So, how did it all go, then, with the parental division’s visit?” he asks, slathering his steak in a liberal smear of English mustard.  

Nodding through your mouthful of crispy, battered onion ring, you cover your mouth with your hand politely. “Alright in the end, but flippin’ hell, it didn’t begin that way!” you reveal, continuing. “Dad punched II.” 

Teddy’s eyes almost roll out onto the floor. “What the bloody hell?” he cries, mouth agape, reaching for his wine. “II is great! Why’d he do it, and does he have a death wish, punching the vampire who once buried someone alive?”  

Your eyes widen, nodding again rapidly. “I know, I was fucking stunned, Ted. I swear, I thought II was about to put his fist through the back of his skull. We all know how he is in that respect.” You pause, Teddy making a noise of agreement. “He didn’t do anything, though, beyond growling at him with fangs bared and reddened eyes. He just took it and then gave my dad a bollocking for acting in that way in the first place.”  

You go on to explain the rest of the visit, how things eventually evened out a little, how well your mum seemed to take to them all, Teddy laughing in particular at what came out of III’s mouth.  

“I really don’t expect my dad to warm to the idea overnight, especially since he did state he doesn’t truly give his blessing, but it is what it is. I doubt my vampires will ever really go so far as to say they like him either, especially not II, but at least they all liked my mum. Even IV. He stayed awake and cooked breakfast for them,” you reveal, Teddy looking greatly surprised at that.  

“No way, really?” His surprise is valid, since he hasn’t even met him yet, IV still hardwired in his commitment to being antisocial back when Teddy visited your other home to meet with your vampires.  

“I know, I was shocked, too. They all really tried, though, despite the fact I know my dad isn’t going to be their favourite person going forward.” You smile then, beginning to laugh a little. “Ves said he wants to meet Mel.” 

Teddy snorts into his wine glass, his eyes crinkling with affection. “He’d be looking for her volume control switch after about ten minutes! I fucking love your auntie, you know I do, but she’s like the female, human equivalent of III!”  

Bloody hell, he’s right, and you instantly fall apart laughing at the realisation. Inappropriate, fun loving, excitable. Yep, she is your boyfriend’s female human counterpart. II would hide from her after three minutes, and that thought has you chuckling to yourself.  

Your bestie notices, cocking his head a little. “You’re really, really happy, up there with them, aren’t you?” 

The smile that spreads across your face could light up the dark. “I am. They’re the loves of my life. Just the thought of being parted from even one of them brings me out in a cold sweat. I adore them.”  

Teddy grins, reaching over to refill your glass. “This makes me so happy to see. Love that for you, baby.” 

The easy affection between you both underscores the warmth of the evening, conversation drifting from your family – both born and found – and you find yourselves reminiscing about old misadventures in the cottage, laughing heartily at forgotten in-jokes and hilarious gaffes from a life shared under its thatched roof. There’s a gentle reassurance in knowing that no matter where your paths lead, or how your lives may fluctuate, your bond with Teddy remains a constant. 

A little later in the evening, you decide it’s probably a perfect time to move a few more things up to the house, needing some assistance. That comes in the form of two masked vampires arriving the cottage five minutes after calling them.  

“Ted!” III speaks warmly, pulling off his mask and giving him a hug. “Can you stop smelling so fucking sexy? You’re making me miss men!” 

“I’m sorry,” he sighs, kissing his cheek. “I’m naturally irresistible!” 

You and an also present II both snort laugh at the look of bliss on III’s face, who then comically chuckles, licks Teddy’s cheek and then vanishes upstairs.  

Teddy wipes his face on his sleeve. “I want to say I didn’t enjoy that, but I can’t.”  

You’re in soft fits as III arrives back with the first of your boxes, II going up and grabbing the suitcases as well as a pile of linens. They drove down in your car, the back loaded with your stuff quickly while you give Teddy a big hug on the doorstep.  

“I bet you’re both looking forward to being rid of the masks in a few months, aren’t you?” he asks, gesturing to their covered faces.  

“It’ll be nice, not being stared at by humans who don’t understand, or our own kind who do.” II replies, and you feel a little happy pang twinge in your chest. Because of them having to remain covered and thus attracting such scrutiny, they seldom actually leave the spaces they feel comfortable within, either home or places where what they are is known. It’s another reason to feel nothing but positivity that you’ll be giving them a more normal existence after the bonding process takes place.  

Three months; they pass by in almost a blink.  

You ready yourself for it come the early evening of the long-awaited black moon, deciding to wear a nice, but not too ceremonial dress. A simple black, scooped neck piece, glad of the long sleeves since the arrival of spring hasn’t quite brought the warmth you were hoping for. Having done your hair and makeup already after being out organising all things business, still in the fledgling stages of starting up White & Co Events Ltd, your brand new venture, you give your hair a quick brush and re-apply a misting of perfume about your person, all ready for when the sun begins to sink. 

There will be a minimal amount of time once the sky has fully darkened, the blood needing to be exchanged before any of your vampires start to shift. It usually only takes half an hour from sunset for their shifts to manifest, so in that space is when the crucial exchange must happen.  

You feel a little slither of nerves, but you’re unsure why, recognising that it’s probably excitement masquerading itself more than anything else, moving downstairs and into the kitchen, pouring yourself a small measure of rum. It’s while you’re sipping it and watching the sun sinking into the horizon, orange and pink bleeding away into the new ink of night that you feel two arms wrap around you. 

“Evening, my love,” Ves speaks, leaning to kiss your cheek. “All ready?”  

“I am,” you speak, finding the glass gently plucked from your grasp, your vampire turning you to him. 

“Come here.” He wraps you in a tight hug, kissing your hair as his hands stroke you with fondness, enveloping you in his love. “I cannot thank you enough. I love you so much, my precious Grace. Never forget it.” 

Looking up at him, you stroke his face, pulling him into a kiss. “Not likely.”  

“Mm,” he hums, and there’s a hint of something bordering on melancholy in his eyes, your ancient one kissing you again, holding you against his chest, his body melded against yours. “I think the others will be with us shortly, and then we can begin. Finish your rum, we need a glass to bleed into.”  

Something prickles at you, something within him that feels a smidgen off, but you cast it to the back of your mind. He’s likely feeling trepidation over having to imbibe your blood, knowing exactly how it’s going to make him feel. Smiling, you plan on a few suitable sexy ways to take his mind off it later in the evening, sinking the rest of your drink and moving from his arms to empty the ice cubes into the sink.  

You’re joined shortly after by II, then IV, III the last to emerge from the cellar, itching the side of his neck.  

“We need to get a move on,” he speaks, trying not to frown as he moves to kiss you. “It’s fucking creeping up on me.”  

It does make them irritable, the ascent of the full moon. Walking out beneath it that night, you can just about make it out behind the clouds, the rare event only arising every fifty years shining away just above the thick canopy of the woodlands nearby. You stand and look at it for a second, the gravitas of its significance hitting you, your throat feeling a little tight, pinched with emotion over the importance of what you’re about to enter.  

This is it, the moment the last eight months and all their complexities, joys, sorrows and blocks built in the relationships you have with the four undead creatures behind you have escalated to.  

The hush of twilight settles like a benediction, and for a moment, you allow yourself to simply take it all in, how far you’ve all come, the somewhat odd, yet beautiful family you’ve built, and the sacredness of the ritual you’re about to share. With the moon’s pale glow starting to break through the shifting clouds above, you know that whatever comes next is only the beginning of a lifetime bound by love, blood, and the promise of devotion eternal. 

Four husbands. Some are lucky to find one. 

“Grace?”  

Turning, you see the loving eyes of your Viking, smiling as he extends a glass half filled with the cocktail of their blood. “Down in one, darling.”  

Taking the glass, you kiss him, nuzzling him softly. “Love you.” 

“Love you more.” he whispers, the other three nearing you as you lift the glass to your lips and drink. Their blood mingles, taking like copper magic on your tongue, the potency of the more ancient of the four having an immediate effect on you. You feel a little buzzed, the four of them moving forth, IV and III gently taking a wrist each, II and Ves flanking your sides as they move your hair, focusing in on your neck.  

“And now, for us to be as one, and the curse be gone forever.” Ves speaks those words with an air of solemnity and hope, four sets of sharp teeth biting into you at once. 

You gasp, the pain radiating like furnace-driven heat, each of them pulling back a few small mouthfuls before sealing your wounds. Here it is, the bond now sealed in blood, everything coming full circle, waves of a contentment never felt before pulsing through you like a brand-new aura shining brightly from within. You feel it instantly, the love for each of them tingling in your veins with greater reverence, taking root in the heart of you and blooming like a summer garden. 

It should be a moment of utter beauty, the marriage that has just taken place, and you want to move to each of them in turn to share in the natural affection bubbling up in your escalated heartbeat. 

 It should be beautiful.  

“Ves?” 

The noise he makes as he clutches his chest is one of bone deep pain, his face crumpling, the vampire beginning to cough. His whole body lurches, then stiffens, a feeling of horror flooding your veins like poison to witness him suddenly fall back, II moving in a blink to catch him and lie him down upon the broken patio slabs. His eyes flutter, you, III and IV all rushing to him, his mouth foundering as once again, he groans in agony.  

“Ves, look at me,” you gasp in panic, clutching his hand. “It’ll pass in a minute, it’s okay.”  

His eyes find yours, and your heart sinks, his hand reaching to stroke your cheek, knowing he has to summon forth the strength to speak despite it feeling as if he has just imbibed liquid death itself. His gaze, heavy with pain and resignation, locks onto yours, and the gravity of the moment settles between you.  

Every line etched on his face speaks of the torment raging within, his hand trembling slightly as he brushes your skin, the gesture both a comfort and a silent farewell. You can see him struggling, as if the very act of summoning words will cost him more than he can bear.  

Still, he holds on, determined to communicate what needs to be said, to leave nothing unspoken between you. He hauls the words up from his depths, dragging them from the soft corners of his heart and into his throat, his gaze burning your eyes with all the intensity of a holy beacon.  

“Alpha is the beginning, and omega is the end.” 

The horror. Oh, the nerve ripping, heart decimating horror of understanding that statement only too clearly. Your eyes widen as you cling onto his hand, tears beginning to fall like raindrops. The moment the meaning hits, and it feels as though every inch of your being is gripped by raw, unshrinking terror, your breath catching in your throat at the sheer enormity of what has been spoken. The sharp ache in your chest intensifies, each heartbeat echoing the agony now coursing through you.  

Grief floods your senses, your hands trembling as you hold on to him, desperate not to let go, feeling the weight of impending loss settle over you like a suffocating shroud.  

This cannot be. Fifty thousand years cannot come to an end like this!  

Each tear that escapes is laced with the knowledge that everything has changed in an instant, the world now tilting on its axis, forever altered by the words just uttered. In that space, with your grip tightening, you are left with nothing but the raw, unfiltered pain of understanding, horror embodied, love on the brink of devastation. 

It should have been beautiful. 

“No, no!” you beg, while behind you, you can hear III working up into a state of raw, unfiltered panic. “Ves, don’t you leave me! Don’t you dare!” 

“What the fuck is wrong with him? What... what’s happening to him?”  

II stares down at his creator, tears trickling his cheeks as he strokes his head lovingly, eyes eventually moving to look at you all in turn. “The curse isn’t the only thing that will die tonight. He didn’t want me to tell you, made me swear to him I wouldn’t breathe a word of the risk, but...”

His chest heaves with emotion, a lump in his throat swallowed back down as he feels himself coming apart at the seams. “But there’s a very high chance that it’ll kill him, too.”  

His words press into your skull as if hammered there with coffin nails, dread rising like a tide, your throat tightening, a pain radiating in your chest like claws are ripping at your heart. If there was one thing you were not prepared to negotiate, one hurdle your carefully chartered decisions did not factor in, it was this. 

It wasn’t the fracturing of a family newly bonded; it wasn’t supposed to be devastation.  

It was meant to be everything, a culmination, the closing of a loving circle of five. Yet looking down into blue eyes so beautiful, yet so eerily without life, as long as Ves remains in this heart-shattering limbo, little elation is left to be found. 

At first, the misfortunes began as but a mere nuisance. A few missing eggs from the baker’s hencoop, a pail of milk left empty in the springhouse, a stack of newly sown garments gone missing. These were the petty tribulations of country life, easily blamed on a clever fox or a band of travelers passing through the dale.

Yet, the intention of these misdeeds became more dreadful, and far more malicious.

Guts of animals strewn about farmland, pillars of homes dismantled into pure ruins, and local huntsmen returning with injuries of supernatural nature. Their fearful eyes spoke what their tongues could not.

Soon, tales of myth turned into reports of a tangible horror. A living, animated monster whose form was akin to that of a breathing shadow. A silhouette wrapped in a cloak of night, concealing every inch of what is presumed to be his skin, leaving only his raging gaze to peer upon us vulnerable mortals.

Still, the townspeople feared not his stature, despite the physical threat of his being. Instead, they feared its judgement, for it was not a mere beast, but a conscious, malevolent intelligence.

“Have you gone completely mad!”

The words echoed through the small cabin like thunder.

“Not so loud! We mustn’t let our daughter know of such a thing.”

Your father’s words came out in a hushed whisper.

Unbeknownst to your parents, you lie awake in your room, listening intently to every word. The thin wall between your room and the main living space doing little to silence their frantic voices.

“Know what? That her father is a fool? Wanting to join the other men on a suicide mission to hunt th-that…that thing!”

“What other choice is there! Sit idly by and wait for that monster to come to our door? To our daughter! No, Amelia. If there is even the slightest chance that I can kill it, then I will take it.”

The silence that follows is thick and heavy, laced with your mother’s anguish and your father’s desperation. The only sound being the faint crackle of the hearth.

“And then what? Leave your daughter fatherless and I a widow? Leave us to fend and feed ourselves because of your pride?” your mother’s voice cracks, her voice barely audible, “your idiotic, stubborn pride?”

“This is not pride, Amelia!” You can hear your father’s sharp intake of breath before he speaks again, in a calmer tone, “This is terror. A terror that cuts so deep I can hardly breathe for it.”

The confession hit you, harder than any boast of bravery could have. Your body freezes, as a coldness seeps from your core all the way to your fingertips.

Your mind conjures visceral images of your father’s doom. His body still, his appearance ghastly, and his kind eyes empty, devoid of any warmth leaving you to question the heavens what you did to deserve this.

No, father….

Your thoughts were interrupted by the weeping of your mother and the heavy thud of your father sitting down at the dining table, the weight of the world in the sound.

"It is already decided...I will leave with the rest of the men at daybreak."

Daybreak.

The thought of your father's hands. those who have only mended fences and birthed lambs, now being forced to fight a battle with no chance of victory...

No. You will not let dawn take him.

Your veins filled with a burning resolve; unlike anything you've ever felt before. You moved with calculated precision as you put on your stout boots and your thickest woolen shawl, your fingers steady and your mind alarmingly clear. It was no longer fright that motivated you, but rage. Who did this creature believe himself to be? To create such despair and anguish where there was only tranquility and glee before? To shatter your mother's kind heart and wither your father's spirit?

Once you were certain that your parents had succumbed to slumber, their torment giving way for exhaustion, you slipped from your bedroom, toes tipping along the worn-out floorboards.

The latch on the front door gave way with a soft, metallic click. You stood, one hand on the rough border of the door frame, the other wiping away a stray tear.

Your feet pushed you forward before your mind could protest against it.

They carried you across the fields of your home, the grasslands and farm animals faded from view as your eyes set on the barn straight ahead.

Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil,

You slid the heavy wooden doors open, the scent of hay, dried herbs, and warm animal flesh provided a sense of comfort. Your hands reached for the lantern, the golden glow illuminating the treacherous path soon to be taken.

for You are with me; Your rod and Your staff,

Your eyes traveled over to the corner of the room, past the horse harnesses and coiled rope, until they rested on your father's rifle. A long, heavy item. Its metal barrel gleaming under the faint light, promising annihilation of the Enemy.

they comfort me.

The air outside was bitingly cold, the comforting scents long since snatched away by the damp, fungal breath of the woods.

You had been trekking through the forest for almost two hours, your boots covered in mud and your skirt frayed along the edges.

What began as a mission of grit and perseverance has long since turned into desperation. Each second gone by was another second closer to morning.

The sun will rise soon, and with it…

Your hand ached as you clutched onto the rifle tightly, the heaviness feeling less like a comfort and each moment more as dead weight. The flame of the lantern was its own bobbing world in an ocean of black, hardly providing more than a few feet worth of visibility in any direction. The muscles of your feet throbbed in protest, each step dragging you down further into doubt.

It was then that you saw it, a rustle in the bushes.

Your hands scrambled quickly to raise the rifle, your heart thundering wildly against your ribcage. The lantern fell with a soft thud, the light casting warped shadows of your surroundings. The rustle came again, but this time, it was followed by a pained whimper.

Your expression shifted from fearful to bewildered, your ears straining to listen. As the cries grew louder, you hurried towards the sound, curiosity winning over any sense of reason.

Pushing past the undergrowth revealed not a demon, but an injured wolf. A great beast rendered defenseless. Its fur matted with dark, wet patches of blood. One of its hind legs trapped in the cruel, iron teeth of a poacher’s trap.

The sensible parts of you screamed to move on, to leave this animal to its fate and focus once more on your mission. After all, what sense did it make to try and change a fixed destiny?

Yet at the sight of its suffering, so raw and intense, all of the resolve that propelled you into the woods simply…dissipated. 

With a defeated sigh, you set your weapon carefully against a tree and knelt in the damp earth.

The wolf flinched, its chest heaving in panicked breaths as it tried, and failed, to bare its teeth. A low growl rumbled in its throat, too weak to reach the surface. You shuffled closer, maintaining a safe distance while slowly bringing your empty hands closer in a hopeful attempt to soothe the animal.

“Easy now, little one,” you whispered, your voice soft and steady as the wolf continued to trash violently. “I won’t hurt you.”

You had nothing to pry open the trap and no strength in your arms to match the spring of the iron. Your thoughts raced to find a remedy, some form of solace you could possibly provide. Your eyes fell upon a spring, located merely a few feet away.

Without a second thought, you rose and moved to the water’s edge, your movements slow and predictable so as to not startle the suffering creature. The wolf watched as you untied the woolen shawl from your shoulders and dipped it into the icy, cold water.

Once the fabric was properly soaked, you returned to the wolf’s side, and began to gently dab the wet cloth against the wound.

The beast recoiled at the first touch, but as the coolness soothed its feverish skin, its fight began to drain. The panting slowed and its eyes lost a fraction of their wild panic. You wringed the cloth and poured a little of the cool water from the shawl into its mouth, the wolf lapped selfishly to quench its thirst.

As you tended to the wolf’s injury to the best of your ability, you failed to notice the profound silence that had fallen over the clearing.

It was an abrupt, absolute quiet. The chirping crickets, the scuttling in the hedges, the sigh of the wind—all of it ceased. The very forest, every creature and every leaf, held its breath.

And then you felt it—a presence. A weight of attention so intense it was like a suffocating pressure on your chest.

Your hands stilled. You looked up, and your blood turned to ice.

There, at the edge of the lantern’s ring, he stood.

The stories had not prepared you for the reality of him. He was not a mere silhouette, but a sculpture of primordial night. The darkness of his attire clung to the hard planes of a powerful physique. His towering form both terrifying and beautiful in its savage grace. His eyes were not burning with rage, but rather glowing with a low, simmering ember of interest.

He took a single step forward, and the world did not right itself. The silence remained, a cocoon woven around the three of you—the hunter, the healer, and the wolf.

Every instinct screamed. Run. Hide.

But the wolf was trapped. Your father’s rifle was leaned against a tree, several paces away.

You scrambled backward, driven by the base need for survival. Your hand shot out, groping blindly for the rifle.

The moment your fingers closed around the weapon, you swung it up, aiming it at the center of him with trembling hands

“Stay back!” you cried, your voice cracking.

The creature did not startle. It did not speak. He simply… moved.

It was an eruption of motion, too fast for the eye to truly follow. One moment he was ten paces away, the next he was upon you.

His hand clamped around the rifle barrel, wrenching it from your grasp as if you were a child. Your fingers burned as it was torn from your hold, your defense rendered useless in a single, effortless motion.

He held the rifle in one hand, his gaze never leaving yours. With a contemptuous twist of his wrist, he bent the metal barrel into a useless U-shape, the sound of the groaning steel a violent profanity in the quiet wood. He tossed the ruined weapon aside. It landed with a dull thud in the loam, a symbol of your futility.

You were defenseless.

You tried to bolt, but he was faster. In two steps he reached you and before you could scream, his frame was against yours.

With an overwhelming force, he drove you into the ground. Your back fell hard against mossy grass, the impact knocking the air from your lungs. His body, a solid wall of muscle, pinned you down. One large, gloved hand captured both of your wrists, pressing them above your head.

You struggled, a frantic, pathetic writhing, but it was like trying to move a mountain.

His other hand came up, and you flinched, a terrified sob escaping your lips. But he did not strike you. His fingers, cold even through his gloves, brushed against the wool of your shawl—the shawl you had used to comfort the wolf. He touched it lightly, almost curiously. A low, rumbling sound vibrated from his chest, not a growl, but a deep, contemplative hum.

You squeezed your eyes shut, turning your head away, awaiting the killing blow. You expected to feel teeth at your throat—the end.

It did not come.

Instead, the crushing pressure of his presence… disappeared.

You dared to open your eyes. He was standing a few feet away, his back to you, facing toward the east where the sky was beginning to pale.

Without a word, he looked down at the trapped animal for a moment, then, with a single, powerful movement of his boot, he stamped on the spring of the iron trap. The metal sprang open with a loud, metallic crack.

The wolf, freed, scrambled up and limped hurriedly into the night, leaving you alone with the creature who had so effortlessly dismantled your world.

You remained on the ground, the cold dampness of the earth seeping through your skirts, your wrists still humming with the memory of his grip. He stood over you, a statue forged from moonlight, his ember-like gaze fixed upon you.

For a long, suspended moment, he simply looked at you. His eyes, which had glowed with predatory interest, now held a different, more unnerving quality: a deep, weary contemplation. They traced the lines of your face, the fall of your hair, the rapid rise and fall of your chest. They dropped to your hands, still stained with the water and blood from your futile act of mercy. Then, as if never having perceived you, he turned.

You watched as his form receded into the tangled gloom of the forest, melting into the shadows between the trees, leaving you alone with the scent of pine and cold night air.

The silence he left behind was deafening. The normal sounds of the forest—the crickets, the rustling leaves—rushed in to fill the void, but they sounded distant, hollow. The first true rays of dawn pierced the canopy, painting the clearing in a weak, grey light. It illuminated the ruined rifle, the crushed trap, the trampled grass where your body had been pinned.

As you viewed the sunrise in the distance, a feeling of distraught overtook you. You had failed. You had traveled this far, armed with nothing but a gun and a lack of coherence, and had changed nothing.

A guttural sound tore from your throat—not a sob of fear, but a scream of pure, undiluted fury.

The scream echoed faintly through the clearing, swallowed by the indifferent trees. As it faded, a cold, sharp clarity settled in its place.

Scrambling to your feet, you ignored the ache in your back and the tremor in your hands. Perhaps you really were incapable of changing the tide of oncoming events, but no manner of demon or devil would force you to surrender.

So, you did the only thing that you considered logical. 

You ran.

Blood drinking Vessel 🫠 Dear gods Stormy, what are you doing to me?

The study smells of old cigars, leather-bound books, and the faint bitterness of coffee gone cold. Your father sits behind his desk, leaning back in his chair with the slow, deliberate authority of a man who has built his entire life on control. The late afternoon light slices through the blinds, striping the room in alternating bands of gold and shadow, like prison bars.

You’ve grown up in this house, in this world, and still - you’ve never liked being called into his study. Nothing good ever happens here.

He doesn’t waste time on pleasantries. “You’re going to marry James Barnes.”

For a second, the words don’t land. They just hang there, almost absurd in their simplicity. Your mind tries to wrap around them, to find some other meaning, but there’s only one.

“I’m sorry… what?”

“You heard me.” He folds his hands together on the desk, his signet ring catching the light. “The arrangement has been finalized. You’ll marry him within the month.”

It’s like the ground drops out from under you. The shock lasts all of two seconds before anger rushes in to fill the void. “You can’t be serious.”

“I am.” His voice is level, as if he’s talking about a business merger - which, you realise, is exactly what this is. “Barnes is -”

“You can’t just hand me over to -”

“Enough,” he cuts in sharply. “You will not speak to me like -”

“No,” you snap, stepping closer to his desk. “You will not sell me off like I’m some piece of property you’re tired of owning.”

His jaw tightens. “This is for the good of the family.”

You laugh - sharp, bitter. “The good of the family? Or the good of your business?”

His gaze doesn’t waver. “Both.”

Of course. You should’ve known the answer before you asked. He’s always been able to separate sentiment from necessity.

“Do you even care what I want?”

“This isn’t about what you want.” His tone is final, but the way his fingers drum against the desk betrays his irritation.

“This is my life -”

“This is our survival,” he says, cutting across you. “Barnes controls half the docks, and he’s expanding into the east side. Aligning with him solidifies our territory and keeps us untouchable.”

Your stomach churns. “Untouchable? You mean you want to use his name as a shield.”

“Call it whatever you like.” He leans forward, his voice lowering. “He’s a dangerous man, Y/N. But once you’re his wife, no one will dare lay a finger on you.”

You glare at him, your voice low and venomous. “So I’m cattle being moved into a different pasture. Good to know.”

He exhales through his nose, fighting the urge to argue further. “You’ll attend the dinner tonight. Barnes will be there. You will be civil. You will be presentable.”

“I’m not -”

“You will,” he interrupts, his voice like cold steel. “If you embarrass me in front of him, I promise you, you’ll regret it.”

There’s nothing left to say that won’t end with you screaming. You turn toward the door.

“Wear something suitable,” he adds. “Dinner is at eight.”

You don’t look back.

Wanda finds you in your room an hour later. She doesn’t know - she never does.

You’re pacing, your hair still damp from a too-hot shower you hoped would burn off some of your fury. It didn’t.

“I take it the talk with your father went… well?” She says, leaning against the doorframe. Her voice is light, but her eyes scan your face carefully.

“He’s marrying me off.” The words taste bitter. “To James Barnes.”

Her brows lift. “The Winter King himself.”

You stare. “You’ve heard of him?”

“Everyone’s heard of him.” She steps inside, closing the door softly. “Cold. Dangerous. Untouchable. He runs his crew like clockwork. Never loses his temper in public. He never lets anyone close unless it’s on his terms.”

You sink onto the edge of your bed. “And now I’m supposed to be his wife.”

Wanda sits beside you. “Which means you’ll be under his protection. That’s the point.”

“Protection or ownership?” You ask bitterly.

Her mouth tightens, but she doesn’t argue. “Look… you can’t fight this head-on. Your father’s made up his mind, and so has Barnes, probably. You have to be smart. Figure him out before you decide how to deal with him.”

You glance at her. “And if I decide I want out?”

She squeezes your hand. “Then I’ll help you. You know I will. But until then… play the game.”

You nod, but it feels like the kind of nod you give right before walking into a storm.

The Barnes family’s favoured restaurant is dimly lit, all polished wood and low murmurs. The air smells of aged whiskey, expensive cigars, and the faint tang of seared meat.

You arrive on your father’s arm, wearing the deep green silk dress he chose - the one that says expensive without saying approachable. Every step toward the private dining room feels like walking toward a firing squad.

The table is long, the chairs high-backed and imposing. Your father’s associates are already there, murmuring greetings. And then you see him.

James Barnes.

He’s seated at the far end, one arm draped over the back of his chair, posture relaxed in a way that still feels dangerous. His dark hair is slicked neatly back, his three-piece suit perfectly cut. His face is all sharp lines and cool detachment.

When his eyes lift to meet yours, they are ice - blue and unyielding. He looks at you for a single, assessing beat, then inclines his head in the barest show of acknowledgement before turning back to the man beside him.

No smile. No real greeting. Just a polite nod, as though you’re already a formality he’s endured.

“Mr. Barnes,” you say when you reach your seat.

“Miss Y/L/N.” His voice is smooth, deep, but utterly neutral.

You sit beside your father, across from Barnes. The air between you is taut, filled with words neither of you intends to say here.

Throughout dinner, he speaks rarely, mostly to your father. They discuss shipping routes, territory lines, and mutual enemies. Every word is deliberate. When he does glance at you, it’s brief - measuring, not admiring.

Beside him sits Steve Rogers - broad-shouldered, silent, watchful. His gaze finds you more than once. Not in a leering way, but with quiet calculation, as though he’s trying to figure out what kind of problem you’ll be.

You keep your hands steady on the table, even when your father boasts about the alliance like you’re a trophy he’s adding to the Barnes’ collection. You want to tell them both to go to hell.

The waiter clears the plates, bringing dessert - but you can’t bring yourself to eat. You excuse yourself to the powder room.

In the hallway, you find Wanda. She’d managed to slip in as part of your father’s entourage, lingering just out of sight during the dinner.

“You look like you’re about to throw that wine in his face,” she murmurs.

“Don’t tempt me.”

Her lips twitch. “What’s your impression?”

You exhale slowly. “Cold. Distant. Like he’s already decided I’m not worth his time.”

“That’s good.”

You blink. “Good?”

“It means he’s underestimating you.” She leans in slightly. “Which means you’ll have the element of surprise when you need it.”

You’re not sure whether that’s reassuring or terrifying.

When you return to the table, Barnes’ gaze lifts to meet yours again. This time, he doesn’t look away immediately. There’s something in his eyes now - faint, but there - like he’s decided you might not be as simple as you appear.

Nira turned slowly, pulse surging beneath her skin as a guard emerged from a side passage. His armor was darker than the others’, streaked with fresh ash, his visor fractured just enough to reveal sharp, assessing eyes.

“You weren’t assigned to this level,” he said, gaze flicking over her and then settling on Din.

Nira held her silence. That much was expected of someone in her position now - she didn’t have to justify herself.

Din stepped forward before the tension could bloom too wide.

“We were reassigned,” he said, voice rough, clipped, the words edged with just enough steel to sound believable.

The guard shifted closer, slow and circling, as if he were studying a defect in poorly forged metal. “You walk wrong,” he murmured, reaching out without warning.

His hand closed around the front of Din’s uniform, fingers tugging and adjusting a strap that had slipped out of place. Careless. Invasive.

Nira saw it in the tightening of Din’s jaw, in the way strain rippled through his shoulders. How badly he wanted to move. To break the wrist holding him. To end this.

She caught his gaze, silently shaking her head just a fraction.

The guard’s touch lingered another heartbeat too long before sliding away. “Careful,” he said quietly, amusement threading through his voice. “Fire doesn’t like being carried by weak hands.”

Din leaned forward just enough to toe the line between defiance and devotion. “Then I’ll make sure it doesn’t fall,” he answered, low and dangerous.

For a heartbeat, the corridor held its breath.

And then the guard stepped aside.

“Go.”

Nira didn’t waste the gift. She turned smoothly and moved forward, followed by Din, who held on to the last ounce of strength in his body. The corridor widened as they stepped out of the tighter passages, the stone giving way to metal, the air thinning, cooling. They didn’t run - not yet - but their pace quickened, footsteps more urgent, breath tighter.

When the outer hatch finally hissed open, night air rushed over her skin like a blessing.

They crossed the open plain with no more walls to hide them, no more shadows to fold into - just wind, ash-dusted ground, and the faint distant glow of dying fires behind them. Din kept the crate held tight to his side, the weight of beskar steady in his arms, while the wind pulled at the stolen robes still clinging to his shoulders. Every step jarred something loose inside him. Every breath scraped. But he stayed upright.

The ship came into view like a bad joke left behind by a careless galaxy.

Small. Lopsided. Scuffed to hell and back. Rust bleeding through mismatched plates, panels sitting just a little too loose to feel honest. It looked like it had survived more on stubbornness than on merit.

Nira moved faster as they drew closer, fingers already flying toward the ramp controls.

Din’s gaze tracked the outer hull, slow and assessing, eyes narrowing behind the ash and grime on his face. He studied the stress cracks, the patch jobs, the way the starboard wing dipped just slightly lower than designed. He tried to make sense of how she’d crossed stars in something that looked like it might shake itself apart if insulted.

When the ramp hissed open, he set the crate down with a muted thud and tore the mask from his face, tossing it aside.

“That’s what you flew in on?” he asked, voice rough, disbelief buried badly beneath it.

“It held together long enough,” she shot back, tugging her own mask free. “Let’s hope it remembers how to do that again.”

Ash streaked across her skin. Hair torn loose from whatever order she’d forced it into. Lines of sweat carving clean paths through dust and borrowed markings. 

He looked at her then.

“I don’t know if I should respect the nerve,” he muttered, a faint, broken edge of humor threading through his tone, “or mourn your judgment.” A cough stole the rest of the thought from him, dragging it raw.

Nira hoisted the crate herself and nodded toward the ramp. “Save it. Tell me whatever version of that speech you’re trying to make inside.”

He followed - slower now. Dragging. Breathing through clenched teeth as the last scraps of borrowed strength bled away. The interior of the ship smelled like oil, old metal, and scorched wiring. Improvised. Lived-in. Held together by will.

She didn’t leave him until he was seated - not a real chair, more a braced seat with straps and padding worn thin - and the crate placed carefully within reach.

“Get us into the air,” he said quietly.

She studied his face, eyes sharpening, measuring how close he was to the edge. “I’ll be right back. Don’t die while I’m gone,” she said, teeth just barely catching her lip.

He tipped his head in a shallow nod. A breath of a smile touched the corner of his mouth. “I’ll be right here.”

He meant it.

She disappeared into the cockpit, and moments later the ship woke with a reluctant, rattling growl. The hull vibrated around him - not the steady, confident hum of a healthy engine, but a protesting, shaking argument that felt like it might end in violence.

He leaned his head back against the cool inner wall and let his eyes slip shut.

Now that there was nothing to chase and nothing left to fight, his body collected its due.

Pain flooded in - old wounds, new ones, every bruise blooming at once. His muscles trembled with exhaustion, bones aching like they were remembering every fracture they’d ever endured. His hands curled reflexively where the crate lay, seeking familiar weight.

They had made it.

She had made it.

Without her, he wouldn’t have.

That truth landed quietly in his chest and stayed there.

If he had the strength, he would have started to think about the Eternal Flame - how they wouldn’t stop, how zealots rarely did. How they would hunt ash and shadow and bone for what had been taken from them.

But he had nothing left to give those thoughts.

Not now.

Not while the ship rattled like it might split open under his back.

Not while the air shifted under him, gravity turning thin and wrong as they broke free of the moon’s pull.

The takeoff was ugly. Rough. Everything shuddered, lurched - a violent climb that felt nothing like a trained pilot’s hand and everything like stubborn defiance.

But it worked.

He felt the lift. Felt the pull lighten.

Felt the distance growing between them and that dying stone.

A slow breath left his chest.

Long.

Unsteady.

Then he let himself lean into the fatigue creeping through his bones, heavy and welcome. His body sagged against the wall. The crate pressed warm against his side.

He wasn’t asleep.

Not yet.

But it crept in, soft and dark at the edges.

He let it.

Just for a moment longer...

“Hey.”

Her voice pulled him back through the fog.

He didn’t know how long he’d been gone - seconds or hours - only that when his eyes cracked open, the pitted surface of the moon still hung in the cockpit glass, distant now, shrinking with every rattling breath of the ship. A dull, familiar ache sprawled through his limbs, heavy and slow.

Nira leaned over him before he could sit up, one hand already at his cheek, fingers warm against skin that still felt too cold.

He swallowed, throat rough. “Sleeping’s… probably not smart right now.”

A soft sound left her - not quite laughter, more warmth than humor. “No. Probably not,” she agreed gently. “We’ll keep you on this side of awake.”

She dragged the medkit closer, its contents clinking softly as the ship shuddered beneath them. The floor vibrated under her knees as she shifted, bracing her hand instinctively against his leg to steady herself while the engines coughed their way through open space. She placed a small metal bowl in his hands, careful, grounding.

“Please, hold this,” she murmured.

Her voice was softer now. Warmer. Not the borrowed authority of ash and fire - just her.

He curled his fingers around the bowl while she soaked a cloth in the water, wrung it out, and lifted it toward him. The movement of the ship tilted her slightly forward, and without thinking, he angled his knees inward, giving her a quiet barrier against the worst of the shaking. A place to brace.

She noticed.

A tiny smile brushed across her mouth before she brought the damp cloth to his face, dabbing gently through soot, dried blood, and ash.

“There you are,” she murmured. “You were starting to look like one of them.”

She rinsed the cloth and passed it over his cheek again. Slower. More careful.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t look away.

His eyes stayed on her, on the familiar line of her jaw, the concentration in her brow, the way her mouth softened when she thought he wasn’t watching closely.

His hands drifted to her hips without planning it, fingers closing gently in the fabric there - not to move her, just to reassure himself she was really there. That this wasn’t some exhausted, fractured dream.

His hands still trembled. His muscles still fought for strength.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” he said quietly.

Not accusation. Not anger. Fear, buried badly.

She rinsed the cloth again, brushed it lightly over his lashes, clearing the grit from the corners of his eyes. “I know,” she said simply. Then, softer, “But I didn’t have the luxury of better choices, did I?”

He swallowed hard.

“You did,” he said, low. “There were safer ones. Quieter lives. My… world isn’t forgiving, Nira.”

She paused only briefly before lifting the cloth to his mouth, careful as she cleaned a cut at his lip. “Seems like it decided to spill into mine anyway,” she said, thin smile forming. Not blame or regret. Just reality. “So I’m adjusting.”

When she finished, she dropped the cloth back into the bowl and reached for the medkit - already turning her body away.

Elsewhere in him, something tightened.

Before she could pull back, he drew her gently onto his lap.

The ship rocked again, and she made a small sound of surprise, steadying herself against his shoulders.

He took the cloth from the bowl, twisted it lightly, and lifted it toward her face. He could see instinctive protest flash through her eyes, but he spoke before she could argue.

“I don’t know how long I can keep them away from you,” he said.

The truth tasted like iron.

He watched her through the thin veil of water on the cloth as he wiped a faint streak of ash from her cheekbone. Watched the flicker of pain behind her eyes that mirrored his own fear.

He hadn’t protected her on that moon.

He’d barely survived.

“I never asked you for that,” she said quietly, and let him continue. “I asked you for honesty.” He cleaned a faint smudge from beneath her eye. “All I need is for you not to disappear into the dark when things get heavy,” she continued, voice steady now. “Don’t solve battles alone while I stand in shadows wondering if you’re alive.”

She caught his wrist gently.

Stilled his hand and lifted her eyes to his until there was no room left between them for avoidance.

“Think you can do that?” she asked.

He didn’t answer right away.

The ship rattled. The stars pulled wide across the glass.

His chest rose.

Fell.

Then he nodded, slow and certain.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I think… I can try.”

Her fingers loosened around his wrist, but she didn’t pull away.

Instead, she shifted carefully, leaning forward to set the metal bowl aside. The faint clink of it against the ship’s floor sounded loud in the small cabin. The medkit replaced it in her hands, and she moved closer again, knees brushing his as she resumed her work - gentle this time, precise.

Her fingers traced over bruised skin, along the lines of old burns and newer wounds, as if she were mapping him back together.

“See?” she murmured, a ghost of a smile appearing as she brushed unsteady fingers through his hair. “That wasn’t so terrifying.”

“But I still don’t know how we -”

She stopped him before the words could grow roots.

Her finger pressed lightly against his lips. “Not now,” she whispered. “That’s a question for a better moment. Right now, we just make sure you get fit enough.”

“Fit enough for… what, exactly?” he rasped beneath her fingers.

She lifted her hand slowly, slipped both arms around his neck instead. The ship shuddered again, closer to atmosphere now, the hum of engines deepening beneath their bodies.

She leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to his forehead. Her warm lips alone gave him back vitality for days.

“For abandoning this flying disaster,” she murmured, close enough that her breath warmed his skin, “and getting you the Crest back.”

Outside the cockpit window, the system’s planet rolled into view - vast and waiting, bands of cloud and color glinting in distant starlight.

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Inside, panic spiraled. She’d prepared herself for many things. For resistance. For stubborn silences. For traps.

Not for him looking like this.

“Nira…” His brow creased, pain folding deep between his eyes. “You shouldn’t be here. These people… they’re not -”

“I know,” she cut in immediately, sharper than she meant it, fear flashing hot behind her eyes. “That’s exactly why you’re not staying either. Come on.”

She slipped an arm around his waist and tried to haul him upright.

He barely moved.

“Din, you have to meet me halfway,” she urged through clenched teeth, trying again, muscles burning.

He gave a low sound at her touch, something between a breath and a groan, but he didn’t help. Did not even try.

Instead, softer now, broken by a cough: “They’re looking for you. If they realize you’re here…”

She let him go.

Her hands settled on his shoulders, firm. She tilted her head until his unfocused eyes met hers.

“I didn’t cross half the galaxy just to watch you play martyr,” she said quietly, and there was no softness in it. Only truth. Only stubborn, shaking resolve. “You don’t get to decide how this ends for me.” Her hand came back to his face, gentler, thumb brushing just under his cheekbone. “So here’s our choice: either we both burn to ashes, or you start helping me instead of trying to save me.”

He stared at her for a long second.

Then he coughed again - and this time, it cracked into something quieter. A rasp of breath that almost sounded like a laugh.

“I really should’ve known trying to lecture you wouldn’t work.”

The corner of her mouth lifted despite herself. “You really should have.”

She slid her hands into his, threading their fingers together. “Now come on,” she murmured. “Be useful and help me lie my way through a cult.”

For a moment, she felt the hesitation. The tremor of pain still caged inside him.

Then he moved.

Slow. Ragged. But deliberate.

He dragged himself closer, let her shoulder take part of his weight. His hand tightened in hers - a silent agreement - and somehow, together, they got him on his feet.

He swayed.

She didn’t let him fall.

He was still taller than her. Even broken, even bleeding, he loomed above her like something that refused to be reduced.

“Okay,” she whispered, steadying him by pressing both hands flat to his chest, feeling his unsteady breath beneath her palms. She tilted her face upward so he’d focus. “Listen carefully.” His eyes locked on her. “I know them,” she said. “The Eternal Flame. I studied them - not the myths, the real ones. Fragmented Order, ritual warfare, symbolic loyalty. They once were powerful. They are loud. But they’re not what they used to be. They’re thin. Hollow. That makes them sloppy.”

She leaned back just enough to gesture subtly at herself. The ash-streaked skin. The layered fabrics. The hood.

“I made them think I outrank half the fools walking these halls,” she added, quieter now, a flash of something like pride. “Walked right through. Told them you were being transferred to another block.”

His eyes widened slightly - half impressed, half terrified. “That’s… reckless,” he said, voice rough. “One wrong word -”

“That’s the only plan we have,” she interrupted gently but firmly. “Unless you’re planning on fighting an entire compound like this.” She lifted her brows faintly. “In your current condition.”

A beat.

“That was my backup plan.”

She almost smiled.

“There’s only one rotating guard down here,” she said, dropping closer, voice barely above a whisper now. “If we get him inside, we can overpower him. You take his armor. I guide you out.”

Her eyes took him in fully for the first time. And she noticed just now: his armor was gone.

He read her realization instantly.

“They stripped it. First days. I don’t know where they stored it.”

Her brows furrowed as if in thought. “I passed a storage unit two halls down. Maybe we could -”

Before she could finish - 

A sharp knock echoed through the heavy door.

Both of them froze.

A voice drifted in, muffled through metal.

“Everything stable in there?”

Nira’s hand slid instinctively into his, a silent anchor.

She stepped toward the door, lowering her voice, sharpening it into something colder.

“Yes,” she called back. “But the prisoner won’t survive much more down here. I’ll need assistance relocating him.”

Silence stretched.

Then the lock disengaged with a heavy, mechanical sound.

The door began to open.

Nira stepped aside.

Din braced.

And the guard walked straight into the trap as the door sealed shut with a dull, mechanical hiss.

Din moved.

It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t pretty. It was instinct.

Nira barely had time to step fully aside before he surged forward, every remaining ounce of strength snapping into place through sheer will. His hand caught the guard’s collar, yanking him forward while the other arm locked around his throat from behind.

The guard had no time to choke out a startled sound before Nira was there.

Her palm flew up to muffle his mouth, pressing hard.

The guard kicked, boots scraping uselessly against the stone floor. His hands clawed weakly at Din’s arm, panic dissolving into muffled, animalistic fear as the pressure tightened.

Din’s jaw set. Breath shallow. Arms burning.

She felt his trembling where she pressed against him, felt the way his body shook with held-back pain, with exhaustion clawing at him. But Din didn’t loosen. Didn’t falter. Didn’t let go.

Not for a second.

The guard’s struggles turned frantic, then sloppy. Kicks dulled. Breathing hitched once, twice - 

And then… slack.

Nira counted the heartbeats.

Three.

Four.

Five.

She nodded once.

Din released him as if burned, stepping back so hard his shoulder brushed the wall. He turned away before Nira could look too closely, one hand braced against the stone as what little borrowed strength he’d stolen from adrenaline bled out of him. His breath roughened, turned ragged, like it scraped its way up from somewhere too deep.

But he stayed upright.

Barely.

They didn’t waste the moment.

Nira was already kneeling, hands moving on instinct - buckles, clasps, leather ties undone with practiced speed. The fallen guard came apart under her touch, armor stripped away piece by piece: dark, layered fabrics, hardened plates, rough bindings pulled free. She passed everything to Din without a word, and he accepted it in silence, dressing himself with the same economy and focus he’d been raised on.

When he finally stood before her again, he was almost unrecognizable. Fire-cured cloth swallowed his frame whole. The silhouette of him sharpened, stretched taller, more severe. He didn’t look like a Mandalorian anymore.

He looked like a shadow wearing zealotry’s skin.

Only one thing was missing.

The ash.

“Here,” she murmured, crouching low. Her fingers slipped into a shallow crack along the stone floor, scraping free fine, powdery dirt. She stepped closer, rubbing it between her fingers, closing the distance with the slow inevitability of a ritual.

He stilled, let her do her magic.

Her hand hovered for the briefest suspended second before touching his skin.

She painted him deliberately raw, uneven streaks dragged from beneath his eyes, down his cheeks. Mourning marks. War paint. Devotion worn like a wound. Her fingers were gentle even when the lines weren’t, and she felt it when his breath shifted, when his attention narrowed fully onto her.

She noticed his eyes as she worked.

Softer.

Quieter.

Focused only on her.

When she finished, her hand stayed at his cheek.

He caught her wrist before she could pull away - not tight, not trapping. Just enough to ask her to stay.

“I thought I’d never see you again,” he said, voice so low it felt like it belonged only to the space between them.

She huffed, a quiet breath of disbelief, mouth crooked. “Yeah, well… that’s what you get for standing me up.”

She tried to turn it into movement - tried to turn back toward the door, the plan, the corridor, the need to survive. Tried to pull him with her.

He didn’t let her.

He stayed rooted.

Drew her just a fraction closer.

And before she could protest, before the walls of logic and fear could climb back up around her heart, his mouth found hers.

Her hands slid into borrowed armor without thinking, fingers curling into rough crate fabric at his chest. She leaned into the kiss, let the world collapse to breath and bone and the fragile violence of wanting.

When they finally broke apart, neither of them looked away.

“Let’s leave this forsaken coal chunk,” she murmured, voice scraped raw but unmistakably real.

He nodded.

They glanced once at the fallen guard - breathing shallow, alive, unmoving then Nira lifted their masks from the floor and pressed one into Din’s hand. They pulled them on together and slipped into the hallway.

Nira hadn’t exaggerated - the Eternal Flame was a hollow thing now, more doctrine than danger. Too much ritual. Not enough fire. The halls breathed like embers on the edge of going cold, patrols thin, faith stretched brittle.

That was why they wanted the Forge.

They were starving.

And starvation, for once, worked in Nira’s and Din’s favor.

“There,” she breathed, voice lowering as she tipped her head toward a reinforced door. “Storage.”

One guard stood watch - broader than the others, stance still disciplined where the rest had softened into ceremony.

Din straightened on instinct, wearing their skin well. Squared shoulders. Locked spine. Perfect tilt of authority. And still, she saw the cost in the faint tremor living just under his control.

“We shouldn’t risk it,” he murmured. “Leave it.”

She studied him from the side, eyes flicking briefly to the door. Leaving the armor wasn’t caution.

It was surrender.

“No,” she said softly. “Your weapons aren’t indulgence. They’re survival. And it’s one man, Din. I won’t let you leave that behind.”

Before he could argue, she stepped forward.

“Move aside.”

The words cut clean. Even she felt the weight of them.

The guard turned. “This way is sealed. No passage without sanction.”

She stepped closer.

“You stand before sanction,” she said, dropping into the cadence she’d stolen from old Flame transcripts - controlled, ritualistic, absolute. “You are ash. You obey the fire.”

His gaze flicked over her markings, her symbols, the shape of authority she wore like a second skin.

Doubt cracked.

“I… was commanded -”

“And I command you now,” she said. “Step aside. Or be remembered only as cinder.”

Silence stretched.

Then he moved.

She didn’t look back.

“Carry the crates,” she snapped toward Din without losing the tone. “Or are you merely dressed like purpose?”

He moved instantly, brushing past her, hand grazing her arm as he crossed the threshold.

Inside, the air was thick - oil, ash, old metal sinking into the lungs. Boxes and crates were scattered randomly on shelves and on the floor, piled up without any order or system.

“There,” Din breathed.

She followed his gaze.

His silver polished helmet sat among gray scraps and dusty junk - like a beacon. Nira approached it and immediately found the rest of his armor in a box underneath. Groaning, she pulled it out, put the helmet on top, and grabbed one of the tattered rags nearby.

“We cloak it,” she murmured, already throwing the stained cloth over the beskar. Then her voice got louder, finding back into her act. “Lift it. I did not drag you through flame so you could watch me work.”

Din paused. His eyes found hers through the half-light. Don’t push it, he communicated without a word.

She shrugged, unapologetic, fire still in her spine. “Now. We have no time for idle hands.”

He lifted the crate. Easily so, even weakened. 

They exited together and Nira turned back to the guard. He had straightened without being asked, shoulders back, posture corrected, fear tucked away under obedience. She let him feel seen.

“You will correct your form,” she said coolly, adjusting the drape of her stolen garments. “If weakness is found in you again, your fire will be short.” 

He swallowed and nodded as she stepped past him. 

And only when they were far enough down the corridor did her voice soften back into something that belonged to her. 

“Do you know where your ship is?” she asked quietly. 

Din’s head tipped the slightest fraction. “On the main planet of this system. They lifted me in one of their own transports from there, after they...” 

She nodded once. Processing and re-planning. “I’ve got a ship,” she said after a pause.

He looked at her sidelong. “You flew here?” 

She nodded. 

“By yourself?” 

She turned her head, eyes flashing. 

“Ask me again, Mandalorian, and I’ll leave you behind just to prove the point.” 

A breath of sound left him. Almost a laugh. “

I’d like to see you fly,” he murmured, something dangerously warm threading through the tiredness. 

She huffed softly. “Stay alive long enough and get us out of here,” she replied. “You will.”

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The ship broke atmosphere with a jolt that rattled her bones. Heat shimmered against the viewport, giving way to an orange glow and swirls of ash caught in morning thermals. The world looked like it had been carved from fire and rebuilt from grit.

The Nira of months ago would have paused at the ramp, heart in her throat, overwhelmed by the chaotic bustle of the port - smugglers, traders, bounty hunters, mercs, guild runners. All armed. All watching.

But she wasn’t that Nira anymore.

She squared her shoulders, pulled her jacket tighter around her, and stepped out.

The air was dry, metallic with dust and spice from the nearby market. She didn’t flinch when voices barked, didn’t shy from the smell of blaster oil and boiled street noodles. Her boots carried her forward with purpose, weaving through bodies, scanning signs written in languages she only half-recognized.

She had one destination.

The Magistrate’s tower.

Inside, a thin, irritated secretary raised a hand as soon as Nira approached.

“You’ll need an appointment -”

“No,” Nira said, stepping past her so abruptly the woman stumbled. “I don’t.”

“Excuse me!” the secretary snapped. “You certainly -”

But Nira was already pushing open the carved doors to the Magistrate’s office.

Greef Karga was reclined behind his desk, reading something on a datapad with an amused sound low in his throat. Whatever it was, it made him chuckle.

He didn’t even look up when he said, “If this is about rescheduling the council meeting, I assure you -”

“Where is Din Djarin?”

The force of her voice snapped the moment clean in half.

Greef blinked, slowly lowering the datapad. He looked at her - her wild hair from travel, the exhaustion under her eyes, the sheer reckless determination in the line of her stance.

“Well now,” he said, leaning back. “That’s not a question I hear from strangers. And certainly not in that tone.”

Nira stepped closer until both hands were pressed flat on his desk.

“I need to find him.”

Karga lifted a brow, but his eyes sharpened at the edges.

He studied her a little longer.

“You’re the scholar,” he said at last.

Her breath caught. “You know who I am?”

“I know who he escorted,” Karga corrected lightly. “Unusual job for him. I sent him to have a little breather. He asked no questions, just took it.”

Her cheeks warmed - but she didn’t look away.

“Please,” she said. “Tell me where he is.”

Greef’s expression gradually sobered. “I’d like to help you. But Din isn’t exactly… locatable. He comes and goes. Sends short messages. Appears when needed, disappears when not.”

“Did he say anything?” she pressed. “Anything at all?”

Karga hesitated - then sighed.

“He said he’d be unavailable for a stretch. Handling a private matter.”

Her heart dropped.

Of course he did.

She swallowed hard, fighting the sting in her eyes. “I think he’s in danger. I - found something. Information. Signs pointing to… a group I don’t fully know. But they’re connected to Mandalorian rites. Ancient ones.” Her voice trembled. “And they might be following him.”

That caught him.

Greef leaned forward, all humor gone. “Let me see.”

She slid her datapad across the desk. He read silently, his expression darkening with every scroll.

“Well,” he exhaled, “that’s troubling.”

Nira’s voice cracked. “There has to be a way…”

Karga drummed fingers on the desk, then opened a guild channel on his console.

“One thing. A final ping from his ship. Long-range. I didn’t think much of it before now.”

He turned the display toward her.

Coordinates.

A sector.

A trajectory.

Nira’s fingers flew. She pulled up her star maps. Cross-referenced. Tracked the arc.

There -

A volcanic moon, orbiting a scorched planet. Molten rivers visible even on low-resolution scans. It blazed like a wound in the dark.

Her breath hitched. “That’s where he is.”

“Or where he was when he still chose to be traceable,” Karga cautioned.

But she knew.

In her bones, she knew.

Karga watched her gather herself, jaw tightening.

“You’ll need escort,” he said. “That moon is -”

“I need a ship,” Nira interrupted. “Nothing else. I’ll get there faster alone. And the fewer who know…”

Karga stared at her, incredulous. Then he laughed - one sharp, disbelieving sound. “You have more courage than sense.”

“Maybe,” she said. “But he saved my life more than once. I’m going to return the favor.”

He considered for a second then nodded.

“Fine. I’ll get you a ship.”

Nira exhaled shakily, gripping her satchel.

She would fly there. And after that: Improvisation.

The ship Karga had handed her was small, old, and more than a little unsteady. A patched-together courier with controls that stuck and a stabilizer that hummed with every correction. Hardly the kind of vessel one would choose for a rescue mission. But it was enough. It had to be.

Nira guided it through the moon’s upper atmosphere with both hands locked on the yoke, jaw clenched, breath shallow as turbulence began to shove her around like a child’s toy. Flying was something she understood in theory - charts and sequences and diagrams - her mind could recite every basic maneuver like a hymn. But theory was not practice, and the moon’s violent heat currents didn’t care about her textbook knowledge.

A warning blared. Then another.

“Not now, please -”

She focused, heart hammering, fighting the ship’s stubborn controls until a landing zone finally appeared on the scanners - a relatively flat ridge between two sprawling magma vents.

Close enough.

She hit the descent thrusters harder than intended.

The ship slammed onto the ridge in something that barely qualified as a landing. The skidding protest of metal against volcanic stone. When it finally lurched to a stop, the hull groaned like an old animal.

But it was upright. And most importantly: it could lift again. Probably.

Nira released a shaky breath, pressed trembling hands to her thighs, and forced her pulse back under control. She made herself look out the viewport, down the ridge and into the basin below.

At first, she thought it was just shadows.

Then the shapes moved.

Her heart dropped.

A gathering - large, organized, unmistakably ritualistic. A cluster of dark-armored figures lit by the erratic glow of magma rivers beneath them. Not myth. Not rumor. Not fragments in the archives.

The Eternal Flame.

Alive. Active. Thriving.

She swallowed hard and zoomed in her handheld visor. Their armor was nothing like the beskar lines she knew. No gleaming plates. No refined craftsmanship. These were forged from dark, jagged alloys. Every edge looked hungry. Their helms were masks rather than helmets, crude shapes concealing their faces, hoods falling low to shadow the rest.

Experienced. Deadly. And utterly loyal to their doctrine.

A shiver crawled up her spine. This was no scattered remnant. This was a force. A network. A threat larger than anything she or Din had understood on their journey.

The realization struck like cold iron:

They wanted the relic.

They wanted knowledge.

They wanted what lived in her mind.

If they found her here, she wouldn’t survive a minute.

For a heartbeat, the magnitude of it all pressed down on her - her mission, the danger, the overwhelming certainty that she should run, hide, call for help. Anything but walk willingly into the center of a zealot stronghold.

But the next heartbeat brought only one name. One face.

Din.

She exhaled, slow and steady, and fear broke apart into determination. She had studied them, that would give her some sort of advantage, right?

Anyway: giving up was not an option.

Din drifted somewhere between consciousness and the quiet, numbing dark. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been there - days, weeks, a cycle of pain and stillness that hollowed out everything except instinct.

He forced his eyes open.

The cell blurred. Then sharpened. Bare stone. Scorch marks. Chains. The taste of iron thick in his mouth. His armor was gone, stripped from him some days ago. His wrists ached with every breath.

But he had not spoken her name.

He repeated that to himself every time the agony threatened to take him under.

He had not spoken her name.

He would die before he did.

He shifted, trying once more to sit upright, every muscle protesting. He scanned the walls, the floor, the ceiling. Ventilation grille - too small. Binding bolts - rusted but solid. He’d mapped possible escape points dozens of times. None viable. Not with his body failing him.

Still, he couldn’t stop. Searching was the only thing keeping him awake.

A sound echoed in the corridor.

Footsteps. Muffled voices.

Din’s pulse steadied - not with hope, but grim acceptance. They were early. Another round. Another attempt to break him open. He braced for it, drawing what little air he could, anchoring himself.

The heavy door groaned.

A cloaked figure entered - dark armor, masked face, hood drawn low. One of them.

Din tensed. He did not look away.

The door slammed shut.

The figure stood still. Too still.

He narrowed his eyes, waiting for the blow, the fire, the hot edge of a fiery blade - 

Instead:

“Oh… stars.”

The voice wasn’t a zealot’s at all.

The figure moved quickly - kneeling, pulling back the hood, tearing the mask free with shaking hands.

Light caught her face.

And Din’s world tilted.

For a moment, he thought he had finally died. That this was some softness his mind conjured to ease the end. Because she could not be here. She should never be here.

Yet she was.

Nira Velis, breathless, ash-smudged, eyes wide with relief and horror, stared at him as if she’d found the forge all over again.

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“Quit makin’ that face,” Tommy called out the moment Joel rode through the gates. The sun was dipping behind the hills, casting long shadows across the snowy dirt, and Joel had barely swung out of the saddle before his brother was on him. “You’re scarin’ off the horses.”

Joel shot him a flat look and went right back to checking the strap on his saddle. “Ain’t makin’ a face.”

“You are,” Tommy insisted, arms crossed, grin growing wider - the kind of grin Joel always dreaded. “Which tells me you already know why I’m here.”

“I know trouble when it walks right up to me,” Joel muttered.

Tommy didn’t bother easing into it. Subtlety had never been his strong suit.

“We need somebody to play Santa this year.”

Joel froze. Just for a second. Then he exhaled through his nose and went back to fussing with the tack as if he could pretend this conversation wasn’t happening.

“No,” he said simply.

“Joel -”

“No, Tommy.”

“You owe me,” Tommy cut in, tone turning smug. “Unless your memory’s really gettin’ that bad.”

Joel narrowed his eyes. “For what?”

“Oh, I dunno,” Tommy said loudly, hand lifting theatrically. “Maybe for that time I took your patrol shift when Ellie was sick and you hadn’t slept in damn near two days? Let you get some rest? Remember that?”

Joel’s jaw flexed. “That ain’t the same.”

“It absolutely is. A debt is a debt.”

“What kinda man keeps tally over helpin’ his own family?” Joel grumbled.

“The kind who needs a Santa.” Tommy clapped him on the shoulder. “C’mon, brother. Kids’ll lose their minds if nobody shows up in the red suit.”

Joel huffed, shoulders sagging.

“Tommy…”

“Yup,” Tommy said, knowing exactly what that tone meant. “S’too late to back out. Already told folks you’d do it.” Tommy already walked backward toward town with far too much confidence.

“I didn’t agree to shit.”

“You did now,” Tommy smirked. “Unless you want me thinkin’ up extra chores for ya. I got ideas, you know. Real annoyin’ ones.”

Joel cursed under his breath, low and resigned. The kind of sound that meant he knew he’d lost before the argument even started.

“I’m tellin’ you right now - I ain’t built for this.”

Tommy beamed. “Nobody is, brother. That’s the magic.”

And just like that, Joel Miller - grumpiest man in Jackson - was the new Santa Claus.

“Well,” Joel announced, stepping out of the spare bedroom, the red suit hanging off him like a deflated tent, “looks like you’re gonna have to find yourself a different Santa. Maybe two, by the look of things.”

He tugged at the loose fabric around his middle, scowling. The coat sagged, the pants pooled around his boots, and the belt - meant for someone with a far more generous stomach - wrapped so far around him that the buckle nearly touched the back. If he moved too quickly, the whole thing threatened to slide right off.

Tommy wheezed a laugh, but Maria cut him a sharp look.

“Absolutely not,” she said firmly. She had Benji balanced on one hip, the child fast asleep, cheek pressed against her shoulder. “We’re not starting from scratch just because Bud Thompson had a belly like a damn barrel.”

Joel spread his arms, letting the oversized sleeves flop. “Maria, this thing could fit a whole other man inside it.”

“Then we’ll take some fabric out,” she shot back. “Simple.”

“And the beard?” Joel held up an empty hand, eyebrows raised. “You told me there’d be a beard.”

Maria exhaled heavily, the kind of sigh that meant she’d already fought three battles today and had no patience left for a fourth. “Got lost somewhere between last year’s clean-up and people not listenin’ when I said label the damn boxes.” She nudged Tommy pointedly, and he suddenly found the floor real interesting.

Joel crossed his arms, settling into his familiar, stubborn stance. “So I can’t wear the suit, and there’s no beard. Seems like a sign, if you ask me.”

Maria shook her head so sharply her curls bounced. “Not a chance, Joel. I’ve already got a solution.” She shifted the sleeping child, then dug one hand into the pocket of her sweater. “Here.”

Joel stared as she pressed a small scrap of paper into his palm. An address. A name.

He blinked slowly. “This is really happenin’, huh?”

Maria met his look with unstoppable determination. “She lives just across the street. You’ve seen her around. She can sew.” Then, with a pointed nod: “And you will go there. Today.”

Joel sighed - long, deep, defeated.

He didn’t say no.

The knock on your door was so loud and abrupt that you nearly poked yourself with the small tool in your hand. You’d been working on a bundle of pine-scented sachets - something the kids loved to tuck into their coat pockets during winter, something that made the cold feel friendlier and the world a little softer. They weren’t glamorous, but they kept the cabins smelling nice, and the children liked choosing their favorite shapes. Little stars, trees, even wonky snowmen.

You set the half-finished sachet aside and wiped your palms on your thighs before answering the door.

Your heart stuttered.

And then it dropped somewhere into your stomach.

Joel Miller stood on your doorstep.

Snow clung to the shoulders of his jacket, already melting into dark patches. His hair was damp from the flurries, a few errant curls flattening against his forehead. His broad frame filled the entire doorway, and his expression… well. You’d seen him look tired, stern, focused, irritated, all the usual Joel variations - but this one was new: a mix of annoyance and resignation, like he’d been personally dragged across town by Maria herself.

Which, knowing Maria, was very possible.

She had asked you a day ago if you could help Jackson with “a small Christmas task.” You hadn’t hesitated. You always helped, especially around the holidays. It made things feel… normal. Safe. You’d agreed enthusiastically.

You had not expected this to land on your doormat.

“Maria sent me,” he said without preamble, voice rough from the cold. He lifted his chin slightly, as if that were explanation enough. “Said you could sew.”

You opened your mouth but no sound came out. Your tongue felt glued to the roof of it. After a moment, you managed a tiny, croaked, “Yeah… yes. I can.” You cleared your throat and stepped aside, gesturing him in. “Um. Come in.”

He did, boots leaving faint trails of snow across your freshly swept floor. You told yourself not to care, not to be ridiculous, but your brain was already scrambling to tidy in your imagination. Meanwhile, Joel moved with the weary confidence of a man who had been in a hundred homes and didn’t quite know how to take up less space.

He gravitated toward the living room, gaze adjusting to your modest decorations - strands of fabric garland, a few paper cutouts you’d helped the children make, and a little wooden nativity you had carved the year before. Your sewing machine sat ready on the table beside baskets of thread, fabric scraps, and pins.

“Can I get you something?” you offered, eager to fill the silence. “I, uh - made a fresh batch of coffee.”

Joel looked at you over his shoulder. No smile, but his sternness softened enough to count as agreement. “Coffee’s fine.”

You escaped into the kitchen like it was a lifeboat. Your pulse thundered as you poured two mugs. His cup trembled slightly in your hand - not enough to spill, but enough that you cursed your nerves. When you returned, you handed him his drink and sank into your own chair with your half-finished mug.

“So…” you ventured, watching the way his broad shoulders angled as he took in the room. He wasn’t being rude. He was just… observant. But every time his eyes landed on something you’d put up - a garland, a candle, a decoration - it felt like he was silently assessing the kind of person who lived here.

You swallowed. “Maria said the costume needs a little… fixing?”

That was when you noticed the bag in his grip. A lumpy, distressed-looking thing that sagged like it shared Joel’s opinion about this whole ordeal.

He gave it a little shake. “Fits the whole damn Russian circus, far as I can tell.”

A laugh bubbled up before you could stop it. You covered it with a cough. “May I… see?”

He held the bag out toward you, assuming you’d want to examine the fabric.

But that wasn’t what you meant.

“Oh - no. I meant… on you.” Your face heated instantly. “So I can see where it needs adjusting.”

Joel stared at you for a second - brows drawn, jaw ticking slightly - but he didn’t argue. Didn’t tease. Didn’t even sigh.

He just set down his coffee calmly, opened the bag, and pulled out the oversized red suit.

Then, as if he were performing a routine chore, he stepped into the absurdly large pants. They ballooned around his legs, the waistband climbing nearly to his ribs. The coat swallowed his frame entirely, shoulders drooping, sleeves hanging past his fingertips.

He looked like a child playing dress-up in his father’s clothes.

“Well?” he asked, deadpan, as if bracing for judgment.

You bit your lip, desperately trying not to laugh.

“Yes,” you said carefully, pressing your fingers to your mouth. “This… definitely needs fixing."

Joel stood in the middle of your living room like a man waiting for judgment. Broad shoulders squared, hands loose at his sides, chin tucked slightly down as if he thought making himself smaller might help. It didn’t. He took up too much space to ever disappear.

You moved around him with slow, practiced steps, the hem of the Santa coat gathered in your hands as you searched for the next seam that needed tightening. The fabric was thick and stubborn beneath your fingers, and every time you leaned in to pin a fold, you caught the quiet rise of his breath. He wasn’t talking. He rarely did. Which meant your living room was filled with the soft rustle of fabric and the far-too-loud echo of your own heartbeat.

It wasn’t awkward silence - Joel didn’t really do awkward. It was more like he occupied quiet the way other men occupied chairs. Naturally. Solidly. Without question.

But it left you with entirely too much time to be aware of him.

The problem - no, the danger - was that Joel had never looked at you like this before. Not really. He’d nodded at you in the street, offered those short, polite exchanges that Jackson residents traded like currency. But acknowledging you? Allowing you this close? Standing here in your house while you adjusted his clothes?

This was new.

You, however… you'd been aware of him long before today.

You’d tried to ignore it at first. He was just another handsome man in town - well, no, he was the handsome man in town, but that was beside the point. His perpetual scowl hadn’t helped your interest either. If anything, it should’ve killed it.

But then you’d watched him from the sidelines - the way he carried heavy crates without being asked, the way he fixed fences or repaired roofs simply because someone needed it. The softness he tried to hide but never quite managed. And Ellie… well, seeing him with her had undone you completely. That quiet protectiveness, the gentleness beneath the armor, the love he showed in ways that didn’t need words.

It had lodged itself somewhere in you, and unfortunately, it had never left.

And now he was standing in your living room, all warmth and size and the faint scent of winter woods clinging to him. Close enough you could feel the heat radiating off him as you circled, pinning and tugging, trying not to stare at the shape of him under the suit - broad chest, thick arms, the subtle dip of his waist beneath the ridiculous red fabric.

You needed distraction. Fast.

“You a Christmas person, Joel?” you asked, breaking the silence before it swallowed you completely.

He made a low sound. A grunt. It could’ve meant yes. It could’ve meant no. It could’ve meant please stop talking and finish this so I can go.

“Well, I am,” you continued, keeping your voice bright even though he made it feel like work. “Shocking, I know.”

From the corner of your eye, you saw one of his eyebrows lift. “Really? Couldn’t tell.”

Your head snapped up at the joke - an actual joke - and your surprise made him huff a breath that might’ve been a quiet laugh.

“Oh, don’t start,” you said, grinning. “Next year maybe we should dress you up as the Grinch instead.”

He made a noise like he was trying not to smile.

“Or Oogie Boogie,” you added, stepping around to his side. “At least we wouldn’t have to do much sewing for that.”

That pulled his gaze down to you, curious and faintly offended in the most endearing way.

You plucked a pin from between your lips, missing entirely the way his eyes flicked there for a fraction of a second. “You know. The Nightmare Before Christmas?”

“Never seen it,” he said, matter-of-fact.

You stopped mid-step and stared at him. “What? Joel. It’s a classic.”

He shrugged, entirely unbothered. “Hard to get your hands on DVDs or VHS these days.”

“Well,” you said, stepping back to check the line of the coat on his shoulders, “good thing we’ve still got time here. I’ll catch you up.”

He looked down at you, eyes warm in a way that sank too easily under your skin. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you said lightly, pretending the flutter in your chest wasn’t real. “Consider it Christmas homework.”

For the next twenty minutes, you found yourself doing something you hadn’t expected when you woke up that morning: giving Joel Miller a full plot-summary of The Nightmare Before Christmas.

It started innocently enough - just a little explanation of why Oogie Boogie would’ve been a better costume choice - but once you started, it was impossible not to keep going. Joel listened in that very Joel-like way: still as stone, eyes flicking to you occasionally, like he was making sure he caught the parts that mattered. Or maybe he was just being polite. Hard to tell with him.

You paced lightly while you spoke, hands moving as you described Halloween Town and Christmas Town, Jack’s crisis of identity, the stitched-together girl who quietly held him together while he unraveled. You drew a casual comparison between Sally sewing Jack’s Santa suit and you fixing Joel’s - though you very carefully avoided mentioning the part where Sally was hopelessly in love with Jack. No need to invite that kind of mortification into your evening. 

You managed to keep your voice steady even when glancing over at Joel standing there, warm and huge and patient in a way that felt unexpectedly intimate.

As you talked, you finished the last adjustments you could make with the suit on his body - pinning down an uneven seam at his shoulder, straightening the length, reworking a stubborn fold that insisted on sitting wrong. Each time your fingers brushed fabric near him, you had to fight the ridiculous urge to apologize for breathing the same air.

Finally, when you wrapped up the story - Joel now fully versed in stop-motion existential crises - you stepped back and let out a soft breath.

“That’s the gist of it,” you said, brushing invisible lint from your palms. “I’ll take care of the rest without you in it. Shouldn’t take more than a day or two.”

You offered him a smile - a genuine one, warm and a little sheepish.

And you got one back.

A Joel smile. The fleeting kind, almost shy, the one that tugged gently at the corners of his mouth before retreating behind that greyish beard. You felt it land somewhere low in your stomach.

Speaking of which…

“I didn’t see a beard in that satchel,” you said, nodding toward the costume bag resting by the door as he stepped out onto your porch.

“Tommy lost it,” Joel said with an easy shrug, grinning as if the entire thing was one big joke he didn’t mind being the punchline of. “Maria makes sure to remind him of it.”

You grimaced in dramatic offense - because no beard on Santa was simply unacceptable. Somewhere in your brain, a plan began knitting itself together.

“Well,” you said, lifting your hands as if already preparing ribbon and thread, “maybe I’ll figure something out. No promises, though.”

His eyes softened on you, just a little. “You’re doin’ enough already, dar-” He caught himself sharply, clearing his throat. “Miss.”

Heat bloomed across your chest before you could stop it.

“Thanks for your help,” he added, the sincerity unmistakable in that low rumble of his. “’Preciate it.”

“Couldn’t let Christmas be stolen, now, could I?” you said lightly, leaning into the doorframe in what was supposed to be an effortless motion - except your foot slipped a fraction on the rug. You caught yourself quickly, praying he hadn’t noticed.

His soft, amused chuckle made it very clear he had.

You groaned internally.

“See you ’round,” he said, backing away down the porch steps. He nodded once - that quiet, almost old-fashioned farewell of his - before turning and heading down the walkway, boots crunching lightly against the frost.

“Yeah.” You gave a small, lazy wave. “See you, Joel.”

You stood there for a moment longer, watching the broad silhouette of him fade into the dim winter light, breath fogging in the cold air.

Then you closed the door behind you and stepped back into your cozy Christmas cocoon.

Except now it felt… different.

Bigger. Quieter. A little too still without the weight and warmth of your personal Santa standing in the middle of it.

Two evenings later, you kept your promise. The satchel in your arms felt unusually heavy, but you didn’t mind; the weight made you proud. Inside was Joel’s Santa costume, freshly adjusted, and your pièce de résistance: a homemade beard. You’d collected wool from the community’s sheep, washed it, dried it, and fluffed it painstakingly into shape until it actually looked like a Santa beard, complete with a carefully fashioned mouthhole.

Your pulse raced as you knocked on the door, expecting the familiar broad frame of Joel to fill the doorway. Instead, you were met with a much smaller figure.

“Yeah?” Ellie’s voice carried that signature edge, the one that never revealed whether she was amused, annoyed, or bored. Her expression was equally unreadable, that teen veneer that always made you feel just slightly out of your depth.

“Hey, Ellie. Is Joel home? Got something for him,” you said, patting the satchel against your side.

Ellie glanced over her shoulder without missing a beat, hollering into the house. “Joel? A girl’s here for you!” Then she spun back to you, mouth splitting into a mischievous grin. “Got a date or somethin’?”

Joel appeared on the stairs like a specter summoned. “No need to wake the whole town. I’m right here.” He gave you a small, apologetic nod. “Sorry about her.”

“All good,” you said, smiling.

“I am right here, y’know?” Ellie’s eyes darted between you and Joel, the grin never fading. “Whatcha got for him?”

Joel’s hand went to cover the bag as if the mere thought of Ellie seeing the insides made him physically pained. “Oh, nothin’, just a -”

But Ellie was faster. With a swift grab, she snatched the satchel from you and bounded toward the kitchen, giggling. Joel groaned, running a hand over his face, clearly mortified. You followed silently, closing the door behind you, and took your place as an unspoken observer of this adoptive dad-versus-teen dynamic.

“NO. WAY!” Ellie shrieked, dragging the costume from the bag. She spun around in place, eyes wide. “Don’t tell me… it’s gonna be you this year?!”

“It’s not…” Joel began, his voice low and wary, but Ellie wasn’t letting him finish.

“Oh my god! All those kids bouncing around, telling you their biggest wishes?” Ellie laughed so hard tears pricked at her eyes. You bit your lip to hide your own smile, enjoying every second of Joel’s discomfort.

Ellie had wrapped the jacket around her smaller shoulders, watching the costume drape comically on her frame. She laughed again, examining the sleeves that were far too long and the coat that nearly reached her knees.

“Let Tommy ask me next time, I -”

“Ellie,” Joel’s voice cut sharply, commanding now. “That’s enough. A whole lotta work went into this. Be careful.”

His acknowledgment - a warning delivered with weight, but tinged with care - sent a warm flutter through your chest. You hadn’t expected Joel to notice the effort you’d put in, much less care about it.

“Hopefully it fits now,” you said, finally finding your voice again, offering a sincere, gentle smile. You had no idea the subtle effect it would have.

Ellie’s grin only widened. “Oh yeah, you better try it on now, Joel. C’mon!”

Joel’s gaze flicked between you and her, a silent plea for patience. His eyes lingered on yours for a fraction longer than necessary, as if asking for backup, but it was already too late.

“I… fucking… LOVE IT!” Ellie’s shriek echoed through the house, ricocheting off the walls and making the floorboards vibrate beneath your feet.

Joel appeared in the kitchen, now fully suited in the Santa costume, the classic red hat perched jauntily atop his head. Only one piece was missing - the beard you’d spent hours shaping, wool fluffed just right, held carefully in your hands.

“Swearwords, Ellie!” Joel barked, voice sharp, though the oversized coat and hat lent a slightly comical edge to his admonition.

Ellie spun around on her heel, grinning like she’d just won the lottery. “Sorry! Don’t want to end up on the naughty list this year,” she teased. “This is gonna be amazing.”

Satisfied with Joel in full Santa glory, Ellie abandoned the grown-ups entirely, leaving the kitchen in a flurry of small feet and laughter. She waved at you lazily. “See you, Miss!” And just like that, she was gone. Leaving you alone with Joel. Your heart thudded a little faster than it should have.

“You did good here,” he said, voice quieter now, more grounded, framing himself in the suit, still adjusting to the absurdity of the red fabric against his broad shoulders.

“Thank you,” you murmured. Without thinking, you reached forward to straighten the collar that had crept crooked under his chin, bringing you closer than intended. Your eyes flicked up briefly, catching his gaze for a heartbeat too long.

“You… want to try on the beard?” you asked, suddenly aware of how intimate the moment felt.

He offered a lazy, almost teasing smile. “Will not make my way ‘round it, will I?”

You straightened, pride creeping into your voice. “I promised I’d make this a proper Christmas.” Arms lifting, you carefully positioned the beard against his face. He didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away. If anything, his quiet stillness made the closeness feel welcoming, almost warm.

You focused on adjusting it, hands deftly arranging the wool, but your eyes betrayed you, flicking up at him again. The warmth in his gaze made your chest tighten.

“Fits you perfectly,” you whispered, voice almost too soft for comfort.

He grunted, low and rough, but it carried an unexpected softness. “Not a little over the top?”

“On the contrary,” you said, feeling a surge of boldness. “Most perfect Santa I’ve seen in a while.”

His brow shot up, surprised, a corner of his mouth twitching. “That’s a compliment… coming from the Christmas expert herself.”

You smoothed an imaginary corner of the beard, eyes momentarily drifting to the hint of lips behind the wool. “Yeah,” you said, voice teasing but careful, “hopefully that earns me a safe spot on the nice list this year.”

The boldness evaporated as quickly as it came, and you stepped back a fraction, giving him just enough space to turn to the mirror on the wall. He studied himself for the first time in the full outfit, and a deep, amused laugh rumbled from his chest.

“Good thing the age of photography’s over,” he muttered, shaking his head. Then he turned back to you, tone more serious but warm. “Thanks for your work. That’s gonna be a real feast for the kids.”

You brushed it off lightly, crossing your arms as though shielding yourself from his praise. “Never mind that. Just… make sure you stick around long enough to get a taste of the eggnog afterwards.”

“Promise,” he nodded, a small, knowing tilt of his head. His eyes flicked toward your lips for a brief instant. Again, you did not notice.

Your ears were still ringing from the high-pitched shrieks and excited laughter ricocheting around the hall. Ballroom was what Maria insisted on calling it every year, but everyone in Jackson knew the truth: it was a repurposed barn, long ago cleared of hay and tools, its beams sanded smooth and its drafty gaps sealed as best as possible. You had spent the last week stringing up lights across those wooden rafters, weaving garlands and scrap-fabric ribbons along the walls. Now the whole place glowed - a wash of warm gold from the fairy lights, shadows dancing with every movement, DIY decorations swaying gently whenever someone brushed past them. It actually felt… festive. Almost normal.

And right in the center of it all sat Santa Claus.

Or rather: Joel Miller in a Santa suit, playing the role with an unexpected, honestly mind-melting level of commitment.

He’d been reluctant, sure. Practically kicking dirt at Tommy when he was first told. But right now? With the kids climbing over him like he was the last piece of playground equipment on earth, he was… good. Really good. Letting each child settle on his knee, leaning in to hear their rambling wishes, chuckling when they told him stories that made no sense, nodding solemnly when they declared their love for “Santa.”

You stood off to the side with a couple of friends, a cup of homemade eggnog warming your hands. Someone had apparently produced enough for half the settlement, and judging by the pleasant buzz radiating through your limbs, you were on pace to sample at least your fair share. You nodded along to whatever conversation the group was having, but your attention kept drifting - again and again - to the man in red.

God. How you’d prayed this crush would fade. How many times you’d told yourself it was just loneliness, or boredom, or the simple fact that there weren’t many options in a walled-off town. But this? The way your stomach flipped every time he laughed, the way your skin prickled with goosebumps every time his voice rumbled low across the room?

You weren’t sick. You weren’t imagining it. You were deep in it.

And the universe wasn’t helping. Not tonight.

Like earlier - when he’d finally taken a break and wandered toward the buffet. You’d been reaching for the gravy boat when he appeared at your elbow, close enough for the scent of pine and leather to brush past you. You’d nearly jumped out of your own skin when he said, “Mind passin’ that gravy?” Then, after taking it from your hand:

“Beard’s holdin’ up real good. Y’can barely smell the sheep anymore.”

He’d grinned, and you’d needed a full five seconds to relearn how to breathe.

And worse were the stolen glances. The ones he kept giving you across the room. They stretched a little too long. Warmer than required. Enough to plant a painful, throbbing what if that echoed through your ribs.

Now, three eggnogs deep, you were almost certain - no, you were doomed. Because you, without a single doubt left in your foggy, fluttering brain, had a full-blown thing for Joel Miller.

And you had absolutely no idea what the hell you were supposed to do about it.

The evening slowly softened into night. The last rounds of shrieking children had finally burned themselves out, scattering like tiny fireworks down the hallway as their parents herded them toward bed. Excitement still crackled in the air, but the barn-turned-ballroom was emptying one family at a time: teens sneaking away to do whatever teens did, parents promising they’d return for the “grown-up hour” and promptly passing out next to their kids, and the remaining handful of adults lingering in clusters of warm laughter.

It was quiet enough now that you were painfully aware Joel was still here.

He sat at the far table with Maria, Santa beard pulled down to rest against his collarbone, the coat rumpled, eggnog glass sweating in front of him. And there he was - Joel Miller - laughing. Actually laughing. Not the small polite chuckle, not the breathy huff he sometimes gave when amused. No. This was full-on, shoulders-shaking laughter, warm enough to curl around your ribs like a hug.

Maybe you should go. Crawl back home, sleep off the eggnog, convince yourself that this little crush was nothing but holiday mush and alcohol. Wake up tomorrow and remember that this was Joel, who nodded politely at you on the street, who thanked you for stitching up a suit, who smiled exactly twice in your presence and left you ruined both times.

Yes. Leaving would be smart. Wise. Adult.

“If that isn’t Santa’s little helper.”

Tommy’s hand landed on your shoulder before you could even step away. His grin was blinding. “You worked some real Christmas magic tonight.”

“Oh, that’s nothing,” you said far too quickly, heat crawling up your neck. “Joel’s a great fit -”

You choked.

“I mean, the seams! The suit! Didn’t need much adjustment.”

Tommy’s grin widened, like a wolf who’d scented blood in the snow. Mischief radiated from him like heat off a stovetop.

“How ’bout you join us for a celebratory toast? Proper thank-you for savin’ Christmas.”

Before you could protest, he tugged you into motion. One desperate swipe and you grabbed your mug off the table, mouthing an apology to your friends as Tommy delivered you straight into the empty chair beside Joel.

Too close. Way too close.

Joel didn’t look ridiculous, though he absolutely should have. Santa coat open at the chest, plaid shirt visible underneath, beard dangling around his neck like a lost accessory. Legs stretched long, ankles crossed, one arm hooked casually behind the back of your chair as though he’d claimed the space hours ago. He looked… comfortable. Warm. Settled.

“Look who’s here,” Joel drawled, lips curving. “Sally herself. Swoopin’ in to save Christmas once again.”

You laughed at his Nightmare Before Christmas reference - until he lifted his Santa hat off his own head and gently dropped it onto yours. The wool was still warm from him, smelling faintly of him. It slid down your forehead, itchy, thick, entirely too intimate.

Maria’s voice cut across the table. “Tommy? I need you with that thing.”

There was no “thing.” Obviously. But Tommy stood anyway, grumbling theatrically as Maria tugged him toward the kitchen. Joel watched them go, then looked back at you with a slight, knowing tilt of his head.

You swallowed.

“Pretty convincing Santa back there,” you said, nudging bravado into your voice. “Almost like you lied about not knowing what you were doing.”

“That so?” His smirk deepened. He didn't shift his arm from the back of your chair. Didn’t move at all. Just stayed close.

You nodded, lifting your mug to your lips. The sweetness clung to your mouth, making your pulse jump.

“Can’t fool me,” you continued. “You - Joel Miller - are absolutely not the Grinch you claim to be.”

“Hmm.” He nudged his glass with a finger. “If Christmas comes with eggnog and nice words like that? Could probably learn to like it.”

You grinned, emboldened by sugar and alcohol and the way he was looking at you now - head tilted slightly, eyes warm, like he’d carved out this small corner of the night just for the two of you.

“Want another?” you asked, pointing at his half-empty cup. “My treat.”

He chuckled. “Wouldn’t say no.”

You stood - tried to. But the eggnog had caught up with you, humming warm and dizzy through your limbs. The room tilted, your foot caught the edge of the chair, and in one humiliating, slow-motion arc - 

 - you fell straight into Joel’s lap.

Joel’s breath left him in a soft huff. Your hands flew up around his neck instinctively, fingertips brushing warm skin beneath his beard. You both burst into startled laughter - half embarrassment, half shock, half something new.

“Maybe no more eggnog for me,” you muttered, face on fire, trying to push yourself up - 

 - but his hands settled around your waist.

Not pushing. Not grabbing.

Just resting. Holding you steady.

“Hey,” he murmured, quiet enough for only you to hear. “Come back here a sec.” Your breath stalled. “Still figurin’ out,” he continued, voice lower now, warmer, “whether you made the good list too?”

The smile he gave you wasn’t his usual small one. It was darker, softer, curling at the edges like heat. A smile that said he knew exactly what he was doing.

You swallowed hard, pulse fluttering like it wanted out of your skin.

“Well,” you whispered, shifting just slightly - enough to tease, enough to play the part. “I guess that depends.”

His grip on your waist tightened a fraction. Barely there. But enough.

“Depends on what?” he asked, voice roughened.

You tilted your head, lips curling.

“On what a girl has to do,” you breathed, “to get on your good list.”

Your eyes searched his, trying to read the shadows flickering in the warm barn light, your hands settling more securely at the back of his neck. The movement brought you a fraction closer - barely anything, really - but you felt it like a shift in gravity. His exhale brushed your lips. Your pulse thundered.

The remaining noises in the barn - quiet laughter from the far corner, the clink of glasses from someone cleaning up - muffled into a soft hum. Everything else dulled beneath the rush of blood in your ears. You weren’t spinning from the eggnog anymore.

Joel looked at you like you'd stepped directly into his hands, as if he'd been waiting for that tiny lean-in. His fingers tightened at your waist, not rough, but unmistakably claiming - inviting you closer with that subtle, barely-there tug. His beard was still pushed down to his collar, leaving the strong lines of his jaw exposed, dusted with gray. His hair was mussed from the Santa hat, his cheeks touched pink from the heat and maybe the drinking and maybe… maybe you.

His gaze lowered to your mouth.

And before your brain could catch up to what your body already knew was coming, he pulled you in.

His lips brushed yours - soft at first, testing, warm with the faint sweetness of eggnog and whatever spice Maria had thrown into the batch. The wooly rim of the Santa beard, crushed between you and him, tickled your chin; his real beard scratched lightly at your upper lip. You melted into the uneven textures of it, the warmth of him, the sense that he could very easily turn this innocent kiss into something devastating if the room were even a little more empty.

But there were still people around. So the kiss stayed slow, and restrained… until his mouth tilted against yours and his tongue teased against your lower lip, just once.

You answered in kind without thinking.

That earned you a very low, very quiet chuckle from Joel - felt more than heard, vibrating right through your hands where they curled behind his neck.

He broke the kiss first, resting his forehead lightly to yours, breath uneven.

“Pretty sure that,” he murmured, voice roughened to something sinful, “puts you on the naughty list.”

A shocked laugh escaped you, breathless and unsteady. “Pretty sure kissing Santa in public makes us tomorrow’s town gossip. Christmas scandal of the century.”

“Mm.” He stole another short kiss, deeper this time. “Just makin’ sure everybody gets what they asked for.”

His hand slipped lower on your waist as he shifted beneath you, the pressure unmistakable, sending a pulse of boldness straight up your spine. You leaned toward his ear, confidence sparked by heat and proximity and the realization he wanted this just as much.

“Kissing’s not what girls on the naughty list wish for though,” you whispered.

Joel’s gaze snapped back to yours - darker now, hungry in a way that made your stomach flip.

“Well then,” he said slowly, voice a warm rumble, “Santa better walk his elf home. Make sure all her presents are waitin’ under her tree.”

“He better,” you whispered back, “or he’ll crush her Christmas spirit. And we can’t have that.”

In one fluid motion - so smooth it startled a small gasp from you - Joel rose from his seat, lifting you easily off his lap. You slid down against the length of him, breath catching at the difference in height, the way he leaned down to press another lingering kiss to your already reddened lips.

“Lemme help Tommy and Maria clean the rest,” he murmured, thumb brushing your cheek. “Can I drop by after?”

That was it. You had definitely fallen into an eggnog-induced fever dream. Joel Miller. Asking if he could come over. For… whatever came next.

You nodded quickly - too quickly - then tugged at the fake beard hanging around his neck. “Don’t let a girl wait too long for her gifts.”

The bravery in your voice shocked even you.

And with that, before you could combust right there in front of him, you turned on your heel, grabbed your coat, and forced yourself to walk - walk, not run - out into the cold Jackson night, heart hammering like bells ringing midnight.

Joel wasn’t entirely sure what the hell had gotten into him. The easy answer was the eggnog - or the music, the lights, that strange holiday softness that wrapped itself around Jackson once a year and made people act just a little foolish.

But he knew better than to lie to himself.

It wasn’t the alcohol, and it wasn’t the season.

It was you.

Maria had been right earlier that week - more right than he’d let on. He had noticed you before tonight. Not the way he’d noticed danger or trouble, sharp and immediate. No. You were the kind of person he’d caught bits of in the corner of his eye - working with the kids, helping fix things that broke, checking in on neighbors who needed something. Never loud, never demanding attention, but there. Warm in a way this world didn’t have much of anymore.

He’d heard your laugh a few times too - light, bright, always managing to slip under his armor before he knew it was happening.

And standing in your living room days ago, surrounded by soft lights and neatly stacked fabric and the smell of something sweet on the stove, it hit him like a damn punch to the ribs:

You made life feel normal.

Safe.

Like something worth coming back to.

Which was exactly why he’d tried, real hard, to keep some distance. He wasn’t built for delicate things. And the life he led wasn’t something he ever wanted to drag someone gentle into.

But you had a way of stepping right back into his orbit anyway - quietly, as if you belonged there and he was a fool not to see it.

And tonight?

Tonight had shoved whatever line he’d drawn clean off the table.

That kiss.

Your laugh against his mouth.

Your weight on his lap, your hands in his hair, the little whisper at his ear that damn near melted him where he sat.

He hadn’t planned any of it.

But if he was honest - which he tried to be, at least inside his own head - he wanted more. Wanted to see where the pull led instead of fighting it.

Why else would he be out here now? Trudging through ankle-deep snow, boots crunching through the white, breath fogging in front of him, headed straight for your house - the only one still lit on your quiet street. Yellow glow in the window, warm as a beacon.

Inviting. Comforting. Yours.

After helping Maria and Tommy clean up - and after both of them practically shoved him out the door with knowing smirks - Joel had peeled out of the Santa getup, stuffing it into a bag to return later. Now he was in jeans, flannel, thick jacket, hands buried deep in his pockets to keep them from shaking. Whether from cold or nerves, he didn’t examine too closely.

He climbed your porch steps with slow, heavy strides, breath steadying. He raised a fist to knock - 

But the door cracked open before he touched it.

You grinned up at him, haloed by the warm light inside. “Ho-ho-hello,” you teased softly.

Something in Joel’s chest loosened at the sight of you - hair still a little mussed from earlier, cheeks pink from alcohol or excitement or both, wrapped in a cozy sweater that looked far too inviting.

“Thought Santa might’ve forgotten me,” you added.

Joel opened his mouth, ready to give some clumsy Christmas jab back - but nothing came out. The sight of you, the heat spilling from behind you, the soft wintry smell of your home - it knocked every line clean out of his head.

“Promised, didn’t I?” he finally managed.

“You did.” You stepped closer, reaching up to brush the snow from his hair - gentle strokes that made him forget the cold entirely. Halfway through the motion, he caught your wrist, guiding your hand down. He lifted your fingers to his mouth and pressed slow, warm kisses to each one, lingering longer than he meant to.

“If you want,” he murmured, voice low and careful, “you can still tell me no. I can come by another night.”

You let out a soft breath, eyes bright. “Yeah, you could do that.” A beat. Then you tipped your head, lips curving. “Or you could just come inside now - before all the heat escapes and I end up freezing. Which means you’d have to warm me up all night.”

Joel huffed a quiet laugh, stepping forward, closing the last inches between you. “Ain’t got a problem with that,” he said, voice a touch rough.

You tugged him in by the front of his jacket, pulling him through the doorway. And the moment his boots crossed the threshold, he kissed you - slow at first, then deeper, as if he’d been thinking about it ever since you left the barn. Your back hit the door as you swung it shut behind him, breath catching, hands sliding up his chest.

“Merry Christmas to me, I guess,” you whispered against his lips, warm and a little breathless.

Joel smiled into the kiss, his hands finding your waist like it was the most natural thing in the world, before returning a low and satisfied:

“Merry Christmas.”

And merry christmas to all of you 🎄✨️ i had such fun to write this piece of fluff (and really need a nightmare before christmas rewatch now :D) and it really got me into the spirit! I hope, you can enjoy your holidays if you celebrate ❤️🎅🤍

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