whoever

"Can you just leave me alone? Aren't there clouds you need to yell at?"

She growls, deep and irritated before stomping to the back of the ship where she knows you and Robin will be.

Zoro smirks to himself, happy that he's palmed the problem off to you. He knows Nami will figure it out eventually, but seeing her so frazzled is satisfying.

You slam your book down on your thighs, your eyes darting around suspiciously like you can feel someone scheming against you. There's a tightness in your chest before Nami stops before you, her hands on her hips and her brows set in a nasty frown.

"He's unbelievable!"

Robin gives you a sidelong look before bookmarking the page of her book and sliding it onto the table. "What's the matter?"

"Zoro."

You bite your tongue and close your own book without marking the page, eyes trained on the navigator. From the way your heartbeat increases, you already know what she's going to say.

"What'd he do this time?" You squeak, hoping they don't hear the shake in your tone.

Nami rolls her eyes as she collapses onto the sun lounge. "He's keeping a secret."

"This again?" Robin chuckles. "How can you be so sure?"

"He smiles."

You blink. "What?"

Robin can't contain her giggles. "That's your evidence?"

"Yes!" Nami exclaims. "And he showers more than once a week!"

"Maybe he's working on himself..." You offer, the cuticle of your left thumb close to bleeding. Small hands close over where you pick, and you glance at Robin who remains focused on Nami.

"Are you sure you're not looking at this too closely?"

Nami shakes her head at the archaeologist. "This is different."

"Ladies! Could I interest you in a beverage?"

Your attention turns to Sanji, who glides over to you, a tray of pink and orange drinks in his hand. They tilt dangerously to the right when he presents them before you, and you take one. The condensation is a welcome sensation against your hot skin, and you immediately slurp down the drink—the nerves simmering through your veins make you hasty.

"Slow down," Robin tuts, taking a sip of her own cocktail, her eyes narrowed.

You know she knows, otherwise she wouldn't be babying you. The thought sends a shiver down your spine.

"Rumour has it..." She continues, tilting her head at Sanji. "That Zoro has a girlfriend."

You choke on your drink, but Sanji's reaction draws the attention away from you, thankfully.

"What?" He yells, spluttering. "Who? Why? How?"

It's not really a secret, just the beginning of a newfound mutual attraction—you wouldn't even go as far as calling it a relationship yet, let alone labelling you as Zoro's girlfriend.

Nami nods along, seemingly egging Sanji on despite her earlier vexation and interest in the situation.

"Who is it?" Sanji presses his hand to his forehead. "I feel bad for her. We need to get this poor girl outta there."

Robin shrugs. "It's just a rumour. Who knows if it's even true."

"He didn't deny it when I asked him," Nami says, her gaze meeting Sanji's eagerly. "We need to figure it out."

The cook nods. "And when we find her, we need to perform an exorcism."

"Do you remember that waitress from Dressrosa?"

"The one who winked at him?"

"Yes!"

Nami and Sanji disappear, the wind carrying their voices and their sandals and dress shoes heavy on the wooden deck of the Sunny as they converse to the galley.

"How long are you going to let them meddle before you tell them?"

You twist your lips. Of course, Robin knows. "We only started speaking about it a few weeks ago. Nothing's official and we aren't even sure if it would be appropriate."

She hums, mulling over your words as she swirls the straw around in the sunset-coloured liquid.

"They don't know it's you, so I see nothing wrong with having a little fun with it."

You snort. "You're evil."

Robin smirks, picking her book back up with her free hand. "Just think about it."

—

You step out of the lower quarters, Zoro’s green haramaki jacket slung loosely over your shoulders, the hem brushing your thighs like it belongs there. It’s warm, a little scratchy, and it still smells faintly of sun-dried sweat and steel—undeniably him. The night air bites at your legs, but the jacket holds you like a dare.

Robin’s words from earlier echo in your head, smooth and dangerous: “They don’t know it’s you, so I see nothing wrong with having a little fun with it.”

So you decide to take her advice.

The galley is quiet when you push open the door. Dimly lit, the overhead lamp hums, casting a warm glow over the countertop where Sanji and Nami are standing far too close, heads bent together in hushed conspiracy. The air smells like citrus and tension.

Sanji is mid-sentence—something whispered and scandalous—when he sees you. He freezes, jaw half-open. Nami’s eyes snap up to follow his gaze, and everything stills.

You don’t say a word as you glide past them toward the stove, bare feet soft against the tiled floor. The only sound is the clink of the kettle being set to boil and the rattle of teacups. Their silence trails you like a pair of shadows.

Then, finally—

“Wait,” Nami says, blinking like she’s trying to reset her vision. “Is that—?”

You glance down at yourself like you’d forgotten what you were wearing. Feigning surprise, you laugh under your breath and tug the jacket tighter around your body. “Oh, this? Found it in the laundry pile. Might be Zoro’s. Not sure.”

You catch the shift in Sanji’s face like a storm rolling in—he chokes on his own cigarette smoke, coughing once, twice, eyes already watering with disbelief and disgust.

“That thing?” He sputters, voice rising half an octave. “That filthy, ragged—seaweed-coloured disgrace? You—you—should be wrapped in silk, in crushed velvet! Not whatever that moss-headed neanderthal sheds after a workout!”

You raise your eyebrows, unbothered. “Mm. But it’s warm.”

Nami’s staring now, more than looking—like she’s trying to do the math on something that shouldn’t be adding up.

You pick up your mug, now full and steaming, and cradle it in your hands. The ceramic is hot against your palms, grounding. You take a long sip, letting the moment stretch.

Then, casually, over the rim of your mug, you grin. “You’re right, Sanji. His girlfriend would probably hate me wearing it. Don’t you think?”

That lands like a firework.

Nami’s hand shoots out and grabs Sanji’s arm, her eyes going wide, like she’s just been handed the final piece of a puzzle she didn’t even realize she was solving. Sanji, meanwhile, looks like he’s about to faint.

You say nothing else.

The silence breaks only as you turn and make your way to the door. You don’t look back, but you can feel their stares trailing after you, sharp and electric.

As the door swings shut behind you, the muffled explosion of whispers begins instantly. Names. Theories. Wild speculation.

You let yourself smile into your tea.

—

"I'm on the list," You say, nudging your shoulder into Zoro’s as you wander past the last row of closed market stalls.

The town’s emptying, the sun bleeding its way down between leaning rooftops and flickering lanterns. There’s a stillness to this street, a hush that comes only after a good day of noise, food, and crew-wide mischief. For once, it’s quiet—just the two of you, tucked into the rarest sliver of privacy the world ever offers.

Zoro doesn't look at you, just grunts, a familiar sound rumbling in his chest. “What list?”

“Nami’s.”

That earns a slight turn of his head, a single eye narrowing in suspicion. “What’s she doing now?”

“Compiling suspects.” You smirk. “Of who you’re allegedly dating.”

He slows a step, not quite stopping. Another grunt—this one closer to a sigh. “You serious?”

“She’s up to five pages,” You continue, voice casual like this is normal. “I’m top three. Could be number one by tonight if I play my cards right.”

“That bad, huh?”

“She’s even got Franky on there.”

Zoro barks out a low laugh, the sound brief and amused. “What, because he complimented my swords once?”

“Probably,” You hum. “She said he gave you a suspicious thumbs-up the other morning.”

“That’s just Franky’s default setting.”

You shrug. “Try telling her that.”

He snorts, but the corners of his mouth twitch like he's trying not to smile. The silence between you stretches, easy and familiar, filled only by the sound of your boots on stone and the rustle of wind through paper lanterns.

“She’s also started giving me these looks,” You add after a beat, waving a hand in the air and twirling your finger vaguely around your face. “Real invasive ones. Like she’s waiting for me to confess to murder or something.”

Before your spin can complete its full, dramatic arc, Zoro grabs your hand—steady and sudden. It isn’t forceful, just deliberate. Grounding.

He pulls you closer, not enough for anyone to see from a distance, but enough that your knuckles brush the fabric of his trousers, enough that your hand is suspended in the space between your bodies. Your pulse jumps.

“So what,” He says, voice quieter now. “You scared?”

You scoff, not bothering to hide the small huff of a laugh. “Of Nami?”

He shrugs, but there’s something in the way he watches you now—something more focused than usual. Like he's waiting. Like he’s asking a question without actually saying it.

You hesitate.

Then sigh. “I’m not scared. Just…” You trail off, letting the truth settle before saying it aloud. “Not ready to be the Sunny’s new soap opera.”

He raises a brow, skeptical.

You nudge his hand with your pinky. “You know how they are. One clue and suddenly there’s a betting pool, matching outfits, crew-wide interventions…”

“They’ll move on in a week,” He says, like it’s obvious.

You arch a brow. “You really think that?”

He doesn’t answer, but his grip on your hand lingers.

A breeze slips between the buildings, catching the hem of your shirt and the edge of Zoro’s sash. The moment holds, quiet and strange, like the calm before something shifts.

Then you glance up at him, smirking. “For the record, I am honoured to be on the list.”

Zoro exhales through his nose, amused again. “Be funnier if she put Luffy on it.”

“She might. Give her time.”

He finally lets go of your hand, but only so his pinky can loop around yours instead—barely touching, almost nothing.

But you feel it anyway.

—

Back on the ship, you’re curled up on the bench seat in the lounge, one of Sanji’s lemon cakes half-eaten beside you and your book lying facedown on your lap. It’s supposed to be a relaxing afternoon—the kind with quiet waves, distant seagulls, and maybe even a nap—but of course, peace never lasts long on the Sunny.

Not when Nami’s around.

The door slams open hard enough to rattle the cutlery in the adjacent kitchen. Nami storms in like she’s coming back from war—journal clutched in her hand, hair wind-whipped, eyes gleaming with the kind of chaos only someone with a vengeance (and a highlighter) can conjure.

“I’ve got it!" She exclaims, eyes wide with excitement.

Robin, seated at the small corner table with a cup of spiced tea and the latest historical epic, doesn’t even flinch. Her eyes slide lazily to the side, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “You’ve got what?”

“The proof.” Nami tosses her journal onto the table with a flourish. “I know who Zoro’s seeing.”

Your stomach flips, fast and stupid, like a switchblade. You sit up a little too quickly, the book slipping from your lap and thumping against the bench. Your hands tighten around the cushion.

Robin closes her book with exaggerated slowness. “Who is it then?”

Nami slams her palm flat against the open page. In massive, block-lettered fury—underlined, circled, and highlighted in two shades of orange and one aggressive yellow—it reads:

Zoro’s Secret Girlfriend (ongoing investigation – DO NOT TOUCH)

Below it is a bulleted list—no, an attack plan—of dates, observations, and “suspicious interactions.” You recognize some of them. A late dinner. A training session at dusk. The time Zoro walked into the lounge with wet hair and didn’t immediately complain about how tired he was.

Then, the kicker.

“It has to be Vivi,” Nami says, voice deadly serious.

You blink. “I’m sorry?”

She jabs her finger at the journal like she’s unveiling classified intel. “Zoro was acting weird the day we got the letter from Alabasta. All twitchy. And he left dinner early.”

“Because Luffy threw a banana at his face,” You mutter. This is the first time you've looked at her list in detail, and it's impressive. You're shocked at the level of dedication she's applied to the topic of Zoro's love life.

She ignores you. “And Vivi always smiled at him weirdly. You remember that, right?” She flips two pages, finding her next piece of so-called evidence. “Right here. Drum Kingdom. They disappeared at the same time for almost twenty minutes.”

“That was two years ago. They were getting firewood,” Robin points out, sipping her tea. She doesn’t sound particularly invested, but there’s a dangerous glint in her eye. You don’t know if it’s from amusement or malice. Probably both.

Nami waves her off. “So they say. But we can’t trust that.”

You cover your mouth under the pretense of rubbing your nose, just to keep the bubbling laughter at bay. Your cheeks are starting to ache.

“And the jacket?” Robin asks, tilting her head. “Would Vivi have sent it back just to—what—taunt you?”

Nami’s eyes narrow. She considers that.

“That is strange,” She mutters, tapping her pen against her chin. “But maybe it’s part of a long game. A signal. She sent the jacket as a memento—like a silent claim.” She snaps her fingers. “It’s genius, actually. Classic misdirection.”

You stare at her, mouth parted, a strangled noise somewhere in your throat. The very idea of Vivi sending Zoro anything—let alone one of his most disgusting pieces of clothing—is so far removed from reality it circles back to being impressive.

Robin covers a chuckle with her tea.

Nami beams, proud of her conspiracy. “We’ll know for sure when we dock next. If he gets mail from Alabasta, we’ll have confirmation.”

“I think you might be reading into this a little too much,” You offer carefully, voice tight.

Nami throws you a look. “You’re still on the suspect list, you know.”

You lift your brows. “I feel honoured.”

She narrows her eyes at you but doesn’t push. Instead, she closes the notebook with a decisive thud and marches off with purpose.

Once she’s gone, Robin leans toward you, voice low and amused. “You nearly cracked a rib holding that in.”

You drop your head back with a groan. “She thinks it’s Vivi. I can’t—”

“It’s not your fault you’re a better liar than Zoro.”

“I’m not even lying!”

“Not saying something is still a lie,” Robin says, smiling into her cup. “Just a polite one.”

You sigh, covering your face. “This is going to explode eventually.”

“Oh, absolutely.”

You lower your hands. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

Robin’s smile sharpens. “Of course I am.”

—

That night, you sneak into the crow’s nest with two mugs of tea and a plan to make fun of Nami, only to find Zoro already there, sprawled out across the floor like he owns the place.

He’s shirtless—of course he is—sweat-slick from training and radiating the kind of smugness that should be illegal after sundown. His swords are leaning up in the corner, and the faint scent of steel, wood polish, and the body soap you forced on him lingers in the air.

You pause in the doorway, catching your breath before stepping in like you weren’t just eavesdropping three hours ago on a whispered theory that placed Vivi as his mysterious girlfriend.

Now, Nami's going stir-crazy in the galley. You left her there after watching her frantically pin strings and photos to the wall for an hour. Robin took over watching her so you could come see Zoro.

“She thinks it’s Vivi now,” You announce, sliding the door shut behind you and making your way over.

Zoro cracks one eye open, unimpressed but curious. “Why?”

You hand him one of the mugs, fingers brushing as you pass it off. “She made a crime board.”

He sits up just enough to take the tea from you, tilting it toward his mouth. “A what?”

“A full conspiracy setup. Pins. Strings. Timeline. She’s gone full investigator. Sanji’s involved, too. Robin’s watching it like it’s live theatre.”

Zoro takes a long, slow sip of his drink. “That’s some serious delusion.”

“She circled Vivi’s name in red ink.” You sit down beside him, tucking your legs beneath you. “Twice.”

He grunts like he might actually be impressed.

You rest your mug on your knee and glance over at him. “We could clear it up.”

Zoro doesn’t look at you, but his fingers find the edge of your mug, thumb grazing where yours rests near the handle. It’s barely a touch, but it’s familiar now.

You don’t pull away.

“We will,” He says, voice quiet and low.

You raise a brow. “When? After they accuse Chopper?”

He doesn’t answer that. Just turns his head enough to meet your gaze.

“But I like this,” He says instead.

You blink. “Lying?”

“No.” He holds your stare. “Us.”

Your throat tightens, like your body’s bracing for something heavier than the silence.

You could say something honest. Something dumb. Something real.

But then he smirks, that slow, stupid, smug thing he does when he knows he’s rattled you, and adds, “Besides. Watching them unravel is better than those trash romance comics you read.”

You blink once. Twice.

Then you punch his arm, full force.

He doesn’t even flinch.

“Those comics are educational,” You say, deadpan.

Zoro sips his tea like he didn’t just get assaulted.

“Sure they are.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re already smiling. The warmth of the tea seeps into your fingers. The warmth of him is worse—closer, heavier, unspoken.

And maybe you’ll tell them.

Eventually.

But for now, you sit side by side in the quiet, sipping tea under the stars like there’s nothing to hide at all.

—

It happens, of course, when you least expect it.

The Sunny is anchored just off the coast of a quiet island, one of those sleepy little towns with sun-faded paint and overripe fruit stands. The crew is gathered on deck, full from lunch and dozing in patches of sun. There’s laughter, easy and echoing, and for once, everything feels still.

Which is exactly why it can’t last.

“Alright,” Nami announces, slamming her journal on the deck beside the lounge chair with the weight of divine judgment. “I’ve narrowed it down to two people.”

You, unfortunately, are within earshot.

Across the deck, Zoro is lying flat against the grass-green towel Sanji passive-aggressively laid out for him. He’s pretending to nap. He’s also terrible at pretending.

“Two?” Robin asks, mild and amused. She doesn’t even look up from her book.

“Yes.” Nami taps her pen like a war drum. “It’s either Vivi—”

“Oh my god,” You murmur, inhaling sharply.

“—or you.”

The silence that follows is sharp.

You look up from your drink. Slowly.

Sanji chokes. “What?!”

Brook drops his violin. Usopp sits up like he’s been shocked. Chopper squeaks. Luffy blinks twice, then points at you. “Wait. You?”

You sigh. “Define you.”

“You’ve been wearing his jacket,” Nami says, like she’s unveiling a murder weapon. “You made tea for him. You blushed when I said he was seeing someone.”

“She blushed,” Sanji echoes, horror-struck. “This betrayal… cuts deeper than Zoro’s ugly fashion choices.”

You glance at Robin. She’s smiling into her book. Traitor.

Zoro, still flat on his towel, opens one eye. “Are we done?”

“We are not done,” Nami snaps. “I demand an answer.”

The crew is looking at you now. Seven pairs of eyes, wide and waiting.

And honestly? You’re tired.

Of ducking glances and dodging questions. Of pretending Zoro doesn’t sneak into the galley at night to make you his weird version of tea. Of acting like your pulse doesn’t skip every time his hand brushes yours—even now, even here, in front of them.

So, you take a breath.

And then—without fanfare, without ceremony—you walk across the deck, past the gawking stares and dropped jaws, and drop to a crouch beside Zoro.

He looks up at you, calm. Familiar. A tiny, knowing smirk playing on his mouth.

You roll your eyes.

Then you lean down and press a kiss to his cheek. "I liked it better when they didn’t know.”

There’s a pause.

Then chaos.

“WHAT THE HELL—”

“Zoro?! You—?!”

“MY HEART—!”

“Why not me?!” Sanji sobs.

Luffy is clapping. Chopper is spinning in circles. Usopp is screaming about betrayal. Brook is composing a heartbreak ballad in real time.

Robin closes her book with a content sigh. “Finally.”

Zoro just closes his eyes again, smug and unbothered.

You sit beside him, arms loosely wrapped around your knees, letting the noise roll over you.

A/N : i had to change accounts so this is a re-upload of my ongoing fic bks!!

Okay, maybe you didn’t think this through. 

You didn’t think he’d actually come in and now suddenly the door is shut and you’re alone with him. You’re always alone with him, why is this any different than the days upon days you’ve spent together completely alone in the library? 

Well… the library isn’t dimly lit. 

And the library definitely doesn’t have a bed. 

Why did you invite him in? What was the end goal with such a stupid and impulsive decision? What the hell did you want? 

Him. That much is obvious, no point dancing around that fact anymore. 

But it’s purely sexual.

Obviously.

Nothing else. 

You’re friends. That’s it. You’re friends and sometimes you just so happen to have brief sexual fantasies about him. Can that really be considered cheating? Is it cheating if you didn’t want to be married in the first place? If you didn’t have a choice in the matter? If he’s a disgusting slob of a man? 

It doesn’t matter because you aren’t going to do anything.

Then why did you invite him in? 

Maker, you're an idiot. 

A stupid, stupid horny idiot. 

He’s just standing there. You should say something, but you waited too long and now it’s weird. This whole thing is weird. You invited him in as friends, you’re friends after all. You spend all day in the gardens together as friends, you read together in comfortable silence as friends, you hold each other intimately on the floor of empty hallways to reassure yourselves that the other is okay as friends, you think about him when you touch yourself as friends. Kriff you need to do something, you can’t just stand across from each other in silence. Do what feels natural, you’re friends, friends are comfortable around each other. What would you be doing if he wasn’t here? Get ready for bed. 

You turn to the dresser to start looking for a night gown, but you can feel the way his visor is trained on you, burning into your skin, so you grab the first thing you can find, barely looking at it and tossing it on the bed. Finally turning to look at him. 

“I’m just gonna change real quick…” You whisper it, no sense speaking any louder than that, you know he’ll hear it. He simply nods, turning to face the wall, it’s the first time he’s moved since he walked in. 

You go to summon Elaine and Lysa but stop yourself. How the hell would you explain him being here this late? It isn’t worth the trouble, you can get out of a dress yourself. 

Except you can’t. 

You were wearing one of the overcomplicated blue gowns you wore on days where you saw Kodo and you’re struggling to undo the bodice. 

Fuck.

This is fine. You’ll just stay in this until he leaves. When is he going to leave? Usually someone leaves when they are done doing what they came to do but with seemingly no objective here there’s no logical reason for him to leave. 

“You can turn around.” Gods, you’re embarrassing. He doesn’t speak for a moment as he turns and stares at you. 

“You’re stuck.” He says it so plainly that you know he’s certain that’s the case. You wish he would make fun of you. This would be so much easier if he was taunting you, like he usually was. You could hate him and send him away. But it’s getting harder to hate him by the minute. 

“It’s fine.” 

“I could help?” It’s a question. He doesn’t often ask for permission with you. But he won’t do this without your permission. Why should he need permission, this is innocent enough, he’s just helping you out. 

Friends help each other. That’s what they do. So you turn around so he can unlace it for you. And he’s on you before you have a chance to move somewhere else, anywhere else, but it’s too late. Without even realizing it you’ve put the two of you in front of the mirror. Well at least it can’t get worse than this.

But it does.

Because he takes off the gloves. And you can see his hands as he gives them to you to hold. Tan, calloused, littered with scars. You only get a glimpse, but it’s enough for you to realize that the hands you imagined him having don’t compare to the real thing. They’re big, you could tell that from the gloves but you hadn’t expected them to be so defined. You could write a million stupid romance novels about the vast ridges of his knuckles, or the veins that spread across them. 

Maker you’re so fucked. 

You can feel the dress loosening as he meticulously pulls each ribbon free, you wish it were possible to watch him do it. Instead you’re stuck staring at your stupid dumbfounded expression in the mirror, intently observing him until he finishes and immediately steps back and turns around. 

You wish he had taken his time. 

But you quickly slip out of the dress and don the nightgown on the bed. For Makers sake could you have grabbed a skimpier outfit? It’s practically lingerie. You reach for the silk robe hanging on the mirror and try to make yourself look as covered as possible.

“I’m decent.” You hate how small your voice sounds. He turns again and you give him his gloves back, drinking in one final glimpse of his hands. 

You need to talk about what happened. Just get it out of the way. 

“We should talk about it.” You take a step towards him but he flinches back, just a hair. It’s off putting to watch such an imposing man react like that so you stop dead in your tracks. 

“Nothing happened.” It’s gut-wrenching to hear his voice sounding so strained. It took weeks for him to warm up to you and in an instant he had put those walls back up.

“Don’t do that.” Gods, at least try to sound less like a wounded little girl.

“I’m not doing anything.” You want to rip that stupid modulator out of his helmet for making his voice sound so cold. 

“So I’m just supposed to pretend like you weren’t hyperventilating on the floor a few minutes ago?” The sympathy you had for him is rapidly depleting as you take another step towards him, trying not to raise your voice. 

“Yes. That is exactly what you’re going to do.” 

“No.”

“No?” The anger in his voice is palpable. Good. You want him to get fired up, you want to fight about this because at least you’ll be talking about it. 

“No. We aren’t going to ignore this, we are going to have a conversation about it because you scared the hell out of me.” He scoffs, it’s sharp coming through the filter. 

“You’re fine.” He crosses his arms in front of his chest.

It’s like the night you met. He’s standing in the middle of the room. A cold, unmoving statue of Beskar, and you, the scared little girl, charting unfamiliar waters. 

“ You weren’t.” You furrow your brows as you say it. The visor is trained on you but you’re sure he isn’t looking at you. “You couldn’t even move. It was like you couldn’t see me and I was right in front of you.” The chill that runs down your spine lets you know that he’s looking at you now that you’ve said that. He takes a long stride towards you and you hold your ground, tilting your head up to keep your eyes on his helmet.

“Why are we still talking about this?” His voice is so low it’s practically a rumble.

“Because we’re friends and friends talk about these things!” 

“We aren’t friends.”

Ouch. 

Well you should have seen that coming. Of course he wasn’t your friend, you can’t believe you were naive to ever think that he would be, he was probably just humoring you. Now you’re the one who can’t look at him as you stare at the floor, feeling like a child who’s just been scolded. 

“Of course we aren’t.” You wish you didn’t sound so bitter, as he sighs loudly. 

“Come on, don’t just stand there and pout at me, you knew we weren’t friends. We can’t be.” The contempt in his voice cuts deep. 

“Fuck you. Get out.” You start walking in the direction of the closet but he grabs your arm before you can get there. 

“Don’t do that.” His tone is a little gentler but it does nothing to sway your temper, shoving him off of you. 

“Why not. You’re right. We aren’t friends, I’m just the ditzy little princess you’re charged with watching, I don’t know why I ever thought you actually might care about me.” You’re trying not to cry at this point as you throw your hands up in defeat. “Is that what you wanted to hear? You were right. I was wrong. You win Mando, was that little episode in the hallway just now an act to get me to this point? If so you’re a fantastic actor, really had me going. I almost thought you actually gave a shit about me.” You turn sharply to open the closet door, wanting nothing more than to retreat to your pile of blankets but his large hand lands just next to your head slamming it shut. He raises his other hand so they’re boxing you in, he towers over and you scowl, your faces inches from each other now. 

“Why did you invite me in?” The crackle of the filter is low and it makes you want to tear the whole helmet from his head and slap him. And maybe do a few other things while it’s off.

“I want you to leave.”

“No you don’t”

“I hate you.”

“Is that what you tell yourself to make all of this okay?”

Smoke. Metal. Fresh Linen.  

“I hate you.” The back of your head is against the closet door as you take a step back, he leans down, closer to you, your forehead is practically touching Beskar. 

“That’s what I tell myself to justify it all.” Gods, why do you wish you could feel his breath on your face? “So why did you invite me in, sarad’ika?” Your knees buckle slightly and his hands fly to your waist to support you.  When you don’t respond he leans just an inch closer, your breath is fogging up the steel of his helmet now. “Say it again.”

“I hate you.” It’s practically a squeak as you say it this time. He hums softly in response. 

“I can’t stand you.” He murmurs. “It’s like you were put on this planet to make me suffer .” His hands put the slightest bit of pressure on your hips to accentuate the end of his sentence.  

“Do I really bother you that much? What have I done to you that is truly that terrible?” You do everything in your power to make it sound cold and harsh but your voice still trembles. 

“Don’t play dumb cyar’ika. Don’t act like you don’t know what you do to me.” The words are labored as you savor the heat coming off of his body. “The way you torment me.” He’s practically snarling. 

“I have no idea what you mean.” Of course you do. As you gingerly bring your hands up to rest on his chestplate, trying to put a distance between the two of you uselessly. You know exactly what he’s talking about because it's exactly how you feel everytime you stare into the cold and unforgiving steel of his visor. The misery of absolutely loathing a person purely because you cannot have them, because you cannot escape them. Because it’s not just that he’s always physically there, he’s there when you close your eyes and when you sleep, he lives in brain, there is nothing you can do to get rid of him. To free yourself of the brand he has burned deep into your psyche.

That can’t be what he means though.

“Why do you do it? Hmm?” He brings the helmet down to rest against your cheek, you can feel the vibration when he hums, the sensation has you arching your back before you can stop yourself but thankfully his grip holds you in place against the door. 

“Do what?” You groan softly, he squeezes your waist tighter. 

“ This.” He grunts. “You do all of this. You wear that green dress, read those dirty books right in front of me, for fucks sake look at you. You invited me in and you put on this?” His fingers yank at the loose hanging fabric on your hips. “ This pretty little black slip of lace? You must truly despise me to put me through this lovely little bit of torture…”

“I don’t do those things for you.” You manage to spit out. It’s sort of true, you don’t entirely do those things for him, sometimes they just happen by accident. 

 One of his gloved hands comes up to grip your chin. “Don’t even get me started on this filthy mouth of yours, the way you talk to me sarad, when you insult me, berate me, all I can think about is how I could make this pretty mouth talk so sweet, make you beg and whine just for me, never talk back to me again.” 

Maker this isn’t real, it can’t be. You must have fallen asleep again, but he feels so solid, and palpable, and the wetness pooling between your legs certainly felt real. You’re speechless at this point as you just let out a little whimper that has him chuckling softly.

“Is that really all I had to do to make you behave? Whisper vulgar things into your ear? If I had known all you wanted was a little attention I would have done this the day I met you mesh’la. Is this what you want? I need to hear you say it.” He’s sweetened immediately and it’s making your head spin. You need to think clearly, be realistic, you can’t do this. No matter how badly you want this. 

But right now it’s hard to do much of anything besides lightly scratch at his chestplate and whimper. 

“Tell me to leave right now. I’ll do it, I’ll hop on the first transport ship off planet and you’ll never see me again.”  You know he’s serious. He could easily do whatever he wanted with you in this position but you know him, and you know if you don’t explicitly ask for it he won’t go further than this. Why is this so hard? You know what you need to do, you need to tell him to leave, to get as far away from you as possible but you know that it would never be far enough. There is nowhere he could go that would free you from this agony . 

“W-we can’t do this.” You manage to stutter out, your eyes are squeezed shut at this point, just trying to stop any more noises from slipping out.

“Then tell me to leave.” He says it almost like it’s what he really wants, that he knows, just like you do, that there’s no coming back from this. 

“I hate you. Every part” Stars, why can’t you just tell him to go? 

“I know you do cyar’ika.”

Your heart is pounding in your chest, he can probably hear it. You need to convince him that you can’t do this, because you know you can’t stop yourself, it has to be him. 

“Do you know what would happen if we were caught?” You breathe out, grabbing the sides of his helmet to pull him back slightly so you can stare into the thin black line. 

“I know.” 

“They’d hang us both.”

“They’d hang me.” 

You know he’s right. They’d be substantially worse to him, you’d most likely just be locked away until it was time to produce an heir. 

“They’d hang you.” You whisper. 

“The moment anyone found out I would be swarmed by guards. They’d lock me up and throw away the key.” His grip on your waist tightens ever so slightly

“They’d do worse than that.” For fucks sake, everything you’re saying is true and you know it, why isn’t this making either of you stop. 

“They’d torture me.” He says it so plainly, like it doesn’t bother him in the slightest. 

“They’d torture you.” 

“They’d cut out my tongue if they knew what I wanted to do to you.” Then why does he sound like he doesn’t care?

“Then don’t do it, it isn’t worth it.”

“I could do most of it without a tongue.” 

“I’d miss your tongue.” You need to stop. 

“Would you?”

“I would.” You would. 

“I thought you hated my tongue. Every part of me .” 

“I do. But it would be a shame for them to cut it out before I get to put it to good use.”

“Don’t talk to me like that.” Maker, did he just growl?

“You don’t like it?”

“You’re supposed to be telling me to leave. Keep talking like that and I won’t be able to stop myself.” 

“Then don’t stop yourself.”

“Tell me to leave sarad’ika.”

“Stay.”

And that’s all it takes. He hauls you over his shoulder and before you can even process what’s happening you’re being thrown down on the bed. He’s hastily removing things, buckles and belts, tossing them aside with his gloves as he pulls his cowl over his helmet, letting his cape fall to the floor as he drops the pack on top of it, you can’t help it as you reach up and grab the edge of his chestplate pulling him closer.

“Don’t bother, can’t wait.” Is all you say as you trace your fingertips across his now exposed neck, you can work around the flight suit and armor. His now bare hands find your waist again, this time tearing the fabric to shreds as he rips the negligee off of you, tossing the scraps to the side. You don’t have time to feel embarrassed about your bare chest being exposed to him now as his hands found the hem of your panties.

“Do you need these?” He says breathlessly, his visor keeps moving ever so slightly across your body like he doesn’t know where to look as you shake your head no.

“I have plenty of others.” That’s all he needs to hear before those are ripped to shreds too and he’s crawling onto the bed to hover above you, his hands slide under your thighs to scooch you upwards so his head is closer to your stomach. He wastes no time as he pushes your legs up to bend your knees so he can access all of you. You can hear the soft gasps from the modulator. 

“Sarad… bid mesh’la.” One of his hands presses to your inner thigh as he spreads your legs wider for him, his other hand moves up to swipe two fingers through your folds. “Cuyir ibic an par ni?” It’s like he’s talking to himself as he holds them up so you can see how wet they are. Your face turns red at the sight. “Is this all for me sarad?” You put your hands over your face sheepishly as you nod, you barely register the sound of air hissing as you peek through your fingers just long enough to watch as he slips his hand under his helmet to suck his fingers clean, letting out a low breathy moan.   

Maker, you don’t stand a chance. 

“Fuck, Mando, quit stalling.” You whine out, bringing your own hand between your legs in an attempt to relieve some of the pressure that’s building there. One of his hands gently grabs your wrists, effortlessly pinning them above your head as he clicks his tongue. 

“Needly little thing.” He chuckles as his other hand traces down your body, stopping to palm your breast, going between them as you whined, squirming under his grasp, there’s got to be a wet spot on the sheets already as he continues to taunt you, lazily rolling one of your nipples between his fingers. “So pretty mesh’la. I knew you’d be so perfect, smooth and soft under my hands.” He pinches the nipple he was playing with making you squeal. “You have to be quiet sarad. Can you do that for me?” He rubs circles over your tit with his thumb, soothing the ache as you nod. “Good girl.” You can practically hear the grin on his face as you flush red at the praise. He releases your wrists as he brings both hands down across your chest now, following the blush before finally one of his hands dips between your thighs. 

“Please Mando…” You whisper as your hands grip the sheets. His fingers massaging your inner thigh, deliberately avoiding your core. 

“Please what, princess?” Maker, he sounds so smug. 

“Gods, I hate you.” You squirm uselessly underneath him, not bothering to try and touch yourself, you know he’d stop you. His gravely laugh seeps out of the modulator. 

“I like you like this, my little star flower.” One of his hands smacks your thigh, it isn’t that hard but you still have to bite back a moan. “I wish I'd known how easy it was to make you behave. I’d have bent you over and done this weeks ago if I knew it would have the effect on you.” 

“Maker, are you going to touch me or are you going to just talk all night Mand-” Your voice catches in your throat as he slides two fingers into you without warning. Your back arching off the mattress until his other hand rests on your lower stomach, pushing you back down. He hums as he slowly draws them out before driving them back home forcing a choked out groan from you. You were right, he does feel better than your own fingers as he slowly and deliberately fucks you with his hand, his helmet moving back and forth to watch his digits slip in and out of you to your face as you bring a hand to your mouth to try and quiet the obscene noises that start slipping out.

“Maybe next time you mouth off to me I’ll just do this, would you like that?” 

Overconfident son of a bitch.

You’re having a hard time thinking of a witty comeback and when you don’t respond he hums softly, curling his fingers to hit that spot that makes you see stars. 

“Naughty. Speak up princess.” The warm drawl of his voice is suffocating as he curls his fingers again, your body trying desperately to writhe at the sensation but his other hand keeps you held in this position. “Use your words. I know you can, you’re always so mouthy” His tone is mocking as he curls his fingers again ruthlessly and your other hand flies down to his wrist. 

“Yes.” You manage to yelp you as he withdrawals his fingers and you whine softly at the feeling, trying to keep hold on his wrist to bring him back against you. He tuts as he brings the hand to his pants as he unzips the flightsuit and you sit up on your elbows to get a good look as his cock springs free. He lazily strokes himself, using your slick as a lubricant, his visor trained on your face as you let out a small gasp. 

Of course he’s so arrogant. With a dick like that anyone would be, he’s bigger than anyone you’ve ever seen and just generally nice to look at. You didn’t even know it was possible to have such an attractive cock. It’s hefty, thick, veiny like his hands, the tip is such a pretty shade of pink as he swipes his thumb across the beads of pre-cum that spill out, drawing a sharp inhale from him. He leans forward slightly and slides the head through your folds making you fall back onto the bed, your head sinking into the mattress as you whine. You’re waiting for the delicious sting of him pushing in but of course he doesn’t. You lift your eyes to stare into the visor, he’s looking at you expectantly, you can virtually see the smirk on his face. 

“Be a good girl, princess. You know what I want.” He rubs the tip against your neglected clit and you cry out softly, reaching up to grip his shoulders.

“You’re such an ass.” You manage to gasp out as you try to hook a leg around his waist to pull him against you but of course he’s able to stay exactly where he is as he continues to leisurely stroke himself, bumping the head of his cock against your clit every so often, watching as you squirm. After a few moments of watching you wriggle under him he pulls back ever so slightly causing you to whine, leaning forward to grab his arms, uselessly pulling him back towards you. 

“I thought you didn’t want it?” He says in that stupid condescending tone. Even now he’s insufferable but you can’t help it, you’re so worked up at this point you’ll do damn near anything to get him inside you. 

“Please.” You whine softly. He hesitates before he leans back down, one hand gripping your hips as his other lines himself up with your entrance. Your hands squeeze his shoulders, trying to get any sort of leverage to force him into you.

“Please what sarad?” He tilts his head ever so slightly to the left.

Oh you’re gonna kill him.

After. 

“Please, for Makers sake just fuck me already.” You groan out, you only get to roll your eyes for a second before he snaps his hips forward, pushing himself only halfway into you but the stretch is immense as you scratch into his arms, whining loudly, the dull pain is worth it though as he brings his helmet down against the mattress next to yours so you can hear the guttural moan that falls from the modulator. Both his hands are on your hips now as he digs his fingers into the skin, trying to steady himself, you’re definitely gonna have bruises. He lies breathlessly on top of you for a few moments before he speaks again.

“Are you okay mesh’la? Are you okay if I move?” His voice is tense and you can hear him panting, you’re surprised you don’t cum right then and there as you nod against his shoulder, your nails scratching at his back now to stabilize yourself. 

“Yes, please, please Mando” You breathlessly mumble, shifting your hips slightly, wincing as you take a bit more of him and that’s all the permission he needs to grab your hips and gradually pull you down on to his length. By the time he’s fully inside of you you’re a whining mess.

Who needs dignity? Not you. Not when you can hear the Mandalorian groaning in your ear, mumbling incoherently in Mando’a to himself as his cock twitches inside you. 

He isn’t moving, you know he’s trying to catch his breath but Maker he feels so good and you don’t feel like waiting so you gingerly pry one of his hands off of your waist and guide it down between your legs, that seems to bring him back to reality as he starts rubbing small circles against your clit which has you keening immediately. He still doesn’t move inside of you as he intently watches you gasping and moaning, you shut your eyes tight as he brushes his fingertips slowly across your swollen bud. 

Of course he’s him so he doesn’t let you enjoy it for long because once you’re thrashing underneath him because you’re so close he draws his hand back and you breathlessly grab his wrist.

“Don’t you dare.” You give him as stern a look as you can but it sounds more like a plea. That gets a small laugh from him as he ever so slightly pulls out before slamming himself back into you, watching as your mouth falls open in a silent scream. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He chuckles as he repeats the motion, pulling out ever so slightly before fully sheathing himself once more, you’re seeing stars again. 

“If you don't put your kriffing hand back between my legs I won’t ever let you do this again.” You try to scowl at him but all it takes is another snap of his hips before you’ve lost all your resolve. He finally picks up the pace, slamming his hips against yours, the thrusts growing brutal as he unravels you to nothing but whimpers as you claw uselessly at his shoulders. You’re pathetically whining now, it’s unfair how easily he’s able to get you there. It’s almost like he knows how close you are as he lets out a small groan when you clench around him, his hips stuttering slightly. 

“Ask nicely, princess.” He grunts out as he picks up the punishing pace once more. “Use your manners and I’ll give you whatever you want.” He growls as he brings his hands to your thighs to force them against your stomach, letting him push into you deeper. The feeling makes your head spin, the knot in your stomach tightens immediately as you let out a high pitched whine. 

“Please… for fucks sake, let me cum or I’m gonna rip your stupid perfect cock off the second we’re done.” You manage to grunt out through gritted teeth. He chuckles breathlessly as he brings his hand back to your clit, pressing rough and rapid circles against it. 

“We’ll work on that.” He laughs softly as you can feel yourself rapidly slipping back towards that edge and before you know it you’re right there again. He doesn’t let up on his ruthless motions this time as you finally reach your peak. 

You’re loud. 

Probably too loud.

But Maker, he loves it. It’s like it’s fueling him because he’s chanting your name and mumbling in Mando’a again as his thrusts grow sloppy and you manage to open your eyes just in time to watch him pull out and frantically stroke himself as he cums with a low growl, his other hand locked around your thigh as he shoots his load onto your stomach. 

It’s oddly gratifying to watch as he writhes, kneeling over you as his chest heaves. Collapsing down next to you once he’s finished, gasping for air. A nice reminder that under all the talk he is still just a man. Your man. 

Nope. Nope. Nope.

You fucking idiot. That’s not what this was. This was… 

Shit what was this? 

Casual sex. 

Friends with benefits. 

You can’t just have sex one time and start calling him your man are you crazy? You’re still married.

Fuck. You’re married. 

You turn your head slightly to look at him. 

If you didn’t know what to say to him an hour ago you definitely don’t know what to say to him now.

1.

You stretched your arms above your head, letting out a sharp sigh as the bounty’s unconscious body thudded to the floor of the Razor Crest’s cargo hold.

“That’s one way to say job well done,” you muttered, brushing space dust from your jacket sleeve before slinking into the co-pilot’s chair.

Behind you, Din Djarin closed the ramp and began checking the carbonite chamber, ensuring the target was fully frozen and secure. He hadn’t spoken much since you reached the ship — not that he was ever particularly chatty — but you chalked that up to the Mando brand of "taciturn charm."

“Well, that was fun,” you said brightly, spinning halfway in the chair to face him. “You always do jobs this entertaining, or was this just to impress me?”

His helmet tilted slightly toward you. “It wasn’t supposed to be fun.”

“No? Shame. You looked pretty good out there.” You gave him a teasing grin and leaned back, resting your boots on the edge of the control panel.

He turned fully toward you now, helmet glinting in the light of hyperspace pre-jump. “You almost got shot.”

“Yeah, but you didn’t let that happen.” You pointed a finger at him, lazily. “Knight in shiny beskar and all that.”

“…I hired you for your recon work. That’s all.”

You shrugged. “Sure, Mando. I’m just saying, you throw a girl against a wall to shield her from a blaster bolt, she might start thinking you care.”

He walked past you to the cockpit, flicking switches like nothing had happened. “We leave in ten.”

You laughed under your breath and leaned back further, hands behind your head. “You’re cute when you pretend I don’t fluster you.”

No response. Just the cold silence of a man fully immersed in his pre-flight check.

Not even a head tilt this time.

You pursed your lips, then smirked.

Alright. That one might have been too subtle…for him.

But you weren’t going anywhere just yet.

2.

You leaned against a stack of fuel canisters, watching Din as he crouched next to the hull of the Razor Crest, speaking low and serious with Peli Motto. Something about coolant lines or hyperdrive relays—you weren’t listening. Mostly because he’d taken off his gloves again, and there was something about watching his fingers flex against a piece of machinery that scrambled your thoughts like eggs on a Tatooine skillet.

Grogu was toddling near your feet, cooing up at you. You bent down and gave his ear a little scratch. “He’s lucky he’s got you, kid,” you said. “Shame you’re the only one in this partnership with any emotional intelligence.”

Grogu blinked at you slowly, then burbled in agreement. Or maybe hunger.

“Mando!” you called out, hopping off the crates and sauntering toward the ship. “Since we’re stuck in Mos Eisley for a bit… how about I buy you a drink?”

He didn’t even look up from where he was tightening something under the ship’s belly.

“No.”

You arched an eyebrow. “You sure? Could be a bonding moment.”

“No.”

You sighed, pushing your tongue against your cheek to hide the smile. “Are you afraid I’ll drink you under the table? Or that you’ll have fun?”

“I don’t drink on the job.”

“We’re not on a job,” you replied smoothly. “We’re in between. There’s a difference.”

He finally looked up at you, visor catching the Tatooine twin suns. “We don’t need to bond.”

You opened your mouth, but then shut it.

Instead, you gave a mock salute and walked off muttering, “Alright, Casanova, loud and clear.”

Later, you were helping Peli hook up a new motivator coil when she snorted and said, “You’re wasting your time, sweetheart.”

You turned your head. “Excuse me?”

“With him,” she nodded toward Din, who was now sitting on the ramp with Grogu in his lap, feeding him a little packet of something green and mushy. “You’ve been laying it on thicker than Bantha butter, and he’s just… nothing.”

You groaned, flopping back onto the sand beside her. “Is he dense, or just emotionally stunted?”

“Both,” Peli replied cheerfully. “Don’t take it personally. I’ve seen rancors with better romantic instincts.”

You covered your face with your hands. “Hopeless.”

“Yep.”

You peeked through your fingers, catching sight of Grogu now waddling toward you with food smeared across his mouth.

“Well,” you murmured, sitting up and letting him crawl into your lap, “at least one of them likes me.”

Peli patted your shoulder, greasy handprint and all. “That’s a start.”

3.

The alley was narrow, the kind of cramped, shadowed crevice that smelled like rust and desperation. You ducked in first, tugging Din’s arm behind you just as blaster fire cracked against the duracrete wall.

“I told you that guy looked too twitchy to be a clean drop,” you hissed.

“You waited until we were already inside to tell me that,” Din replied, voice flat but calm as ever. You could practically hear the slight raise of his brow under the helmet.

“Call it a hunch,” you muttered.

Another volley of shots whizzed past, and Din shoved you further into the shadows. He followed in right after, pinning you both against the wall as the enemy patrol ran past. There was barely a breath between you. His arm was braced next to your head, his chest pressed fully against yours, armor cold even through your clothes.

You tilted your head up slowly, voice low. “You know, if you wanted me pressed up against you, Mando, you could’ve just asked.”

His helmet was angled so close you could see your own smirk reflected in the beskar.

“Stay quiet,” he said.

“That’s all you’re gonna say? Really?” You leaned in just a little, voice all honey and trouble. “No comment on the close quarters? The dim lighting? The way your knee is pressed against my—?”

“I said quiet.”

You let out a long, exaggerated sigh, head thudding back against the wall. “I’m just saying, most people would at least acknowledge the tension here.”

Din shifted his weight slightly, and you thought maybe—maybe—that you’d finally gotten through.

Instead, he pulled back just enough to glance outside the alley. “They’re gone. Let’s move.”

And then, just like that, the warmth of his body was gone, his cape brushing your arm as he slipped back into the light.

You stood there for a second longer, staring after him.

“Unbelievable,” you muttered, jogging to catch up. “I was practically breathing pick-up lines in your face, and you gave me nothing. Not even a grunt.”

4.

It had been a long day. The kind that sank into your bones and made even the air feel heavy.

The bounty had fought harder than expected, and Din had taken the brunt of it — bruised ribs, a split lip under the helmet, and a noticeable limp that he stubbornly refused to acknowledge.

Now, inside the dim hull of the Razor Crest, the silence between the two of you felt comfortable. Grogu was already asleep in his hammock, snoring softly like some tiny, ancient gremlin.

Din was sitting on the edge of the cot, working one-handed to undo a section of his chest plate. You noticed the stiffness in his shoulders, the way he winced every time he shifted his weight.

“Here,” you said gently, crossing the space to kneel in front of him. “Let me help.”

He started to protest, of course. “I’ve got it.”

You gave him a look, one you knew he could feel even if he couldn’t see your face. “I didn’t ask if you could. I said let me.”

He hesitated… and then let his hands drop.

Your fingers moved carefully, familiar now with the clasps and locks of his beskar. You worked slowly, undoing the armor piece by piece — chest plate, gauntlets, pauldrons — setting each one down beside you with reverence, like they mattered. Like he mattered.

His undershirt was dark with sweat and streaked with grime. You resisted the urge to reach for a cloth and clean him up. Instead, your hands hovered near the edge of his vambrace.

“You always take care of everyone else,” you said softly. “Let someone take care of you, just this once.”

He was quiet for a long moment. Then: “You don’t have to.”

“I know.” You smiled faintly, not looking up. “Doesn’t mean I don’t want to.”

You unlatched the vambrace slowly. His forearm tensed beneath your fingers, the bare skin warm.

He didn’t say anything to that. But he didn’t stop you, either.

When you finally looked up, you found his visor fixed squarely on you. The silence stretched between you like a held breath.

If he felt anything—warmth, tension, the way your fingers lingered against the edge of his wrist—he didn’t say.

Just a small nod.

And then: “Thank you.”

You nodded back, lips curled in the barest smile. “Anytime.”

You stood and walked past Grogu’s hammock, brushing a hand over his ears as you went.

From behind you, you could feel the weight of Din’s stare following you the whole way.

5.

The Razor Crest creaked under the weight of frost, a low groan echoing through the hull as wind battered the exterior.

You were both grounded — a storm too thick to fly through and a bounty who was likely just as frozen as the damn planet. The heating system, true to its usual charm, had sputtered out three hours ago.

You were curled into yourself on the floor of the ship, back against the wall, arms wrapped tightly around your knees. Your jacket was decent, but nothing short of a portable sun was going to fight the kind of chill creeping into your bones.

Grogu was warm in his little insulated pod, snuggled deep in his blanket nest, occasionally letting out a snore.

Across the room, Din sat on a crate, sharpening one of his vibroblades like it was just any other night. No sign of discomfort. No sign he was feeling the same way your teeth were chattering.

You didn’t say anything. You weren’t sure if it was pride or exhaustion, but the silence stretched.

Until finally, without looking up, he spoke.

“You’re cold.”

“No kidding,” you muttered, breath puffing visibly in front of your face. “What gave it away? The blue lips or the full-body shiver?”

He didn’t rise to the sarcasm. Instead, he reached into the compartment behind him and pulled out a heavy, worn blanket.

“Come here,” he said, scooting to the edge of the crate and patting the space beside him.

You blinked at him. “You’re inviting me to share body heat?”

“Purely practical.”

You snorted as you stood, dragging yourself over. “Right. Not because you enjoy my company or anything ridiculous like that.”

He didn’t answer, just opened the blanket as you sat down beside him.

It was warmer than you expected. His armor had retained some heat, and beneath it, his body was a furnace. The blanket went around both of you, his arm loosely draped behind your shoulders to keep it up.

The silence settled again.

Then, a little softer: “Better?”

You tilted your head toward him. “If I said no, would you let me shove my hands under your shirt?”

He didn’t so much as flinch. “No.”

You laughed, but it was quiet. Tired. The kind of laugh that cracked into something tender. You leaned your head against his shoulder, your voice dropping low.

“...Thanks, Din.”

He didn’t say anything. But you felt it — the shift. A subtle lean into you. The way his fingers adjusted the blanket more tightly around you both.

And then Grogu stirred in his pod, peeking out, blinking at the sight of you nestled together. He blinked once. Twice. And let out a soft, amused coo.

You met his gaze with a smirk.

+1

You stopped calling him Din.

Not on purpose. It just… slipped away.

It had started subtly: the teasing softened, the smiles dimmed. You kept your hands to yourself more, kept your jokes to Grogu instead. You still worked with Din, still followed him into the fire and out again, but the space between you felt wider than it ever had.

And maybe it was for the best.

Maybe you'd crossed a line, misread something. Maybe your flirting had made him uncomfortable, and he was too kind—or too stoic—to say it outright.

You hadn’t realized how much it hurt to pull away until you were halfway across a frozen plain, following behind him in silence, and he didn’t say a word about the wind biting at your skin.

He always offered the blanket before. Always stood just a little closer.

Now?

Nothing.

You tried to tell yourself it was fine. You were fine. You weren’t here to fall in love with a man who never showed his face. You were here because you wanted to be.

You didn’t expect him to care.

Then one night, as the ship drifted through hyperspace and Grogu was snoring softly in his hammock, Din stood in the middle of the hull, hands loose at his sides. Watching you.

“Why are you avoiding me?” he asked.

You blinked from where you sat on your bunk, caught mid-polishing your blaster. “I’m not.”

“You are.”

You looked down. “I just figured maybe I was… pushing too much. Saying things I shouldn’t have. Being… flirty.” The word stung coming out of your mouth. “Didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

There was a long pause. You expected silence. Maybe a brush-off. But instead:

“You weren’t.”

You glanced up. He stepped closer, the quiet clink of his armor unusually loud in the quiet. “I thought you knew.”

“Knew what?”

He hesitated, then said carefully, “I was flirting back.”

You blinked. “You what?”

He tilted his head. “You remember the first job? When we caught that bounty together, and I told you to leave right after?”

You nodded slowly.

“I made sure you got a full share. Paid for your passage off-world. Protected you during the shootout. I don’t do that for strangers.”

You swallowed. “That’s not—”

“And on Tatooine,” he cut in, voice quiet but firm. “You asked me to bond over a drink. I told you we didn’t need to bond.”

You furrowed your brow. “Exactly. You turned me down.”

“No,” he said. “I said, ‘We don’t need to bond.’ What I meant was—we already do. I didn’t think I needed more than what we had.”

Your mouth opened, then closed.

“In the alley,” he continued, stepping even closer, “when I had you pinned against the wall… You think I didn’t want that? That I wasn’t aware of how close we were?”

You felt your pulse jump.

“I wanted it,” he said simply. “I just couldn’t say it then. Couldn’t risk you thinking it was anything less than mutual.”

You sat up straighter, the air tight in your lungs.

He took another step, now close enough that you could feel the shift of his weight. “When you helped me take off my armor… I don’t let anyone do that. No one touches it. No one touches me.”

“Din—”

“And the blanket? On the ice planet?” His voice gentled. “That wasn’t practical. That was me finding the only excuse I had to hold you. To make sure you were okay.”

Your heart thundered in your chest.

“I thought I was being clear,” he said, finally. “But I guess I’m not great at… this.”

You blinked rapidly, trying to catch up. “You… you’ve been flirting this whole time?”

“As much as I know how to.”

There was a beat of silence.

And then, softly—warmly—he added, “So. You gonna keep pulling away? Or are we finally gonna admit we’ve been on the same page since the beginning?”

You stood, moving toward him until you were close enough to touch his chestplate.

“You could’ve said something.”

“I just did.”

You smiled, helpless and stunned. “Guess we’re both kind of hopeless.”

His hand brushed your arm, hesitant but deliberate. “Maybe. But not anymore.”

And just like that, all the quiet tension between you—weeks of half-meant jokes and unspoken affection—finally settled into something real. Something shared.

And just like that, all the quiet tension between you—weeks of half-meant jokes and unspoken affection—finally settled into something real. Something shared.

Not lost in translation anymore.

The underworld of Coruscant reeked like someone doused the streets in burnt fuel that leaked from a ship nearby. It stung the inside of your nose, seared the inner corner of your eyes, and left you coughing. Yearning for something crisp to contrast the muggy shit around you. A fresh gasp of air that didn't lay waste to the inside of your lungs—scarring the tissue with each small intake.

You half expected the puddles to be a horrendous combination of leftover ship fluid and what cheap alcohol the scrappers here could afford.

Thankfully the streets were coated in a thick layer of it, leaving no trace of your footsteps when you took off running. Each heaving breath left your body begging for a small moment of reprieve. Or at least until you felt better about continuing on your path.

You tucked the bandanna tighter around your face, masking the bottom half in the hopes it would help, but you knew his tricks. This wouldn't be a difficult chase for him. In fact, you were probably making things simple for him—giving each movement away with your quick pace and panicked actions. Walking slow, blending into a crowd, that was your best option at this point. At least then you might have a chance of skirting around him in your search to find a way off planet.

"Slow," you muttered. "Go slow."

Running a partially leather gloved hand over the hilt of your blaster, you forced yourself to set a nondescript stride. Leisure enough to be considered a local whilst maintaining the speed you needed to get away from him. It wouldn't keep him away for long. But that's just what you needed.

A few extra minutes to formulate your plan.

An engineer rammed into your shoulder, forcing you off your somewhat stable rhythm momentarily. You ducked your head and threw a snipped apology his way; the grumble you got in return went ignored. No doubt they'd bitch and moan about it to someone else later. The short tale of how rude people on Coruscant were—how they lived in their own bubble of havoc and grief. You hoped one day someone might prove them wrong.

But there were other pressing matters at hand—fighting off a tracker being one of them.

Neon blue illuminated an alleyway to your right. Small, barely large enough to fit a speeder, but good enough for you to slip into for a minute or two. You got lucky at the cantina. His back was turned to you, attention preoccupied by the Twi'lek waitress intent on flirting with him instead of answering his questions. Which meant there remained a possibility he never saw you; a small but tiny chance you were free to run.

Perhaps you escaped his grasp once again. A feat that could only be said by the best of the best.

You could hardly even be considered apart of that category.

Yanking down the bandanna, you sucked in a lungful of air—the bitter taste of garbage nearly too much for you to take. Sweat clung to your neck, slipping down your throat where it gathered in a pool beneath your breasts. You couldn't keep going like this. Running with no final destination in mind. This is what nearly got you caught the last time he chose to pursue the bounty that had gotten away.

"Maker," you panted, leaning forward with your hands pressed against your knees. "I fucking hate this place."

Coruscant certainly hadn't been your first choice. In fact, this remained dead last on your list of vacation spots. But the dense population and large quantity of streets held an appeal that couldn't be outmatched by any other place. You could get infinitely lost here. Never find your way to the surface again and simply exist in the underworld, become one with the metal walls and crumbling rusted infrastructure.

Which made it option number one when escaping the most famed bounty hunter this side of the galaxy.

You winced when you stood to your full height, the bandanna set back into place. The nearest transport was on the opposite side of this part of the city, far too fucking long of a walk if you were to make it. A clear window of time that gave him an ample amount to find you in this mess of alleyways and dead ends. You'd be lucky if you got away unscathed—the bolts in your blasters unused and vibroblade (stolen from his ship) still attached to your calf.

Eventually this cat and mouse game would have to come to a close. Leaving you with only one option left.

Find him before he found you.

The slosh of your boots through puddles echoed loudly off the metal grated walls on either side of the street. In a different scenario—when your mind wasn't going a mile a minute out of pure adrenaline and fear—you might have felt claustrophobic. This planet had a way of making you smaller than you were. A faint speck of dust in the vast expanse of the galaxy—insignificant in the face of such chaos.

How he managed to find your trail each time mystified you to this day. You knew a tracking fob existed, but with how often you moved, the piece of technology practically became obsolete to anyone else. He didn't need it though. With his skill, his stubborn determination, he could find you in the middle of nowhere by the gait of your footsteps alone—a seasoned tracker with a reputation that could be held up by the New Republic's words.

There was no outrunning a Mandalorian.

But there you were…stupid enough to try.

A hand clasped your shoulder, spiking your nerves with a frigid wave of fear. You turned, fingers sliding along your holster before the person's face came into view. The black hood obstructed what little you could see, but in the blue glow above you caught sight of a sharply curved jaw—a thin mouth pulled into a frown. Clearly they weren't here to cause you harm. If anything they must have thought you understood the layout of this planet better than them.

"Can you help me?" he asked, voice barely above a whisper. You strained to hear the final part of his questions—head bent to tilt your ear closer. "I'm looking for the tavern Moshi Bar."

You sighed, partially relieved at their meager request. "You're too far North. Head back down the main road. If you've hit the port you went too far."

"Thanks. You should be more careful around these parts. Heard they're dangerous."

"No need to worry about me," you replied. "I'm capable of taking care of myself-"

Silver flashed in your peripheral, reflecting the bring neon you stood under, before melting into the darkness of the alley on your right. Fear gripped your heart, twisting it painfully as you froze on the spot. Eyes wide and hand shooting down to yank out your blaster, you felt your boots attempt to seal themselves to the floor. You wanted to write it off on your imagination. Simply a trick of the light—a long term effect of the fatigue coursing through your body, battling the terror. But the truth struck your chest with a definite blow.

He found you.

"Go," you bit out, barely sparing them a glance before you stepped towards the mouth of the alleyway.

The scramble of their footsteps when they ran echoed in the darkness, masking the soft thump of your walk as you moved closer. Yanking the blaster free, you gripped it tight enough to split pain down to your knuckles. In the past year you grew to understand the concept of fear. You accepted it as a long time companion—lurking in the back of your mind, always ready to flee if the moment arose.

Maybe you should have run.

Found a way to escape off the planet rather than investigate if what you saw was real.

"If you're trying to scare me." You swiftly side stepped the large dumpster, barrel pointed directly in front of you. Only to find the space empty. "You're gonna have to do better than this shit job."

The buzz of the neon lights attracted insects of all species. They fluttered overhead, bumping into the glow to be zapped a foot away. You watched them for a brief moment. A small tick of time before you were forced to start your escape anew. The heavy thump of your heart rammed against your chest, breath harder to come by with your face covered up. But revealing yourself would only bring danger to what little well being you had left.

The plan would have to be scrapped—something simpler now forming in the back of your mind. If he found you this far into the underworld then you were clearly doing multiple things wrong.

You clutched onto the possibility of him being a mere figment of your imagination. A hallucinatory response to being trapped in this fucking chase. You were common prey—an easy catch he allowed to roam free.

He gave you the possibility of escape even when he knew that the end was inevitable. What was a bounty to do when the hunter was this determined?

"You're not here," you whispered to yourself, eyes darting to the opposite side of the alleyway. A shadowed figure stood at the end but in the trick of the light you knew it was merely a pile of trash packed tight against the wall.

The underworld of Coruscant would drive a sane person to the edge of madness if they strayed too far from the path. Predators lurked in every corner, threats hung over your head like a storm cloud waiting to crack open, and you could feel the trepidation in your body begin to build. You had to get out of here. What little time remained would have to be enough for you to finally get off this planet and find somewhere else.

A forest moon might do. Or a far off city on the outer rim.

Anywhere was better than here.

You jumped out of your skin when something crashed behind you—slamming into the wall hard enough to jolt the grates beside you. Spinning on your heel, you held the blaster in front of you prepared to pull the trigger. Yet came up empty. Again. A glance over your shoulder proved that the silhouette vanished faster than you could comprehend what was happening.

It didn't take a genius to figure out what his end goal was.

He toyed with you like a piece of food—a horrific little game that all came to the finality one way or another.

With you in binders stuck on his ship.

"I'll pay you to drop the hunt!" you called into the darkness. "Just let me live."

Another crash sounded against the wall, dragging your attention away from the end of the alley. Your boots slid along the ground soundlessly, the loud drip of water sliding down cracked pipes bouncing in between the walls. The rattling thump of your heart echoed its way up your throat, terror swirling in your stomach like a storm ready to tear you apart.

Perhaps your next choice held no intelligence behind it; it might very well turn out to be the root cause of your death. But you refused to let him win. The gnawing anger burned a fiery pit in your stomach at the very thought. This could not be how you got taken in. Certainly not how your story came to an end. Whoever hid behind that silver beskar helmet would have to try harder than this next time he found you—his talent for fucking with your mind stronger the more he chased you.

You took off running towards the end of the alley, blaster still in hand. If you got out on the other side you could disappear into the crowd on main street. Find your way into a cantina or club and vanish into the crowd of people.

He'd have a difficult time tracking you through that mess.

The pounding thud of your boots on wet pavement ricocheted off the walls like bullets. An immediate tell as to where you were. But the exit of the alley was right in front of you. Forcing your body to run faster, you felt the tips of your shoes graze the cleared ground on the street, before a heavy grip landed on your thigh.

Yanking you back, a leather gloved hand wrapped tightly around your throat, a boot swiping at the back of your knee with a painful kick. You buckled under his weight, your head slamming to the ground hard enough to force a flash of white behind your shut eyelids—a throaty shout ripping from your chest as pain splintered across your skull, black spots swimming in your eyes. Blindly you scrambled for your blaster that clattered to the ground a foot away. But his knee pressed to your outstretched arm, shoving it down against the cold wet floor—a modulated grunt echoing past his helmet.

"No!" you screamed. "You beskar fuck!"

His chuckle mocked you in the lilted rasp that haunted your waking life. You only ever heard him say a few words since the bounty was placed on your head. And they ran through your mind on a loop.

That fucking saying he wielded like a lightsaber, whispering it in your face with the certainty that he would finally collect the debt owed to him. He'd finish the job this time.

I can bring you in warm. Or I can bring you in cold.

He pinned your other flailing hand above your head, his expressionless helmet tilting down to watch you through the black visor. Your reflection stared back at you—the snarl ripping through you as anger rushed to the surface. Where fear once settled deep in your chest rage replaced it.

"I'm going to fucking kill you," you spit out, legs kicking to reach for any part of him you could reach.

In a surprising turn of events, he spoke. "There's no escape this time."

Breath caught in your chest at the sound of his voice, so low and filled with the hoarse rasp of a man. You felt it right down to the tips of your fingers. There had been days you wondered what he looked like beneath the layers of armor. What the curve of his nose resembled, what the line of his jaw was carved out to be. You liked to perceive him with plush lips that pulled into a hesitant smile. Too wary of his own emotions to ever show them entirely.

Or this was merely another trick of your mind in its attempt to keep you stable.

To drag you from the edge of certain death.

"Oh I don't know." He shifted, straddling your legs to keep you from moving. Somehow freeing your hand slightly though his other palm still gripped your upper arm. "I managed to get away from you last time."

"That was a mistake," he grunted.

"I thought you Mandalorians don't make mistakes."

"We don't."

His words burned a hole through your stomach, digging up memories you buried in the back of your mind.

The escape last time…felt too easy. Too fast paced. As if you simply slipped hrough his fingers when his back was turned. No one escaped his grasp—not even the best crime bosses in the business could outrun him. Yet little old you—so inexperienced and frightful—managed to keep him on his toes.

You were the one who finally got free of his hold.

Or so you led yourself to believe.

"Maker-" His grip loosened, body lifting slightly to give you space to breathe. But his helmet stayed firmly above—close enough for your hot air to fog up his visor. "You let me go?"

No response.

"You're messing with me for fun?" you shouted loud enough to echo down the alley.

Silence became his only line of defense, but that was answer enough for you.

"I'm just a game to you huh?" Sliding your hand down, you pulled free the vibroblade from your calf—feeling it rattle against your palm. "Then have fun running."

There existed a small pocket of space between the layers of his armor where his side was vulnerable—free of anything but clothing. You sunk the knife in there until blood hot and thick spilled across your hand. The corners of your lips tugged into a grin at the pained shout that came through his modulator, surprise clear in his movements. He stumbled off you, yanking the blade free with a harsh curse, giving you enough time to scramble to your feet and start running.

His blood coated your forearm, tainted your skin with his warmth, but you couldn't think about his injury. Not when his words played on an endless loop in your mind—blaring loud enough to deafen everything around you. Until the only thing that filtered through was the hammering beat of your own heart and the heavy breaths you sucked in through the bandanna.

He let you go.

He let you believe you had freedom for a brief moment.

But why?

Wire wrapped around your ankles, tangling your steps within seconds. Before you could make it halfway down the alley he was pulling you back, dragging you along the floor with ragged grunts. He remained on his knees, metal grinding along the ground, his gloved hands twisting the wire up his armor clad forearms until you were two feet in front of him. And the same vibroblade still dripped with his blood sliced through the hold he had on your legs.

"Let me go!" you screamed, kicking at his chest.

He scrambled to hold you down, the snap of binders clamping around your wrists as he gripped them stilling your movements. He leveled your face with his own. "I'm not going to bring you in," he bit out, finally getting you to stop wriggling away from him.

The words had their desired effect.

"W-What?"

"I don't want to collect the bounty." He sounded as if he was reading you instructions off a holopad, and yet you hung off each syllable with baited breath.

"What do you mean you're not…" Searching his visor in the hopes it would show he lied, you reasoned with yourself for an answer. Yet only came up with more questions. "Then why are you chasing me?"

His entire body went rigid. "You left."

You'd never before seen a Mandalorian at a loss for words, but maybe this is what it looked like. Awkward, unsure of himself. For a large man who had shoulders wide enough to drive you bit insane, he fumbled to find his footing when it came to speaking. The last time you wound up in this situation you could barely get five words out of him. At first you believed it was because he didn't like to speak to his bounties.

Now you understood he simply didn't know how.

"That was the whole point," you snapped. "To leave before you took me in."

His helmet tilted to the right and you had to bite the inside of your cheek to keep you expression from softening.

"I never planned to take you in," he replied coolly, as if the answer was completely obvious to everyone else in the galaxy. Except you of course.

"Then why-"

"You left before I could ask you to stay."

Air was hard to come by when his words punched you square in the chest. “You wanted…”

To stay.

He wanted you to stay with him, to find a space in his life. To travel planets and moons in the confines of his rusted ship. The knowledge felt like a fever dream, a hit of spice that would leave you ruined and ragged come the crack of dawn. But that festering bite of reality clamped down on your flesh refusing to let up. He wanted you to stay because he liked you—your presence, your quips and biting remarks, the way you never pressed him to reveal too much. It was simple with you. Easy.

To prove his sentiment, he released his hold on your wrists, shifting back to a crouch—blood steadily dripping onto the dark ground, mixing with toxic liquids. This was your chance to run. Make a break for the end of the alleyway; something told you he’d finally let you go, watching in agony as you made this choice for him.

“Why?” you asked, eyes narrowed and hand yanking down the bandanna splattered in sweat and blood.

You would have to rip the explanation out of him, pulling at a thread he was ashamed to have wrapped like a chord around his lungs. He wanted to yank it out, set it ablaze with ease. Your gaze burned into his through the thick glass of his visor—eyes that peered beyond the silver shine of metal and impenetrable armor. He didn’t like it, was unable to find the itch that stung his skin beneath layers of thick cloth.

But then you left.

Disappeared like a ghost he had no ownership of, no true connection with someone like you. You wouldn’t understand his customs, how he complied without question to a way of life so unlike anything in this galaxy. You’d be privy to the darkness, a visitor to the unknown. And he wanted you to stay.

“You remind me…” He sucked in a breath, unable to keep his eyes from latching to the way tongue peeked out to wet your cracked lips. “Of a life I didn’t have.”

You softened beneath him, melted into the tight grip he still had on your limbs, and watched him fumble for words to say. A life he couldn’t have. An existence never meant for someone like him. He wasn’t a predator, or a monster stalking you in the night. He was a man. A lonely individual who found unlikely solace in someone like you—a person who was tired of running, weary of escaping a life he longed to have. He wanted you to stay for his own state of mind.

“They’ll come after me,” you whispered. Two gloved fingers dragged soft—unsure—along the top of your cheek. “You’re not the only one who got a fob.”

“I’ll make them an offer.”

“I’m not special enough for an offer,” you snorted.

Silence filled the cavern between you, his helmet leaning down close enough to brush your nose. “Yes you are.”

Breath escaped your lungs. The stillness of the air weighing heavy on your chest, and for a brief moment you felt that tangible thick need for something more simmer at the bottom of your stomach. Turning your insides molten as he watched you. Waited for you. Nobody saw you the way he did, a person to be cared for rather than an object to obtain. There was nothing to gain by him taking you along, but everything laid before you so simple and pristine.

In a gasp your fingers dug into the cowl at his neck, wrenching him close as a hand clamped over your eyes, another fumbling with the bottom of his helmet. You heard the hiss, felt the slight push of air brush along your chin when he wrenched down your bandana.

Anticipation roiled in your body, seared you from the very depths of all you could possible hope for. Your heart became a thundering beat in the silent alleyway as you sucked in breath after shallow breath, begging silently for him to do something.

A hot mouth sealed over yours, plush lips moving rough with a harsh bitten out groan when you struggled to keep up. He kissed you with uncertainty. A nervous air that sunk into you when he gripped your chin to keep you in place, your eyes still pressed shut by the soft leather of his glove. You pressed up with a soft moan, lips moving against his until air became sparse and the wet slide of spit coated your bottom lip.

“How do I…” he gasped. “Can I-”

You nodded long before he could finish stumbling over his words. “Your armor is in the way.”

“No it’s not,” he groaned, tongue meeting yours in a messy kiss that had your hips bucking up into his.

The bloodied and oil slicked vibroblade sliced clean through the wires tangled around your legs. You heard the clatter as he tossed it to the side, his palm working at button of his pants as your bound hands struggled with yours. The echo of laughter filtered down into the street. Life on Coruscant continued on in a brash manner even as he held you down—his teeth clamping quick on the fingers of his glove to yank it off when you finally wiggled your pants down past your ass.

“It’s filthy here,” you snip, gasping a pitched whine when his bare fingers dug in between your legs. “Oh-”

“My hands are clean,” he offered.

“Don’t you mean—fuck—” A thumb swiped through the slick mess pouring out of you, dragging it up to a throbbing clit that nearly made your head spin. “Covered in blood.”

The double meaning didn’t go unnoticed by him even when two fingers sunk into you right down to the knuckle. Dragging a harsh moan out of your gaping mouth as you sagged onto the floor. It was filthy to be doing this here. Where anyone could find your tangled bodies, a stranger lurking in the distance, someone waiting to strike. But your body trembled with the thought, his fingers thick and stretching your walls with a pinch that ran up your pelvis.

You were at his mercy just as he was yours.

A man coated in blood he was paid to spill—practically drowning in it.

But could you say you were any different? You knew the bite of a blaster bolt ripping through your skin. Felt the trigger pulled tight beneath your steady finger and watched as the person you sought hit the ground before they could say their final words.

There remained a hole in the pit of your chest, gnawing and unfed, that mirrored his own. He longed for connection, you yearned for freedom.

It felt transactional—this relationship. But something darker bloomed beneath the surface of your skin when his fingers curled forward and struck that spongy patch on your fluttering walls. A bright unfurling need to be seen for who you were. To exist in his eyes as more than an bounty; for him to be viewed as more than a hunter.

Slick coated his palm as he grunted into your mouth, his hips grinding down onto your thigh that curled around his hip. You could feel it pull at the base of your spine. Terrifying and all encompassing. A piece of your future that you’d never be able to take back—a vow unwritten in the way his lips molded over yours, a pathetic mewl swallowed by his tongue. You rocked your hips into his palm and he thumbed at your clit with soft circles, a breathless please traded between spit and muffled groans.

His teeth sunk into your bottom lip, spit trailing down your chin, and with a sharp cry your walls clamped down around his fingers. A wave of slick dripping down into his hand. You struggled for breath, the blood rushing in your ears and heat spilling into your face. Even as the air lay thick over the both of you. Coruscant’s darkness shading your writhing form as he pinned you in place with his hips.

“In me,” you pleaded on shaky breath. “I want it in-”

He moaned long and low into the base of your neck. “Are you sure? We can…the ship-”

“Now.” The word was sharp, biting into his skin with a force that left him fumbling. His cock ached. Throbbed against your thigh and spilled precum along the waistband of your pants.

“I’m not gonna—Maker you’re beautiful cyare—” He sucked in a sharp breath. “I won’t last.”

“Don’t care,” you whined. “I need it.”

Shoving your hips up to rest on his bent thighs, he felt your body shudder at the peek of bare skin dragging along yours. Barely a sliver of the man you might one day come to know. The hunter who finally capture his prey. His hand adjusted over your eyes, arm wrapping tight around your waist as you used what little movement you had in your palms to feel for him. To wrap a gentle fist around his cock until he cried out against your shoulder.

Beskar cuffed your cheek, but you ignored the slice of pain. Overlooked the tang of copper sliding into your mouth when your teeth cut through your cheek. He’d become a mess in your hands. Whining incoherent words as he bucked into your hand, spit drooling onto the collar of your jacket—his hand splayed out along your back, fingers digging harsh into your skin. Precum slicked your palm and a part of you wanted to drag your tongue through it, taste him without abandon.

But time was fleeting. The prospect of someone discovering you two grew by the second.

“Gonna be a stretch,” he muttered, feeling you guide him blindly to your fluttering hole. You could practically hear the smile in his voice, the deep rasp no longer blocked by a modulator.

“I’ll make it fi-” A gasp tore through your lungs at the first push.

The muscles in your thighs went taut, pain spilling into your body as he pressed his way into you. A ragged moan echoing loud against your ear. It drove you mad. Sent your mind into a haze until you were clawing at his chest plate and struggling for breath—heat curling tight around the base of your spine. He thrust into you with shallow movements, his breaths coming in pants as his eyes rolled back.

The connection, the touch of your cheek to his bare stubbled jaw wiped his mind of anything that might have existed before you. Before the walls of your cunt fluttered hot and snug around his cock. Before you cried out softly when his balls pressed right up against your ass. He sunk his teeth into your shoulder, fucked his hips quick and ruthless with stunted moans punctuating each movement.

Skin slapped wet against skin, echoing loud in the alleyway. But neither of you heard it. Each too far gone, fighting for some sense while he fucked you like his life depended on it. As if he’d never get another chance to feel your skin this way again.

“You’re so deep,” you rasped, hips rolling down to meet him the best you could.

“‘S perfect,” he slurred—practically drunk on the salt off your skin that melted along his tongue. “You’re perfect.”

He kept going until your mouth fell open, ragged breaths echoing in the night air as he watched you. Took in each flick of your expressions and found his favorite one when his cock struck hard along your walls. You sobbed brokenly, dragged your bound hands up until you cupped his jaw—his lips catching the edge of your palm in a quick kiss.

“Can I have it?” he asked, pounding into you to see your body ripple with it, your face pressing up into his hand. “Can I have you?”

Nodding you felt tears drip down your temples, your stomach twisting and pleasure building. “Yes,” you whimpered. “Wanna be yours.”

“Din.” He pressed the name into your mouth, licking deep along your teeth. You shuddered with it, your walls clamping tight with a strangled cry.

“Din.”

It broke you. Severed you in two, shattered what little remained of the person he chased and replaced it with someone new. A human he could love—someone worth keeping. You gushed around his cock until it poured down your thighs, wet your skin until you couldn’t tell if it was water or your combined fluids. The sticky feel of it clapping along your legs when he sped up sent another wave cracking down your spine, your loud cry muffled by his mouth.

Short stuttering thrusts worked him to his end—his voice a distant echo in your deafened ears as he spurted into you. Rope after rope of it filled you with more than you expected. It dripped out of you, created a thick creamy ring around his cock when he pulled out with a broken sigh—his head buried into your chest. You felt him twitch against your thigh, spent beyond what both of you had left to muster.

Getting back to the ship felt like a feat on its own. But Din click his helmet back into place before removing his hand with a modulated sigh. You blinked away the harsh glaze over your eyes, neon and silver floating back into your line of sight as he pulled your pants back into place. Clicking the button closed and stuffing himself back behind a layer of armor.

You pretended the disappointment didn’t sting. The faint bite of sorrow at not getting a glimpse of his cock, his skin still slick with you.

“I’ll find us a transport,” he said softly, gathering you up into his arms on your unsteady feet. The binders fell away, stuffed back onto his side—his fingers rubbing along the sore skin with a mumbled apology. “You won’t have to walk.”

“Did you mean it?”

He froze, armored body becoming a statue you might have found on Naboo. “Yes,” he croaked.

“You want me to stay?” A jerk of his chin was all you received. “And if…if I do stay…”

“You don’t have to love me.”

Pain flared bright and harsh in your chest. “What if I do? Want to that is.”

“Then I’d do the same.”

Nothing else. No other secrets revealed, no words or vows of forever. Simple and to the point and perfectly him. Din. The Mandalorian who traded in your fob for the hope of something better. You traipsed after him, hand clasped tight in his, with a smile on your face—a giddy echo of more fluttering up into your chest and settling with a promise of this.

With that, Din pulled back, and the stars stretched out before you. They then burst into the familiar plethora of blue and white swirling lights, beginning yet another long journey through hyperspace.

Hopefully one that you wouldn't get forcefully pulled out of. Again.

But you were still stuck on what Din had said: This isn't a confidence problem. That drew a pleased hum from you, one that you didn't bother to keep hidden from him. It wasn't like he'd get it, anyway. Not if he hadn't the other countless times you'd done it.

"I like that."

Din, now leaning back in his chair, swiveled in his seat to face you. His helmet was tilted in genuine confusion. "Like what?"

You resisted the urge to roll your eyes as you instead gestured to him with your chin. "The confidence."

Din shrugged. "Comes from experience."

You smirked and kept your arms crossed over your chest. "I'd like to see what kind of experience."

Din didn't move, but his tone spelled out all the confusion you likely would have seen on his face if it wasn't covered by his helmet. "Was getting pulled out of hyperspace hours ago not enough experience for you?"

That time, you really did let yourself roll your eyes as you laughed and stood to your feet. Honestly, the tally of your advances versus Din's own cluelessness was getting difficult to keep track of. "Fair point."

You stepped over to Din and set a hand on his armored shoulder.

"It's been a long day. I'd say it's time for some beauty sleep, but you've already got the first part covered." You gave his pauldron a squeeze and turned around. "And no, rest isn't an option this time."

You could only get a few steps away, however, when you suddenly heard Din stand up behind you. "Wait."

You froze in place and looked at him over your shoulder, lifting your brow as you awaited him to retaliate with some kind of meaningless yet humorous joke.

Instead, you saw him nervously shifting his weight between his feet. Even his gloved hands were pulling tight into fists before he asked a question you never thought you'd hear.

"Are you flirting with me?"

As surprised as you were to hear the words, you didn't miss a beat with your response. "Have been for years, but thanks for noticing." You flashed him a wink and started walking forward again, letting your sudden adrenaline carry you. "See you in a few hours."

You had only just started to cross the cockpit's threshold when Din found his voice again. "What?"

You laughed to yourself but didn't stop your stride as you stepped over the ladder towards the storage space you had claimed as your own private bunk. The door slid open for you, but before it could close, something—or someone—stood in the way.

"Hold on."

Din sounded out of breath, and when you turned around, you saw him leaning against the metal material of the storage room's threshold. His body was still rigid, the same way it looked when he was preparing to leap into battle.

"You can't just... after you..." Din gestured absently behind himself, to the open cockpit.

You sighed and crossed your arms over your chest again as you fully faced him. "I know this incredibly obvious revelation is somehow news to you, but it's not to me, and I'd really like to get some sleep."

Din just shook his helmet in pure disbelief. His modulated voice was lower than usual when he spoke again. "All this time?"

You huffed and looked down at your boots. "What did you think I was doing?"

Din's tone with thick with embarrassment. "Being nice."

You laughed again. You couldn't help it. "Of course you did." You reached forward and tapped your knuckles against his helmet. "Your skull must be as thick as your beskar."

You stood back where you were before and watched Din carefully. His visor was focused on the floor, and his gloved fingertips were fluttering thoughtfully on the hand he had propped up by his head.

You closed your eyes and sighed. His cluelessness was even worse than you thought it was.

"Listen, Din, you clearly need some rest. Just... go to sleep and we can talk about this later. Okay?"

Din's helmet snapped back up to you at that. "No. I'm sorry, let me just..."

He leaned off the threshold but continued to stand in it, keeping the door open for himself. His gloved hand palmed his helmet as his chest rose and fell with a frustrated breath.

"Kriff."

You chuckled and shook your head at him. "Din, it's really not that big of a deal."

Din stared at you before his armored shoulders deflated. "It isn't?"

You let out a softer breath as your chest squeezed. "I didn't mean..." Now you were the one palming your face. "Not like that. I just meant that I'm not offended or anything."

Din tilted his helmet. "Offended by what?"

You shrugged, too overcome by your newfound embarrassment to look at him as your stare returned to your boots. "You not reciprocating."

Din let out a sigh so heavy that you had no choice but to look up at him again. He had changed his position so that his hands were set on his hips as he shook his helmet.

"That's the thing." His visor found your gaze before he nodded. "I've been trying to."

Now, it was really your turn to be shocked. You blinked at him a few times as your heart somersaulted in your chest. All this time, you thought your flirting was just a vain effort to get the attention of a man who would never be open to you or what you had to offer. You were starting to wonder if you had somehow managed to miss something.

You found your voice, but it was only a squeak. "What?"

Din gestured with a gloved hand behind you. "I'm not good with words, so I tried to do things. Like helping you set up this room. And cleaning your weapons." The next part was a mumble you nearly missed. "And making you that blanket."

You whipped around, spotting the blanket—your favorite, by the way—that had just shown up one day on your makeshift bunk. You huffed in disbelief and turned back around to face him. "That was you?"

"Who else?"

It was Din's turn to laugh, though it was only a raspy chuckle for him. He even turned your own question back on you.

"What did you think I was doing?"

And your answer was nothing different. "Being nice."

Din let out the biggest sigh you'd ever heard from him, and you couldn't even blame him.

Oh, the irony of it all. Maybe you were actually the clueless one.

"So..." You clasped your hands behind your back and rocked on your heels. " What now?"

Din shrugged. "Hell if I know." He gestured with his helmet behind him. "I think I just proved I'm not the most qualified in this area."

You spared another glance at the blanket. "Clearly, I'm not much better."

Din looked off to the side the way he always did when he was planning something. After a few heartbeats, he nodded to himself and looked at you again. "I might have an idea."

You lifted your brow. "Yeah?"

Din nodded again. "We should switch."

"Switch what?"

Din shifted his weight and used his finger to gesture between the two of you. "Techniques?" The suggestion came out as a question. "I'll try words, and you try actions."

You hummed in consideration before ultimately nodding. "Okay, yeah. I like that idea." You smirked at him. "You first."

Din, for once in his life, stammered. "What? I—Well, I can't just..."

"You can." You took a step closer to him. "You have something to say to me. I know you do."

It was then that something overcame Din, and you could see it in the way his posture relaxed into something much more familiar and comfortable. His visor gave you a steady once-over as he took a smaller step closer to you.

"I have a lot of things I want to say to you."

You let yourself embrace the flustered feeling even as you let out an impressed whistle. "That was good, Djarin! You're learning." You gave his armored shoulder a pat.

Din gave his helmet a soft tilt. "Your turn."

You grinned, letting your hand fall from his shoulder to instead grasp his arm. You other hand rose to meet it, and gently, you pulled him further into the room, causing the door to slide shut behind him. Din looked back at it in surprise, but when he looked at you again, he didn't seem displeased.

"I'm offering you my bunk." You gestured back towards it. "Because I want you here, but also because I don't want you sleeping on that sorry excuse for a bed down in the hold anymore."

Din chuckled at that, the sound thick with both amusement and admiration as he nodded. "Fair enough."

You helped him get settled into the bunk with you, draping the blanket he had apparently made over both of you as the final touch. Your face was the closest it had ever been to his visor as you laid beside him. Surprisingly, he was the one to break the brief silence.

"This is a good start."

You smiled, humming once more before getting close enough to rest your face against his cowl. "I agree."

You nod, stepping even closer now. “I’ve been preparing to help. To take down the man who’s done so much harm to both of us.”

He stares at you, the anger fading into something softer, something broken. “I haven’t been well,” he admits, his voice barely above a whisper. “My revenge didn’t go as I planned. Nothing has.”

You take the final step, your bodies almost touching. “Then maybe you need a tutor,” you say softly, brushing your fingers along his cheek. “Would you like me to give you lessons… in revenge?”

Oberyn closes his eyes at your touch, his breath shaky as he leans into your hand. “And what will you teach me?”

You smile faintly, leaning in until your lips are just a breath away from his. “I’ll be your headsman now. I’ll be your missing piece. Tell me… who do you want me to kill first?”

His eyes open, dark and full of something raw, something desperate. And then, without another word, he pulls you to him, capturing your lips in a kiss that’s fierce, hungry, and full of all the emotions he’s been holding back.

The bottle of wine slips from your hand, forgotten, as you lose yourself in him.

KING'S LANDING, RED KEEP — DAY

The Red Keep had become a hollow shell of what it once was. Tyrion was free, but you knew the fight was far from over. Tywin will soon be gone, and the balance of power will shift, but vengeance was still afoot—Tyrion’s sights are set on Cersei and those who had wronged him. A storm was brewing, and you had no place in it.

Standing by the window of your chambers, you looked out over the sprawling city. King’s Landing was a place of betrayal, lies, and the shadows of your past. There was no life for you here, not anymore. You had done what you came to do—the Mountain was dead, and the world was changing, but it wasn’t enough to erase the scars of what had been done to you.

The sun was warm on your face as you began to pack your things, carefully folding your clothes into a simple satchel. The room felt emptier now, as if it knew you wouldn’t be returning. The last few days had been a whirlwind of plans and goodbyes, but one task remained, one ghost that needed to be laid to rest before you left this cursed city.

Reaching into the drawer, your fingers brushed against the coarse fabric of a familiar dress. The one you wore the day Elia Martell was murdered. The day the Mountain had ravaged and destroyed her, leaving you burned and scarred as you tried to escape his cruelty. The sight of it brought a flood of memories that sent a sharp pain through your chest. You lifted the dress carefully, the fabric still stained with blood and soot.

You let out a shaky breath, tears stinging your eyes, the one thing you couldn’t bring yourself to burn. The pain of that day still lingered like a specter. But as you examined the dress, you felt something crinkle inside. Frowning, you reached into a hidden pocket you had never noticed before. Your fingers closed around something small and fragile—a letter.

Confusion filled you. How had you never seen this? The fabric had been untouched for years. Carefully, you unfolded the parchment, your heart pounding as you saw the handwriting. Elia’s.

The ink had faded, but the words were still legible. They hit you like a dagger to the chest.

"My dearest friend,  

If you find this, the worst has come. I beg you, do not stay in King’s Landing. Flee. Run far from Maegor’s Holdfast, away from the fighting, away from the horror that is to come. Go to Dorne, to my brothers, Oberyn and Doran. Tell them I love them, that I wished for a different end. I should have sent you sooner, but now you must go, for my sake. Please… live."

Your fingers trembled as you held the letter, your breath caught in your throat. Eighteen years. Eighteen long years, and all this time, this letter had been here, untouched. Elia had tried to save you, to send you to her brothers, to Dorne. Your chest tightened with grief and regret. If only you had found this sooner, maybe everything would have been different. 

As you sat on the edge of your bed, clutching the letter to your chest, there was a soft knock at the door. You wiped your eyes quickly and stood as Oberyn entered the room.

His eyes immediately went to the letter in your hand. He stepped closer, his expression softening with concern. “What’s that?”

You handed it to him, your voice barely above a whisper. “It’s from Elia.”

Oberyn’s brow furrowed as he took the letter, his gaze scanning the words. His expression hardened, a storm of emotions flashing in his eyes—grief, love, guilt. “She wanted you to go to Dorne,” he murmured. “She tried to protect you.”

Tears welled up in your eyes as you nodded. “I never found it. All these years, it was here, and I… I thought I had been abandoned. But Elia… she never forgot me.”

Oberyn exhaled, his jaw tightening as he folded the letter carefully. His voice was thick with emotion. “My sister loved you. She always spoke of you, even in her final days. If she had known what was coming, she would have done anything to save you.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat, feeling the significance of Elia’s words. “There was a time,” you whispered, “when I thought… ‘What if someone had tried to help me?’ Now I finally realize that there were good grown-ups around me, too. Friends, weather, and divine intervention, too. Now I know… she did.”

Oberyn’s hand found yours, his grip firm but gentle. “Come with me,” he said softly, his eyes meeting yours with quiet intensity. “To Dorne. Come home with me. Meet my brother Doran, my daughters. Elia would’ve wanted you to see Dorne for all its beauty, for all it has to offer.”

Your heart ached at his words. Dorne had always been a place of legend in your mind, a distant dream. But now, with Oberyn standing before you, offering you the chance to finally belong, to heal, it felt like a promise of something new.

You took a deep breath, looking up at him. “Do you really think… Elia would’ve wanted me there?”

Oberyn smiled, a soft, genuine smile that reached his eyes. “I know she would. She always said you belonged in Dorne. She wanted you to be safe, to be loved. Let me show you the home she wanted for you.”

You nodded slowly, your voice barely above a whisper. “Okay. I’ll come with you.”

KING’S LANDING, RED KEEP — LATER

The streets of King’s Landing were buzzing with whispers, like restless birds flocking above the ashes of a great fire. The once-powerful Lannister name now seemed vulnerable, as enemies crept from the shadows, eager to seize their chance.

You walked through the Red Keep for what would be the last time, your footsteps echoing off the cold stone walls. This place had never felt like home. It had always been a battlefield, not only in the physical sense but also in the games of politics and survival. You had played your part, avenging the wrongs that haunted your past. The poison Oberyn had carefully crafted for Lord Tywin will take effect soon. There was nothing left for you here. Still, there were those you needed to say goodbye to.

Your first stop was the docks. The salty breeze off Blackwater Bay tugged at your hair as you approached Serena, your faithful friend. She stood by the ship that would take her to Braavos, her belongings already packed and loaded onto the vessel.

When she saw you, her face softened, and she opened her arms. Without a word, you embraced her, the warmth of her body grounding you for a moment in the chaos of the day.

“I don’t know how to thank you,” you whispered, holding her tightly. “For everything. You’ve been my strength through all of this.”

Serena smiled, pulling back slightly to look at you. Her eyes, filled with wisdom and compassion, glistened under the light of the setting sun. “You don’t owe me anything. You’ve done enough, more than enough. It’s time for you to find your own peace now.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat, knowing that her words were true, but still, the thought of leaving her behind stung. “I’ll never forget what you’ve done for me,” you said softly, your voice breaking just a little.

She placed a gentle hand on your cheek. “And I’ll never forget you, my friend. Now go, before I start crying and embarrass myself.”

You both laughed softly, but the sadness lingered as you stepped back, giving her one last look before you left her there.

Your next farewell came in the shadowy corridors of the Red Keep. It was a place where you'd experienced both the highest stakes and the deepest betrayals, and now you were ready to sever your ties. You passed through the halls, not lingering any longer than necessary, your thoughts already drifting far away from this pit of liars.

First, you came across Tyrion, who was standing with a small, satisfied smile on his face despite everything. His recent freedom hadn’t come without cost, but his fight was far from over. He would carry on, and you respected that.

When he noticed you, his smile faltered, turning thoughtful as he stepped closer. “I owe you my life,” he said with a slight incline of his head. “Not many would have risked what you did.”

You offered him a small, bittersweet smile. “It wasn’t for you, Tyrion. But I’m glad you’re free. You deserve better than this place.”

Tyrion’s eyes softened with understanding. “And you deserve peace, wherever you find it.”

You nodded, knowing you would never forget the strange bond you had formed with him in these dark times. “Goodbye, Tyrion. May your revenge taste sweeter than mine.”

With that, you turned away, leaving behind the one Lannister you could stomach. But there was still one more encounter you couldn’t avoid.

---

Jaime Lannister was waiting, his golden hand resting on the pommel of his sword as he leaned against the stone wall, his gaze distant as he stared out over the courtyard. You approached him, your steps measured, your face set in a cool, unreadable expression.

When he noticed you, Jaime stood straighter, his eyes flicking to yours. There was no warmth between you, only an understanding born from the knowledge of who you both were—survivors of a cruel world, playing your roles as best you could.

“I never liked you,” you said bluntly, not bothering to soften your words. “You aren’t a good man, but you never pretended to be. I can respect that.”

Jaime raised an eyebrow, a flicker of something like amusement passing over his features. “And here I thought we were going to end things on a high note.”

You smirked slightly, but there was no real humor in it. “You care for your family. That much I understand. But don’t mistake that for forgiveness.”

Jaime’s face darkened, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he nodded once, a quiet acceptance of your judgment. “I don’t expect forgiveness,” he said quietly. “Only survival.”

With that, you turned on your heel and left the Red Keep behind, feeling the weight of years of pain and bitterness slowly begin to lift from your shoulders as the doors closed behind you.

DORNE — DAY

The journey to Dorne was unlike anything you had imagined. As the landscape changed from the cold, rigid greys of King’s Landing to the warmth of Dorne, it felt as if the world itself was breathing for the first time. The golden sun bathed the rolling hills, turning the sand into rivers of light. Every breath you took felt lighter, cleaner, as if the air here was different. It smelled of spices and sea salt, a stark contrast to the rot and soot of the capital. The vibrant hues of the desert, the deep oranges and reds, made you feel alive in a way you hadn’t felt in years.

Oberyn rode beside you, silent but ever-present. His gaze lingered on you, watching as you took in the beauty of his homeland. There was an unspoken understanding between you. He had given you the space to process this new world, but you could feel his desire to share it with you. 

When the sun began its descent, casting the sky in fiery shades of red and gold, he finally broke the silence. “This is your home now,” he said softly, his voice carrying a warmth that mirrored the setting sun. “Elia would have wanted this for you—for you to find peace, to live freely.”

His words hit you with a force you hadn’t expected. The weight of everything you’d left behind—the pain, the anger, the scars—began to lift, if only just a little. You looked out at the expanse of land before you, the endless stretch of desert that seemed to go on forever, and felt tears prick your eyes. “It’s… beautiful,” you whispered, your voice trembling with emotion. “I can’t believe I waited so long to come here.”

Oberyn reached over, taking your hand in his, his touch grounding you. “You’re here now,” he murmured, his thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles. “That’s what matters.”

As you reached Hellholt, Ellaria’s ancestral home, the grandeur of the sandstone fortress took your breath away. The open courtyard buzzed with life as her daughters ran about, their laughter filling the air like music. You could see how much they took after their mother, fierce and unyielding, yet full of life.

Ellaria greeted you with a quiet smile, her arms wrapping around you in a hug that felt softer than you expected. The tension between you two still lingered, the unspoken feelings surrounding Oberyn’s love for you hanging heavy in the air, but there was something close to peace in her embrace.

“You’ll look after him, won’t you?” she asked, her voice low and serious as she pulled away, her eyes locking onto yours. “Oberyn means well, but sometimes… he needs someone to steady him.”

You gave her a nod, offering a reassuring smile. “I will. And we’ll visit when we can.”

Ellaria stepped back to her daughters, but not without one last glance at you—an acknowledgment that perhaps, in time, the strangeness between you two might fade. Oberyn, watching from a distance, caught your eye and smiled, pride and affection shining in his gaze.

The next morning, you and Oberyn departed Hellholt, the sound of Ellaria’s daughters’ laughter fading as you rode further into Dorne’s heart. The heat of the day settled into your skin, and as the sun rose higher, Oberyn kept you close, ensuring you were comfortable, taking every opportunity to steal a kiss or brush his fingers along your arm.

DORNE, SUNSPEAR — DAY

When you finally arrived in Sunspear, the capital of Dorne, it was as though you had entered a dream. The towering spires of the palace loomed in the distance, and the city itself was bustling with life—merchants, nobles, and commoners alike filling the streets with vibrant colors and spirited conversations. The air was filled with the scent of oranges and spices, carried on the wind from the sea.

Oberyn stopped his horse and looked at you, his expression softening as he took in the sight of you against the backdrop of his homeland. “We’re home,” he said, his voice full of tenderness.

You turned to him, your heart swelling. There was something about the way he said it that made everything feel right. Home. This place—Dorne—had always been where you were meant to be, even if it had taken years to find your way here.

Oberyn dismounted and came to your side, helping you down. As your feet touched the warm sand, he cupped your face in his hands, his thumb gently brushing your cheek. “Elia would have wanted you to see this,” he whispered. “To be part of this life. She always believed Dorne had a way of healing the soul.”

Tears welled in your eyes as you looked at him, the love in his gaze overwhelming. “I wish she could be here,” you murmured, your voice breaking.

Oberyn smiled, though there was a sadness in it. “She is. In every sunset, in every breeze, Elia is here.”

Oberyn gathered you in his arms, “She loved you,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “And I love you. You belong here—with me.”

The two of you stood there, the sun setting over the sea, casting long shadows over the sand. And for the first time in what felt like an eternity, you knew that you were exactly where you were meant to be.

Home.

WATER GARDENS, DORNE — NOON

The gates of Sunspear opened before you, and the sight that greeted you was nothing short of breathtaking. The Water Gardens, the beloved retreat of House Martell, stretched out in all directions, a vision of tranquility and beauty. Lush greenery surrounded shimmering pools of water, each reflecting the clear blue sky above. The gardens were dotted with fountains, their soft trickling filling the air with a soothing melody. Vibrant flowers, rich in color, bloomed along the pathways, their petals swaying gently in the warm breeze. It was a stark contrast to the harsh, grey stone of King’s Landing, and you couldn’t help but pause, your breath catching in your throat as you took it all in. None of these walls are stained by hatred. How strange this all is.

Life, which had once felt so rigid and colorless, suddenly seemed full of possibility. The villas, painted in shades of orange, red, and gold, stood proudly against the sunlit sky, their terracotta roofs blending with the desert landscape. Everything felt so alive, bursting with color. The black-and-white certainty that had governed your thoughts for so long seemed to dissolve under the warmth of the Dornish sun.

The servants welcomed you and Oberyn with gracious bows and smiles. You felt a bit stiff, your body hesitant and unsure in the face of such warmth. You weren’t used to this—being at the center of attention. The greetings felt too much, the eyes on you too kind, and your fingers twitched nervously at your sides as you forced a small smile. The heat, blistering and unrelenting, pressed against your skin, a far cry from the cooler climate of the North. You tugged at the sleeves of your long gown, grateful for the cover. The thought of your scars made your stomach turn. It wasn’t your discomfort you feared, but their own. You weren’t ready to expose that part of yourself, not yet.

Oberyn seemed to sense your unease. He reached for your hand as he led you through the gardens toward the palace. “Dorne welcomes you,” he said softly, his voice a balm to your nerves. “There is no need for hesitation here. You are among friends.”

Ahead, on a shaded terrace overlooking the Water Gardens, Prince Doran awaited you. He sat in a grand chair, his posture regal despite the illness that clearly weighed on him. Beside him stood Areo Hotah, his loyal captain, ever watchful with his towering figure and unyielding gaze.

Oberyn introduced you, his voice full of pride as he presented you to his elder brother. “This is the one I spoke of,” Oberyn said, his eyes flicking to you with a tender smile. “She has traveled far to be here, and Dorne will be better for her presence.”

You stepped forward, ready to bow in respect, but Oberyn’s hand shot out, gently stopping you. “We don’t bow in Dorne,” he whispered with a chuckle, leaning in close. “Not unless you want to draw more attention to yourself.”

Your face heated up immediately, a wave of embarrassment washing over you. “Oh,” you murmured softly, feeling the eyes of both princes on you.

Prince Doran, however, only smiled warmly. “No need to worry,” he said kindly, his voice gentle despite the weariness in it. “We are not as formal as they are in the North. How was your journey?”

You composed yourself, offering a small, grateful smile. “The journey went well, Your Grace. Thank you for allowing me to come to Dorne… I only hope to be of use. I can work—”

“No,” Doran interrupted softly but firmly, shaking his head. “You have been through more than anyone should. You will not serve us. For the rest of your days, you will be treated with the respect you deserve. You will live here, in the palace, as one of our own.”

Your heart swelled at his words, but there was a heaviness that lingered in your chest. The kindness overwhelmed you. It felt like too much, like you didn’t deserve it. You glanced at Oberyn, who gave you a reassuring nod, his hand brushing against your arm in silent support.

You mustered a sad smile, trying to push away the guilt. “Thank you, Your Grace. Princess Elia… she was always so kind to me. I remember her laughter, her warmth… she made everything brighter, even when the world was falling apart.” The memory of Elia’s voice rang in your ears, and your chest tightened.

Doran’s eyes filled with unshed tears at the mention of his sister, and his voice trembled as he replied, “Thank you for remembering her.” He took a breath, blinking back his sorrow. “It is a gift that you survived.”

The guilt washed over you again, an unwelcome tide. Survived. Sometimes you wondered why you had been spared when so many others had fallen. But there was no room for that thought now—not here.

Doran’s voice, steady once more, broke the silence. “We will provide you with everything you need—clothing, food, whatever it is. I’m sure the Northern attire will be quite stifling in our heat.”

You nodded, uncertain. The thought of changing into Dornish clothing, so light and revealing compared to what you were used to, made you uneasy. You would have to speak to Oberyn about it later, perhaps when you were alone, away from the formalities of the palace.

Just then, a woman approached you, bowing slightly. “I am your lady-in-waiting, my lady,” she said with a smile. “My name is Mirra.”

You nodded in acknowledgment, still adjusting to the sudden rush of new faces and titles. Before you could say anything, Oberyn turned to you, his grin full of mischief. “I have some matters to discuss with my brother,” he said, his hand slipping around your waist, drawing you closer to him. “But do not worry. I will make sure to join you for dinner later.” His eyes gleamed with amusement, and before you could respond, he leaned in and kissed you—right there, in front of Doran and Areo Hotah.

The warmth of his lips, the unexpected display of affection, left you completely caught off guard. Your body heated from head to toe, your thoughts spinning. It wasn’t just the kiss—it was the ease with which he did it, without a care for who was watching. You caught your breath as he pulled back, his eyes twinkling with satisfaction at your stunned reaction.

Doran merely chuckled softly from his chair, while you stood frozen in place, your heart racing. As Oberyn walked away, you realized one thing with absolute certainty: life in Dorne would be unlike anything you had ever known.

Mirra led you through the winding halls of the palace, her steps light and graceful, as if she had walked these paths her entire life. When she stopped before a large wooden door, you couldn’t help but feel a slight flutter in your chest. With a quiet smile, she pushed it open, revealing the grand quarters that would now be yours.

The room was breathtaking. Sunlight filtered through sheer curtains, casting a warm glow over everything. The bedroom was vast, far larger than anything you’d ever had before. A massive bed, draped in fine silks and adorned with pillows, took up the center of the room, its grand frame intricately carved with symbols of the sun and moon. The sheets were a deep, luxurious red, and you could already imagine how soft they would feel against your skin.

The walls were lined with vibrant tapestries, each telling stories of Dorne’s rich history, and the floor was covered in plush rugs that felt like clouds underfoot. A small table stood by the window, and on it, a pitcher of cool water with fresh fruit beside it, waiting for your return from the heat. Everything about this room spoke of comfort, of care, and luxury—things that had once felt so distant to you.

Mirra gestured toward a small chest at the foot of the bed. “They’ll bring your belongings soon, but for now, these were laid out for you.” She approached the chest and opened it, revealing several beautiful dresses, each more exquisite than the last. “Prince Oberyn thought you might like them. They’re light, perfect for our weather here in Dorne.”

You approached the chest cautiously, your fingers brushing over the fabric of the dresses. They were stunning—light, flowing pieces with intricate embroidery. Each was adorned with suns, crafted in gold thread that shimmered in the light. The colors were bold—reds, oranges, deep purples—celebrating the warmth of the Dornish sun. But as you lifted one of the gowns, your heart skipped. They were sleeveless, with daring necklines, designed to expose more skin than you were comfortable with.

You ran your fingers over the delicate fabric, feeling its softness. The dresses were stunning, yet the thought of wearing something so revealing made your chest tighten. It wasn’t the scars—they didn’t bother you, nor did the thought of people looking or asking questions. Those wounds had healed long ago, and their marks no longer held power over you. But here, in this new world of sun and beauty, the weight of something else pressed down on you.

It was the fear of embarrassing Oberyn. Standing beside him, so strong and proud, you couldn’t shake the feeling that, somehow, you might not belong here.

But you didn’t want to seem ungrateful, not after Oberyn had gone out of his way to choose something for you. You swallowed your discomfort, forcing a smile. “They’re beautiful.”

Mirra watched you carefully, her kind eyes noticing your hesitation. “Prince Oberyn mentioned you two would be sharing these quarters,” she said gently, her voice soft. “But he also said that if you’re uncomfortable, he’d be more than khappy to stay in another room.”

Her words hit you like a wave, and for a moment, you froze. Sharing a room with Oberyn? The idea made your mind race. You weren’t sure if you were ready for that level of intimacy, not yet. The thought of sharing such close quarters with him both thrilled and terrified you. But you couldn’t bring yourself to say no, not after everything you’d both been through. Not after all the kindness he’d shown you. 

“It’s… fine,” you finally managed, your voice barely a whisper. “I’ll be fine.”

Mirra nodded with understanding, offering you a small, comforting smile. “I’ll have a bath drawn for you,” she said, moving toward the door. “I imagine the journey was rough. I’ll return shortly to fetch you.”

Left alone, you wandered to the large balcony that overlooked the Water Gardens. The doors were already open, and as you stepped out, the warmth of the afternoon sun kissed your skin. The view before you was nothing short of breathtaking. The sprawling gardens stretched out below, filled with vibrant colors of the season. In the distance, you could see the faint outline of Sunspear’s city walls, the rooftops glistening in the sun.

The sun was slowly setting, painting the sky with hues of pink, orange, and gold. The colors blended together, washing over the landscape in a way that made everything feel serene, almost otherworldly. For the first time in what felt like years, you allowed yourself to breathe deeply, the tension in your shoulders melting away under the warmth of the sun.

Standing there, feeling the soft breeze caress your skin, you closed your eyes and let the moment envelop you. The weight of your past, the pain, and the fear—it was still there, lurking in the corners of your mind. But here, in this moment, it felt distant. You’re no longer there anymore, you told yourself, the words settling over your heart like a protective shield. No matter how much they’ve tried to break you, you’ve survived. You’re not scared of them anymore.

A sense of peace washed over you as you stood on the balcony, watching the sun dip beneath the horizon. For the first time in years, it felt like time was moving forward. You were no longer bound to the memories that once weighed you down, no longer trapped in the shadows of what had been. Here in Dorne, with Oberyn by your side, things felt different. You felt different. The world was no longer just black and white—it was bursting with color, vibrant and alive, and you were beginning to learn how to embrace it.

The quiet knock at the door pulled you from your thoughts. Mirra stepped in, her soft smile welcoming as she said, "My lady, your bath is ready."

You nodded, following her through the grand room. The air was warm, scented with lavender and the faint salt of the sea, and as you stepped into the adjoining bath chamber, you couldn’t help but admire the elegance of it all. The tub was large, carved from marble, with steam rising gently from the water.

Mirra moved to help you undress, her hands reaching for the ties of your gown. But as her fingers brushed your back, you froze, the sudden contact pulling you from the moment. 

“No,” you said softly, your voice steady but firm. “I can take it from here.”

Mirra hesitated, her brow furrowing slightly. “My lady?”

You offered her a small smile, your hand resting on hers to ease the tension. “Thank you, but I’ll manage.”

Her gaze lingered on you, a hint of concern in her eyes, but after a moment, she nodded, stepping back with a respectful bow. “Very well. I’ll leave you to it.”

Once she was gone, you stood for a moment, the room quiet except for the soft lapping of the water in the tub. Slowly, you undressed yourself, feeling the warmth of the bath beckoning you. When you finally stepped in, the water enveloped you, soothing every ache from the long journey.

You sank deeper into the bath, closing your eyes and letting the warmth relax your body. Here, alone, the weight of the world felt lighter. The tension you had carried for so long began to melt away, and for the first time in what felt like forever, you allowed yourself to simply be.

WATER GARDENS, DORNE — EVENING

The evening air was warm as you stepped onto the terrace of the Water Gardens, the scent of citrus trees and the distant sound of trickling water surrounding you. Lanterns, hung delicately along the stone pillars, cast a soft glow over the long table where a simple yet elegant feast was laid out. The sky above was painted in soft shades of twilight, a backdrop of deep purples and golds that felt as if it had been created just for this moment.

Your dress—a light, flowing piece with intricate suns embroidered along the edges—shifted with the breeze, reminding you of the delicate balance between feeling exposed and free. You hadn’t quite made peace with showing so much skin, but here in Dorne, no one seemed to care about scars or imperfections. And for once, it was your own hesitation, not the eyes of others, that left you feeling vulnerable.

Oberyn was already there, seated at the head of the table, his eyes finding yours the moment you appeared. A soft smile tugged at his lips, warmth radiating from him in a way that set you at ease. He rose to greet you, his presence commanding yet intimate, making the vast expanse of the terrace feel smaller, more personal.

“You look stunning,” he said, his voice carrying that familiar mix of charm and sincerity. He reached for your hand, brushing his lips against your knuckles in a way that sent a shiver down your spine. “Though I’m certain the gardens pale in comparison.”

You chuckled, trying to shake off the nerves that fluttered in your stomach. “I’m not sure I can compete with all this,” you gestured to the beauty surrounding you—the elegant table, the vibrant colors of the Water Gardens, the night sky overhead. “It’s like stepping into a dream.”

Oberyn’s smile widened as he pulled out a chair for you. “Then let’s make sure the dream is one you never want to wake from.”

As you sat, servants moved gracefully around you, pouring wine into delicate goblets and laying out platters of fruit, roasted meats, and bread still warm from the oven. You shifted in your seat, trying to absorb the sudden attention, feeling a little out of place despite Oberyn’s calming presence.

“Are you always treated like this?” you asked, glancing at him as one servant filled your cup.

“Only when I’m fortunate enough to be dining with such company,” Oberyn replied, his tone teasing. “Though I have a feeling you’ll soon grow used to the luxuries of Dorne.”

You smiled but couldn’t shake the underlying tension. “I’m not sure I ever will.”

Oberyn leaned in slightly, his eyes holding yours. “You don’t have to fit into any mold here. You’re not in King’s Landing anymore. You’re in Dorne, where people live as they are—unapologetically.”

There was something in his gaze that felt reassuring, a reminder that here, with him, you were free from the constraints of the past. You exhaled, the weight of the day lifting slightly from your shoulders.

The conversation between you and Oberyn flowed easily as the evening stretched on. The food was rich, the wine sweeter than anything you’d had in King’s Landing, and yet, despite the grandeur of it all, the simplicity of being in Oberyn’s company felt like the real gift. He spoke of Dorne with pride, recounting stories of its history, its people, and the beauty that stretched beyond the Water Gardens to the deserts and mountains.

“Tomorrow,” he said, his hand resting over yours, “I’ll take you to Sunspear. There is more for you to see, more than even the Water Gardens can offer.”

You smiled, feeling your heart swell with anticipation. “I look forward to it.”

As the night grew darker, and the lanterns flickered softly in the breeze, Oberyn leaned closer. “And tonight,” he whispered, “I’m just glad we’re finally here. Together.”

You couldn’t help but feel a warmth bloom inside you at his words. No matter the uncertainty of what lay ahead, tonight felt like the start of something new—something that didn’t need to be rushed or defined, just lived.

WATER GARDENS, DORNE — LATE NIGHT

The walk to your chambers felt surreal, the weight of the evening's intimacy lingering in the air between you and Oberyn. The stars above cast a silver glow on the winding paths of the Water Gardens, the cool breeze a welcome contrast to the warmth of his hand resting lightly on the small of your back. Each step brought you closer to the privacy of your shared quarters, and with it, the quiet flutter of nerves began to stir in your stomach.

You’d been in his presence for hours now, sharing a meal, stories, and laughter, yet the intimacy of entering a room together felt like crossing an invisible threshold. This was the moment where things might shift, where you couldn’t help but wonder if something was expected tonight.

As Oberyn opened the door to your chambers, the room beyond was as grand as you’d imagined—perhaps even more so. A massive bed with heavy, luxurious fabrics dominated the space, framed by stone walls adorned with intricate Dornish tapestries. The soft light of candles flickered across the room, casting warm, golden hues over everything. It was beautiful, intimate, a room meant for lovers.

Your heart raced as you stepped inside, your thoughts swirling as you tried to steady yourself. Oberyn, sensing your hesitation, moved behind you, his presence a steadying force. His fingers brushed your arm gently, grounding you in the moment.

“You’re nervous,” he said softly, his voice low and comforting.

You turned to face him, biting your lip as your gaze met his. “It’s just... I know you’re used to a certain lifestyle. I don’t want to... disappoint you.”

Oberyn’s brows lifted slightly, a flicker of surprise in his eyes before his expression softened. He reached for your hand, his thumb brushing over your knuckles in a soothing rhythm. “Disappoint me?” he repeated, his tone laced with disbelief. “Do you truly believe that?”

You shrugged, feeling a little foolish now, but the thought had gnawed at you since the moment you’d entered the room. “You’ve always been... free. With others. I just—what if I’m not ready tonight? Will you... find your needs somewhere else?”

A small smile curved his lips, and he stepped closer, his hand gently cupping your cheek. “I won’t lie to you,” he began, his voice a murmur, “I’ve lived my life enjoying pleasure wherever it could be found. But you...” His thumb traced the line of your jaw, sending a shiver down your spine. “With you, I am content to wait. Because when it happens, it will be passionate, raw, and it will be worth every second of restraint.”

His words were like a soothing balm to your nerves, each one sinking into you, wrapping around your fears and quieting them. There was no pressure, no expectation—only the promise of something real, something deeper than just the physical.

“I don’t want you to do anything until you’re ready,” he continued, his lips brushing the crown of your head. “Your consent is more important to me than anything. And if tonight is just us, here in this bed, holding each other, that is more than enough.”

You exhaled, a wave of relief washing over you. “I’ve never been with anyone like you,” you confessed quietly, your voice barely above a whisper.

Oberyn chuckled softly, his arms slipping around your waist and pulling you close. “That’s because there is no one like me,” he teased, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. His lips lingered there, warm and soft against your skin, and you leaned into him, feeling the tension leave your body.

He drew back just enough to look at you, his dark eyes searching yours. “But I promise you this—no matter how long it takes, no matter when you’re ready, I will wait for you. And when that moment comes, it will be ours.”

His sincerity left you breathless. Without thinking, you closed the distance between you, your lips brushing his in a tentative kiss. Oberyn responded instantly, his mouth moving against yours with a softness that made your heart flutter. His hand cradled the back of your head, deepening the kiss just enough to remind you of the passion that simmered beneath his calm exterior, but never pushing, never demanding more than what you offered.

You pulled back, breathless, your forehead resting against his as you smiled. “Thank you,” you whispered, your voice barely audible in the quiet room.

He kissed you again, slower this time, savoring the moment. “There is no need to thank me,” he murmured against your lips. “I told you, you’re in Dorne now. We take our time with everything worth savoring.”

A warmth bloomed inside you, a sense of peace and safety in his arms. You leaned into him, resting your head on his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath beneath your cheek.

“Let’s get some sleep,” Oberyn whispered, guiding you toward the bed. He pulled back the heavy covers, and you slipped beneath them, the cool fabric against your skin a welcome contrast to the heat that still lingered between you. He joined you, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you close until your back was pressed to his chest, his body a comforting shield around you.

The last thing you remembered before sleep claimed you was the sound of Oberyn’s steady breathing and the warmth of his lips as he pressed one final kiss to your shoulder.

There's nothing that needs to happen tonight. You were exactly where you were meant to be.

TAGLIST:

Your throat tightens as you glance, puzzled, around the room. It’s empty, aside from Mitsuki's chair, your bed, and the iv attached to the tender inside of your elbow. No friends, no parents, not a begrunting boyfriend… just Mitsuki and a hospital room you don’t recognise.

In a swift movement, she clasps your hand inside her palms. “I’m sorry sweetheart. Your parents couldn’t make it to Japan yet.” she says and you blink at her. 

The lump in your throat starts bubbling in pain. Your lip quivers next, eyes watering at the fraction of a second. The moment you try to move, the dull ache in your ribs reminds you why you’re here in the first place.

“I’m so sorry,”

You try to speak, but find your lips feel like they’re glued together. It hurts when you pry them and it hurts even worse when you try to speak.

“Ka–”

Panic ensues at the sound of your voice. How long have you been here? You don’t even recognise your own voice. Where you could hear softness, you now hear raspiness, broken sounds that can’t form a word.

But still, you want to ask—The last thing you remember is watching Katsuki fall to the ground with his chest torn, you lurching towards Shigaraki with all you had and white hot pain everywhere in your body.

“Kats–Kaah–”

Mitsuki’s eyes flick to your abdomen, the monitors attached to you, then back to you again. Softer, barely “Katsuki? He usually doesn’t leave until he passes out sitting up. Brat’s got stubbornness.”

“Miss—Mitsuk—Mitsuki, my m—mom,”

The sound rips out of you like gravel dragged across concrete, and Mitsuki is already moving— one hand on your shoulder, the other hovering like she wants to fix something she can’t reach.

“Hey, hey— don’t force it,” she says, voice dropping into that hushed, frantic register only mothers have when something hurts their kid. Or a kid who might as well be theirs.

She reaches for the small cup of ice chips on the tray next to your bed, scooping a few with the spoon and pressing it gently to your lips. “Just this, sweetheart. Slow.”

The cold hits your tongue, sharp and clean, and for a moment it’s the only thing keeping you together. Everything else feels like it’s drifting —your memories, your breath, the distant echo of Nejire screaming your name before everything went dark.

Mitsuki watches you swallow, her jaw tight, eyes shining with things she will never say out loud.

“You’ve been out for a few months,” she adds quietly. “Masaru is trying to get ahold of your folks, along with the doctors but… you know how time zones are. And… circumstances.” Her mouth twists like she hates how uptight she’s being. Like practiced softness physically pains her. “We didn’t want you waking up alone.”

Your chest pulls tight. It shouldn’t mean as much as it does. But it does.

Your fingers clutch weakly at the blanket. “K–” The name falls apart in your throat again.

Mitsuki seems to understand anyway.

“He’s alive,” she says firmly. “He’s at school and he’s healing, but he’s alive. Stubborn little shit tried to pretend he wasn’t feeling okay just so they wouldn’t kick him out of your room last night. He’s been visiting everyday.”

Your breath shudders. Relief hits so hard you feel dizzy.

“And— just so you don’t freak out later—” Mitsuki adds, rubbing your hand with her thumb in a rare, almost guilty motion, “he might start crying a lot.”

That makes you freeze.

Mitsuki sighs, leaning back in the chair like the confession took something out of her. She stops herself from telling you the doctors had announced to everyone that you would probably not make it, not too long ago.

“Don’t tell him I said that. He’ll yell at both of us.”

She glances toward the door, then back at you. “He’s gonna be pissed you woke up without him here. Believe me. But, we’ll tell him after classes are over. You okay with that sweetheart?”

You nod, or at least you think you do. Your head barely moves, just a slow dip that makes the world tilt a little. You’re not sure if you’re agreeing or just reacting to the tenderness in her voice — something you’ve never quite heard directed at you like this, so softly, before.

“Good,” Mitsuki murmurs, like she was bracing for you to argue. Her hand squeezes yours gently, thumb brushing over the back in a slow, steady rhythm that feels like it’s meant to keep you anchored.

You swallow again, rough and painful. The word “classes” sticks in your mind like a burr. Katsuki is… at school. The school is alright if that’s the case, and maybe, your friends are too, your teachers, All Might. There’s so much you want to ask, but such little strength inside you.

Mitsuki watches your face carefully. “He wanted to skip,” she says, rolling her eyes as if the memory frustrates her. “Said he didn’t care about his damn education if you were—” She cuts herself off. Too sharp. Too honest.

Another small, guilty sigh. “Anyway. We made him go. The teachers insisted. Kid was a wreck. No sleep, no food… I swear he almost blew up a vending machine because someone told him to ‘keep his chin up.’”

Despite the pain, a weak ghost of a laugh bubbles in your chest — a tiny sound, but it pulls at your ribs like something tearing.

Mitsuki immediately notices. “Easy. Easy, sweetheart,” she whispers, leaning in, steadying you with a hand on your shoulder. “You don’t have to talk yet. You don’t have to do anything yet.”

But you want to. You want to ask what happened, how bad it was, whether Katsuki’s really okay or just putting on a front because that’s what he does when the world is falling apart around him.

You try again, voice scraping out of you like rough smoke: “H–how…?”

She shakes her head fast, stopping you before the sentence can hurt you more. “Later. When Katsuki’s here.” Her voice softens, unbearably so. “He deserves to hear you first.”

Your breath stutters, the weight of that landing somewhere deep and tender.

Mitsuki reaches up and brushes a loose strand of hair from your forehead. The gesture is so gentle it barely feels real.

“We’ll tell him after school,” she repeats softly. “He’ll come running the second he hears. And he’s gonna be loud, and dramatic, and probably hug you too hard. But he needs this. He needs you.”

Her voice cracks just a little on that last word. Barely noticeable, unless you’re looking for it. And you are.

“Rest now,” she adds, settling back into her chair but not letting go of your hand.

______

Later that evening, the hallway outside your room is louder than it should be for a hospital — muffled bickering, restless footsteps, a sharp whisper that’s definitely Kaminari complaining he’s been standing too long. With your eyes barely opening from your earlier slumber, you can hear Kirishima gently shushing him. Someone — Mina, probably — keeps insisting they should “just peek in real quick because what if she’s awake?” 

You also catch the hissed argument that’s delivered as a response “Dude, stop— she might be asleep again!” and “I’m not stopping, you stop!”

Their silhouettes shuffle under the doorframe’s faint light, shadows overlapping like they can’t decide whether to crowd closer or bolt down the hall.

You blink slow, the world tilting for a moment, and the ceiling swims into focus. Your throat is dry. Your body feels like it’s made of bandages and cement. But your brain? Your brain catches up just enough to realize:

They’re here. All of them. A soft exhale escapes you— barely a sound, but apparently loud enough for the enhanced senses of teens with superpowers.

Mitsuki nods her head towards the door and chuckles. “They can’t wait to see you,” The commotion outside stops all at once, like someone hit pause. Then—

“Did you hear that?!”

“Kaminari, shut up—”

“Wait, wait— I think she’s awake—”

“Katsuki’s gonna kill us if we go in—”

“Oh my god. Just. Check!”

Kirishima’s voice breaks through the chaos; firm, gentle, leader-of-the-chaos-crew mode “Guys. Calm down. We’ll knock first.”

There’s a beat of silence and then three different knuckles rap on the door at the exact same time. Your chest shakes with a tiny, pained laugh that’s followed by a thunderous cough. The whispering begins again immediately.

“Bro— I said one person should knock!”

“That wasn’t me!”

“You literally have the loudest knuckles, Sero!”

“How do you even know that—”

Someone sighs. Hard. You recognise the sound as Izuku, doing that tight little anxious inhale before he tries to be responsible.

“Should I… um… should I ask Recovery Girl if we’re allowed—?”

“No, if Kacchan shows up and we’re gone, he’ll blast us into space—”

“Oh he’s definitely gonna show up—”

You try shifting, just enough to look toward the door. A small movement, but enough to tug at something deep in your gut. You wince, which apparently sends the hallway into frenzy.

And before they manage to organize themselves, one brave soul reaches for the door handle.

Mina’s whisper—undoubtedly its hers—cuts through the noise “Okay, on three—”

You have exactly one second to process that, and tighten your hold around Mitsuki’s hand as hard as you can, before a hand curls around the knob and another, much sharper voice snaps from down the hall.

“Touch that door and I swear to god you’re dead.”

Every single voice outside vanishes. You don’t even need to see him to know who said it. Katsuki.

Last time you laid eyes on him he was in a puddle of his own blood, chest torn, right arm destroyed. The thought alone is making your jaw tremble.

Your stomach flips; your eyes do that stupid thing where they well up so much that they sting and your heart kicks into a frantic rhythm, strong enough that the monitor beside you responds with a panicked series of beeps.

For a fragment, you come to believe this is a dream. An afterlife experience. Some sick and twisted purgatory. Some strange, cruel limbo replaying the moments before everything went black.

Mitsuki reacts before you do. She leans in, her free hand hovering near your shoulder as if she can physically hold you together while the monitor continues its frantic beeping. “Easy,” she murmurs, voice low. “Breathe, sweetheart. You’re fine.”

Her thumb presses gently into the back of your hand, grounding you.

The footsteps outside slow, the scrape of rubber soles against the linoleum deliberate now, controlled in that way Katsuki walks when he’s trying to stop himself from running. There’s a muffled scuffle—someone tripping over someone else during their attempt to scramble out of his path.

The doorknob turns. Not violently, but slowly. Carefully. Like he’s afraid the world behind it might shatter if he enters too fast.

The door opens halfway, and Katsuki steps inside.

He’s out of breath, but it's the kind where he’s trying very hard not to show. His hair, shorter than you remember, is a mess from whatever fight he had with the wind on the way here. His uniform shirt is wrinkled, sleeves pushed up his forearms in uneven rolls, and his tie is gone entirely.

But none of that is what gets you. It’s the way he stops actually. Abruptly.

And not because Mitsuki is in his way or because your friends are whisper-squabbling just outside the door. He stops because he sees you.

Awake.

His eyes widen first, a stunned flicker of disbelief that washes over his face before he can hide it. Then everything in him seems to go slack for a moment — shoulders dropping, jaw unclenching, the tension dissolving so suddenly it looks like his legs might give out.

“No fucking way,” he breathes, so quietly it barely reaches the room. His gaze flits across your face, ignoring his mother’s plea for decent language.

Whatever strength he had walked in with drains from his posture all at once. His breath catches on a sound too close to a sob, and he stumbles two steps forward before genuinely stopping himself, like he’s afraid he might do the wrong thing and make you hurt again.

The monitor chooses that exact moment to spike again, a sharp, accusing beep-beep-beep echoing through the walls.

Katsuki flinches, just barely. His eyes flash to the machine, then to your hand clutching Mitsuki’s, then back up to you. Something like guilt — real, aching guilt — tightens his expression. His head jerks toward yours and in the same instant he looks completely gutted—like the beeping is some damning confirmation that you’re in pain because of him, that all those months of him replaying the footage of you almost getting torn apart in half, ignoring every warning from people who told him not to, all led to this moment right here: you trembling, terrified, trying to hold yourself together.

He tries to say your name, but it dissolves into a choked gasp. Tears are already spilling, hot and unguarded, not even wiped away. Katsuki Bakugo—who never cries—can’t stop crying.

Instinct drags you forward. You try to sit up, to reach for him, anything to close the distance, but the muscles in your abdomen seize. A bolt of pain rips through you so sharply your vision whites out, and you collapse back into the bed with a strangled breath.

“Stay still!” Mitsuki catches your shoulder before you can tear something, her voice shaking now too. “Sweetheart, you can’t move—”

Your hand slips from hers anyway, desperate to get to him.

“Hey—” His voice cuts off, a sob and cracks, embarrassing him. He swallows hard, trying again. “Hey. Take it easy, you dummy.”

He says it softly. Too softly for it to be an insult.

Katsuki kneels swiftly beside the bed, and his scarred hand hovers over yours. 

When he finally touches your hand, it’s feather-light, trembling with the same fear and relief burning in his eyes. He doesn’t grip, doesn’t hold too tight, doesn’t let go either. He rests his palm over yours, as if he’s anchoring himself to you while afraid that even the slightest pressure might hurt you.

You notice he’s holding a flower inside his other hand. Your eyes widen at the sight and he looks down at his hand too, muttering “It’s for you. A ‘get well soon’”

“Katsu–tsuk–ki” you breathe out, shakingly.

Your fingers twitch, wanting to wrap around his hand, to pull him closer, to fix the broken edges of him the way he’s holding onto you. You try to shift, to ease closer, but your abdomen flares with pain and you freeze, groaning softly.

He freezes too, instantly still, and looks at you with wide, frantic eyes. “Hey… hey, hey, I—I’m sorry,” he whispers, voice cracking, almost pleading.

Then, slowly, he adjusts himself so he can lean against you without putting weight on your ribs. His hand over yours flexes, releases, flexes again, as if he can’t decide whether to grip or just stay connected to you.

His tears fall freely now, soaking your fingers, and the sound of him crying forces tears to come out of your eyes too.

All you can do is squeeze his hand back, as much as your pain will allow, and whisper his name again. 

He takes it, eve though his own hand aches like it’s being pierced, because the touch is not just an ember that you’re alive. It’s the undeniable fact that you’re awake.

And Katsuki is just so, so happy that this one good thing happens to him, he doesn’t even mind that the rest of the class storms inside minutes later and everyone sees him crying.

Katsuki Bakugo Masterlist

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❅ ── takes particular delight in humiliating post-climax rituals: watching his spend leak out of you, ordering you to push it back inside with trembling fingers while he scolds you about how wasteful and ungrateful you are. his tone is closer to a lecture than dirty talk, but the cold authority in it makes your pussy clench all the same.

❅ ── aftercare is selective at best. he might smooth your hair back or examine the marks he left with the detached eye of a critic, as though checking a painting for flaws. if he’s feeling magnanimous, he’ll even hold you for a while, though his embrace is stiff, his skin unnaturally cold. affection offered as a favour, not a given.

黒死牟 KOKUSHIBŌ

❅ ── isn’t vocal in the conventional sense, but he mutters in a low rasp when he’s close, words half-intelligible, praising and damning you in the same breath. his dirty talk is sparse, they take the form of orders (“spread your legs wider. hold still.”) that leave no room for refusal.

❅ ── values control above all else. if you try to assert power over him, he will correct you with severity.

❅ ── cannot resist marking you. loves sinking his teeth into your shoulder or throat, leaving half-moon dents and dark bruises that blossom under his mouth, but he stops short of blood.

❅ ── often corrects your posture during sex, and you do it because his displeasure is rarer than praise and therefore terrifyingly precious.

❅ ── has a fixation with filling you. presses in deep, keeps you spread open until his spend is dripping out, and still thrusts shallowly to push it back inside.

❅ ── slow thrusting that turns into violence only when provoked. he can be methodical for hours, then ramp up suddenly with a directive so small you almost miss it and find yourself sobbing with the force of it.

❅ ── soft moments are almost always conditional. a whisper of praise, a chaste kiss to your temple, they are rewards and you will crave them because they are so seldom given.

童磨 DŌMA

❅ ── doesn’t really feel desire the way most do, but he recognises a shallow level of lust like one recognises hunger: a gnawing, bodily itch. so he follows it with zeal, as though fucking you is simply another form of consumption. and dōma is enthusiastic to the point of unnerving, praising you between mocking giggles, all while splitting you open on his cock as if he’s sharing an inside joke with himself.

❅ ── foreplay is essentially provocation. doma delights in pissing you off. his usual antics include nuzzling along your jaw without actually kissing you, circling your clit with a frozen fingertip until you’re thrashing.

❅ ── verbal degradation is his lingua franca. “such a greedy little thing, can’t believe you’d sink so low for me” paired with a smile so saccharine it almost sounds like a compliment. the jolly cadence creates a dissonance, because he never drops the cheerful act.

❅ ── has an air of cheer even while being cruel. especially then. no matter if you’re begging or crying or even cursing at him—he only laughs, clapping his hands as though you’ve told a particularly good joke.

❅ ── finds your tears hilarious and hot, usually licks them right off your cheeks while laughing.

❅ ── overstimulation. keeps you in his lap, while he tsks about how sensitive you are, how silly it is that you’re trying to wriggle away when your cunt clearly doesn’t want to let go. if you cry, he cups your face sweetly and coos, “adorable! i knew you’d look prettier like this.” (he genuinely thinks he’s complimenting you)

❅ ── doesn’t understand aftercare in any genuine sense. wiping you down, holding you close, murmuring soft reassurances etc. those are things he mimics because he’s seen people do them, like an actor reciting lines from a play. the gestures are hollow, but his smile is so bright enough you believe he means it.

❅ ── cums inside you every single time because… well. why wouldn’t he?

猗窩座 AKAZA

❅ ── soft dominance is his natural register. he doesn’t degrade you, won’t even tolerate you degrading yourself. instead he builds you up with firm praise.

❅ ── refuses to finish before you. it’s a code of conduct, carved into him as deeply as his martial discipline. whether it’s his tongue flattening against your clit, his fingers curling inside you, or his cock stretching you out, your orgasm is the opening act, and his the encore.

❅ ── loves testing your limits, but not without consent. he’ll push you harder, but the moment you use your safeword, he halts as though your word is law. nothing makes him prouder than coaxing another orgasm out of you while you’re trembling: “just one more, you’ve got this. i know you can.” this is essentially a form of devotion, his belief that you are stronger than you think.

❅ ── his refractory period is basically nonexistent a.k.a he gets hard again real fast, but rarely pushes for more unless you initiate. when you do, he smiles almost sheepishly, like you’ve just given him another reason to be grateful for your existence.

So you escaped to the only place with the illusion of relief: your old man’s rust-bitten Ford truck. The air conditioning groaned like an old man with bad knees, struggling to push out even a whisper of cold. Mostly, it just wheezed in competition with the faint melody of Avril Lavigne’s Complicated playing from a scratched-up CD.

That CD had been a gift from Sarah—the wild-hearted twelve-year-old next door with a halo of curls and a grin full of mischief. She’d handed it to you like it was treasure, wrapped in a scrap of pink paper with your name spelled in glitter pen. Babysitting her had started off as a favor, a quick yes when your father mentioned that Joel Miller—Sarah’s dad—needed someone to help out now and then. You’d barely met Joel, only knew that he worked with his hands, often gone at odd hours, and that he carried the kind of quiet sadness you didn’t ask questions about.

You were a high school senior back then, just counting days until freedom. But somehow, that little girl made you want to stay.

Your evenings slowly stitched themselves into a patchwork of Disney marathons, popcorn burned in the microwave, Sarah’s giggles echoing through the halls of the Miller house. She’d curl up beside you, head resting on your shoulder like a sleepy kitten, cookies half-eaten and forgotten on the table. She became something sacred—a bond, a heartbeat, the closest thing to a sister you’d ever have.

Even after you left for college, you kept coming back. Not out of duty, but because her tiny arms still wrapped around your waist when you walked through the door. Because her eyes still lit up like fireworks when you pressed play on The Little Mermaid. Because somehow, she had become your person.

You leaned back in the cracked leather seat, your legs sticking to it, the AC making a sad attempt at survival. You shut your eyes and let Avril’s voice carry you, half-lost in memory and heat-induced haze, until a sharp knock on the passenger window startled you.

Sarah.

She was grinning, as usual—her curls pulled into a wild ponytail, a Popsicle in one hand, and a look that said she was up to something.

You rolled the window down. “What’s up, bug?”

She climbed in before you could stop her, dragging a wave of hot air in with her. “Dad said we could go get ice cream if you’re up for driving.”

“Did he now?”

“Okay, I might’ve said you were bored and needed to get out. Same thing.”

You shook your head, biting back a smile. She shoved the melting Popsicle into your hand and snapped on her seatbelt with dramatic flair. “Let’s go. Before it gets hotter. I think I saw a squirrel burst into flames on the sidewalk.”

You laughed and turned the key in the ignition. The engine coughed to life, the truck rumbling beneath you like an old beast waking from a nap. You caught sight of Joel on the porch as you pulled away—arms crossed, watching with that unreadable expression he always wore. You gave him a two-fingered wave. He nodded once, and that was enough.

Sarah chattered all the way to the ice cream place, asking about college, about whether you had a boyfriend yet (she asked this every time), and whether she’d be tall enough to ride the big coasters at the state fair this year. You let her talk, let her words fill the space like music.

When you finally parked in front of the ice cream shop, the sun had started dipping low, turning the sky into a hazy peach-orange watercolor.

Inside, the cool air hit like salvation. Sarah ran to the counter, already debating between cotton candy and cookie dough. You trailed behind more slowly, letting the change in temperature settle over your skin like a blessing.

As you waited, your phone buzzed in your pocket. A message from your dad:

“Joel asked if you’ll be home later. Said he could use help with something at the house.”

You stared at the screen for a second longer than you needed to. Joel didn’t ask for help. Not unless he meant it.

“What’s wrong?” Sarah looked up from her ice cream conquest.

You smiled. “Nothing. Just your dad being mysterious.”

She rolled her eyes. “He’s always mysterious. He builds things all day and listens to music no one understands.”

“Sounds like someone I know,” you teased.

“I’m not mysterious,” she said, scooping her choice—cookie dough, of course—into a bowl. “I’m an open book.”

You paid for the treats and led her outside to a metal bench half in the shade. The breeze had picked up slightly. It carried the scent of pavement, crepe myrtles, and something else—something you couldn’t quite name. Something shifting.

The sun was beginning to slip behind the rooftops by the time you and Sarah returned to the Miller house, both of you sticky from melted ice cream and heat. The air had that golden hue of a Texas evening—dust motes glowing in the sunlight, cicadas beginning their slow song. The drive back from the ice cream shop had been quiet, but not in a bad way. Sarah had rolled the window down and was humming absently to herself between licks of her cone. You stole glances at her in the rearview mirror. She looked tired but content, her face a little flushed, her curls sticking to her temples.

You knew something had shifted. She’d been quieter than usual on the ride back, a little distracted. Not sad, just somewhere far off in her head. You didn’t push it. You’d learned a long time ago that Sarah always circled back in her own time.

When you pulled into the driveway, Joel was out front, leaning against the porch rail with his arms folded, like he’d been waiting. He looked up as the truck came to a stop, one brow lifting slightly in a kind of wordless check-in. You gave him a nod, just enough to say she’s okay.

Sarah climbed out of the truck slowly and stretched. “I’m gonna shower,” she mumbled, already heading toward the front door.

“You eat dinner?” Joel called after her.

“Ice cream counts!” she shouted back, disappearing into the house.

Joel huffed something like a laugh, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. He scratched the back of his neck, eyes still on the screen door even after it swung shut behind her.

You shut the truck door and walked over to him. “Everything alright?”

He looked at you then, really looked. Not with panic, exactly, but something close. Hesitation. Worry. Maybe a little guilt.

“You got a minute?” he asked. “Need to run something by you.”

You nodded. “Yeah, sure.”

Joel gestured toward the backyard with a jerk of his chin. The porch boards creaked beneath his boots as you followed him through the kitchen and out the back door, into the thick, humid air. The sun was low now, bleeding orange across the fence line. Crickets had started up in the grass, and you could hear a neighbor’s sprinkler ticking faintly in the distance.

Joel didn’t speak for a while. He stood with his hands on his hips, staring out across the yard like it might offer him a script to read from. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and a little rough around the edges.

“Found somethin’ earlier,” he said. “In the bathroom. A, uh… towel. One of hers. Had blood on it…”

“Oh,” you said, gently. “Her period.”

He nodded, cheeks reddening, clearly trying to keep his voice level. “Yeah. That. She didn’t say a damn word to me. Just shoved a towel in the laundry like nothin’ happened and then asked if she could go out for ice cream. And I remembered… her mom used to—well, she always wanted something sweet on her bad days, so…”

You felt your chest warm. Not from the heat. From him. From this big, quiet man who looked like he could wrestle a bear but stood there now like a deer in headlights, wringing his hands over his little girl.

“She’s twelve,” he added, like that somehow made it more tragic. “I don’t… I didn’t grow up with sisters. Only Tommy. We were a disaster even on good days. I don’t know what to say, or how to—hell, I don’t even know what kind of… supplies she’s supposed to use.”

He fell quiet again, then sighed, long and slow. “I didn’t know who to call. I almost called Tommy, but you know, he’s as useless as I am when it comes to this kinda thing. So… I figured, maybe you’d know.”

There was something in the way he said it—maybe you’d know—that felt less like a request and more like a quiet surrender. Like this was his way of admitting he was scared, and he didn’t know how to say it out loud.

You stepped closer, your voice soft. “You did the right thing, Joel. Giving her space, getting her out of the house. That was smart.”

“She didn’t even tell me,” he muttered. “That’s what kills me. She used to come to me for everything. Now she’s just—dealing with it by herself. Like she had to.”

“She’s twelve,” you said gently. “She’s embarrassed. Doesn’t know how to talk about it. Maybe she’s scared you’ll think she’s different now.”

Joel blinked at that. “Why the hell would I think that?”

“Because that’s what girls worry about when they start this. That people will treat them differently. That their body’s changing and it makes things weird.”

He didn’t answer right away. His eyes were on the fence again. “Her mom used to say stuff like that. About how she hated how people treated her like she was fragile just ’cause she was bleeding.”

There was a rawness in his voice that hadn’t been there before. Not just nervousness—grief, too. That quiet, familiar ache of someone trying to parent without the other half of the puzzle.

“I’ll take her to the store tomorrow,” you said. “We’ll get her what she needs—pads, whatever she’s comfortable with. Maybe some tea. And chocolate. That always helps.”

Joel nodded slowly, like each word you said was another burden taken off his shoulders. “Thank you.”

You hesitated, then placed your hand lightly on his arm. “She’s not trying to shut you out. She’s just figuring it out in the only way she knows how.”

He looked at you then, really looked—tired, grateful, full of a quiet kind of worry that had nowhere to go.

“I feel like I’m messin’ it all up,” he admitted, so low you barely heard it.

“You’re not.”

“You sure?”

“I’ve never been more sure.”

A long silence settled between you. The kind that wasn’t awkward, just full. Full of the things left unsaid, of the weight of love and responsibility and the kind of fear that comes with being someone’s whole world.

Joel rubbed a hand over his face and huffed a short laugh. “You must think I’m pathetic.”

“I think you’re doing your best,” you said. “And that’s more than a lot of kids get.”

He let out a breath, slow and steady. Then, after a pause: “You’re good with her.”

“I love her,” you said. “She’s like a little sister to me.”

Joel looked at you again—something unreadable in his expression. Maybe surprise. Maybe something else.

“I’m real glad you’re still around,” he said quietly.

You smiled. “Me too.”

From inside the house, Sarah called out, “Are we watching a movie or what?”

Joel didn’t take his eyes off you, but there was something softer in them now. Something unguarded.

“I guess we’d better get in there,” he said.

“Yeah,” you said, letting your hand fall from his arm. “Before she starts without us.”

It was the first time you'd stayed this late at the Miller house. Usually, your evenings with Sarah ended around sunset—movie paused, cookies half-eaten, Joel pulling into the driveway with dust on his jeans and tired thanks in his eyes. But this time, things were different.

Sarah had asked you to stay. She’d clung to your arm, eyes wide and wheedling, and Joel, surprisingly, had said yes.

“I mean… if it’s no trouble,” he’d added, rubbing the back of his neck, trying not to meet your eyes.

You’d said it wasn’t. And you meant it.

Now, the three of you were gathered in the living room. The lights were dimmed, the TV humming with the opening credits of Holes. Sarah had insisted on it—“It’s a classic, don’t even argue”—and had spread every pillow and blanket she could find across the floor like a DIY fort.

She was nestled into the middle of it, legs tucked under her, one of Joel’s flannels hanging off her shoulders. You sat on the edge of the couch, nursing a soda, while Joel took the armchair, one ankle propped lazily over his knee.

The movie started, and for a while, it was all popcorn rustles and Sarah quoting her favorite lines before they even happened. Joel chuckled at her enthusiasm, and you found yourself watching them more than the movie—how Joel’s eyes softened every time Sarah laughed, how she leaned toward you like this was the most natural thing in the world.

Somewhere around the third lizard sighting, Sarah moved to sit on the couch between you and the armrest, leaning against your side like a sleepy cat. You didn’t even notice when her breathing evened out and her head rested on your arm.

Joel noticed though.

His voice came low, amused. “She out?”

You glanced down. “Dead to the world.”

“She’s like her mom that way. Could sleep through a tornado.”

It was the second time he’d mentioned her. His voice was gentle, a little distant, but not painful. Just remembering.

You both sat quietly for a while after that. The soft flicker of the movie lit his face in blues and golds. He looked… peaceful. More relaxed than you’d seen him at those neighborhood barbecues, where he always kept a beer in his hand and one eye on Sarah like he didn’t trust the world not to fall apart.

Now, she was here, asleep beside you. And you were here, beside her.

When the credits finally rolled, Joel stood up slowly, stretching with a soft groan.

“I’ll carry her,” he said, and you nodded.

He moved carefully, gently scooping her up in his arms. She stirred just enough to murmur your name and Joel’s, then went limp again against his chest.

You watched them disappear down the hallway, the quiet creak of her bedroom door closing like the final note in a lullaby.

When he returned, he found you curled up on the couch, clearly half-asleep yourself.

Joel stood there for a moment, just watching you.

He thought about waking you. He really did.

But then he sighed, rubbed a hand over his jaw, and muttered, “Alright then.”

A few minutes later, he was spreading a clean blanket over you in his room and stacking an extra pillow beside your head. He lingered there, eyes soft, before turning off the light and closing the door behind him.

The smell of coffee nudged you awake before sunlight did. For a few seconds, you lay still, half-dreaming, until the stiff cotton sheets and unfamiliar quiet reminded you—this wasn’t your bed. It was Joel's.

You blinked at the wooden beams above you, the smell of frying bacon drifting in through a barely-cracked door. Joel's room was neat but lived-in. The flannel shirt hanging off the bedpost, the guitar case by the closet, the worn boots by the door—it all felt very him.

You sat up slowly, pushing hair out of your face, squinting toward the hallway. It felt intimate in here. Like you were somewhere you weren't quite supposed to be. And yet, the warmth in your chest told a different story.

The floorboards creaked softly as you padded toward the kitchen, feet bare and cautious. Joel stood at the stove, t-shirt wrinkled, hair a little messier than usual. He was flipping bacon, one hand holding a spatula, the other nursing a coffee cup.

He turned when he heard you, and for just a second, there was something caught in his expression. Not surprise. Something softer.

"Mornin'," he said, voice low and a little scratchy.

"You gave me your bed?"

Joel shrugged, turning back to the stove. "You were out cold. Didn’t wanna wake you. Couch ain’t so bad."

You glanced over at the couch, then back at him. "That couch is shaped like a capital 'L'. No way your back's okay."

He smirked, sliding bacon onto a paper towel. "I'm tougher than I look."

You raised an eyebrow, settling onto a stool by the counter. "You mean grumpier."

Before Joel could reply, Sarah wandered in like a hurricane with the battery drained. She wore a hoodie zipped halfway and socks slipping down her heels. Her face was twisted in dramatic agony.

"It feels like a war zone in my gut," she moaned.

Joel tensed. "You need Tylenol? Heating pad?"

"I need ice cream," Sarah said. Then her eyes landed on you. "You're still here?"

You smiled. "Yep. Joel gave me his bed."

Sarah blinked. Then grinned like she’d just won a prize at the fair. "Ooooh."

Joel, behind her, quietly muttered, "Sarah."

She leaned in close to you like you were co-conspirators. "Did you sleep in, like, his bed? Like with the plaid sheets and the pillow that smells like sawdust and... man soap?"

You tried not to laugh. "That very one."

Sarah's eyes glittered. "I knew it! Dad always acts weird around you."

Joel nearly choked on his coffee. "Alright, that's enough. Go sit down."

Sarah plopped onto the couch, cradling a heating pad Joel must have already warmed up for her. Despite her cramps, she looked content. Radiant, even. You noticed her eyes drifting shut, the tiniest smile playing at her lips.

"We should probably go grab her a few things," you murmured to Joel.

He gave a quiet nod. "She said she used the last pad yesterday. I just... didn’t wanna get the wrong thing. Didn’t know there were fifty types."

You touched his arm lightly. "We’ll take care of it."

Just then, the back door creaked open with that familiar screech that only old hinges and a Miller brother could make.

"Hope I’m not too late for bacon," Tommy called, strolling in like he owned the place. He wore his Sunday-best version of casual: jeans, a button-up rolled to the elbows, and a grin that could get him out of any ticket.

Sarah brightened at the sound. "Uncle Tommy!"

"Hey, sweetheart," he beamed, ruffling her curls gently. "Heard you had a bit of a rough morning."

She held up a thumbs-up from under her blanket. "I’m surviving. Thanks to the ice cream and the guest star who stayed overnight."

Tommy's eyebrows shot up, and he turned to look at you, then Joel. "Guest star, huh?"

Joel stiffened where he stood. "She crashed after the movie. I gave her the bed."

Tommy leaned on the counter, eyes twinkling. "Your bed?"

Sarah giggled. "With the plaid sheets and the soap smell and everything!"

Joel let out a breath like he was trying not to combust. "Can y’all stop announcin' that to the whole neighborhood?"

Tommy laughed, clearly enjoying himself. "I’m just sayin’—breakfast smells like affection, and you’ve got your flannel lookin’ a little less grumpy today."

"She’s good with Sarah," Joel said gruffly, pouring another cup of coffee. "That’s all."

"Sure," Tommy said, nodding slowly. "And the way you’re hovering near her like a guard dog in flannel, that’s also ‘just good with Sarah’?" he whispered.

Joel shot him a warning glance, but Tommy only grinned wider.

"Uncle Tommy," Sarah said sweetly, suddenly conspiratorial, "do you think Dad has a crush?"

Joel nearly dropped his mug. You buried your face in your hands, laughing helplessly.

Tommy gasped theatrically. "Sarah! I think you might be right. Look at that blush—he’s turning redder than my truck!"

Joel groaned. "Jesus Christ, I should’ve stayed in bed."

"Too bad someone else was in it," Tommy teased.

Joel turned to you, his voice dry. "You wanna take her to the store now? Might be safer."

You, still laughing, nodded. "Before Sarah starts handing out wedding invitations."

Sarah waved a hand from the couch. "Too late, I already made a vision board."

Tommy threw his head back, howling. Joel just stared at the ceiling like it might open up and swallow him whole.

You grabbed your bag, still chuckling, and gestured to Sarah. "C’mon, let’s get you the fancy kind of pain relief. Maybe even a heating pad shaped like a llama."

Sarah sprang up with unexpected energy. "This is why you’re my favorite."

Joel muttered, "You weren’t sayin’ that when I was up at 2 a.m. gettin’ you ice water."

She kissed his cheek and skipped toward the door.

As the two of you left, you heard Tommy say behind you, "You know, I really am happy for you, big brother. But I’m gonna keep messin’ with you just the same."

Joel replied with a grunt, but his voice, softer now, said more than his words ever could.

He was grateful.

And he was in trouble.

The store's fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead as you and Sarah wandered down the aisle lined with shelves full of period products. The “feminine care” section was a riot of pastel colors, cryptic labels, and brands that somehow managed to sound both comforting and clinical.

Sarah stared up at them, arms crossed, mouth slightly open. "Okay, so... what's the difference between ultra-thin and ultra-thin with wings? Is it, like, flying powers?"

You snorted. "No flying powers, sadly. The wings just help keep things in place."

"Disappointing," she said with a sigh. "I was hoping for at least a little magic."

You crouched to scan the lower shelves. "Do you want the same kind you had last time, or do you wanna try something different?"

Sarah shrugged. "Whatever you think’s best. I trust your judgment. You’re clearly a seasoned professional."

You tossed a box into the basket. "The seasoned-est."

Sarah peeked up at you, slyly. "So... speaking of judgment."

You raised an eyebrow. "Uh-huh?"

"Do you like older guys?"

You blinked. "That’s... a jump."

She grinned, clearly proud of herself. "No it’s not. It’s an investigative segue."

You tried to stifle a laugh. "Sarah."

"What? I’m curious! You’re, like, a woman. With... grown-up tastes."

"You’re twelve."

"Exactly! I need mentorship."

You paused, holding a box of heating patches. "Is this about your dad again?"

"I mean, not entirely. But also: yes."

You gave her a look.

"I just think you two would be cute. You both make weirdly good pancakes. And when you were sleeping in his bed, I swear he was, like, standing in the hallway checking if you were still breathing. Like some kind of lumberjack angel."

You put the patches in the basket. "Lumberjack angel?"

"Don’t mock the poetry."

You walked toward the checkout, and she practically skipped after you despite the heating pad she clutched like a teddy bear.

"Okay but seriously—" she continued, lowering her voice dramatically, "—do you think he’s cute? Like, if he didn’t have the whole ‘dad’ thing going on?"

You sighed, amused. "Sarah, I’m not talking about your dad like that."

She smirked. "That means yes."

You gave her a mock glare as the cashier started scanning your items. Sarah, never missing a beat, leaned on the counter like she was discussing secret spy business.

"Also, Uncle Tommy said you could do better. I told him to hush. I think my dad is the best you’re gonna get."

"Wow. Brutal."

"I'm in pain. Let me live."

As you bagged everything up and started walking toward the exit, Sarah looped her arm through yours and leaned against you.

"Thanks for coming with me. It’s way less awkward with you. Dad would’ve had an existential crisis in the tampon aisle."

"I believe it."

"And also... thanks for not making this whole thing a big weird deal. I was really freaked out yesterday. Thought I was dying. You were cool about it."

You softened. "That’s what I’m here for."

She looked up at you, a little more serious now. "And I really hope you end up my stepmom. But, like, the hot kind."

You blinked. "SARAH."

She cackled. "What? Just planting seeds."

Outside, the sun was warm on your face. You shook your head, laughing as you loaded the bags into Joel’s truck.

And somewhere inside that little gremlin of a girl was the biggest heart you’d ever met. Even on her worst day, she was matchmaking and joking and holding your hand.

God help Joel.

He didn’t stand a chance.

The sun was angling low by the time you pulled back into the driveway, the kind of orange Texas glow that made everything look a little too golden and a little too unreal. Sarah was humming to herself in the passenger seat, clutching the drugstore bag like it held state secrets.

You climbed out of the truck, stretching, only to freeze halfway through.

Joel was out front, shirt sticking to his back in the heat, kneeling beside a crooked section of the fence. A small toolbox sat next to him, half-open, nails scattered in neat little rows. His shirt—dark blue and worn—was clinging to his frame in all the right places. Sleeves rolled up past his elbows. Forearms dusted in sawdust.

He looked up as you shut the car door, and for a moment, all you could do was blink.

“Hey,” he called, wiping the back of his hand across his forehead. “Y’all make it okay?”

Sarah jumped out of the truck and held up the bag. “We conquered the period aisle!” she declared, marching proudly inside.

Joel chuckled. “That so?” Then his eyes flicked to you, and something in them softened. “Thanks. For takin’ her.”

You nodded, but your voice caught somewhere in your throat. “Of course.”

He bent back down, hammer in hand, and you stood there a beat too long watching the muscles in his arm flex with each nail he drove in.

It’s just because of what Sarah said, you told yourself. That’s all. She put it in your head.

But that wasn’t entirely true. The man looked like a Calvin Klein ad shot in a lumber yard.

You forced yourself to turn toward the house before your brain made it worse.

Inside, Sarah was already curled up on the couch, heating pad in place, water bottle in hand, victorious and slightly smug.

Joel followed you in not long after, wiping his hands on a rag. He glanced at the clock, then at you.

“You hungry?” he asked. “I was gonna grill a few things for dinner. Nothin’ fancy.”

“Stay!” Sarah added immediately, perking up. “You helped today and you’re, like, family. Dad even makes real food when you’re here. It’s a rare event.”

Joel gave her a look but didn’t argue. His eyes landed on you again. “You’re welcome to. Honestly.”

You smiled. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

Joel grilled something—probably out of guilt for the frozen waffles breakfast. It smelled amazing. Burgers, seasoned fries, sliced watermelon, the works. You sat across from Sarah while Joel set everything out. Just as he was bringing over a dish of pickles, the back door swung open.

“Smells like a cookout for three, but I count four plates,” Tommy drawled, letting himself in like he always did. His jeans were too tight, shirt a little too fitted, like he was contractually obligated to flirt with the universe.

Joel gave him a side glance. “Don’t you have a house?”

“Sure do. But yours has food. And company.”

Tommy’s eyes slid to you, and his grin grew. “Well hey there.”

You smiled. “Hi, Tommy.”

Sarah rolled her eyes dramatically. “Don’t even, Uncle Tommy. She’s my best friend.”

Joel muttered, “God help me,” under his breath and passed you the ketchup.

Halfway through dinner, Tommy was in rare form. He elbowed Joel mid-bite. “So. When’s the last time you cooked like this for anyone?”

Joel didn’t look up. “Don’t start.”

“I’m just sayin’. I visit and get leftover chili. She visits and it’s gourmet.”

You were trying to hide your grin behind your water glass.

Tommy pointed his fork at you. “He always gets like this when you’re around. All tense and upright like he’s bein’ evaluated by the food network. You got the man sweating over burger seasoning.”

Joel groaned. “I swear to God, Tommy.”

Sarah giggled. “He did check the grill temp like, five times.”

You caught Joel’s eye. He looked exasperated, but his ears were red. Very red.

Tommy wasn’t done. “You know, Sarah’s got a good eye. She’s not wrong. This whole thing”—he gestured vaguely between you and Joel—“feels domestic.”

“Tommy,” Joel warned.

Sarah added, “We’re basically a sitcom now. One where the hot dad doesn’t know he’s in love.”

Joel dropped his head into his hands.

Tommy raised his glass. “To sitcoms. And slow burns.”

You didn’t know whether to laugh or run.

Joel caught your eye again. And this time, he didn’t look away.

It wasn’t a big party. That had never been your dad’s style. But the backyard looked sweet under the string lights he’d looped between trees, casting a soft gold hue over the old lawn chairs and the fold-out table covered in mismatched paper plates and bowls of chips. A CD player in the corner hummed the tunes of old country and early 2000s radio hits, the kind your dad thought “young people liked.”

You’d just turned 22. Most of your college friends were scattered across the state—too far to make it for a casual Sunday night cookout. So it was just a few neighbors, your dad manning the grill, and a soft breeze that hinted at the edge of summer’s peak.

Joel showed up just as your dad was tending to the barbeque, Sarah at his side, her curls bouncing in a way that made her look like she was floating toward you. She held out a card like it was a trophy.

“Happy birthday!” she beamed. “I made you a masterpiece.”

You laughed and took it carefully. The card was covered in glitter and tiny doodles: a birthday cake, a sparkly dinosaur wearing sunglasses, and a poorly drawn but heartfelt portrait of you, her, and Joel standing under a rainbow.

“I love it,” you said, genuinely. “I’m framing it.”

“Good,” she grinned. “It took me forty-five minutes and three glitter glue explosions.”

Behind her, Joel gave you a small smile. He was in a dark gray button-down rolled to the elbows and jeans that didn’t look new, but still somehow looked good. Really good. You’d never seen him dressed like this—like he tried, just a little. He was holding a six-pack of Shiner Bock and a small rectangular gift wrapped in brown paper and string.

"Happy birthday," he said, voice quieter. “Didn’t know what to get, so…”

He handed you the gift and scratched at the back of his neck.

You gave him a curious smile as you took it. “Should I open it now?”

He shrugged. “Up to you.”

You peeled back the paper. Inside was a well-worn copy of To Kill a Mockingbird. The corners were softened from age, and the inside cover had a note in Joel’s neat, deliberate handwriting:

“You mentioned this was your favorite once. Figured you should have a version that’s seen a few years too. —J”

For a moment, the backyard went quiet around you—music, chatter, all of it faded. You looked up and met his eyes. Warm. Kind. Embarrassed, maybe. But also something else. Like he saw you in a way that you hadn’t let yourself imagine too much.

“Thank you,” you said, and meant it more than he probably realized.

Sarah was watching the two of you with her arms crossed, smirking. “You two are so obvious.”

Joel cleared his throat and turned toward the food table. “Burgers should be ready soon.”

You followed, your cheeks flushed.

Later, after burgers and sides and Sarah’s overenthusiastic attempts to pin the tail on the inflatable donkey, which your dad found hilarious, the grill was cooling and the sky was a bruised violet. You were inside the kitchen, trying to find a knife that wasn’t dull to slice the birthday cake. Your dad had disappeared, muttering something about “checking the propane line,” which you were 99% sure was code for “giving you space.”

Joel came in behind you with a tray of empty cups. “Need a hand?”

You turned, knife in one hand, cake staring back at you. “Yeah. Unless you wanna watch me murder this thing.”

He smirked, stepping beside you. Close. His shoulder brushed yours as he reached for a stack of plates.

“What kind of cake is this, anyway?” he asked, leaning just enough to read the label on the box.

“Chocolate with strawberry filling. Sarah picked it out. Said it was ‘romantic birthday vibes.’”

Joel laughed softly. “That girl’s gonna run a matchmaking business one day.”

“She already is. We’re just her test subjects.”

You looked up to find him looking down, his eyes flicking to your mouth just for a second. Just a second—but it was enough to knock the air sideways in your lungs.

You turned back to the cake, hoping your hands weren’t shaking. You started to cut, and Joel leaned closer, one hand resting on the counter beside you.

“Need me to steady the plate?” he asked.

Your hands were a little clumsy, distracted by the warmth of him next to you. “Maybe. It’s a two-person job.”

He chuckled, and you could feel the laugh more than hear it—like it buzzed through the space between your arm and his.

Then—

“You guys are standing really close,” Sarah’s voice rang out behind you, making you jump. She was leaning on the doorframe with a smug little grin.

Joel jerked his hand away like he’d been caught stealing.

“I was helping,” he muttered.

“With cake?” Sarah raised an eyebrow.

“Cutting’s an art,” Joel said, deadpan, making her giggle.

You just shook your head and passed her a plate. She skipped off with her prize, leaving you and Joel blinking in the soft hum of the kitchen.

“Thanks,” you said after a beat. “For everything today.”

Joel nodded, still a little red around the ears. “Wasn’t much.”

“It was,” you said. “And the book… I mean it.”

He smiled, shy but genuine. “Glad you liked it.”

And then neither of you moved. The air hung between you like a stretched-out string.

Until Sarah called from outside, “We need cake now!”

Joel exhaled. “Duty calls.”

You followed him out, but something lingered behind in the kitchen—the warmth of him, the nearness, the feeling that this thing between you wasn’t just in your head anymore.

The backyard had emptied. The last of the neighbors had waved their goodbyes. The string lights were still glowing, bugs dancing lazily in their warmth. Your dad had gone to bed after mumbling something about “too many burgers, not enough bourbon,” and the house was quiet now — quiet in a way that left too much room for your thoughts.

You were in the kitchen rinsing out plates, the hem of your party dress damp from leaning too close to the sink, your hands wrinkled and smelling like lemon soap. There was half a chocolate-strawberry cake left, the one Sarah had insisted on, and somehow you couldn’t just toss it.

She would’ve protested. Loudly.

You dried your hands, boxed the leftover slices neatly, and stared at the little pink-and-brown cake box for longer than you needed to.

Your feet moved before you could talk yourself out of it.

It was pushing 10:30, but Joel’s porch light was still on, casting a dim halo around the faded welcome mat. You knocked lightly, the box balanced on your hip.

A few seconds passed. Then the door creaked open.

Joel stood there barefoot in gray sweatpants and a black T-shirt, looking tired in the way only dads could be — soft around the edges but still solid, still present. His hair was tousled, and he looked like he’d only just sat down for the night.

“Hey,” he said, surprised but not unhappy. “Everything alright?”

You held up the cake box like a peace offering. “Didn’t feel right keeping it. Sarah picked it. Thought she might want it.”

He stepped aside, motioning you in. “She would’ve. She’s at Tommy’s tonight, though. Asked to sleep over.”

You paused on the threshold, your heart thudding a little louder. “Oh.”

“Come on in,” Joel said gently. “You sure you’re okay?”

You nodded, stepping inside. The house smelled like clean laundry and cedar. Familiar and warm. Lived-in. You followed him into the kitchen and set the cake down on the counter.

Joel leaned against the doorway, arms crossed. “Long day?”

You smiled faintly. “Fun day. Weird, too. Turning twenty-two in your childhood backyard while your babysitting kid gives you love advice.”

Joel chuckled, eyes crinkling. “Yeah. She’s... somethin’.”

You leaned back on your elbows against the counter. The room was dim — just the small lamp over the sink on — and the silence was comfortable at first. But then it turned charged. He hadn’t moved. Neither had you.

Your gaze drifted. His jaw was stubbled, his hair slightly damp, like maybe he’d just taken a shower. He looked... good. More than good.

You caught him watching you back, just a second too long.

The moment thickened.

“I, uh,” you started, voice catching slightly. “I meant what I said earlier. About the book. It was... really thoughtful.”

Joel looked at you then — really looked — and whatever wall he’d been holding onto, the one made of age difference and neighborly boundaries and the awkwardness of being Sarah’s dad... it cracked.

He pushed off the doorway slowly, walked toward you, stopping just close enough to make your breath hitch.

“I’m glad you liked it,” he said softly.

The space between you was a livewire.

“I keep trying not to think about you like this,” you whispered, voice barely audible.

His jaw tightened — not in anger, but in restraint.

“Me too.”

You didn’t move. Neither did he.

Then — softly, carefully — Joel reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers brushed your cheek, lingered.

“You’re too young for me,” Joel said, the words barely more than a gravel-edged whisper.

You looked up at him, your chest tight, heart thudding in your throat. “I’m not a kid.”

His eyes darkened, like you’d struck a match in the middle of a dry field. He swallowed hard. “I know.”

The silence between you turned into something electric, something living. The only sound was the quiet hum of the fridge and your own uneven breathing.

Joel took a small step forward, just enough to close the last of the space. He stood so close you could see the flecks of gold in his eyes, the faint crease between his brows like he was warring with himself. His hand came up—slow, hesitant—and hovered near your face before he finally gave in and touched you. His thumb skimmed along your jaw, rough fingertips brushing the soft edge of your cheek.

“Been tryin’ real damn hard not to want this,” he said, voice ragged.

Your breath hitched. “Then stop trying.”

That was all it took.

He kissed you.

But it wasn’t soft. It wasn’t tentative. It was weeks, maybe even months of unspoken glances, quiet admiration, long nights with Sarah between you, laughter over coffee, shared space, and now, finally, just the two of you.

His mouth found yours like he’d already dreamed it. His hands were sure now, cupping your face, sliding into your hair, then down—down to your waist, your hips—pulling you flush against him. You made a quiet sound against his mouth and that undid something in him. He groaned, low in his throat, and kissed you deeper, lips parting, tongue brushing yours, slow and deliberate.

You didn’t realize you’d moved until your back hit the counter behind you. His hands braced on either side of you, caging you in but never pressing too hard. Just close. Just real.

You slid your fingers into his hair, damp from a shower or maybe just the heat of the night, tugging lightly. He leaned into your touch, one hand sliding beneath the hem of your shirt at your back—his palm hot against your skin, callused but careful. The contrast made your knees weaken.

When he finally pulled back, he didn’t move far. His forehead rested against yours, his breathing fast, uneven. You could feel his heart pounding through his chest, matching yours like a drumbeat in sync.

“I shouldn’t have done that,” he said again, but this time it sounded like a confession. A regret that wasn’t real.

“But you did,” you whispered, lips still tingling, hand still curled into his shirt like you couldn’t let him go just yet.

Joel’s eyes searched yours, something stormy flickering in their depths. “If you stay... if we do this... it ain’t casual for me. You understand that?”

You nodded slowly.

A beat passed. Then another.

His hand slid to your cheek again, and he kissed you once more—slower this time, a kind of reverence in it. His lips pressed to yours like he was trying to memorize the feel of you. Like he didn’t quite believe it was real.

When he pulled back again, there was a trace of a smile at the corner of his mouth. Tired. Hopeful. Hungry.

“You wanna stay?” he asked softly.

You looked at him, really looked. His bare feet on the kitchen floor. His hair mussed. That tiny crease between his brows. The way his eyes had gone soft, all guarded affection and barely restrained want.

“Yeah,” you said. “I do.”

Joel’s breath was still shallow when he stepped back just enough to look at you, like he was double-checking that you were still there, still real. You didn’t let go of him. Your fingers were still hooked into the front of his shirt, still pressing against the solid warmth of him.

His voice was quiet, low and careful. “If we go upstairs…”

“I know what I’m saying yes to,” you interrupted softly.

He hesitated, studying you like you were a question he’d never been brave enough to answer until now. But something in your face, in your voice, seemed to break whatever final restraint he was holding onto.

Joel nodded once.

Wordless, he took your hand.

The walk through the house was quiet, heavy with tension—not the awkward kind, but the kind that hummed in the air like a string pulled taut. Each step up the stairs felt like it carried weight. Anticipation. Choice.

His bedroom door creaked softly as he pushed it open.

In the dim lighting, it felt intimate. Lived-in but not messy. Clean but unpretentious. The scent of him lingered in the space—cedar soap and sawdust, fabric softener and something deeper, something unmistakably Joel.

He turned to face you in the doorway, fingers still twined with yours.

“You still okay?” he asked, voice rough, eyes searching yours like he was afraid to blink and miss something.

“Yes,” you whispered, breathless. “More than okay.”

Joel looked at you for a long moment. Then he leaned in and kissed you again — deeper this time, with more certainty, like the last of his resistance had slipped loose.

Your fingers slid into his hair, tugging gently, and he groaned softly against your mouth. He tasted like something rich and dark and slow. His hands roamed, reverent and careful, touching you like he was trying to learn you by feel — every curve, every sound you made under his fingertips.

When you gasped as his hand skimmed lower, he paused. “Tell me if you need me to stop,” he murmured into your skin.

You shook your head. “Don’t stop. Please, Joel.”

He kissed down your throat, down your chest, leaving a trail of warmth wherever his lips touched. Your back arched instinctively, your body aching to be closer. There was nothing rushed in the way he undressed you — every movement was measured, like he was unwrapping something he’d wanted for a long, long time but never thought he’d be allowed to have.

And when you were bare beneath him, laid out in the soft hush of his bedroom, you felt more seen — more wanted — than you ever had before.

“You’re so goddamn beautiful,” Joel murmured, his hand brushing along your waist, your hip, your thigh. “Don’t even know what you’re doin’ to me.”

You reached for him, found the hem of his shirt, and he let you lift it up and over his head. He was solid and warm and real beneath your palms, and when you kissed down his chest, he hissed through his teeth — a sound that made heat curl deep in your stomach.

The rest came off piece by piece — not rushed, but not slow either. Just… inevitable.

And then he was over you again, skin to skin, his weight pressing you into the mattress, grounding you. His nose brushed yours, like a silent request.

You cupped his cheek. “I want this. I want you.”

He kissed you again — not soft this time, but sure, open, claiming. His hand slipped under your thigh, lifted you to him, and you felt him press against you, heavy and warm.

You both gasped as your bodies joined — not all at once, but slowly, carefully, like you were fitting puzzle pieces together. Like your bodies already knew the rhythm even if the rest of you hadn’t caught up yet.

Joel’s breath stuttered as he sank fully into you, and for a moment, he just held there — his forehead against yours, both of you trembling, trying to hold on.

“Jesus,” he whispered. “You feel like heaven.”

You didn’t have the words to answer. Just the way your hands clung to him, the way your body opened for him, welcomed him in.

He moved slowly, deliberately — not just fucking you, but feeling you, like this meant something. Like he was afraid to miss it.

And you met him, movement for movement, every breath shared, every sound caught in the dark like a secret.

There was something tender in the way he whispered your name when you cried out his — something reverent, like he couldn’t believe he was allowed to have you like this. And when your body tightened around him, shuddered beneath him, he caught you through it, kissed your cheek, your mouth, your neck — whispered that you were perfect, that you were his.

He followed soon after, his voice breaking into a groan as he pressed as deep as he could, shaking with the force of it, with everything he’d been holding back.

When it was over, he didn’t move far. Just enough to roll you gently to your side and pull you close, your bodies still tangled together, still warm and slick with each other.

You felt him kiss your shoulder, then your neck. “You okay?” he asked again, voice softer than ever.

“Yeah,” you murmured. “Joel…”

He pulled you tighter. “I got you, baby. I got you.”

You tucked your face into the space between his neck and shoulder, listened to his heartbeat.

And that’s how you stayed — wrapped in warmth, in quiet, in something neither of you were ready to name, but both of you felt all the same.

Where the hell does he get off talking to you that way?

You sink into the repeating pattern of frustration, your mind humming the same old bars - Who does he think he is? Why won't he just cooperate like the rest of you? How does he do this to you every time?

As you stalk through the forest, your head is still echoing with your latest bout. He's been shrugging you off, pushing back every time your paths cross. Each time, you think, this will be it - you're going to make him look you in the eyes and answer your questions. You're going to find out what he's doing here. What his intentions are.

It never happens.

Since Joel and his brother joined your group a few weeks ago, you've been on more on-edge every day. It's like the closer you get to Boston, the more reactive you are. The more it feels like there is at stake. And now, here are Joel and Tommy - two unknowns. It's unsettling. And Joel's closed-off demeanor isn't helping.

So, you break the rules, just this once. You've been on the road for months without a moment of real privacy. The group had decided long ago that nobody left camp with less than two people, for safety. But right now, you're tired of the rules. You need to get away, and you already know the area. You'd scouted the location as part of a pair earlier in the day, and you'd seen a few rabbits along the way. It's the perfect excuse to get some time to clear your head.

You hear a rustling in the tall grass and train your rifle on it, only to lose the rabbit as it tears off into the woods. You didn't even have time to think about lining up a shot. Joel is taking up too much space in your head right now. Nothing else is even making a dent.

You all have things you'd rather keep personal, but he didn't have to be such an asshole about it. He didn't have to get up and walk away like you weren't even worth his time.

And he didn't have to tell you off in that smooth, authoritative voice of his, either.

"I just asked where you're from, that's all. What is your problem? The rest of us are open with each other. If I had my way, that's how it would have to be for everyone in this camp - no secrets. No strangers. Just honesty."

"S'a good thing you don't make the decisions 'round here, then, ain't it?"

Your face burns with equal parts embarrassment and irritation.

Shit. Here comes another rabbit that you aren't ready for.

You make a half-hearted effort to raise up your rifle again, only realizing too late that the thing emerging from the grass is much bigger than what you've been hunting.

The creature gurgles, crawling and then lunging at you while you choke on a scream.

Stumbling backward, you throw up an arm against its chest, pushing the gnashing teeth from your face and using your other hand to yank on the tattered remains of a jacket around its shoulders. It does no good, and in a matter of seconds your arms are caught in a too-human grip as it throws you to the ground. The noise in your throat finally escapes as panicked whimpering.

You are about to die.

That's all you have time to think before a gunshot rings out in the clearing.

The infected thrashes wildly, sprawling over you and eventually going still. Hyperventilating, you look around for anything else that might emerge from the tall grass while you're pinned beneath the dead weight.

There's only silence, and your frantic breathing.

When nothing else comes, you try to free your legs, and after struggling to get enough purchase against the ground, you drag yourself out from underneath it, gasping for air.

"Jesus Christ, Jesus Christ...."

You repeat it absently, mind half-gone with fear as you look behind you, searching for the source of the gunshot.

Joel steps through the trees in the distance, reloading as he glances around the area, waiting for more to emerge. As you stumble toward him on shaking legs, he brings his eyes over to you.

"Sh-shit. Thank you," you tell him, hating the way your voice is trembling. You've seen infected before, even killed a few, but this is the closest you've ever come to a bite. You can't hide your fear; can't save face now.

He nods stiffly. "Alright?"

"Yeah." You cough, trying to swallow and nod your head at the same time. "Yeah, yeah, I think so."

"You think so?"

His question sinks in. You force yourself to stop coughing and get somewhat more composed. Then you nod again. "I'm fine."

He looks over your shoulder, still watching your surroundings. "What are you doin' out here on your own?"

"I was... hunting."

You've almost closed the gap between you, and Joel takes one step back.

"Rule is, no less than two."

You blink. "Yeah. Yeah, I know. But... I scouted this area earlier. I didn't think it would be a problem."

"Well, now we got a problem."

You stop walking toward him. "What?"

"You've been out here on your own for how long?" he asks.

You're silent.

"How long?"

"Just a little while."

Admitting it's been hours is not going to help your case.

"Any more of those?"

You shake your head. "That was the first I saw."

"And you said you're fine."

"Yes," you insist. "It didn't bite me. I swear."

His dark eyes run over your body, and he stands still, clearly listening for anything else that might be out there. The tension grows thick, and when he finally speaks again, it's low, and grave, and final.

"I'm gonna need to see."

Your heart skips a beat. "What?"

He gives an abrupt nod downward. "You're gonna get your clothes off, and we're gonna see if you're telling the truth before we head back to camp."

Your whole face flushes with heat. Something shifts inside you, the gravity of the situation hitting you in the stomach.

"I am not doing that."

"Then I'm not takin' you back."

"I'll go on my own."

When you take a quick step to walk past him, he trains the end of his rifle on you. "No, you won't."

You freeze, locking eyes with him. He shoulders the gun so easily, like it's second nature. He isn't jumpy, hands tense on the grip. Just steady. Matter-of-fact.

"S'like you said before," he tells you. "We're strangers. And you already lied to me once."

You give a questioning look and he shakes his head. "Nobody's seen you since you talked to me. Been out here for hours."

Your breath tightens. He didn't show up by chance. They sent him. And they didn't send someone who knew you well - someone to keep you safe. They sent him because they knew he wouldn't have a problem putting you down if it needed to be done.

Or maybe...

Maybe they didn't send him at all. Maybe you're just alone in the woods with a man who's holding a gun and telling you to take your clothes off.

There's no point in wondering. Your options are the same.

"I-" Your voice breaks on the single syllable. You try again. "I... can't, I-"

You can see from his face that nothing you can say will make a difference.

"Alright," you finally say quietly. You take a breath. "Just- just give me a second."

You slide the pack from your shoulders, slowly. No sudden movements. After you set it on the ground, Joel lowers his weapon, holding it sideways. As you reach for the hem of your thin t-shirt, he lifts his chin just a little - the only change on his face.

You squeeze a blink a little longer than you need to, hesitating, and he just lets the silence grow. It's almost worse that way. You wish he would shout at you - tell you you're wasting time; being stupid. That this doesn't matter.

But it does to you. And his quiet patience is making this feel like more than the cold, clinical thing it should be.

You can't look at him as you lift your shirt up, revealing your stomach. You try not to think about him following your every move, searching every inch of your bare skin. As you toss the shirt over onto your backpack, your arms reflexively move to cross over your chest, to cover yourself up, though your bra is still doing most of the covering.

"Turn around."

He doesn't waste any time, doesn't make any comments. Just gets straight to the point. You turn slowly, trembling despite focusing so hard on pretending this isn't affecting you. When you complete your circle, you meet his eyes for the first time.

You don't know what you expected to see there. Derision? Interest? A bitten lip; a lewd grin? You don't see... anything. He's as reserved as ever.

Your fingers work to unbutton your jeans, and just as you begin to peel the fabric down your hips, he interrupts.

"You're shaking."

You look up at him, trying to make your voice hard. "Yeah. I am."

"Well, why are you shakin' like that if you told me the truth?"

You bit your lip on the inside, staring at him. Would that information be smart or stupid to share? Looking at him right now, you don't know. So you stay quiet.

His finger eases toward the trigger, though he doesn't point the gun at you. Yet.

"Well?"

Doesn't matter if it's smart. You're going to have to say something. And your brain hasn't caught up enough to come up with a lie. Not one that he wouldn't see right through, anyway.

"I've never... done this before."

"Done what?" His voice is harsh.

You can't meet his eyes. "Been undressed. With someone. With a man."

He fixes you with a stare. His eyes don't widen; his face just drops. He doesn't look shocked. He looks frozen. Petrified.

"You're sayin'-"

"Yeah," you cut him off a little too quickly. "Yeah, that's what I'm saying."

He doesn't reply, and when the moment gets too tense for you to say anything more, you take a deep breath and start to push your jeans the rest of the way down your hips.

"That's enough."

You stop, thumbs pressed inside denim, and stare upward. "You- you sure?"

He nods just once. "Yeah."

You can see him swallow as he steps forward, picking up your shirt and handing it back to you. You let go of the fabric in your hands to take your shirt from him.

"Okay," you answer, half-numb as you put the shirt back on. "Thanks."

The front of your jeans is still open, and he looks away while you zip yourself up, then mutters, "S'get headed back. Gonna be dark soon."

You pick up your backpack first, then your gun, and move to follow him toward the path. You walk in silence for some time, watching his broad frame clear the branches ahead of you.

A long time passes before he speaks up again. When he does, you're emerging from the forest, the last golden rays of the sun bathing the camp in the distance.

"Austin."

You slow down and turn to look at him.

"You asked. Before."

He holds your gaze, then keeps hiking toward camp as he speaks to you without looking back. "I'm from Austin."

And just like that, you aren't strangers.

--

You don't remember exactly when he became the dog at your heel. It happened in pieces; moments.

He'd brought you a hunting knife. Clean and sharp - not rusted at the handle like the one you'd been using. He switched out the batteries in your flashlight without saying a word. He didn't argue anymore when you asked him to move his stuff, or stand in your way when you were trying to work.

One night, when you mention a hunt in the morning, he says, "Wake me when you go." And you do.

Things are different, now. Neither of you wants to look at it too hard. You don't know why he won't, but you know damn well why you won't - he's been all you can think about since that day in the woods.

If you're being honest, even before that.

He treats you unlike anyone else in camp, and they all know it. You both know it. But neither one of you will speak about it.

Not until the night you're sitting in the woods together, alone, and you can't hold back anymore.

Face illuminated by a single battery-powered lantern, you listen to the crickets, and you think about what it could mean to say it out loud.

He holds up his jacket, pulling you from your thoughts.

"You cold?"

You shake your head, then immediately regret it. It's a warm night, but god, it would have been nice to wrap yourself inside it. Smell him on the collar.

You watch him, analyzing his movements. The tightening of his arms as he rolls up his jacket to put it in his pack. The slow way he looks up and out of your campsite, staring into the woods like he can see something you can't. The way he deliberately keeps his eyes from drifting in your direction. Like he can't feel you watching him.

"Do you ever..." You start, then stop, hesitating. Is this too much? Are you about to fuck this up entirely?

When he fixes you with that impatient stare, his big brown eyes holding you by the neck, it doesn't matter anymore. You force the rest of the words out.

"Do you ever wonder exactly where you'd be right now, if it wasn't for..." You gesture vaguely to the state of the world with a flick of your wrist. "All this?"

He blinks, almost flinches, before he answers. "No."

He's lying. You can always tell when he answers too quickly. You wait for more.

"No sense wonderin' about anything besides the here-and-now."

He turns away, looking forward, and you match him. "Yeah, I guess you're right."

You tense up even more, stomach squirming as you fight your nerves. "I... sometimes do anyway, though. Think about the choices I made before the outbreak. If I would have done things differently, would I have ended up somewhere else."

You fiddle with the end of your shoelace. "I always felt kind of stupid for some of my choices. But, now, I..." You turn to him. "I'm sort of glad I ended up where I did."

He looks back at you. Swallows thickly. "We oughta get some sleep."

Your heart is pounding. If you back out now, you're never going to get the courage again. "Joel."

He just stares, setting his jaw.

"I'm glad I ended up here. With you."

You lean in and kiss him.

He pulls in a breath through his nose, as sharp and sudden as if he'd stepped on a nail. Blood is thrumming in your ears, your arm shaking as you hold yourself up, leaning on one hand to reach him. His mouth opens up for you, letting his lips softly meet yours - once, twice, three perfect times - before he pulls back.

He stares at you with wide, unblinking eyes.

"The hell are you doing?"

"Wh-what?" you murmur back, reeling. His response catches you like a slap. You try to speak, but all that comes out is a stammering mess. "I'm sorry. I thought... I mean, I just thought you..."

"You don't have to tell me what you thought," he interrupts. "Just quit thinkin' it."

He had leaned into it. Hadn't he? You'd felt him kiss you back.

Didn't you?

Something occurs to you that hadn't, before. "Is there somebody-"

"No."

"Then why-"

"I'm old enough to be your..." He cuts himself off. "No. Alright? Flat-out. No."

He stands to get his bed roll, walking away.

"I'm old enough to make my own decisions," you say quietly.

He picks up his bedding in a stiff hand, glaring at it. Then he looks back at you. "That don't make it right."

You try to come up with something to say, but nothing comes out.

"Get some rest. We got a long way back in the mornin'."

--

6 Months Later

It turns out, groups that arrive together at the Boston QZ are processed into housing at the same time, which meant that you weren't surprised the first time you saw him across the hall in your building. You were, however, a little surprised when you always seemed to find yourself getting the same job assignments at the same times, and finding the same extracurricular activities as well.

There are only so many smuggling routes in and out of the area, and Joel seems to make it his business to join you on as many runs as his schedule will allow. Somehow, you thought things might be different here. That you might go your separate ways. If anything, he's around more often now that things are quieter. Always finding something in your apartment that needs fixing. Always trailing along with you to one job or another, above-board or below.

And the day you twist your ankle on a sanitation shift, you're glad for it.

"Ah-" You suck air between your teeth, resting your foot on the ground fully for the first time. "Shit, it hurts."

Joel wipes his hand on a rag, brows furrowed. "Put it down flat."

You give him a pleading look, but he stares back harder, and you straighten out your arch, wincing slightly.

"Ain't that bad. You'll be alright."

You huff out a breath. "Well it's going to be a bitch walking home."

He softens.

You were more-or-less complaining just to complain, but he silences you when he spreads his arms, gesturing for you to come closer.

"Come on. C'mere."

He pulls your arm up and over his mountain of a shoulder. Then he wraps an arm around your waist, the both of you facing forward. The feeling of him holding you steady is enough to knock you right out at the knees, and - Christ - how is it possible he smells so good when he's sweating down the front of his shirt?

"Go on and use me like you need to."

He grunts the words simply, and you look over at him for a reaction, but he just nudges his chin ahead. He's telling you to walk.

Oh. You're supposed to be walking. Not thinking about how many times you've dreamed of him saying those words in a different context.

The trip is short; only a few blocks, but you spend every moment of it focused on the weight of his arm and the feeling of his hand gently holding you up. You stumble once, reaching the stairs to your building, and he catches you like a seatbelt across your waist. There's no give, his arm bracing you like a steel bar. He lets out a soft sound, more from surprise than effort.

"Steady," he tells you, his voice a little too tender to be any type of warning.

You catch his eyes, and he glances away first.

"Oughta... take a minute," he says, slowly extricating himself so as not to let you slip.

You nod, leaning against the handle at the lowest section of concrete stairs. "Yeah. Thanks."

He nods in a way that's sort of shaking his head at the same time; the way he always tells you that you're welcome without admitting he did something. Then he looks down. "How's it feeling?"

You sit down, stretching out your foot and rotating it a bit. "Think I'll be fine. It doesn't... really feel that bad after all."

He reaches for his back pocket, pulling out a flask. "Here. Take the edge off."

You look at him in surprise, deciding whether or not to comment on him walking around all day with this. You settle on a glance of silent thanks instead, and unscrew the top.

Tamping down the childish thrill running through you at the idea of putting your lips where his have been, you take a tentative pull, and wince. "Gin?"

His mouth curls up at the edges, not quite forming a smile. "You'll be first to know when we get a good shipment of bourbon in here."

You wipe your mouth, handing it back to him. "Oh come on. Caroline's gotta have something better than this."

He shrugs at the mention of your mutual acquaintance through smuggling channels. Then you watch his throat bob as he takes a long drink. "Does the job."

It must burn him as badly as it did you, but he doesn't show it.

You take a moment to breathe, stretching out your ankle and feeling where it's tender. After the moment passes, you bring your eyes up to Joel again.

"Thanks. For the help."

He holds your gaze a little longer this time. "Aht's okay."

He breaks it off again, to look ahead. "Think you can make it?"

You haven't stopped looking his way. "Yeah."

He gives you a sidelong glance, but doesn't fully turn his head. "Alright, then."

You start up the stairs, slowly, gripping the rail, and you talk as you walk.

"Can I... ask you something?"

"Uh huh," he allows, taking the stairs alongside you and watching as you go.

"When we made it here, to Boston, I kinda thought you... might not be around anymore. I figured you'd go with Tommy and..." You trail off. "Well, I'm just... happy you're still here. Happy, and surprised."

He turns the corner, looking at you as you reach the second floor. "Tommy... doesn't really need me anymore. Not the way he used to."

"And I do?"

He glances down at your foot, and you're forced to concede his point. "Fair enough."

The But part of your sentence draws out while he reaches his arm out, letting you grip onto him as you turn down the hallway. You rest your hand as lightly as you can on his arm. Truthfully, you hardly need it. But you aren't going to turn it down.

"But..." you continue, holding onto him. "I'm sure there are plenty of other people who could use someone like you around."

He lets the silence grow, and it's not until you reach his door that he gives a response. "What's your point?"

"The point is..." You bite your lip and slow down, forcing him not to walk any further; not to reach your door. "The point is, why spend all this time helping me out if you're not going to get anything in return?"

You hate the way it sounds; like you're accusing him of being selfish. You've rehearsed asking him this countless times, but it always comes out wrong.

"I don't want anything in return."

"I know that," you say quickly, frustrated with yourself. "I know. I just..."

You meet his warm gaze and get lost in it, the way he always looks at you - soulful and bitter, all at once. Like there are a million things he wants to say to you and blame you for.

"What if I really, really want to give you something in return?"

An exhale. A warning.

"I can't help it," you murmur softly, a little self-pitying. Maybe it's a little of the liquor helping to loosen everything you constantly have to hide behind your teeth. Maybe it's just the way he's letting you hold onto him, for once not distancing himself. "I just... really..."

You close your eyes and softly brush your lips against his. He just stands there, rigid and silent as a brick wall. Unyielding. But not moving.

When you bring your hand up to his chest, you force yourself to pull back and look at him. Your head feels lighter than air, and you can hardly stammer out, "I- I'm sorry, that was stupid. I shouldn't have done that."

He swallows, eyes accusatory and darker than you've ever seen them. His voice is hoarse when he finally speaks.

"Got that right."

An explosive ringing in your ears drowns out all of your thoughts in an instant as he presses you up against the wall and crushes his lips against yours.

He cradles your neck in his hand, steadying your mouth with his thumb so he can press into you again and again, hungry and reckless. You moan quietly against him, and he hasn't even dipped his tongue inside. He's just methodically, ruthlessly tearing you apart with the softness of his mouth.

"Fuck," you whine, breathless. "God- Wanted this so bad..."

"Quit," he grinds out. When he pulls back to nip at your jaw, he wraps his hands tight around your waist. "You don't listen to me. I said no."

You nod, whines turning high and throaty as he drags his teeth along your neck. "Told you to leave it be." His teeth sink in. "Told you I can't give you what you're askin'."

He kisses you again, pulling all the breath from your chest and sending every thought of arguing flying from your mind.

"Joel..."

He draws in a deep breath at the sound of his name spilling out of your mouth. You wrap your arms around his neck and draw him in closer, tasting him as deeply as he'll let you, and he groans. The sound goes straight between your legs.

"Please," you whisper against his lips. "Touch me, please-"

He looks at you with those sad brown eyes, and whispers back achingly, "Jesus, girl..."

And then he does.

He presses you back against the wall, teasing you through your jeans with two fingers. Your brows squeeze together, soft whines pouring out of you, urging him not to stop. Your legs are already shaking, ankle long forgotten as sharp pleasure mixes with the thrill and terror of him opening you up and pouring you out in the middle of the hallway.

He slides his big, warm hand between the fabric and your skin, and suddenly he's there. Just stroking you like it's where he's meant to be. Slowly drawing his middle finger through what he's done to you.

"F-ffuck-" you gasp, half-relieved and the rest of you already overwhelmed. "Oh my god..."

He pushes his hand deeper into your jeans and you can feel yourself gushing an embarrassing flood around his fingers.

"Christ," he breathes, knocking his head forward against the wall and closing his eyes, resting there for a moment. "You're so fuckin' wet. This all from just..."

You nod your head frantically, and he swallows, suddenly looking even more wracked with guilt.

"Shouldn't be doin' this," he tells you, even as his thick fingers curl up and push inside you.

A moan escapes you before you can stop it, and he covers your mouth, holding you tight beneath his palm. He looks down the hall, as if waiting for someone to step out. He slides his palm from your mouth once you've quieted, and you follow his line of sight, then glance at the door beside you.

"Take me inside," you pant out, helping him make the decision you can already see behind his eyes.

He hesitates only for a second, then pulls his hand from you to get his keys.

As he forces you backward through the open door, it's like his muscles don't even have to work to make you step in time with him. His shoulders are strong and steady, and you're on his bed before you can even think to catch yourself.

"Don't know the first goddamn thing 'bout what you're askin' for." His voice is plaintive, broken. Like he's lost a fight.

His hands find your waistband and he gets your jeans open faster than you'd have thought possible. His big palm cups you, not wasting any time. His middle finger paints circles over wet fabric and he leans right up against your ear. "You want me to take care of you, I'll take care of you."

His arm has you pinned down hard, and you're gripping it as he plays with you.

"But there's nothin' more I can do than that. You hear me?"

You nod, hiccuping instead of talking. Air is coming in choking gasps. He isn't going slow, giving you time to get used to the sensation. He's rubbing you wetter and wetter with a pace that shows his experience.

"F-fuck," you bite out, all of your senses overwhelmed. You want to tell him exactly how badly you've wanted this, and for how long. To beg him not to stop. But you can't get out anything but gasps. And it only worsens when he tugs your panties to the side.

"Shit. Joel-"

He's kissing down the open neckline of your shirt, skipping deliberately over your chest and stomach before he kneels at the edge of the bed. Slowly - achingly slowly - he slides his middle two fingers into your pussy and watches it like it's tearing him apart.

"This what you wanted, babygirl?" he asks, eyes drawing back up to your face. His thick fingers work you open, getting slicker each time he drags them in and out.

Your voice snaps in half, a whine turning ragged as your head falls back. Then he curls his knuckles, sliding deeper, and you feel him lean forward.

He pushes his tongue into you, and you feel the Earth shift.

"J-Joel!"

You can only think his name - nothing else exists. You reach for his temple, threading your fingers through his soft hair, and you lose yourself completely.

He groans and laps up the river of slick pouring out of you, fingers moving in perfect strokes. He's crushing you into the bed, like a punishment for asking more than he's willing to give, as he buries his face deeper into you.

He pulls his mouth off you long enough to pant out, "Taste so fuckin' good," like it's a confession he doesn't want to make. You see yourself glistening on his lips and all you can do is make a high, pathetic noise in your throat. He's fucking stunning - all hard angles and fury and guilt as he presses into you again.

He flicks his tongue over your clit and you can't last. It's too much - the feel of him being so close, touching you like no one else has. The hurt, angry glares that are seeping out of him despite his desperation to drink down every bit of you...

You come suddenly, pulling tight and unwinding the thread he's wrapped around you all at once. Your legs shake, pussy spasming as he holds you down and rides you through it.

And after you've drawn out the wave of your orgasm, he holds you there, still.

And his mouth softly starts to move again.

"Hah! Ahh-shit sshhit, stop! Stopstopstop," you hiss out between your teeth.

"You're not done."

You whimper, high and throaty. Yes, you are. It's going to hurt. You're going to-

"I am, Jesus, please, Joel-"

He spreads you with his fingers, mean and quick, looking between your legs to line up his mouth again. He swallows, then pushes his tongue hard into your swollen clit, rubbing it like he's trying to make you cry. It keeps you held up, floating on this slick plateau, and soon enough he shows you that he's in control here for a reason.

Your thighs squeeze around him without your permission. One of your hands grasps helplessly at his thick curls, and you come a second time. So fucking hard that it's embarrassing.

The tightness between your thighs snaps, bursting into a relief that settles, lighter than air, inside your chest. Panting, you hear your own voice breaking, murmuring praises, curses, half-formed words.

He keeps his mouth right where it is, resisting your hands at his shoulders until your frantic pushing turns weak, distracted and spent. He only lets up when you crumple, a whimpering mess beneath him.

And then he crawls up the bed, still dressed, to collapse beside you.

--

The next morning, everything's cold. The apartment, the sheets, your skin.

Joel's gone.

After some time wandering his kitchen, you give up on looking for a note. That isn't his style.

Neither are explanations.

You don't really need one, though. It's clear he hates himself for what's he's done. Maybe hates you, too.

A week passes, and you don't hear from him. You knock at his door without response. You take a different work shift to try and cross paths, but he's always somehow on a different schedule. Eventually, slowly, you begin to run into him again. He gives you sullen, empty nods when you see him in the hall. You give him hopeful glances that go unmet when you find him working across from you.

The whole thing should be awkward, but it isn't. It's smoldering. It hurts, and the worst part is, you're leaning into the pain.

Finally, one day, you have a good enough excuse to knock on his door and stay there until he answers. It takes a long time. But you know he's waiting for you to leave, and you aren't budging.

After some time, he opens the door, bleary-eyed and dressed in a t-shirt and jeans. You've never seen him quite like this - less of a force of nature. Now he almost seems like just... a man. You weren't prepared for his salt-and-pepper curls to look so soft and touchable, matted up at the back of his head. He's been sleeping, you realize.

And he's waiting for you to say something.

"Caroline," you blurt. Then you pause, trying to remember the excuse that's put you in front of him. "She uh, found a job for me, uptown. Area Two."

He stares. "Alright."

"It's worth twice what we've been making on those tunnel runs."

He says nothing. You can't interpret this quiet, so you keep going.

"And, well... I was kind of hoping you'd help me out for half the cut."

"Caroline..." he drawls, shifting his weight, "Ain't exactly reliable."

"No," you concede. "But the pay is worth it. And it's easy work. Just have to meet a couple of guys and get around one checkpoint. That's it."

"Who are the guys?"

"I'm not sure. I didn't, uh, get names..."

Joel looks off to the side, clarifying, "Who do they belong to?"

You bite the corner of your lip. "Robert."

His posture changes, and you know the conversation is over. "Forget it."

"It's good money."

"Sure is," he replies easily. "But Robert's people are dangerous. Unpredictable. It ain't worth the risk."

"It's worth it to me."

"Don't," he warns.

"If you won't go, I'll find someone else who will."

"Then you're a damn fool. And so's Caroline for sendin' you."

It stings, but you push back. "I really think you should consider it. This run could... could change things."

"Listen." All the tiredness leaves his expression and he stands up straight. "I am tellin' you. Don't take this job."

You bite your lip. "I already took it. Guess I'll just have to find someone else."

He stiffens, looking like he's going to say something else, but doesn't. You watch him fall back into a familiar, blank expression.

"Well, have at it, then."

He moves to close the door, and you hand him a slip of paper before he can get it shut. "The address. In case you change your mind."

He looks down at the paper, then back up at you.

"Good luck," he says.

And for a moment, he actually seems to mean it.

Then the door closes, and you're on your own.

--

"You said you weren't coming."

Only hours later, and you've spent half the evening running for your life.

Joel had been right. In a way. The job was dangerous, but no more so than you'd expected. It might not have been so dangerous, though, had he not emerged from the darkness with guns blazing as soon as you seemed a little out of your depth.

He's taken you to a sort of safe house, at the midway point near your usual tunnel routes. There's an old hotel here that has some relatively cleaned-up rooms, and he's locked the door behind you after doubling back to make sure you weren't followed.

"Are you going to answer me?"

"What?" he snarls, bolting the door and not looking at you as he crosses the room.

You're still reeling, trying to keep your voice steady. "Two men are dead, Joel."

He faces you. "Two men who put their hands on you."

"I had it under control. Then you showed up in the middle of things. Why?"

He avoids your eyes for as long as he can, and finally answers, "Caroline sent me. Didn't want you going alone."

That makes you freeze.

You weigh your options, and then you lower your tone. "Did she?"

"Yes." He leans into the word.

When a deep silence pervades the space between you, there's only one thing left to say.

"That's interesting. Because this isn't Caroline's job. It's Jonathan's."

"Who the hell is Jonathan?"

"Caroline's new partner. It's kind of a messy situation. One you would have known about if you'd let me tell you. If you'd agreed to come in the first place."

His gaze shifts away, and then he takes in a breath as if to say something, but you cut him off.

"Why do you keep doing this?"

"Doin' what?"

"You say you won't show up, and then you do. You say you don't feel anything for me, but... do we really have to keep going like this?" Your voice goes soft, though you don't mean to let it. "What is it about me that makes you lie?"

He shakes his head. He doesn't answer.

You drop the pack you've been carrying from your shoulders to the floor, and sit on the end of the bed.

"You keep pushing me away and dragging me back all at once. Like..." you raise your head up to look at him. "Like what happened between us."

"We don't need to talk about that."

"I do."

He glances over at the door. At the bedspread. Anywhere but you. "I shoulda never let that happen. I knew better."

Your brows push together. "Knew better? Better than what?"

"Than..." he trails off. "Doesn't matter."

You exhale, tired of dancing around things. "I've been honest with you from the start. I don't understand why you can't be honest with me."

"'Cause I'm not..." His face suddenly holds a pained expression, and he doesn't finish.

You stand up, closing the distance between you slowly. "Not what?"

"Damn it, M'not gonna ruin the one good thing left."

You stop, stunned. "That's... that's what you think?"

"Yes."

"You think I'm..." Heat flushes into your face as you try to put the words together. "What, just this innocent girl who's- who's gonna be ruined as soon as I fall into bed with somebody?"

"No," he answers quickly, then takes a step toward you when you back away. "No. Not somebody. Me."

You blink. "What?"

"You wanna talk about it? Fine. We'll talk. You think I... got something to offer you. Some kinda life. But I don't."

"Joel..."

"I wanted you from day one. 'Course I fuckin' did. That don't mean anything."

The wind knocked out of you, all you can think is to softly reply, "Even if I want you back?"

He doesn't reply. His arms stay stiff at his sides as you come closer.

"Even if it's what I want, more than anything?"

"You don't know what the hell you want," he says softly, almost a whisper. There's no bite in his tone; he's only trying to convince himself.

You study him, pieces finally fitting together where they never had before.

"The thing is," you tell him, starting slowly and finding your way, "you think you have to keep me safe. Protect me from the big, bad, world out there. And you keep fucking it up."

His eyes flash, like you've punched him.

"You fucked up today, just by showing up. You fucked up a few weeks ago when you left me alone in your bed. You're gonna fuck things up right now when you break my heart again."

Joel's jaw is set, stiff. He looks like he hasn't breathed since you started speaking.

"You think I have any kind of future in this world without you? I need you, Joel. And I need you to stop fucking up."

There's a silence that seems to go on forever. You've either wrecked things irreparably between you, or...

"You need me?"

The words come out of him like each one has climbed out of his chest, fighting all the way.

You nod, holding his gaze and reveling in the way he looks back at you. He crowds you up against the bed, until your knees are at the edge, and slowly draws his hands up to cup your jaw.

"I need you. More than you know."

When he kisses you, it's completely new, like you've never kissed him before. All the hesitation is gone. It's just want. Raw and seething. 

"Goddamnit," he murmurs at the corner of your mouth. "Knew from the start you'd make a fool outta me."

He pushes you back, spreading you over the bed, and holds you down with the weight of him. Between gasps as he sucks at the skin of your neck, you grip at the nape of his neck, ruffling his hair and begging him for more - for everything he'll give you.

He sinks his fingers beneath your clothes and finds you soaked. He stops kissing you long enough to husk against your ear, "Alright, then. Gonna give you what you need."

"Mm- Joel, please."

You're prepared to plead with him all night if that's what it takes, but it doesn't take more than a few seconds of him feeling how wet you are - how ready you've been since he started kissing you. He jerks off his belt, the buckle clinking as he fits his knees around the outside of your spread legs.

He's only rucked down your pants enough to feel you. The fabric is bunched around your thighs, and he settles over it to slide his two center fingers inside you. "Gonna make it feel good for you, sweetheart. Gonna take things slow."

You whimper something, and he makes you repeat it.

"I said, I can't take it slow," you pant, as he kisses up your jaw and draws his fingers in and out of you. "Been waiting too long. Need you inside me."

You're ready, again, to beg, but he doesn't make you. Just growls and curses in between telling you how perfect you are; how good he's gonna make you feel.

When he pulls down his jeans, he doesn't break away from your mouth. You don't even see him. You just feel him - hard, heavy and big, pressed up against you when his fingers leave.

"Fuck," you sigh, relieved and nervous all at once. You've waited too long for this moment to let it show on your face, but you're intimidated just from the size of him. You meet his eyes, and he pushes in.

Just the head is already so much. The stretch is nearly unbearable, and you know you're not doing a good job of hiding it, because he stops.

"Hurts?"

You hesitate, then nod. "Feels... I don't know."

He kisses your cheek. "S'okay. We'll slow down."

He pulls out a little, then fills you up again. His thumb finds your clit, steady and slow. There's no search for it. He just reaches down and starts to ease the tension, using your pussy like it's always belonged to him.

"S'right, babygirl," he praises softly. "You can take it. Relax."

He starts to move again, and you start to crave more of the stretch. The feeling of his head catching each time he pulls out and pushes back in is starting to build a steady warmth inside you, making you close your eyes and seek it out until you recognize it as pleasure. You give him a little whine to show you want more.

Even with your eyes closed, you can hear the little half-smile he's holding through a huffed breath. "That's it. Tell me what you need."

"More," you plead, barely able to get the word out.

It's enough. He bends down harder into the mattress and pushes deeper, opening you up a little more with each slow, slick thrust, until he's filling you all the way. On the last couple of strokes, he wrenches out a groan that makes you snap open your eyes.

"Je-sus," he moans. Seeing him overwhelmed at the feeling is almost better than him being completely inside you. His hand slides to your stomach and he presses down gently as he thrusts in and out, watching himself disappear inside, over and over.

Your eyes roll closed again with the new pressure making sure you feel every inch of him. "Fuck. So- so good..."

His pace picks up at hearing you say it. Like he's been waiting for permission, and now the leash is off. He pulls back his fingers, stops playing with you. He needs both hands to hold himself up as he finds a rhythm so smooth and deep that you can feel it rolling in waves from your center to your toes.

"Thought about this so much," you confess, something wicked curling in your stomach at the sight of him fucking into you, chasing his own pleasure. His hand isn't at your clit anymore because this isn't about pleasing you. It's about taking what he needs, even if just for a moment.

"I fucking... touched myself dreaming about this, Joel."

"Fuck, baby," he groans, then drops his head, slowing for a moment as if to let your words sink in. He sits up slightly, pressing his knees down beside you to tear off his shirt. He fusses with the top two buttons of the dark green flannel and then rips it off the rest of the way, shucking off his t-shirt underneath.

And god, it feels like heaven when he sinks back into you. Letting you feel him - really feel him, wrapping your arms around the soft skin of his broad shoulders. There's something so beautiful about him spread over you, bare-chested while you stay almost entirely clothed. You want to stay like this forever.

He grinds into you, spitting out your name like it's been held inside him for too long, and after he's felt you as deeply as he wanted to, he pulls back to sink his hand between your bodies again. "Got no damn idea how bad I... fuck... how bad you were teasin' me."

"Shit." What he's saying, along with what is hand is doing, is too much. You can't take it. "No-no, I'm gonna... I'm gonna..."

"Come on, baby, that's right..."

He coaxes you right over the edge with his gravel-dark voice, and you sob out his name, pressing your face into the warm side of his neck as you come. He wrings every last drop from you, fucking you through it and waiting until you go limp before he changes the pace again.

When his hands tighten around the soft inner skin of your knee, he tells you soft and low - "Gonna come inside you."

It isn't a question, and he buries himself a few more times before he's already filling you up. You wouldn't have asked for anything else, letting the remnants of your orgasm spread a delirious smile across your face as he comes, letting it drip down the sides of your legs as he just keeps thrusting and thrusting and thrusting. When he slows and stops, it's only with the sounds of sheer exhaustion. 

Joel isn't a hurried man. He's impatient, sure, but he doesn't do things by halves. He stays like this, with his cock sunk deep inside you, for so long that you catch your breath and have plenty of time to stroke his hair, his cheek, his brow.

He kisses down your face, and up the other side, telling you how well you took him. Promising you didn't come too soon, and you have the rest of the night to come again. Begging you not to move yet; just let him feel you a little longer before he pulls out.

When he finally does, Joel cleans you up like the gentleman he's always been. You give him a smile after changing into the extra set of clothes you keep in your pack, lying back down into the bed and letting him wrap his arms around you.

"So that's what all the fuss is about?" You tease, kissing him lightly and stroking your hand along his collarbone. "Could take it or leave it."

"Uh huh," Joel answers, grunting from deep in his chest, sleep already half-swallowing him. "Sounded like it."

"It was sweet of you to take me to a nice hotel for our first date, though."

He mumbles something through the pillow that you don't quite catch.

"Hm?"

"Motel. Said it's a motel," he corrects. "Means we don't get room service."

You're so surprised at him making a stupid little joke that you just silently stare at him and smile. Then you settle back down into the crook of his arm.

"Well. I'm gonna need a wake up call," you tell him.

Then, more softly, you add, "So I guess you're gonna have to stay until morning."

You feel his chest rising and falling beneath your cheek, and hear the rumble of his voice against your ear.

"Don't worry. I'll stay."

--

A/N: Finally managed to get this posted, in response to this post from forever ago. I hope it meets expectations, for the four people who remember that poll! 😅

Thanks for reading!

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Half-asleep on a bed that you never bother to make, only some threadbare sheets cover the mattress that creaks with your every move. You’ve kicked off the blanket in the late summer heat. You sigh, having changed from your work clothes into a ratty t-shirt and an old pair of boxers you stole from a fuck buddy years ago. You enjoy the quiet of the evening as the world settles around you. 

At least you were until a loud banging on your door yanks you out of your half-sleep state. You recognize the noise anywhere, and rather then get up you call out, “doors open–” 

Joel Miller doesn’t even wait for you to finish, jerking the door open with a mean look in those dark brown eyes. You tense, wondering what could put the old man in such a mood, about to ask he slams the door behind him. Stomping over to you, you remain splayed out on the bed, he stands over you. Hair a mused mess, his work clothes are askew, you wonder for a moment if he got into a brawl or something, but a glance at his knuckles reveals they’re clean of blood.

You tilt your head considering him, “the fuck has you so piss–” 

“Shut up,” a snarl that sends a shiver of fear down your spine. You know Joel is dangerous, a man you know better than to piss off, even on a good day. Now you wonder if you’ve done something, or said something to cause the anger stewing in Joel’s eyes. You move to sit up, joking all but gone, Joel meets you hand going to your jaw. Calloused grip is painful as he forces you up smashing his lips against yours. 

It hurts, more a violent meeting of teeth than lips, he tastes of the homemade booze he likes to drink when he’s having a shit day. So he’s shitfaced, and came looking for an outlet. The scratch of his stubble burns against your skin, a muffled protest leaves you as Joel crowds around you. Pushing forward forcing you back down, the mattress creaking with the shared weight. Bullying himself between your legs, the mattress sinks beneath his weight, the top of your thighs settle on to his knees. 

His hands are everywhere grasping, pawing, groping. He finds your tits quickly, squeezing the flesh hard, a spark of pain dances along your flesh, his fingertips are going to bruise the skin, but the pain quells into an ache that settles just behind the navel. Nipples pebbling against his palms, as he keeps up the painful groping. Even with the pain, a telltale throb begins between your thighs.

You yelp against his mouth, he takes the opportunity to force his tongue inside. Your own fights his, attempting to get him to back off enough to figure out what the hell has gotten into him. You’ve fucked Joel before, many times. But damn he at least brings you something first. Crumpled credits, some actual good food that’s not from the soup line, sometimes he even brings the good booze that he’s willing to share before he fucks you stupid.  

But not tonight, no, Joel is intent on getting his rocks off and using you to do it. You give into the kiss, body going pliant to his attentions. His hands give your breasts another squeeze and you whine, tongue stroking along his, he pulls back with a groan. His eyes half-lidded and hazy look at you in the dim lamplight. He pants, hands pulling back from your body.

He leans back, licking his lips, taking in your dazed state. Eyes going to your nipples straining against the thin fabric of your t-shirt. 

“Take off your shirt,” a growled command you scramble to obey, his voice sending shivers through you. Pulling it off, Joel wastes no time forcing you back down his mouth goes to your neck, hands returning to your breasts. Thumbs rub roughly against your nipples, you gasp back arching into his touch. 

Every swipe of his rough skin against the sensitive buds sends electric shocks down your spine and to your cunt. The rough treatment only causes the ache in your innards to grow, cunt throbbing around nothing, unable to find relief as Joel’s body keeps your legs parted.

Joel’s mouth busies itself with marking your neck, finding your pulse and nipping the skin there, his scruff rasping painfully against your flesh. Your hands go to his back, grasping at his worn button down. 

“What the fuck J–Joel,” you whine as his mouth ventures lower, leaving a trail of angry marks, that tingle with irritation, they’ll be there for days after. He descends onto your right breast. His lips close around the bud, a choked moan leaves you, hands slipping from his back to his hair fisting in the messy curls as his tongue toys with the bud, circling the flesh before giving it a hard suck. 

You squirm beneath him, as the pleasure coils deep in your gut. His hand wanders down, finding the band of your boxers, slipping impatiently down to cup your mound. The tip of his finger so close to your cunt you cry out, uncaring that your neighbors will definitely complain about the noise.The other slips up your body and into your hair, fingers twisting into your locks keeping you pinned to the bed.

“J–Joel,” all you can speak is his name and a few swears as Joel continues his onslaught of your body. Switching from one breast to the other, giving this one similar treatment as his hand slips lower, to finally touch you. 

The noise that leaves you is feral, as his palm cups you, finger teasing between your folds to feel the wetness there. He huffs a laugh, pulling away from your nipple with a grunt. 

“So wet already?” He asks, breath warm against your flesh skin erupting in goosebumps as his spit cools on your nipple. Before you can snap back an answer his middle finger slips inside, his palm presses against your throbbing clit, and all coherent thought leaves you. Your head falls back, eyes rolling into the back of your skull. 

Your walls flutter around Joel’s finger as it curls inside of you, Joel starts a slow pace, eyes taking in every move. The way you jolt as his fingernail brushes against a spot that has you seeing stars. But he’s impatient, not letting you enjoy the sensation too long before he’s adding another finger, stretching you. 

Joel’s attention returns to your tits, nipping the skin, sucking marks that will linger for at least a week. Joel enjoys marking you up, even though he knows you have other partners, not like you two are exclusive or anything. You know he and Tess have a history that he’d rather die that converse about. 

But you’ll admit only to yourself that you like the marks, and stare at them for a long time after he leaves. Pleasuring yourself to the thought of him adding more the next time he comes around. Joel adds another finger, pulling you from your distraction, a whimper leaves you. He’s never stretched you this full before, your body tenses at the burn of pain. He pauses, letting you adjust, before starting a quick pace. 

Those umber eyes devour your face, watching as your lips fall open in a silent cry. His hand moves so quickly all your mind can focus on is the friction between your gummy, soaked walls and his rough fingers pumping in and out of you. The way they stretch your walls with every thrust, how the rough callous of his skin rubs just right against your walls. The heel of his palm slaps against your clit, adding to the staggering mixture of sensations overtaking your brain. 

The wet noises of his fingers fucking you open makes your core clench harder, Joel exhales as he watches you. Crooking his fingers just right so with every stroke of them they rub against that spot, you jolt, squirming beneath him as pleasure smothers you. A tightening behind your navel, you’re close, and so quickly it’s almost embarrassing. 

“Fuck–wait, Joel,” you gasp, hands scrambling to his wrist trying to get him to slow down, let you catch your breath. Your fingernails bite into his flesh, feeling the flex of his forearm as his fingers fuck into you faster. Uncaring of your pitiful attempts to stop him, he’s strong and easily keeps up his pace. 

Palm slapping against your clit again and again, as his fingers plunge deeper into you. Wetness leaking between his fingers, drenching your inner thighs and his palm. The sounds of his fingers fucking into your soaked folds has you keening, your mouth falls open with silent pleas, unsure if you want to beg him to stop or to keep going. Joel growls low in his chest as he hovers over you. 

“You gonna come?” He huffs, breath hot against your cheek as your tongue fumbles to form words, his eyes watch you. As your body tenses, muscle quivers as all consuming pleasure enfolds you. 

All your mind can focus on is his fingers fucking into the wetness of your cunt so quick that before you can say yes, your body stiffens. Back arching, toes flexing, fingernails digging into the skin of Joel’s forearm as your climax slams into you like a train. Cunt quivering around Joel’s fingers the coil snaps as pleasure stalls your mind. Send shivers down your body from the crown of your head to your toes. It dazes you, as your body comes down from the high, you realize distantly that you’ve squirted. The warmth of it drenching the boxers and Joel’s hand.

Joel’s never fingered you like this before, impatiently, violently. You’re about to apologize, but again Joel’s moving, pulling his fingers from your cunt you gasp still sensitive. Sitting up, Joel pulls your boxers off, with very little help from your useless legs. 

You watch him with a dazed look, still attempting to process what the hell just happened. Joel’s hands are quick, popping open the button of his jeans, and slipping down the zipper, his hand–still coated with your slick pulls his cock out. 

Joel bites down on a moan as he fists himself for a few moments. Watching the way your breasts heave with every breath as your mind and body try to regain some composure. Joel’s eyes glint with a wicked look as he leans over you again. Still wedged between your tights, trapping your hips again between his body and the bed. 

“Gonna wreck you tonight,” he mumbles into the shell of your ear, and all you manage is a soft whimper. As he takes a moment to rub his cock against your soaked folds, you whine. Still oversensitive, you writhe as you feel the round head of it tease between your folds. His soaked fingers rub over your clit, and you whimper as your cunt throbs. 

“Fuckplease–” that’s all he needs before he positions himself, one thrust and he fills you. Both of you freeze, you’ll never admit this to Joel, but he’s the best lay in you’ve ever had in the QZ. His cock fills you almost painfully full, but thanks to his previous efforts this time all that you feel is the delicious stretch of him, the head of his cock nestled so deep inside you swear you can feel it behind your navel. 

Joel doesn’t wait too long starting a quick pace, clearly intent on fucking himself dumb his hands go to your hips, pinning you to the mattress as it creaks with every thrust. Your own hands wrap around his wrists like shackles. The wet slap of skin against skin fills the room, Joel’s grunts and groans mix with your mewls and cries. Your legs wrap around his hips, heels resting on his lower back, shifting the angle that Joel plows into you. 

The head of his cock brushes that spot, again and again. Your eyelids flutter as the coil tightens again, his breath coming in quick pants as his cock throbs inside of your soaked walls. He takes every few thrusts to bury himself deep inside of you, letting his pubic bone press against your clit smirking when you cry out. 

His pupils are blown, brown ringed black that devours your every reaction, first watching with rapt fascination as your tits bounce with every thrust. Before going to your face watching as your eyes go hazy and all your mind can focus on is the stretch of his cock, filling you to the point of dumbness. Your mouth hangs open and every thrust forces another moan, or sob from you. 

“Fuck, look at you,” he hums low in his chest chuckling, “taking my cock so well, you love being fucked dumb like this don’t you?” 

All you can whimper out is a chorus of wrecked ‘yes’ and ‘please’. Joel snarls, you feel it in the way his cock twitches inside of you, the throbbing of the veins along his shaft, he’s close, painfully so. His thrusts get shorter, more of a hard grind into you. 

“Fuck, you always feel so good, the best thing I’ve ever fucked into,” his praise makes your stomach flip, and your cunt flutter. He gives a breathless laugh, “you love being praised don’t you sweetheart.” 

All you can manage is a mumble ‘yeah’ as his thrusts become more feral, less coordinated, more jerks of his hips rather than practiced thrusts.

“Gonna fill you up,” he rasps leaning down to nip at your bottom lip before smashing his lips again into yours. Tongue tangling with yours as his hand goes between your bodies to rub frantically at your clit, he pulls back lips shiny with your spit. “Gonna make this pretty pussy come all over my cock.” 

“YespleaseJoelpleaseyes–” your cut off again as another climax hits you. You swear for a moment you’ve gone deaf, and blind. Again the pleasure overtakes you, your cunt flutters around Joel’s cock. As your body goes rigid, fingers grapple around Joel’s wrists as you writhe with the sudden orgasm, another gush of squirt soaks your thighs and Joel’s. Distantly hearing as Joel praises you, the wet sounds of his cock fucking you through your climax.

Joel bellows as his own release hits him, in your haze you whine feeling the pulse of his cock as he comes. Feeling the warmth of it filling you full, your legs fall from around Joel’s hips, your body spent. Joel hovers above you, panting as his cock finishes pulsing inside your abused cunt. 

He leans back releasing your hips, where you know little indents remain from his nails digging into the soft fat. Joel groans pulling out of you, a soft keen leaves you as the mixture of cum and slick leak out of you. 

Joel doesn’t say anything, rather he tucks his softened cock away. Looks at his hands with a huff, before turning to your door, and leaving without another word. 

You blink, staring at the empty space once occupied by the man, now empty. Your mixed fluids cooling on your inner thighs and soaking the bed beneath your ass. 

“The…fuck?” You manage, as slowly coherent thought returns to you. Joel’s always been…taciturn and moody. But he was pissed this time, yes you both come to each other mainly for release. It shouldn’t bother you that he came, fucked, and left. You’re both human, good sex is hard to come by these days. But usually he stays, at least long enough to clean you off, give you an awkward good bye and then leave.

But something slithers it’s way up your spine, settling in your chest between your ribs. A gnawing sort of feeling that makes your jaw clench, and makes you wonder if fucking Joel is worth the off putting queasiness that settles in your stomach now. 

You remain on the bed in your half-dazed fucked out state for who knows how long. Tired of stewing in thoughts that you shouldn’t be, with a soft grunt you get up to clean yourself off and put on another pair of panties and the same ratty t-shirt that you’d tossed so carelessly aside before.