ani

It was hot and humid in Florida, the kind of weather that attracted annoying mosquitoes and uncomfortable chafing.

Hardly anyone other than your trio visited the dock you so often loitered on. Even less of them swam anywhere in the water. Too deep and too dark, any of the gators that lurked below could snag a soul and roll them all the way to the bottom, likely to only be identified by floating fingers.

Boaters would ride through sometimes, rippling the water with the motors on the back of their chosen vessel. Sometimes, they were bigger. Sometimes, they were smaller, like the one at the end of your dock.

Shawn drove you each and every time, picking you up in his dark blue Chevy, which reeked of burnt tobacco.

Much like today, the trees you passed were familiar, glanced at every time you rode out. His radio played some song from the satellite that you hardly listened to, ignoring the nearly blasted out bass of his speakers.

He had been relatively silent, too busy with the cigarette hanging from his lips to care about filling the cab with useless chatter. He just saw you two days ago. What could have happened in such time?

The terrain got smoother as Shawn drove off of the dirt road, following the path his car wheels had created after driving over the same patch of grass for so long.

The trees got denser in this part, which meant he would kick you out and tell you to walk the rest of the way unless you wanted to sit in his hot truck for the next few hours.

He'd call you stupid if you chose the latter.

Shawn's brakes squeaked when he pushed down on the peddle, slowing the truck down. He didn't cut the engine after he shifted the gears to park. He sat back like he had all the time in the world— like Julie and Anna weren't waiting for the two of you.

He exhaled smoke out of his nose and watched you from the corner of his eye when you unbuckled yourself and opened the door. It was only when you hopped out and rounded the hood of his truck that he finally opened his door, partially leaning out of it.

"Hey." He called from around the orange butt of his cigarette, expecting you to come back over to him.

"They're waiting for us." You reminded him, staying rooted on the spot for just a few more seconds before following the sound of his voice. The earth crunched between your shoes as you stepped past the open door, standing in front of him.

"Jus' wanna finish up here," Shawn's lips quirked up slightly when he plucked the stick from his own lips, knocking off some of the ash that collected on the tip.

Not an entire lie on his part.

"C'mere..." He whispered, facing you with his knees spread and arms resting on top of them. An invitation, one you shouldn't accept, but nearly always do.

When you hesitated, he sighed and rolled his eyes. "Look. It ain't like they can't entertain themselves. Come here."

He was a wroth creature who often got what he wanted simply because he went for it. And like many young men with inflated egos, he expected people to listen to him. It didn't help that you often did. This game had been played a thousand times before.

Your feet dragged you closer to the open door, and his insistent hand led you further. Fingers curled around your thigh to bring you between his own. He smirked, placing his cigarette back between his lips for a drag that he exhaled into your face.

He chuckled at your scowl. "Wipe that look off of your face. Promise I got reason."

As if to prove himself, his legs spread and he leaned back slightly, making himself more comfortable. More open. Shawn reached down to unbuckle the belt around his hips, leaving the leather and metal to flap when he managed to undo it.

His lips curled up into the same obnoxious smile he often had when he got what he wanted. Shameless.

"Shawn, they're waiting on us." You quickly turned your head, eyes darting around the trees as if Julie and Anna would come out to find the two of you.

His line about the cigarette was a farce. Your suspicion was proven true by the audacious act. He didn't even try to ease you into the idea.

"It ain't gonna kill you not to be a prude." He grumbled around the filter, already moved on to the button of his jeans. He huffed, bearing the front of his black boxers through the open gap.

"Shawn, m'not gonna fuck you out here."

His eyes rolled, growing annoyed simply because of your refusal. "I ain't askin' you to." Another plume of smoke drifted out of his mouth— his cigarette was nearly at its end. "Jus' want you on your knees."

"But they're—" Shawn cut you off, eyebrows furrowed.

"They got each other to entertain. You know Julie's obsessed with that girl. I'm sure her tales about New York are to die for." He was being sarcastic, poking fun at the way Julie immediately took to Anna when she stumbled across the three of you a few weeks ago.

Your teeth sank into your bottom lip, messing with the already bitten skin. Shawn plucked his cigarette from his own mouth, glancing down at the way it had finally burned down to the sullied filter. He flicked it away, not even watching as it landed on the grassy ground.

His head tilted to the side, and his hands settled on your arms.

"We're jus' gonna be a little late." He explained, voice softening only to try and get you to believe him. When your head nodded, he nearly smirked again.

"Alright..."

"Good." He preened like the cat who got the cream, already lifting his hips so that he could tug down the denim and cotton that covered him. "Well, what are you waitin' for?"

He eyes you expectantly, raising his eyebrows in a way that shows his dwindling patience. Slowly, you began to kneel. The pebbles in the dirt dug into your kneecaps, cold on your skin and biting. A sacrifice made for his pleasure.

He tugged down his garments, exposing himself not only to the fresh, clean air but to your eyes. It wasn't a surprising sight anymore. Shawn's nude form was something you were only growing more and more familiar with.

He was half-hard already, but he reached to stroke himself, staring down at your face while the flesh grew firmer. This part of him was paler than the skin on his arms, which was to be expected. However, the tip was always flushed a light pink, blushed nearly the same shade as his lips.

Satisfied enough, he let out a breath and gathered part of his loose shirt, lifting it enough to reveal the trail of hair that led up to his navel, moving the fabric out of your way.

"'Kay," He murmured, granting you the permission to touch him. He never did like waiting.

Your fingers rested on his spread knees now, but one creeped up his thigh. Inching closer to his dick, you watched as his stomach tensed up.

He was on the thinner side, but the elongated length of it oftentimes proved to be a challenge.

"Don't leave me waitin' too long. Won't beg you for it, baby."

You squinted your eyes up at him, wrapping your fingers around the shaft. "I never expected you to."

Because he never would.

Not unless he was at his absolute wits end.

A short lick to the head of his length made him sigh through his nose. His own tongue poked his cheek, watching the way you prodded his sensitive skin with the wet muscle.

Your lips parted, sliding the dull tip up the entirety of your taste buds, pausing before he could go any further. One of Shawn's hands settled on your head, caressing the locks before moving to collect strands to hold back.

It was an unspoken moment of preparation.

Slowly, your head ducked forward, and your jaw opened wider.

He could ease down your throat, but the areas it reached reacted to the intrusion, contracting when you gagged.

Shawn's eyes closed, scrunching up for a second before easing. Each time you gagged your throat would try to close, and the noise you would produce vibrated up his length.

You eased up slightly, going back to only taking half, breathing heavily through your nose. Your cheeks hollowed, sucking on the parts you reached.

His hand pushed you, forcing you to go back down further. "C'mon... fuck." He whispered, eyebrows furrowing once more.

Already aggravated, your throat constricted again, eager for a break from the breach. Shawn's hips twitched, lifting up only slightly to push more of him in.

You sputtered, ugly noises falling from your stuffed lips. A cough was fighting its way up but was unable to escape due to the blockage. The young man above you only let out his own breath, almost as if he was taunting you with what you could not do.

Just as bile began to make its way up, Shawn pushed your head away, forcing you up and off of him, earning you the chance to breathe.

"Jesus." His chest raised in a ragged motion. "The fuck's wrong with you?"

"You're an asshole!" There was a raspiness to your tone that sounded like utter debauchery.

Shawn's lips curled, giving way to his smile. His fingers brushed away some of the hair he had let go of, only to slide back and hold the side of your head, urging you forward again.

He watched you frown, not yet fully recovered. "Relax. S'just the tip..."

As if to prove himself, he rubbed the slippery head over your mouth, following the seam to the corner.

You're half aware that you'd never want your friends to stumble across this. Anna didn't deserve that, and Julie would call you disgusting even though she'd be a fool to not already know that the two of you had been fucking on the down low.

She bore witness to far too many wet kisses and hands stuffed into back pockets. She wasn't oblivious, no matter how badly you wanted her to be.

Shawn also just didn't know how to keep his mouth shut when it came to things he felt like he should be boasting about, which is probably why he let out a satisfied sigh the second your lips wrapped around the pink tip.

This was easier. Sucking on the bulbous point and occasionally lavishing it with your tongue. Shawn reveled under the attention, continuing to pet your hair even though you didn't trust his hands not to push again.

You had to ease yourself down his erection, going at your own pace, much to his dismay. Sparing a glance up at the young mans face gave you a small boost of confidence. He was all slack-jawed and watching.

With your hands, you caressed the parts your lips hadn't yet touched, earning more strained sighs. The slow descend proved to be the move, seeing as he was approaching the back of your mouth with ease. You slurped, beginning to drool around his appendage, eliciting a slight jolt from him.

The head slid between your tonsils before prodding the back of your throat. You released a breath from your nose and raised your head back up, falling into a rhythm that would prove to be fruitful.

Up and down, back and forth, Shawn's length traveled in and out of your awaiting lips. He groaned and curled forward, guiding you back down until your nose pressed up against the brunette hair that framed his dick.

"Fuck," He panted, face twisting into another look of satisfaction once again. "You're such a whore."

He watched the way your eyes fluttered shut and lifted his hips to meet your movements, trying to get you back to his own speed. "Kneeling in the fuckin' dirt while they wait for us."

A whine worked its way out of you then, causing him to curl his fist into your hair, tangling some of the strands. "But it's f'me... huh? All for me..."

The only further noises that sounded around the space were the birds tweeting from up above, his heavy breathing, and your occasional slurping

Shawn's hips twitched again, sputtering with their subtle movements. You pressed against his hands, rising back up to kiss and lick the tip, slapping the smooth skin against your tongue.

"Oh, fuck." He mumbled, closing his own eyes. When your lips bordered the cut head again, he ignored the scrape of your teeth and pushed himself back deep inside, taking action by canting himself in and out of your warm throat like it was a cavernous cunt.

The rapid movement spurred on another gag that would likely turn into a cough that couldn't escape, and then more choking.

He ignored the noise and focused only on the constricting feeling that made him respond all the same. He whipped his head back to get fallen strands of hair away from his sweaty forehead. "C'mon... shit."

He laughed when your hands touched his bare thighs, nails digging into his skin. "Fuck, baby. Almost there. Promise you."

Maybe he was. Maybe he wasn't. Shawn never prided himself on telling the truth.

He was suffocating, both literally and figuratively. He had the kind of presence that tied to overtake the space around him, and with the way he bullied himself down your throat mirrored that.

The tears that prickled the corners of your eyes were nothing new, and the sound of his strained groan was all but memorized by now, just as the smell of his skin was.

Worse things had happened in his truck in far worse places. Perhaps that was why his shame was nowhere to be seen

One more aggravated noise escaped you before his climax reached its peak. It spurted before streaming, and then it dwindled all together.

"Oh," Shawn breathed, cursing under his breath as he stilled, fingers going lax. That was your chance to pull back, and you did, lips pursed from the salty, masculine taste on your tongue.

He gave you a shit eating grin and rubbed his softening dick against your lips again, holding the flaccid length with his hand. "You gonna swallow it?"

Nearly laughing at the look you gave him, he watched your throat bob when you did just as he said.

"That's disgusting." He told you the second you wiped your mouth with the back of your hand.

What a sight the two of you were. You, with your mussed up hair and glassy eyes, trying to catch your breath. And then there was Shawn with his suspiciously sweaty skin and confident gait.

"You're disgusting." Your voice was raw when you shot back a retort, finally standing up from your spot on the ground, knees aching and dirty.

"You still sucked my dick." And curse him for being right. "Relax. I'll make up for it later."

He tucked himself back into his jeans and buttoned them up, fully situating himself before stepping out of the truck, slamming the door shut behind himself.

"The girls are waiting."

Again, I haven't written smut in a couple of years, and this is my first Shawn fic. I was so scared to post this. Please give me your thoughts. (Only I you want to.)

Much love!

You’d heard the rumors, of course, whispered with bright eyes and furtive expressions in shithole Outer Rim cantinas of a flame-headed being cutting down Inquisitors and Imperials. When you first overheard a snippet of the tall tale, you’d nearly choked on your cheap spotchka. Right, you remember thinking, a fiery figure opposing the Empire. Did they run out of good gossip today? 

Most rumors have at least a kernel of truth at their centers, and you figured it was the same with this one. And besides, you are indifferent to the Empire, at best; you’ve been avoiding their attention as much as you can, but you suspect that the thick cloak of the darkside you wear like a mantle has kept most of the Inquisitorius oblivious. They’re looking for Jedi, who cannot resist continuing to do good in a galaxy rotted to its core, and you stopped being a Jedi long before the Empire rose to power. They probably pay no mind to one lone figure who straddles the line of light and dark, temptation and virtue. 

But that doesn’t mean Jedi pay no mind to you. Most of them, you can avoid; you fight when necessary. Currently, you’re thinking a fight might just be necessary. You’re on some planet you’ve already forgotten the name of, densely populated and urban. You stand with one foot propped on the edge of a rooftop, neon lights glimmering on wet permacrete. Rain drizzles in a fine mist. You gaze placidly across the gap to the next building—to the flame-headed being. Without even needing to try, you feel his Force signature: he burns in the Force, even as he tries to hide it. His coppery hair ruffles in the slight breeze, stubble darkening his face. 

With a steadying breath, you tilt your head to one side. “Got a name, friend?”

“Not one you need to know,” he calls back. His posture is loose, casual, but you sense the whipcord tension in his Force aura; he’s on the alert. 

As he probably should be. 

“If I tell you mine, will you tell me yours?” You offer him a disarming smile. “Seems only fair, right? Equitable partnership.” 

He snorts. “There’s no partnership.” 

“Fine,” you huff. You tell him your name anyways, and he mouths it silently, but none of that tension dissipates. You take the moment to appraise him a little more closely: lean body, self-assured slant of his shoulders, faded burn scar cut across his face. Heat licks up your spine.

“Cal,” he eventually says. “Cal Kestis.”

You smile wide at his honeyed voice. “Nice to meet you, Cal Kestis. Mind moving out of the way so I can continue on my merry way?” 

“Afraid I can’t do that,” he says, but there’s no trace of regret in that gorgeous voice, only immense exhaustion. 

Your saber hilt twitches against your back as your hand flexes nearly out of habit. Taking another deep, cleansing breath, you shrug as if his answer means nothing. The dark tide of the Force surges through your body, tingling in your fingertips, sharpening the smoggy night air into fine detail. “Well, can’t say I didn’t ask nicely.” 

And then you leap, going from a dead standstill to a flurry of action in the space of a heartbeat. As your unstable crimson blade screeches to life, bathing the rooftops in flickering light, an answering snap-hiss echoes around you. Blue beam clashes with red, showering sparks over both of you. 

Oh, he’s strong, and for some reason that makes your skin flush. You bare your teeth in a mockery of a smile and shove. He staggers back, feet slipping for a moment in the gravel surface of the rooftop, before he recovers. 

“I’ll give you this one chance to stand down,” he says, voice thick and low and oh how it makes you shiver. His eyes glint in the blue light of his saber. 

“Funny,” you snap, “I was just going to say the same to you.” 

A frown tugs at his mouth. Lowering into a defensive stance, his eyes never leave yours as you languidly swing your saber in a half circle around you, content to draw this out. You’ve killed your number of Jedi in the name of self-preservation—necessary sacrifices to ensure the continued balance of Light and Dark—but there’s something about the way his green eyes harden into sharp gems the longer you twirl your blade, the casual power in his veined forearms, the absolutely pure gold energy he radiates in the Force. 

With an aggravated shake of your head, you press the attack. Overhead, backhand, thrust, thrust, parry—you and Cal settle into a dangerous dance. Bright light bursts where your sabers connect, sparks skittering across the gravel. For anyone watching nearby, the pair of you probably look like blurs of red and blue light—another light fixture among this technicolor urban landscape. 

But for anyone skilled in the Force, the radiance of your sabers dims in comparison to the pillars of energy you both become. One golden and bright as a thousand suns, shot through with faint tendrils of inky blackness; one glowing in shadow, a black hole ringed by its event horizon, smears of golden light. 

Both the light and the dark are present in this fight, and you smile grimly. In all things, balance, as your master used to say. 

The memory is a distraction, and Cal manages to break through your guard and punch your nose. Searing pressure spikes through your head, warmth dribbling down your face. 

You merely grin at him with blood-covered lips. “You’ll have to do better than that, Kestis.” 

And again the two of you become a flurry of attacks, parries, counterattacks, feints. In the distance, the low drone of a police siren reverberates off the tall glass buildings of the downtown area. You’ve been spotted. Time to end this now. 

You make a show of appearing to be tiring, breathing coming in heavy gasps, your saber still meeting Cal’s in time to stop him from separating your limbs from your body, but just a fraction slower than what you’d begun with. And you give ground. Just a half step at first, and then several steps. Cal seizes the opportunity to push you back, force you into submission, gain the upperhand—

Not knowing he’d lost this fight the moment he’d placed himself in your path. 

The Force is with you. In the Force, your arms seem to glow with terrible, purple-black ultraviolet power as you surrender yourself to its currents. There is no longer you and your saber; your saber is you. There is no longer you and Cal Kestis; there is you and the last piece of yourself that you’re willing to atrophy. Veins of golden Light criss-cross under your darkly shining skin—and as you stand firm once again with your back to the low roof edge, you will those golden veins to flush, to swell. You’re going to triumph here, and it’ll be with the approval of the full Force.

Cal’s face gleams with sweat, his brow furrowed, delicious mouth curved down in a frown. You lick your lips. 

“Yield, Kestis,” you say. One last chance. 

He just grunts, and in a blur of motion, separates the hilt of his saber. Another beam of blue snaps to life. Fear flares in you for a moment—but the Force remains with you, and you let the emotion siphon into your cracked, bleeding kyber. Plasma spits off the sides of your blade as you block attack after attack after attack; you’re an infinite well of patience—but that siren is getting closer, and you know that time, unlike your patience, is of the essence. 

In a flash of inspiration, you reverse your grip on your hilt mid-parry, then swipe the angry blade out and up. A cry of pain, and one of the blue sabers retracts as the hilt clatters to the gravel. Cal stumbles back, cradling his left arm to his chest, his remaining saber held in front of him. 

You can’t help the surge of pleasure at besting your opponent, even temporarily. As you twirl your saber again, a spotlight suddenly beams down on the two of you. With a grimace, you swing the saber down towards the soft juncture of Cal’s neck where it meets his shoulder—

And freeze when you catch a glimpse of the calm, resigned look in his eyes. Your blade hovers mere centimeters off his skin. 

Amid the roar of hovercraft, the police siren, and the rushing of blood in your ears, he murmurs your name.

“Kark it all,” you spit. Gathering the Force within you, you shove him back. A shout of surprise, a flash of blue, and then he’s tumbling over the edge of the building. You retract your blade and dash in the opposite direction without a second thought. 

Your master had always been honest with you about how little he, or anyone, truly knew about the mysteries of the Force. During your years as a padawan, you spent countless hours in meditation chambers deep below the Jedi Temple on Coruscant, feeling the constant ebb and flow of the Force around you. The first time he brought you there, your master explained in hushed tones how the temple had been built millennia ago over an old Sith temple. The Force resided in a nexus point there; streams of energy flowed from all over the galaxy and converged—and then diverged—from the temple. 

Sitting in meditation now, you breathe deeply and steadily as the memory crests over you. 

“But, Master,” you asked, “if the temple used to be a Sith stronghold, doesn’t that mean the dark side of the Force is strong here, too?” 

His kind, patient eyes crinkled as he smiled. “That is right, my Padawan. In all things, there must be balance. Light and dark only exist because of each other.”

A frown tugged at your lips at that, and you cocked your head to the side. “But aren’t we supposed to resist the darkness?” 

“Yes,” he said. “The darkness is an overbalance—an overabundance—of emotions, passions, fears. The Sith, and all who use the dark side, manipulate the Force to their will, instead of letting their emotions, like the Force, flow through them.” 

Something about that didn’t feel right. “But—” 

Your master held up one hand, forestalling the line of questioning you were about to launch into. He stepped through a large, arched doorway into a dim, echoing room. “Come, Padawan. Perhaps meditating will provide the answers you seek.” 

You inhale slowly and open your eyes, squinting against the bright blue glare of the hyperspace lane. No matter how long or how hard you meditated under the temple, you grew no closer to an answer than by asking your master. Despite your frustration, you kept returning to the chambers below the Great Hall. The Force there was...comforting. Balanced. And yet, so infuriating in its mystery. You could feel both the light and the dark, and neither were good or bad. The Force just...was. Perhaps it was the long hours you spent in the tunnels and vast echoic chambers there that you developed your keen sense for the composition of the Force.

Standing, you groan softly at the ache in your knees. As you settle back into the thinly padded pilot’s seat, you massage at the joints, wondering just when you’d gotten old. 

Probably when that droid shot through your master’s heart on Geonosis, and you’d physically felt the Force tip off-balance half a galaxy away, deep in meditation on Coruscant. The memory is painful, and digs its festering claws into your heart yet again. 

The Council hadn’t even needed to tell you your master had perished in the opening salvo of the Clone Wars. The morning after his funeral, with both his and your sabers in your pack, you’d fled the temple.

The old fool, you think, slashing the memory of him from your awareness.

By now, you’re used to the pit of emotions yawning in your very essence. You hold onto your fears, your angers, your anxieties—but also your loves, your passions, your desires. Without even really thinking about it, you reach for the loose compartment that holds your master’s saber. Its duranium-plated hilt is slowly corroding, matching the slow degradation of yourself. The blade jumps to life with a snap-hiss. The green glow it casts is almost sickly, the blade bright, but thin and tremulous. It’s been weak since he died.

As you stare, eyes burning, into the flickering core of your master’s blade, you reach into the Force for the kyber at its heart. No matter how many times you brush against the crystal with your mind, you’re never prepared. A screech, unending and agonized and fearful, rends through your consciousness. For a moment, the green sputters, crimson taking its place. 

You drop the saber, gasping. The hilt clatters to the floor and blade retracts, and you’re left again in the pressing silence of hyperspace.

In all things, balance, drift the words through you once again. Green against crimson. Crimson for blue. You think about Cal Kestis, his blinding presence; you think of your vacuous silhouette; and you take all the rage you can muster and twist it into your own heart like a dagger. The joists of your ship groan in response.

The second time you meet Cal Kestis, you almost wish you’d killed him all those years ago.

Just a few months after that first encounter on rain-slicked rooftops, you caught wind of a rumor that the flame-headed being attacked the Fortress Inquisitorius itself. This time, you didn’t discount the story, having witnessed first hand—for however short a time—the Force-empowered determination of that single human being. None of the rumors about Cal Kestis surprise you anymore. 

But you routinely have to curse his name as the Inquisitors have now turned their attention beyond just Jedi. The cloak of the darkness is no longer enough on its own to hide you from the long gaze of the Empire. You’ve taken to hiding out on barely populated Outer Rim worlds, hanging around long enough to establish some kind of routine, before the gentle ripples of the Force lapping against your subconscious grow into towering, dangerous waves. And then you hop back in your ship, barely more than scrap welded to a hyperdrive, and scuttle off to the next system. 

Which is where you find yourself now. Koboh could be promising. As you crouch at the edge of an exposed cliff, you study the cosmic anomaly that orbits the planet. The Abyss. You’re not sure what it is, but whatever it is, it creates a strong enough disturbance in the Force that you’re hopeful it will mask your own signature. And, you admit to yourself as your gaze lowers to the breathtaking landscape spread out below you, you’ve hidden in worse places the last few years. Koboh seems promising, indeed.

You spend a few days studying the locals, trying to get a feel for how life works here. For the most part, everyone here seems like they’re from off-world—which is good, because it means you won’t stand out for very long as a newcomer. Everyone here is a newcomer. And everyone here is more concerned, it seems, with the things that lie in the dirt than in the world aboveground. All the better for you. 

Concealing your saber hilt against your back like always, you make sure your ship, bucket of bolts that it is, is well-hidden enough to dissuade any potential scrappers. Tucked high on an outcropping, you hope most folks won’t care too much to check out the shiny metal bits not covered by plant matter. Not when it’s several dozen feet above solid ground. 

And you make sure you look as uninteresting as possible. With your saber out of view, you could pass for a refugee without issue. Force knows you’ve been weeks without a proper shower; you can feel the dirt and grime on every inch of your skin. Your clothing, usually neat and tucked in, is dusty, torn, and stained with dried blood. 

Yes, you’ll fit in nicely here. 

As you pass beneath a metallic archway decorated with a massive horned skull, you reach out in the Force, making sure that none of the town’s inhabitants can get the drop on you. You bypass squat, square buildings that are probably homes of some of the folks here. None seem of interest. Instead, your gaze is trained on the larger, multi-story building near the center of town. As you draw nearer, you realize the sign above the door reads, “Saloon.” Perfect. 

The door opens to admit you into a hallway; at the end, you wait in front of another door for a moment while a mechanical eye studies you. Chattering in a deep, unintelligible voice, the eye withdraws, and the second door whooshes open to reveal the barroom. 

No one turns as you descend the few steps to the floor. Crates and clutter stock most of the booths along the side wall, a few folks talking quietly at smaller tables or sitting alone and nursing a drink. Quiet, staticky radio music plays over the speakers. 

Behind the bar is a tall, four-armed droid who skids to a halt where you lean against the counter.

“You’re a new face,” the droid says. “Name’s Monk. What can I get you?” 

You quirk an eyebrow and give the droid, Monk, an alias, your sixth one in as many months. Then you say, “Got any spotchka?” 

“Indeed I do,” Monk says. “Shall I start a tab?” 

“I’ll pay up front,” you say with a shake of your head. 

Monk gives you the cost as he pours the glowing blue liquid into a clean glass, and you slide the credits across the counter. The alcohol’s familiar burn slides down your throat as you lean your back against the bar. Over the rim of your glass, you study the other patrons here at the saloon. Dusty, tired figures, the lot of them. In the Force, they are marginal, giving off only nominal signatures, no different than most other living beings. Most of them aren’t important enough to even warrant a clear affiliation with light or dark; they just are. Your upper lip quirks in a grimace.

Extending your awareness out farther, you’re not sure what you’re searching for, but you suppose you’ll know it when you find it. The hilt of your saber digs uncomfortably into your skin, but you ignore it, using the pain to sharpen your focus. You sense more townsfolk going to and fro outside the saloon, but none of them of any more note than those inside.

Something in you itches. Frowning, you lower the glass of spotchka and try to focus in on that feeling. It’s under your skin, out of reach, just behind your spine, but if you just push a little farther—

You gasp, cringing away from the sudden supernova that blinds your awareness in the Force. Cal Kestis. It has to be Cal. No one else burns quite like him. 

You yank your Force signature back into your body, hoping he didn’t feel you like you felt him. Figuring you only have moments to get out, you make a split-second decision between the several other doors leading away from this main room. Spotchka glass still in hand, you dart for the nearest door, and it slides open to reveal a staircase that winds upward. You take the steps two at a time. At the landing, you hiss at the sight of a second-floor loft. Stairs seem to continue along the other side, continuing to wind upward, but before you can run for them, a familiar voice drifts up from below. 

“Hey, Monk, good to see you,” says Cal Kestis. 

Your body flushes with warmth. Kriff. 

Monk says something you can’t quite make out. 

“Another newcomer?” Cal says. “I’ll make sure to say hi when I see them.” 

Grimacing, you creep across the floor toward the second staircase. Your foot just touches the bottom step when a voice behind you calls your name—your real name, not the alias you gave the droid. 

You sigh, chin falling toward your chest. “Cal Kestis.” 

“How did you find me?” 

His green gaze burns into you almost as hot as his Force signature. You roll your eyes; typical Jedi, thinking the world revolves around him.

“I didn’t know you were here,” you say. “I’m...laying low.” 

He crosses his arms across his chest, and you’re distracted for a moment by the way his muscles bulge against the fabric of his shirt. “I’m supposed to believe that.”

“Believe whatever you want to, Jedi,” you bite out. “I’ll go find my own desolate planet.” 

“Can’t let you do that,” he says, following behind you as you climb the stairs. 

“I’d love to see you stop me.” 

You feel the disturbance in the Force and brace for it. His attempt to yank you back down the stairs fails as you push against it—but you can’t push past it. Equally matched. Balanced. 

With a growl, you spin on your heel and point an accusing finger at Cal. “Are you really sure you want to do this right now?” 

His eyes narrow at you as you stand there, chest heaving with emotion, both of you crackling with energy in the Force. You down the rest of your spotchka and shatter the glass on the ground. Cal doesn’t flinch. The longer you stand there, the hotter your face flushes. Ignoring the impulse to shudder, you don’t miss the way his green eyes study your face, your posture, your signature. 

“I know you,” he finally says. “From the temple.” 

You snort in derision. “Good for you, kid.” 

“I was still a youngling when the Clone Wars started,” he says. “I...understand what it’s like to lose your master.” 

Your vision pulses black for a moment, and on instinct you reach out with a clawed hand. Cal’s eyes widen in fear as his hands fly to his throat, grabbing at the invisible hand you squeeze there.

“Don’t. Ever. Presume to know anything about me,” you hiss. “You know nothing, Cal Kestis.” 

“You’re—right—” he chokes out. “I’m—sorry—”

You shove, the Force exploding through your palm as he slams into the opposite wall. Sputtering, he coughs, rubbing at his throat. 

“I don’t need your pity, Jedi.” You spit the title like a curse—like the curse that it is—and turn to take the staircase up and out. The door at the top admits you to the open-air roof, the cosmic explosion of the Abyss looming overhead. 

You step over the edge of the roof, calling on the Force to cushion your descent. At the bottom, you ignore the flabbergasted expressions on a few of the locals as you stalk off. Past the saloon, past the stables, through the shallow river—you’re not sure how far you walk, but it’s dark by the time that you realize you’re lost. 

“Kriff,” you sigh. 

Thankfully, whether by luck or by the sheer force of presence of your Force signature, you’ve not been bothered by any of the (frankly terrifying) wildlife on this planet. Tentatively, you reach out, but you find nothing but a few docile Nekkos and, farther off, a dozing bilemaw. 

In the dim light provided by the Abyss and the Shattered Moon hanging heavy in the sky, you determine that a shallow cliff alcove nearby will be as good a place as any to rest until morning. Settling under the rocky overhang, you exhale a shaky breath. 

It’s been a long time since you let your emotions take control like that. You allow yourself to feel them, even to use them to your advantage—but you rarely lose control. Not recently, anyways. 

You bare your teeth at the thought of Cal Kestis. He’s by far only the latest in a string of former Jedi you’ve encountered, but none of them, even the ones who you remember from your years as a padawan, created this amount of turmoil in you. So why him? 

Should probably just ask him myself, huh, you muse, hearing a twig snap nearby. You don’t need to look into the Force to know who it is. 

“Who’s following who now?” you call. 

With a familiar hum, a blue blade sings as it springs to life, illuminating the alcove you’re hunkered in, as well as Cal’s lean figure. You’re too exhausted to be angry at this point, but a different kind of heat licks up your spine as you push up onto your feet. The warmth settles between your thighs, throbbing uncomfortably as he raises the saber overhead, his arm muscles flexing. 

“Had to make sure you didn’t hurt anyone,” he says, halting just a few feet away. 

“No one out here to hurt,” you say. “What are you really doing here, Kestis?” 

He hesitates, shifting his weight between his feet, eyes not meeting yours. Squinting, you extend a tendril of awareness toward him—past the burnished gold aura, past the shell of Jedi honor he projects like a shield, until you brush against one of those tiny black cracks in his signature. He stiffens, shifts his stance into a defensive half-crouch. There is darkness in him. 

And there is lightness in you, sighs a voice that sounds very much like your master’s. 

You ignore it. 

“Well?” you prompt. 

“I- I don’t know,” he says. 

You snort. “Well, when you figure it out, let me know.” Sinking back into a meditative pose, you let your eyes slide shut and effectively shut out all things Cal Kestis.

At least, that’s what you try to do. The karking idiot seems to have decided that you’re not a threat—a poor miscalculation on his part—as his saber retracts and you hear the sounds of someone settling into a meditative trance next to you. Peeking one eye open, you glance over to find him sat back on his heels, palms resting on his thighs, his face blank and serene. He’s beautiful like this, you think. 

“I could kill you right now, you know,” you say, letting your eye fall shut again. 

“You won’t,” he says, sounding so matter-of-fact that you’re almost convinced that you really wouldn’t. 

Then you shake your head. “Don’t be so certain.” 

“You didn’t kill me five years ago. You won’t kill me now.” 

Gnawing at your cheek, you find you have no response for that. 

The third time you face Cal Kestis, you want to hate him. 

Koboh proves to be big enough for two powerful Force users. You keep to the wilderness, and he sticks to the town. For the most part, anyway. You occasionally catch a glimpse of copper hair as he explores the planet, following all the inane rumors of the locals. Why he even lowers himself to their level, you’ll never understand. 

And besides, Koboh has turned out to be a perfect place to continue your search for answers about the Force. You’ve never wanted to stop knowing, never stopped asking “But why?” The Abyss above is a physical presence most days, nearly oppressive in its crushing weight. It absolutely deafens you in the Force whenever you try to reach for it, painful screeching assaulting your senses. There’s something behind the noise, though, but it’s too far, too deep, for you to reach it. 

You haven’t seen Cal in a while now. And you’re fine with that. You’d watched his ship take off in the early hours of the morning a few weeks ago, and it still hasn’t returned. 

Shrugging, you decide that today is as good a day as any to do some exploring of your own. You’ve watched Cal enough to know that there are hidden vaults on this planet, and from what you’ve been able to tell, they’re old. Maybe they’ll have some answers. 

The sunrise peeks over the craggy cliffside, casting a gentle pink hue over the world, still hushed in its predawn slumber. Dew collects on your pant legs as you pass through a small clearing of scrubby bushes. A couple dozen feet up the hill glints a hint of gold. None of the Koboh prospectors would have left this alone unless it were for a reason, you figure. Maybe this is one of the vaults. 

Resting a palm gently on its surface, the gold is cool to the touch. Glyphs in Basic and other languages spiral around the circular door-like structure. When you examine it through the Force, you feel the mechanism that keeps it locked, but no matter how much you push, pull, yank, shove, the door remains sealed. 

“Dank farrik,” you curse. “How does Cal do it?” 

“Very carefully,” a familiar warm voice says from behind you. 

You barely glance over your shoulder, flushing from the embarrassment of being caught unawares, but somehow unsurprised he’s managed to find you. You should have known that even thinking of his absence would cause it to revert. 

“Very funny,” you say. “What secrets are you hiding, Jedi?” 

“Wouldn’t you like to know, Sith,” he says. 

As he sidles up alongside you, you glare at him. “I’m not a Sith.”

“Coulda fooled me,” he says with a shrug. “Red saber, strong in the dark side, angry all the time.” 

Huffing, you roll your eyes. His hair is longer than it has been since you first met him, and there’s another scar, pink and shiny, on his upper bicep, like he’d been cut with a vibroblade. As you study him, you also realize he looks...older. More tired. More weary. 

“You look like bantha fodder,” you say helpfully. 

He hums noncommittally. “Do you want into the vault or not?” 

“You’re gonna let me in?” you say, eyebrows raising in surprise. 

With a half-shrug, he says, “I’ve already explored this one. Nothing left in it for you to gain, except maybe some manners.” 

He reveals a small, handheld device that, when he raises it toward the golden door, blips. The door expands open, revealing a turbolift in the center of the floor. 

“Why are you helping me?” you ask, not moving from your spot. Suspicion bubbles in the back of your mind. 

Cal pockets the device and gestures for you to go ahead, giving you a sardonic two-finger salute. “It’s in my nature.” 

With that, he takes a step back, then another, and then pivots and trudges back downhill, tucking his fiery hair behind his ears. 

The vault teaches you something, alright, but it isn’t manners like Cal hoped. Even two century-old tech and warbled messages from a Jedi named Santari Khri cannot lift the veil of jade that rests over your eyes. The Order has always been faulty. The Order has always been weak. Your master was always fated to die, and you to wander, adrift. You grind your teeth in anger. Is that all that exists for you? For anyone? To live and die at the whim of some cosmic, unknowable power? 

The vault also reminds you of your mortality. As you work yourself into a silent rage about the unfairness of the galaxy, at the cruel and nonsensical nature of the Force, you miscalculate the distance between two crumbling stone platforms. With a Force-assisted leap, your arms windmill as you keep yourself balanced, but your feet only just manage to catch the edge of the platform. You wobble, anger bursting into fear, as the stone grates against itself before your stomach is in your throat as you plummet straight down. 

The rush of frigid air steals the scream from your lungs. Try as you might, the Force refuses to help you grasp onto the quickly receding lip of this chasm. 

And then pain rockets up your legs in jagged, arcing lines from your heels to your hips, and you collapse. 

It’s only by sheer willpower that you don’t black out. Grit your teeth. Take a deep breath. Curse until the pain abates. 

You take stock of your body. Your legs are on fire, and any attempt to move them sends a fresh wave of lava licking up your nerve endings. Otherwise, you wipe away blood from scrapes on your palms and tenderly poke at the bruises already forming on your ribs. Around you, myriad rocks and small boulders litter the cracked, moist ground. Mist clings to the spaces in between. When you look up, the ledge you fell from is completely obscured. 

“No Jedi wisdom for me, Santari Khri?” you croak as you gently shift into an upright position. Your teeth squeak from clenching your jaw against the pain, but you manage to prop yourself up with your back against a sizable rock. 

The mist deadens your words. Instead of an echo, it’s like the words get clipped short before they can fully materialize in the air. The back of your neck pricks. But, studying your surroundings once more, there is nothing for you to do but meditate. Perhaps, for once, the Force will provide.

You have no way of knowing how much time has passed as you sit in meditation, methodically stretching your awareness to its limits, trying to snag onto any signature in the Force that might help you out of this predicament. Your butt goes completely numb, as do your legs—a fact you feel should incite panic in your already-tight chest, but you can’t find it in you to care. By the time that you’re ready to give up searching, your throat tickles with dryness and your stomach begins to feel empty. 

But just as you heave a sigh, rising out of the meditative trance, the Force tugs on your awareness. Furrowing your brow, you concentrate: up, up up up, and to the left. Something steadily growing closer. Something bright, and familiar, and warm. 

Cal. 

For once, you’re grateful for his annoyingly Jedi-like qualities. You track his presence through the Force, unable to do more than monitor as he seems to approach your location with frustrating slowness. 

“Come on,” you mutter, mouth thick. “I’m here. Come find me like you always do.” 

After what feels like another small eternity, you finally open your eyes and peer up through the opaque mist. Above, you swear you hear boots crunching on loose rock, and the distant bwee-boop of a droid. 

“Down here,” you half call, half croak. The words don’t seem to make it past your throat. 

For a terrible moment, you think Cal is going to search the seemingly empty vault and, not finding you within, leave. You can’t tell, through either his footsteps or his Force signature, what he’s doing up there. At the last moment, a burst of panic seizing your limbs, you lean forward with a groan and retrieve your saber, still miraculously tucked into your waistband. 

The spitting crimson blade is a comfort as it screeches to life in the oppressive space.

A voice calls your name, cautious. 

“Here!” you shout, voice cracking painfully in an effort to be heard. 

Blue flame bursts to life somewhere above—much farther above than you initially thought—and you nearly sob in relief. 

“Watch your eyes,” Cal shouts down, and you have only a moment to register what he means before you duck, retracting your blade. The unmistakable sound of saber scoring through rock reaches you, heated pebbles showering down on your covered head, and then the sound of two soft leather-clad feet touching down beside you. 

Wary, you raise your head. Cal crouches next to you, his face painted with a cautious kind of concern. 

“You came back?” You don’t mean to make it a question, but the softness in his eyes, the gentleness with which he ghosts his hands over your many injuries, makes you reconsider your previous anger toward him. At least, for a moment. 

“Like I said,” he murmurs, “it’s in my nature.” 

“Legs are the worst of it,” you say, gesturing weakly to your two limbs stretched in front of you. Both are angry shades of blotchy red and purple, but no bone peeks out from within your skin at the very least. 

Cal casts a questioning look up at you, his palms hovering over your legs. You give a small nod, and he lowers his hands until they make feather-light contact with your skin. Even as careful as he’s being, pain erupts all over again when he brushes over your shin, and you squirm, cursing. 

“Probably fractured the bones,” he says. “Need to get you back to town.” 

You groan. “Unless you plan on carrying me out of here, Kestis, I’m not in any shape to make it all the way back.” 

He studies your face for a moment, really studies it, and you can’t help the way your lips part at the intensity in his gaze. Despite the aching pain in your legs, you can’t suppress the heat blooming up your neck into your cheeks the longer his eyes roam your face. Surely he can sense the way your Force aura grows more agitated. 

Whatever he’s searching for on your face, he seems to find it. Shrugging his shoulders, the curious little BD unit you’ve noticed with Cal peeks its white-and-red head up. With a boop?, Cal jerks his chin at you.

The droid slides down Cal’s back and trots up to you. Tilting its head, the mismatched eyes whir and toggle as the droid seems to study you with the same scrutiny as Cal just had.

“What—”

In the blink of an eye—faster, even—a flash of green light dazzles you, followed by the sharp pain of an injection. But that doesn’t even matter, as a blissful, cool relief spreads immediately from the injection site through the rest of your body. The ache in your legs subsides to a dull throb, and you find that you can finally move the limbs without wanting to vomit. 

“Stim,” Cal explains. He rises to his feet, and holds a hand out. “Come on. It’ll wear off soon.” 

His hand is warm, achingly so, when he grasps yours and tugs you to your feet. Grimacing at the wave of nausea that sweeps over you, you cling to his hand until it passes. 

He’s studying the sheer rockface to either side. “I may be carrying you out of here either way. Come on. Hop up.” 

He turns to retrieve your saber where you dropped the hilt—he stiffens for just a moment, so quick you think you imagine it, before he hands the hilt back to you. And then he remains facing away from you. You realize, with a deep-seated groan, that he’s removed the jacket he was wearing earlier, when he let you into the vault. His shoulders are bare and so strong and pretty and freckled and— 

His soft question of your name breaks you out of your reverie. 

“Right,” you say, clearing your throat. Tentatively, you hook your arms over top of his broad shoulders, trying to ignore the way his skin feels against yours, and he crouches so you can more easily clamber onto his back like a pack. 

“BD, up,” Cal orders, and you squirm as the droid clambers up your back to rest with one foot on your shoulder and the other on Cal’s. 

Even with the stim working through your system much like coolant in your ship’s engine, and even with Cal doing all he can to keep you steady on his back as he Force-propels himself up the vertical rockfaces of this cavern, you bite into your cheek hard enough for it to bleed to keep yourself from yelping in pain. It’s bad enough that he had to save you from a slow death in this Force-forsaken vault; he doesn’t need to know the fire that licks up your nerve endings with every jostle. 

You shuffle off his back as soon as you’re able. A grimace contorts your features as you stumble a few steps, but you wave away Cal’s steadying hands.

“I’m fine,” you grit out. 

“Yeah, you look fine,” he says. 

You shoot him a glare, but you’re more exhausted than you are angry. “You didn’t have to come back for me.” 

“If it makes you feel better,” he says, gesturing for you to step onto the turbolift first, “I don’t expect anything in return. You don’t owe me anything.” 

“Ha,” you bark out. Your stomach lurches as the turbolift shudders into its ascent. “Of course I owe you, Kestis. It’s all about balance.” 

“Balance,” he says, his voice strangely hollow and contemplative. “You murdered Rexan Binette and Sarela Webb and the others for balance?” 

The names of the Jedi you killed reverberate off the curved walls of the lift chamber. Breathing through your nose, you avoid his gaze—and then shake your head at yourself, angry. Why should you be ashamed? It was them or you. 

The lift comes to a smooth halt at the top, and you’re somehow unsurprised to find that it appears to be dawn again. Your eyes find Cal’s green ones. They look nearly black in the early morning haze. His expression bares all of his emotions: hurt, suspicion, concern, worry. But he doesn’t seem...afraid. Not of you, anyways, and instead of filling you with rage, that realization makes you deflate. 

“The galaxy changed,” you say, voice flat. “You change with it, or you die.” 

He fixes you with his stare for a moment more, and then shakes his head and begins the long walk back downhill without a word. Heaving a sigh, you follow him. You can’t repay the debt you now owe him if you die from an infected wound. You tell yourself that the heat bubbling in your chest is hate, hate that you’re now bound to this life debt, hate that of all people you’re in debt to Cal Kestis. But hate has never felt so soft.

The final time that you and Cal Kestis cross paths, you remember why hatred is easier. 

It’s only a few weeks after when you’ve fully healed thanks to Cal’s quick intervention, the extra stores of bacta that you had the good foresight to stash in your ship years ago, and perhaps a nudge from the Force. You’ve retreated to your ramshackle abode in the wilderness; thankfully, the worst you have to deal with upon returning is a stray Bogling. No matter how hard you try to shoo the pesky creature away from your hut, it comes back again. 

“You’re lucky you’re so cute,” you grumble, watching the Bogling scratch at the dirt out front of your hut. It chitters as it works to burrow its den. 

Cal has disappeared again, which works just fine for you. It’s easier to attune to the Force when he’s gone. When you’re not distracted by his burnished radiance, his soothing calmness, his serene meditation posture, his hair that looks as soft as the Bogling’s fur, his...him.

Genuinely, who the kriff does Cal Kestis think he is? Where does he get the right to continue to do good in the galaxy when all the galaxy wants is to kill him? To kill everyone like him? How does he continue fighting? 

For that matter, how do you continue fighting? The sudden self-introspection is jarring. You squint a glare up at the Abyss, the technicolor explosion hanging heavy in the sky, as if it personally arranged your fated entanglement with the Jedi. As if it asked the question of your purpose, not your own conscience.

You have to squint in part because, in the Force, the Abyss is blinding. Stare too long and you’ll be blinking away spots from your vision for hours afterward. As your eyes start to water, you shake your head and bring your gaze back to terra firma. Kark it all, you think, bitter. You continue fighting because you have to. Because you have to know the answer. You have to understand the balance. 

In the Force, you’ve watched for years as the streaks of light in your otherwise void-like existence pulse and contract. Here, underneath the staggering presence of the Abyss, the galactic, even cosmic, struggle between Light and Dark, splashes across your own skin, a microcosm. It makes you angry all over again, as you study the vapors of golden lightness drift around you. The anger is good. The anger makes the darkness pulse and surge and rise; the anger makes you more focused. 

Gritting your teeth, you try to hang onto the anger. 

And then you don’t have to try at all. In your peripheral awareness, the Bogling has scurried in fright into your small hut as the sound of footsteps—many, many footsteps—echoes off the surrounding cliff walls. Your lips curl back in a snarl at being interrupted. Saber hilt smacking into your palm with a familiar weight, the unsteady red blade fills your small clearing with a threatening hum. 

Around the corner comes a full squad of Imperials. For a moment, you have to blink, to make sure that what you’re seeing is correct. But no. The hard white duraplast armor gleams in the midday sun, the mixed group of scout- and Stormtroopers advancing as one giant, grotesque organism. And at its midst, in the nucleus, are two black-clad figures wielding crackling electrostaffs. 

Purge Troopers. 

How dare they. How dare they come to your planet—and you hesitate only a moment over the possessiveness in your anger—and only another moment more when you find that you include Cal’s place on Koboh in that possession. This is your planet, together. The Light, and the Dark. 

In all things, balance. 

“Enemy located,” crackles the voice of one of the troopers. You don’t know, and don’t frankly care, which. 

As the white-clad troopers fan out in a loose semicircle, blasters and batons raised at half-ready, the two Purge troopers continue a few paces forward. They’re nearly identical, all the way down to the way that they settle their weight on their right feet, perfectly unbalanced. 

“You won’t get away,” the one to your left calls, his voice imperious and cold. “Not this time. You’ll be coming with us.” 

“Don’t be so sure,” you call back, feigning disinterest. Through the Force, you mentally draw the battle map, the path of carnage and rage and blood you’ll wreak through the ten troopers in front of you. 

“There are ten of us,” the other Purge Trooper says, voice cocky and self-assured. The battle map in your mind halts, then reasserts itself with a new pattern. One that places Mr. Cocky and Arrogant at the top of your assault. 

You snort. “Glad to know the Empire is teaching its troopers basic math. Let’s get this over with, shall we?” 

You twirl your saber in a half circle around your body, a familiar ritual, a reset button to remind you to keep your head clear. As blasters raise to full height, you take a deep, centering breath, and close your eyes.

A silence takes over your ears, your mind, your very being. You are one with the Force; the Force is with you. Despite all your issues with the cosmic Force, you know it will not fail you now. You don’t hear the order to fire, you don’t hear the clicks of triggers, you don’t hear the scream of blaster bolts. You don’t need to. Guided by the Force, void-like and in command, your arms—your saber—jumps into place. 

Four blaster bolts pelt your way. Four blaster bolts ricochet and catch their originators in the chest. Four troopers fall. 

You open your eyes, lips tugging back over your teeth in a mockery of a smile. Sound returns to you just as one of the scout troopers, shaken, stumbles back with a cry: “St-Stormtrooper KIA!” 

You enact your battle map. 

Gathering the Force to yourself, you push off the ground and shoot forward with a Force assist, your saber swinging up and cleaving back down at the critical juncture between the cocky Purge Trooper’s neck and shoulder. The glowing plasma sinks easily through duraplast, fabric, and flesh alike; the trooper’s groan of pain gurgles as your blade cuts through his lungs. Now there are five. 

You whirl, saber moving nearly of its own accord to intercept each blow that the remaining troopers rain upon you. It’s nearly child’s play to parry their attacks, send them staggering off-balance. In a crucial moment where all your opponents hesitate to move forward again, you bare your teeth. Reaching out with a clawed hand, you grip the throat of one of the troopers, lift him bodily with the Force, then yank down as hard as you can. There’s a satisfying crack when he hits the ground.

You’re doing fine. You’re going to triumph here; the Force has willed it so. The fear of the remaining troopers is palpable and you draw on it, siphoning it into yourself, into your cracked and screaming kyber crystal. With a leaping slash, two trooper heads bounce away.

The remaining two troopers look at each other. You don’t need the Force to smell the fear rolling off of the scout trooper in waves, and you fix him with a feral grin. 

“No more quips?” you ask, voice harsh. 

He drops his baton and runs.

“Just you and me,” the Purge Trooper observes. 

“How very astute of you,” you say. “Your friend was the smart one. You can still run; I’ll let you go. For now.” 

“Not a chance.” The buzzing electrostaff twirls through the air as the Trooper lowers into a defensive crouch. “Surrender.” 

“Not a chance,” you echo, matching his stance. “Now, why don’t—”

A voice, familiar and warm and distracting, shouts your name from above. Like a fool, you hesitate, turning. There’s a glimpse of coppery hair, a blue flame, and golden radiance. You growl at the interruption—

And cry out as the electrostaff comes down across your upper back, singeing into your clothing, biting into your skin. 

You drop to your knees, vision blurry. Stupid. That was stupid. 

The Purge Trooper immediately raises the staff for another strike, but before it can make contact with the back of your neck, a rush of energy steamrolls over you and shoves the trooper fifteen feet back. His heels dig into the soft dirt. 

“Jedi!” If the trooper is surprised to see Cal Kestis coming to the rescue of the likes of you, you can’t hear it in his voice. “Guess this is my lucky day.” 

“Don’t count on it,” you wheeze. Grunting in pain, you shove to your feet and reset, saber singing in the air, the smell of ozone stinging your nose. 

Your name again, gentler this time, and closer. This time, you don’t turn, instead waiting for him to come to you. And he does, just like you knew he would. In the corner of your eye, Cal Kestis and his supernova signature provide something like...comfort. Heat bubbles and sputters in your chest at his closeness. This feeling is hate, you reassure yourself. 

“You’re hurt,” he says, voice pitched low. 

“I’ve had worse,” you say. “You here to help, or to mock?” 

He fully faces you, and you sense more than see his eyes rake over your profile. With a shake of his head, his copper hair flowing nearly to his shoulders, he raises his saber, point-first, toward the Purge Trooper. With a satisfied smile, you swing your saber in lazy circles. Finally. 

The two of you attack at the same time, nudged along by the Force. Together, you flank the trooper, whose training seems to have prepared him for a moment such as this. But for all the training this trooper has, you and Cal have more. You and Cal have more to fight for. More to lose. More to gain. 

Cal’s blur of a blue saber slashes through the air, at every turn blocking the trooper’s pressing attack, forcing the Imp to recalibrate. And when he attempts to do so, tries to even catch his breath, you’re there, the Force driving your swings harder. You know the blows that land on the staffs jar the Imp’s wrists all the way to his shoulders. You know he’s going to falter. You know he’s going to die. 

When the fear once again rises from this trooper, you smile. 

Overconfident, you twirl, blade seeming to bend as it whirls through the air. It will connect with the trooper at his waist.

It does—but his staff connects with you once again at your own waist, and this time it bites into your flesh and holds. 

“No!” Cal’s shout is harsh and angry. With a final flash of blue, the Purge Trooper slumps sideways, body collapsing into the dirt. The momentum yanks the electrostaff out of your side. 

You drop your saber hilt to press against the bleeding wound, hands shaking. Kark, this hurts. Why does it hurt so bad? Cal’s face, with wide, scared green eyes, appears in your field of vision. 

A spark of anger temporarily distracts you from the pain in your side and along your back. “Kestis,” you grind out. “I had it under control.” 

“It’s in my nature,” he says, like that explains everything. You suppose it does. Your anger abandons you, and you stagger forward, into his embrace. 

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs against you as he ducks under your arm, taking your weight. “C’mon, we’ll get inside and I’ll patch you up.” 

“Got any more of those stims?” you ask, words slurring a little. You glance down at your side and blink dumbly at the amount of red staining your clothes. 

“A few more,” Cal says. “They’re yours. Just need to get you inside.” 

The several dozen feet to your hut pass in a blur and in a blink—you’re not sure which. Maybe it’s both. But you sigh as you settle down into the familiar comfort of your small cot. In the corner, you’re dimly aware of the Bogling cowering below the small kitchen table. Critter is cute, you suppose. Maybe it can stay. 

You’re delirious. That has to be it. You’d never willingly take in a stray. 

BD hops up on the cot next to you and, at Cal’s nod, ejects a glowing green stim canister. Cal catches it and then plunges the small needle into your side, just above the gash there. Cool relief tingles through you, and you smile at him. 

“That feels good,” you mumble. 

“I’m glad,” he says, an odd note in his voice. “You got medical supplies?” 

You gesture vaguely to the screened-off back corner, your ’fresher. “If I do, s’in there.”

BD stays with you while Cal rummages through your meager supplies, the little droid’s head tilted to the side as though studying you. You blink at him. 

Bwoop-beep? the droid chimes. 

“I don’t speak Binary, sorry,” you say. 

Cal chuckles, returning with a handful of supplies. “He’s wondering if you’re feeling okay.” 

You feel okay enough to feel annoyed at the question, and you shoo the little droid off your bed. When you return your attention to Cal, he’s hesitating, a roll of gauze, bottle of alcohol, and a needle in his hands. 

“What,” you ask, flatly. 

“Need to take your shirt off to clean the wound properly,” he says, and if you knew him better, you might think he sounds nervous. Embarrassed, even. 

But you don’t know him that well, and so you ignore his tone of voice. “Fine.” 

You struggle for a moment to lift your shirt over your head, hissing as the movement pulls at the wound in your side. Once it’s off, you throw it toward the ’fresher. 

Cal still hesitates, his eyes everywhere but on you. Another surge of annoyance flares in you, and you snatch the medical supplies out of his hands. 

“I’d really like to not bleed out here, Kestis,” you admonish. He at least has the sense to look abashed at that, and assists you in cleaning out the wound, stitching it shut, and wrapping you in gauze to keep pressure on it. You don’t let out a single curse, hiss, or groan the entire time, making the inside of your mouth bleed with how hard you bite down. 

“You okay?” he asks once you’re bandaged up. 

“What do you think?” you retort. “M’gonna sleep. You can go.” 

“I’ll stay,” he says. He withdraws, but remains in your small hut, slinging himself into the hand-hewn wooden chair at your dining table. “Rest. I’ll keep watch.” 

“Why?” You can’t help the way the question sounds equal parts frustrated and incredulous.

“Just sleep, Sith,” he says. His voice brooks no argument, and for once, you have none.

When you wake, it’s still light outside. Your mouth feels like it’s been stuffed with gauze and left to dry out, your head not much better. With a soft groan, you roll onto your side and peer into the half-lit room. 

Cal’s already watching you. His gaze meets yours and pierces you, pinning you to the small cot tucked against the wall. Swallowing against the dryness in your throat, you study his features. The dark scar across his face. The lean lines of his torso and muscles. The strand of fiery hair that curls over his forehead and teases his chin. Despite the lingering shards of pain in your side, heat flickers in your core.

“Why did you really come here, Cal?” you ask, voice low, the stillness around you demanding to remain unbroken. “Why did you come back for me at all? You know the things I’ve done. The people I’ve killed. I can’t be worth saving.” 

He is quiet as he contemplates your question, his hands loosely clasped in his lap. Silence stretches between you, slow and languid, and you nearly hold your breath waiting for his response. 

Eventually he gives a half shrug. “There was a time when I believed everyone is worth saving. Since the Empire, things have...been different. I’m not so sure everyone deserves to be saved.” 

“So why come back?” 

His eyes are soft when they find yours again. You want to be angry, want to latch onto the residual pain in your body and sharpen it into a vibroblade, hurl it outward from yourself and hope it hurts him as much as you’ve been hurt. In your gut, the darkness stirs, but in your heart, the light whispers patience. 

“I see too much of myself in you to not come back for you,” he says, so quiet you nearly don’t process the words. 

But when his confession does register, you blink in surprise. You can’t help the chuckle that escapes you. 

“We couldn’t be more opposite, Kestis,” you say. “Do you know what you look like, in the Force?” 

When he remains silent, shifting in the wooden chair uncomfortably, you push yourself up into a sitting position. A sigh sloughs out of your throat. 

“You’re the most...beautiful thing I’ve seen,” you say, hesitating only briefly over the words. “You shine. You’re a beacon of light. Stars, Cal, you’re practically a star yourself.” 

His lips part in surprise, and you can’t ignore the way your core twists at the expression. “But—”

You raise a hand. “There’s darkness there, sure, but you are the light, Kestis. And sure, there may be light in me, but believe me, I’m a void. The void. You’ll never carry the sins that blacken my soul.” 

His toned chest rises and falls with his rapid, shallow breaths. When he swallows, you watch the way his throat bobs, the muscles that strain at his neck, the tightening of his hands into fists. Without even needing to look, you can feel the way his Force signature roils with confusion and surprise. You’ve caught him off-guard, yet again. The knowledge sends a pulse of heat to the apex of your thighs.

“Show me,” he whispers. 

You frown, brows furrowing. “What?” 

“In the Force,” he says. “Show me.”

“I’ve never—” 

“I have a gift.” He grimaces. “Psychometry. It might not work. But I want to see.” 

Ah. You understand how he knew the names of the Jedi you murdered, and glance at your saber hilt resting on the table near him. How much has he seen? 

Apparently, not enough. 

Worrying your lip between your teeth, you shrug. “Fine. C’mere.” 

The cot groans under the added weight, not meant for two people, but it holds. You adjust yourself to sit with your legs crossed, your knees touching Cal’s as he mirrors your posture. A slight twinge tugs at your ribs as you move. Cal’s eyes soften again as you grimace. 

“Don’t,” you grit out. “Save your pity.” 

“It’s not—” He huffs. “Whatever.” 

Glaring up at him through your eyelashes, you nevertheless rest your hands palm-up, fingers outstretched toward him. Cal gently rests his hands over yours. His skin is heated, electric where it touches yours. The thought crosses your mind, fleetingly, what your odds would be if you decided to finally end it here and now; the thought disappears as soon as his calloused fingers wrap around your forearms. 

“Like this?” he murmurs. 

“Feels right,” you reply in the same tone. “Here goes nothing, yeah?” 

You inhale a deep, centering breath, and allow yourself to sink into the currents of the Force. For a moment you have to squint as Cal’s truest form explodes across your perception. This close, you’re surprised he doesn’t radiate any extra heat. You’re also surprised at the imperfections you find in his signature, the small nicks in the otherwise flawless, gleaming golden skin. You have to restrain yourself from leaning forward to examine him even closer. The desire to know him, to pick him apart and put him back together, rushes through you, pulsing in your fingertips. 

When you feel adjusted to his presence, this close, this intoxicating, you squeeze his hands. Focusing on the places where the two of you connect—your palms, your knees, your signatures—you will your unique sight to bleed into his awareness. 

Judging from the way he stiffens and gasps, you figure it worked. Your combined abilities and strength in the Force, overlapping just this once, let him see the world like you do.

“You’re so...” He trails off, voice strained. “Empty.” 

“Thanks for noticing.” You squeeze his hands again. “Do you underst— oh.”

You nearly choke as the Force nudges against your mind. For a moment, you’re no longer in your hut, but instead on an unfamiliar ship, palms pressed against a stranger’s—no, not a stranger—her name drifts to you. Merrin. You’re comparing palm sizes with her, and her hands are nearly as big as yours—as Cal’s. 

You rip away from Cal Kestis and the illusion breaks. 

Heat burns up your neck to your face. “What the kriffing hell was that?” 

“What did you see?” he asks, concern flashing in his eyes. He reaches for you, and you lean away, glaring. 

You don’t even know why you’re angry. Any emotions you’ve felt for Cal have been ones you can explain: anger, frustration, begrudging respect, competitiveness, hatred. You recognize his attractiveness, and you don’t deny the effect his presence has on your baser desires—but the nearly painful flare of possessiveness pulsing in you right now is foreign. Inexplicable. 

“It doesn’t matter,” you eventually mutter. “Did you see?” 

“I saw you,” he says. Tentatively, he skims his fingertips over your leg, up to your knee. When you don’t retreat, he gently snags your hand and threads your fingers together. “I’m sorry.” 

You bare your teeth and tug your hand away—or try to. His fingers tighten around yours, holding you in place. “I told you before, Kestis. I don’t need your pity.” 

“Then don’t see it as pity,” he says. “See it as an understanding. A mutual experience.” 

Sucking on your teeth, your jaw clenches for a moment before you sigh. “Fine. Who’s Merrin?” 

“An old friend,” Cal says, a little too quickly. “She’s... She went her own way a while ago.” 

Something like triumph glows in you. “Good.” 

He fixes you with a confused look, a crease forming between his brows. “Wha—” 

You cut him off, surging forward to press your lips greedily against his. The impulse to be closer to him, impossibly close, is overwhelming in this moment. His palm is warm and steady and grounding against yours. He grunts against you, going absolutely still. 

When you pull away, not moving more than a few inches away, you meet the shock in his gaze with a sense of pride. His eyes flit between yours, searching. You drag your eyes down to his lips, parted and damp and so fucking pink.

His other hand cradles the back of your head and pulls you forward into another kiss. 

You groan into his mouth. His lips are warm and soft and sweet against yours, moving slowly, uncertain. You tilt your head, nudging his nose with your own. With your free hand, you grip at his shirt and claw your way into his lap. You need more. More of him, more of his warmth, more of his touch, more more moremoremore. 

He breathes your name against your lips, and you shush him gently. His body is hard and lean beneath yours, his touch hesitant. Fingers still intertwined, you guide his hand to your waist. Without the barrier of your shirt, his touch burns, scorching you from the outside in. His fingers splay across your skin, trailing molten desire in their wake. Heat pulses in your core.

“Kriff,” you sigh, “please.” 

“Didn’t think you had manners,” he quips, trailing open-mouthed kisses across your jaw, down your neck. 

You reach up and tug on his fiery hair, earning a low groan. “Rude.” 

He chuckles against your skin, his lips brushing against a sensitive spot. A shiver dances up your spine, a quiet sigh passing your lips. When he bites down there, you moan. 

“Kestis,” you pant. 

“Shh,” he soothes. The hand on your waist trails down to your hip and squeezes in time with another bite to your skin. With another groan, you rock your hips down into him. A grin curls your mouth up in pleasure at the feeling of his half-hard cock beneath you. 

“Off,” you order, tugging on his shirt. 

He breaks away from you long enough to yank the offending article up and over his head. Your palms smooth over the rippling muscles beneath his pale, freckled skin of his stomach, and he shudders. Brushing your thumb over a blaster scar under his ribs, you press a kiss to his shoulder. 

“Did it hurt?” you ask. 

“I’ve had worse,” he says. 

“Show me.” 

His green eyes are dark, nearly black, when he meets your gaze with a questioning look. In response, you skim a featherlight trail over his torso, lingering at the scars that mar his otherwise perfect skin—mirrors, you realize, of the imperfections of his golden aura. 

When you trace the pink scar that bisects his face, he shivers. His hand catches your wrist, halting your movement. 

“That one,” he whispers, voice pained. “That was the worst.” 

You recognize, this close, the telltale signs of a saber wound. He’s lucky to have survived that, you realize. 

Kriff. You press your mouth to his once again, wrapping your legs around his torso. His body fits against yours, hard planes to soft edges, and you groan in unison. His kiss is still tentative, but he moves against you without hesitation when you deepen the kiss, your tongue licking across his bottom lip. His tongue is hot against yours. Spit slicking your lips, you groan into his open mouth. 

Fuck, you need more. Pulling at his hair, you urge his head to tip back, exposing the pale column of his throat. You lick a stripe down his skin, tasting his natural saltiness, delighting in the way his cock hardens against your clothed core. 

“Want you,” you mumble against his collarbone. 

He hums. “I’m yours.”

That possessive flare from before practically obliterates any coherent thoughts your brain was still capable of producing. Growling, you push him onto his back, shuffling down, kissing and licking and biting at his skin as you fumble with his pants. The buttons come undone; his hips raise to help you shuck the clothing off. His cock bobs as it comes free of the confines. 

“Oh fuck,” you moan. “Been holding out on me, Kestis.” 

“If I’d known—” His voice cracks. “If I’d known all you needed was to be fucked, we coulda done this sooner.” 

Tingles spark through your core hearing him curse—hearing him talk about something as base and dirty as fucking you. Stars, the heat in your core is nearly unbearable. 

You need to taste him. 

Wrapping your fingers around his heavy cock, you smear a droplet of precum over his flushed head. His body jerks in response, his eyes half-lidded as he gazes down at you, a smirk playing at his lips. Without warning, you envelope him in your mouth. Cal cries out, hips jerking up. You moan in satisfaction around him. Hollowing your cheeks, you sink your mouth further down onto his length, before sucking, tongue teasing the underside of his head. One hand cupping his balls, you relax your throat and take him deep. The curls at the base tickle your nose. 

“Oh stars,” he breathes. “You’re so good at that. F-Fuck.” 

You hum, settling into a rhythm. His hand, broad and strong and warm, rests on top of your head—not pushing, just there, feeling you. His chest heaving, you can’t help but admire the flush rising to his cheeks, painting him in sin. Spit dribbles out of your mouth, coating the parts of him you can’t reach. Your eyes never leave his. 

Snaking your free hand down your body, you moan at the pleasure that zings through you at the momentary relief of touching yourself. 

“No.” Cal’s voice is strangled, strained. He flicks two shaky fingers, and your hand is yanked out from beneath your body by the Force. 

An obscene pop echoes in your hut as you pull your mouth away from his weeping cock. “Either touch me, or I’ll do it myself,” you growl. 

“Then c-come here,” he stutters. 

Shimmying out of your pants, you discard the garments to the floor without a second thought and climb your way up his body. His hands skim your sides, his touch barely there, as your mouth reconnects with his. You don’t think you’ll ever get enough of his mouth, his touch, his cock. He feels too good. 

You hiss when his hand brushes against your aching sex. He breaks the kiss long enough for his eyes to find yours, a silent question there as his fingers find purchase at your core. 

You can only nod, not trusting your voice. When he moves his hand against you, your vision blurs and you press your forehead to his. 

“Stars, Kestis, just like that,” you hiss. 

He rubs his nose against yours. “Let me take care of you.” 

His touch is electric. Your body jerks against him when his fingers move just right, applying just the right amount of pressure. Heat and tension build in your belly, growing more and more taut by the second. Your legs shake on either side of his hips. 

“Cal,” you whine. “Gonna cum.” 

His touch retreats, and you whimper at the loss of contact. 

“You’re g-gonna cum on my cock,” he promises, pressing a chaste kiss to your lips. The sweetness of the action contrasts with the filth of his words, and your stomach lurches. 

“Fuck, yes, okay.” You spit in your hand and reach down to make sure you’re ready for him.

He slicks his own palm with spit and jerks his cock once, twice, getting himself prepped. With his hand at his base, steadying his length, you slowly sink onto him. He splits you open inch by inch, the delicious burn of him in your core drawing a pitiful moan from your chest. When he bottoms out, you twitch in his lap, chest heaving. 

“T-Take me so well,” he murmurs, ghosting his fingertips over your face. “Stars, you feel so- so good.” 

You whine. “Cal.” 

“I know, baby, I know.” 

The pet name seems to surprise him as much as it does you. The heat that’s been simmering in your chest for months now, since the first time you encountered him, dulls into something...softer. More muted. More pliant. 

Eyes locked together, you test the waters and raise your hips a fraction. Moans tumble from both of you at the friction, and that’s all you need. Rolling your hips, you work his cock, drawing the most delicious noises from him. He caresses your face, smooths a hand over your back, kisses you sweetly. You find just the right angle where his cock brushes against that bundle of nerves deep inside, and you shudder. 

“Cal, I—” 

“Yes,” he groans. “Don’t stop.” 

You don’t. You drag your hips frantically against his, chasing the sparks bursting in your core with each thrust. His touch turns harsh as you ride him; your hips will surely bear bruises tomorrow in the shape of his fingertips. You moan at the thought. Mine. Mine mine mine mine. 

Rutting against that raw piece of heaven in your core, you’re blind to everything else. Your injury forgotten, the empty void that yawns in your soul, your frustration with Cal Kestis: all of it is irrelevant right now. All that matters is that you keep fucking Cal. All that matters is the way his cock feels sliding in and out of you, dragging against your walls. All that matters is the way he moans your name like a prayer. 

“Need you t-to cum,” he orders, words faltering as you clench around his cock. 

“I’m close,” you say, voice hoarse. The tension in your belly draws hot and tight, ready to snap. 

Cal finally thrusts up to meet you when you bounce down, and you scream. That taut cord in your belly releases, snapping in two, and you see white. Pleasure explodes through you; every nerve lit on fire, tears dew in your eyes from the intensity. You claw at Cal’s chest, searching for purchase as he absolutely rails into you, chasing his own release. 

Through it all, he babbles. “J-Just like that, baby. Cum all over this cock. Fuck, you’re g-gonna make me— I— fuck, ngh, I’m—” 

He stills as he cums, his cock pulsing against your walls, and you jerk at the sensation, oversensitive. 

Your eyes flutter as you look down at him in the gathering darkness. His skin shines with a thin sheen of sweat. As his cock softens inside of you, letting some of his cum drip out, you groan softly. 

“This was a mistake,” you whisper. 

He swallows visibly, and nods. “I know.” 

You capture his lips in another kiss, one he returns with a fervor. Stars, you almost wish you really did hate him. This would be so much easier. 

“What now?” he asks, thumb brushing over your tender hips. 

You shrug. “Same time next week?” 

He huffs a laugh. “Very funny.” 

“Thanks.” 

He hums. “I’m leaving tomorrow.” 

All of the heat of the last few minutes dissipates immediately, and ice knifes your insides. You push away from him finally, his cum dripping down your inner thigh as you stand, bend to retrieve your clothes, tug them on. 

“Okay.”

“That’s it?” 

“What do you want me to say, Kestis?” 

He sighs as he reaches for his own clothes. “I don’t know. I don’t know.” 

“You should have left when I told you to,” you say, arms crossed over your chest as you stare out the single window of your home at the rapidly falling dark. 

“Yeah, maybe.” His hand is warm and familiar where he rests it on your shoulder. “You could...come with me.” 

You narrow your eyes. “And have to live by your Jedi code? No thanks.” 

“No code,” he says, quiet, contemplative. “Just the fight.” 

“Just the fight,” you echo. When he nods, something you sense more than see, you sigh. “I could...tag along. Just this once.” 

“Of course,” he says. His lips press against your temple. “Just this once.” 

Swallowing against the strange metallic taste rising to your mouth, you blink and summon the Force. You’re grateful for Cal’s grounding presence behind you. Your signature is...muddied. Marbled black and gold. When you glance down at his hand on your skin, you find that his aura is the same as yours. Mixed. Confused. 

Balanced.

you were good at running. the galaxy had taught you early on that speed and distance were better shields than allegiance, and you’d worn that lesson into your bones. ships, jobs, faces; they blurred together. what stayed constant was the refusal to choose, and the refusal to give in, to let your last name and heritage dictate your life story. no resistance, no order, no destiny. you told yourself you were free, except for him. the voice had been a splinter at first, static when you tried to sleep, the impression of someone else’s breath in your lungs. you ignored it until ignoring became impossible, until it hurt. the bond punished you when you shut it out too long, a sharp ache in your chest, ribs threatening to cave, veins buzzing like they were filled with sparks. once, you’d gone nearly three days without acknowledging it, only to collapse on your ship’s floor, choking. when you gasped his name into the dark, the pain stopped instantly. he liked that.

"you can't escape me," his voice was heavy in your mind, weighing down on your sternum, threatening to crush your chest, "even when you try," you hated how your body reacted, hated that your skin heated under his attention, hated that you sometimes whispered back. nights were often worse. the bond thrummed hot, insistent. you were in your bunk, a thin blanket tangled around your legs, ship humming quiet. you tried to push him out, tried to think of nothing at all. the pain came sharp, like teeth pressing behind your ribs. "fuck," you hissed, clutching your chest. his satisfaction rolled in like a tide. "crying for me?" he mocked, echoing in your mind. "go to hell," "oh, darling, we both know you'd follow,"

you learned quickly that distance didn’t matter. planets, systems, hyperspace lanes, none of it dulled the bond. sometimes you caught him on the edge of your vision, standing on the bridge of the finalizer, surrounded by officers who didn’t dare breathe too loudly. you could feel his control, the way he injected his fury into every beat of silence. other times, he slipped into your mind when you were drinking in some seedy cantina, pretending you were ordinary. once, when you tried to block him out, the bond burned until your knees hit the durasteel floor of your ship. "stop fighting me," he growled, resonating in your thoughts, in your bones. "just leave me alone," you forced back, feeling it ripple through the bond, satisfied as you felt your anger seep into him. your paths began crossing in the flesh, too. twice in the span of a month, he cornered you at ports, eyes sharp beneath that terrifying mask. he never drew his saber, never arrested you, never killed you. just stood there, breathing like a storm, before letting you go. and every time, the bond sang louder.

one night, while you were bathing, you felt him slip in, his presence brushing your skin like phantom fingers. you gasped, covering yourself though there was no one there. "stop it," you snarled aloud. he didn’t. the bond pulsed as though he were dragging his gaze down your body, as though he could see every droplet of water clinging to you. the ache in your chest sharpened until you gave in. "fine," you spat, spreading your legs in the steaming water, "you want to watch? then watch," his answering groan made your thighs clench. you could see him in your mind, his intense eyes dark, his lips flush as he dug his teeth into the flesh. after that, it became a game. sometimes you touched yourself just to spite him, to flood the bond with sensation until his control cracked. sometimes he answered back, dragging you to the edge without a hand, forcing your body to obey his will across light years. it was sick, but it was intoxicating.

the third time he cornered you in person, he spoke. no mask, just eyes black as empty space and a voice that crawled down your spine, unnerved you. "they’re weak," he said, "the resistance. they’ll break. the order is rotting from the inside out, but you and me," his hand twitched, like he wanted to touch you, to reach out, "we could be something else entirely," you laughed in his face, "me and you? i’d rather die," but your chest burned when you tried to turn away, the bond tightening like a noose. "as if i would let you die," he hissed, "as if you could get away from me that easily," in a blink, he was gone, leaving you trembling and strangely cold. that night, you started another stint of running, more than you ever had before.

the order began to notice. there were whispers on the bridge, officers exchanging glances when their commander froze, head tilted like he was listening to someone they couldn’t hear. general hux smirked openly, sneering about phantoms and ghosts. once, he muttered your name within earshot. kylo nearly cut him in half. his obsession was no longer subtle. he searched for you between missions, ordered scouts to chase rumors. he never admitted it aloud, not to them. only to you. you haunted him, late at night when he was alone, his skin burning, aching to touch you, to have you. he closed his eyes, your face playing on a loop, searing into his mind.

you tried, one last time, to shut him out completely. you'd put all of your focus into it, wishing him away. the pain was immediate. your lungs felt as if they had collapsed, your ribs screamed, your skull felt like it was cracking in two. you clawed at the floor of your ship, gasping. far away, you felt him drop too, on his knees in the middle of the bridge, officers recoiling. you both surrendered at the same time. "enough," you sobbed, shaking and afraid. "come to me," it echoed through your head, swimming in the currents of agony. you should have run, should have given it one last try. instead, you set a course.

the finalizer swallowed your ship whole. stormtroopers dragged you to him, straight to his quarters, but you were already trembling, the bond clawing like fire under your skin. he dismissed the guards with a flick of his hand. the moment the door shut, you broke. you were shouting, spitting, fury sharp on your tongue, "you ruined my life, you- you monster!" he slammed you against the wall, his breath hot, his body vibrating with restraint. "you think i want this?" he growled, "you think i asked for it? you’re in me. every second, every breath. do you think i don’t hate it too?" you glared at him, gathering all you could muster and spitting at his face, watching it land just above his lip. he snarled, and you watched with wide eyes as his gloved thumb collected the liquid, dragging it to his mouth, lips wrapping around leather. "you think fighting makes you strong," he growled, "it doesn't. it makes you pathetic and disillusioned enough to believe you could possibly hurt me,"

you opened your mouth to scream, to tell him to let you go, to threaten him, but were met with a white hot searing pain in your head, pulsing behind your eyes. "i know exactly who you are," his voice filled your mind, though his lips didn't move, "i know exactly what you're capable of, palpatine. what a shame it is, generations coming to fall beneath my hand, all because i've weakened you. tell me, when you're afraid, is it me that you picture? or do i fill your thoughts when you dream of salvation?" "you have no idea what i'm capable of," you spat through gritted teeth, "as if i could ever imagine you and salvation coexisting. you are to be my damnation, ren, and i will not allow it," you gathered up every ounce of strength you possessed, tearing away from his force hold, every thread of the bond protesting as you forced him against the wall, your hands trembling and jaw clenched tight. you held him there, nearly delighted in the way his breath quickened, but then he was laughing, loud and deep.

you startled, your grip on the force slipping, and he took his opportunity to surge towards you, eyes gleaming, "you think you could hurt me?" he snapped, "any power you hold is power i've allowed you to have, darling. you think because you have your grandfather's abilities that makes you special?" he took a step closer, boots echoing on the durasteel, "i am, and will remain, the most powerful man in any galaxy. you are strong, yes, but you are foolish. i could fix that. i plan to fix that," you started towards him, and you were flung to the far wall, your breath knocked from your lungs with a strangled gasp. "you're making me do this," he said, sounding almost regretful, "things could be easy, if you would just behave," "i will never submit to you," you snarled, "i'll die fighting if i must," "oh, darling," he tsk'd, "i have seen visions of your future, of ours. you have no idea how untrue that statement is,"

you opened your mouth to speak, only for the air to be taken from your lungs once again, a shadow of pressure tightening around your throat. "give in," he cooed, almost mocking, "let me show you what it could be like, my darling," goosebumps rose on your skin as invisible touch ghosted over you, snaking beneath your clothes, cold against your skin. he released your throat as you teetered on dizziness, blood rushing back to your head, choked coughs leaving you. "i can hear your heart beating," he said, "you're not afraid of me. you're afraid of how desperately you yearn for me," you shuddered at the pressure building between your thighs, fighting against it, "i will never want you. you're a monster, a murderer-"

"you think i have not seen what you've done?" he laughed harshly, "you have scorned people, hurt them, killed them, all to escape your fanatical destiny. it's absurd," "i did what i had to do!" you nearly screamed, the lights of his chambers flickering against the force. "yes, as have i," he seemed pleased, almost, "we are one and the same, as you would know if you would stop your incessant fighting, your needless running. i know you better than you know yourself, my star, and it thrills me," "you know nothing about me," you argued, but you knew deep down that he was right, because really, you knew him just as well, "i should kill you, right here," "darling, if you were going to kill me, you'd have done it already. you have been unbound since i released you, yet you haven't even tried, because you know you would regret it,"

you faltered, moving and realizing you'd done so freely. you opened your palm, satisfied when the cool steel of your saber met your skin, red light humming to life as your fingers clasped around it. you met kylo's eyes, but he was unmoved, seemingly unaffected. "you won't kill me," he said simply, watching as you stepped closer, "though this is quite entertaining," you didn't reply, just raised your weapon, swinging towards him. in the blink of an eye, his saber roared to life in his hand, coming to meet yours, two red lights clashing. "i don't want to fight you," he said over the buzz of light, "don't make me hurt you," "i thought it was entertaining," you mocked, jerking your saber away to swing for him again. "fine," he spat, "we'll do it your way, darling,"

the two of you fought, hand over hand, sabers clashing and boots scuffing against steel, occasional grunts leaving his flushed lips. "i hate you," you practically screamed, swinging your arm. he misstepped, faltered, and in a flurry of movement, your saber grazed his chest, tearing through his suit, tearing skin. he collapsed, and for a moment, panic seized your heart, halted your breathing. "get up," you demanded, eyeing him skeptically, "ren, get up," when he didn't reply, when you could no longer see his chest moving, you fell to your knees beside him, eyes wide, hands trembling, "kylo?" for one terrible, agonizing moment, you thought he'd died, that you'd killed him. you couldn't hear him, couldn't feel him in your veins, could only feel the bone chilling, hollowed out pain of what you assumed was your severed bond.

you felt for a pulse, and were indescribably relieved to be met with a slow heartbeat. you thought, for a moment, that you could leave him there. you could run, flee the ship, leave him bleeding for someone else to deal with. before you could entertain it any further, your hands seemed to be working on their own, palms humming with energy as you ran them along the wound on his chest, watching your life force flow into him, the skin fusing shut. "i knew you cared," his voice filled your head, and you gasped, eyes flickering to his face to be met with open, dark eyes. "i thought i killed you," you exhaled breathily. "so you were giving your life to save mine?" his gloved hand caught your wrist when you moved to turn away, "yet you insist you hate me, that you want me dead. you could not live without me, my star. we are a dyad in the force. we must remain,"

"i was doing the right thing," you hated how weak you suddenly sounded, "that's all," "i can feel your life flowing through my veins," he took a deep breath, closing his eyes as if in bliss, "it- you- feels fucking incredible," he summoned you closer, face inches from yours, "give in to this, to us. it will feel indescribable, you know it as well as i do. pleasure unrivaled by anything in this universe or any other," "this is wrong," you murmured, eyes flickering to his lips, "the bond is purely incidental, it doesn't mean anything," "lies," his voice rose, "you feel it just as much as i do. i can see it written all over you, darling. you cannot lie to me," "you're deranged," you argued, "i just nearly killed you, and you're asking me to-" "oh, my star, don't you see? that only makes me ache for you more," he almost groaned it, leather gloves settling at the nape of your neck, pulling you closer, "give in. come to me,"

you told yourself you were just worn down, tired of fighting, tired of running. a million excuses rushed through your mind, all to cover and deny your most volatile, inescapable truth. he was a part of you, and you were desperate to keep him, hungry to have more of him. after what felt like a lifetime of hiding, you finally gave in, finally revealed yourself in a way you'd spent years ashamed of. you kissed him, rough and fast, hands fisted in the collar of his suit. he groaned against your lips, surging against you, kissing you hungrily. your hair fell around the two of you in a curtain as you leaned over him, his back to the floor. "you're not in charge here, darling," his voice rang out in your mind, and you huffed in surprise as he rolled you, pinning your back to the cold steel, hot kisses peppering your jawline before his lips slotted against yours once more. you wound your arms around his neck, pulling him closer, the kiss deepening until your teeth gnashed.

the cold air of the room met your skin as the force tore your robes open, your skin pebbling with goosebumps. he pulled away from the kiss, trailing his lips down your jaw, then to your chest. "i have dreamed of this," he sounded wrecked as he pulled the remnants of your top off, leaving you fully bare, "you have no idea the things i have done to you in my mind," he nipped at the skin of your breast, "though i suppose you have fantasies of your own. i've seen the way you've fucked yourself on your fingers," your skin heated, and started to fumble for a witty retort, but then he was dragging down your pants and underwear, shoving your thighs apart. "i bet you taste like honey," he murmured, "let me see for myself, darling?" "yes," you nodded feverishly, nearly panicked with how badly you wanted him, "yes, please," "how beautifully you submit to me," he praised, eyes catching yours as he settled between your legs, pupils blown.

he licked a wide stripe up your core, sighing at the taste, eyes closing and lashes brushing his cheeks as he melted into you. he laved at you like he was starving, losing himself in the taste of you, in the sounds tearing from your throat. you arched your back, wincing as the durasteel bit at your exposed skin, and he faltered. "you're hurt," filled your mind, "the floor?" "i'm fine," you said aloud, "please, don't stop," "can't have you hurt before i'm even done with you," he murmured, shifting until he was lying beside you, chest heaving, "here, sit," "no-" "come here," he insisted, pulling at your wrist, "perhaps you can put that argumentative mouth to use while i have my fun with you, hm?" you nodded, suddenly lost for words as you moved to straddle his face, your face hovering inches from the bulge in his pants. he reached around you to unbuckle them in one motion, seemingly unbothered by the reach, loosening them enough for you to push them down without complaint. then, he settled back on your core, the new angle leaving you gasping immediately.

you fumbled with his pants, finally pushing them down, his cock flushed and hard, just inches from your lips. you ran your hand along his length before finally taking him into your mouth, struggling to accommodate to his size, tongue running along his veins as you took him in deeper. he moaned into you, sucking your clit into his mouth, relentless in his pursuit of your pleasure. you felt that familiar invisible force at the back of your head, guiding you as you choked on his cock, drooling around him. his hands dug into the flesh of your ass as he pulled you harder against his face, tongue pushing inside you, exploring you. you moaned around him, clenching down, your orgasm approaching dizzyingly fast. you pumped what you couldn’t fit with your hand, hollowing your cheeks to suck him in deeper, moaning incessantly, though it was muffled. you pulled away, a string of spit connecting you to his skin, “close,” you managed, breathless and raspy, “fuck, kylo,” “let go for me,” echoed in your head as you took him back into your mouth, lapping at his tip, clenching around his tongue. you came with a muffled near scream, and he fucked up into your mouth as he guided you through it, working you perfectly until you were trembling on his face. he pulled back, tapping your hip, and you whined as you pulled off of his cock, climbing off of him on shaky legs. “bed,” he murmured, gesturing to the other room. “couldn’t have mentioned that before?” you mumbled, and he shot you a look, as if he was challenging you to say more.

you stepped into his bedroom, glancing around, but your curiosity was cut short when he pushed you to the bed, standing above you, one hand stroking your chin. “you still have gloves on,” you caught the tip of one finger in your teeth, and were surprised when he didn’t stop you, didn’t protest. you pulled it off slowly, tossing it aside, and he placed a fingertip to your lips, allowing you to shed him of the other. his hands were beautiful, thick fingers and blue veins, and you found yourself parting your lips again even after the glove was removed, inviting him to explore. he placed his thumb against your tongue, and you latched your lips around it, sucking him into your mouth with a satisfied hum. “good girl,” he murmured, his free hand reaching between your thighs once again, trailing through the sticky mess, “let me fuck you, darling. you’ve made me wait long enough,” you nodded, hazy with lust and dizzy from intensity, letting him slip between your legs and push them towards your chest, spreading you open for him.

“so pretty,” he praised, running his tip along your clit, “you can’t even comprehend how beautiful you are to me,” you let yourself believe it, let your mind drink in his praising, let yourself fall further into this all consuming chasm that you’d been teetering on. he pushed inside of you, tantalizingly slow, letting you feel every inch as he filled you. “oh,” you clenched around him, trying to relax, to let him in, “god, you’re so big,” “look at you,” he ground out, “all stretched out around me. i could break you,” you thought, distantly, that he already had. he pounded into you, hands digging at the backs of your thighs as he held your legs still, breath ragged and sharp. “please,” you managed, unsure what you were even begging for anymore, squeezing down on his cock with every motion of his hips. “please what?” his voice appeared in your head, his mouth busy as he dug his teeth into his bottom lip, “i’ll do anything you ask, darling,” you broke off into a moan, his sudden saccharine sweetness only adding to the wetness between your thighs. “you like that? you like when i’m sweet to you?” he panted, voice hoarse, the sound unfamiliar but welcome to your ears. “yes,” you nodded, quick and desperate, “so good,” “i know, star,” he sounded pitying, cloying, “you can take it, can’t you?” you nodded again, though you weren’t sure you could for much longer.

he slowed his thrusts, burying himself so deep you could see the indentation in the flat of your stomach, your eyes rolling back as he hit that spot deep inside you. “look at that,” he hummed, breathing shaky, “can see myself inside you. how beautiful,” and then he was pounding into you once more, knocking the breath from your lungs. you felt a warm, curling pressure against your clit, but both of his hands remained on your legs, holding you open. “fuck,” you choked out, the force grinding against your swollen, aching nerves, swirling in time with his hips, “oh, kylo,” “ben,” he managed, voice cracking in a deliriously delicious way, “call me ben,” this piqued your curiosity, added to the deepening bond between you, and you took it to heart, stored it away in your mind. “ben, please,” you mewled, “so close, please,” “oh, fuck me,” he growled, hips snapping against yours, “that’s it, darling girl, come on, make a mess of me,” he increased the pressure of the force, and then you were falling over the edge, vision blinking in and out as you came, entire body shaking beneath him.

“good fuckin’ girl,” he panted, twitching inside you, “gonna fuck you full, gonna make you mine forever. you’re gonna take it so good, aren’t you?” when you only nodded, he tapped your face, just enough to get your attention, “say it, baby. tell me you’ll take it,” “i’ll take it,” your voice cracked, and you sounded unfamiliar to your own ears, so lost in the moment, “i’ll take whatever you give me,” “damn right you will,” he sounded distinctly pleased, and then you felt a light pressure on your throat again, warming you as you recalled earlier in the evening, “look at me,” he demanded, “want to see your face when i fill you up,” you watched as he came unraveled, his jaw slack, eyes darker than you’d ever seen them, low, guttural sounds leaving his swollen lips as he came, spreading warmth throughout you. “oh,” his head tipped back, and he swallowed down breaths, chest heaving, “incredible. you’re incredible,” you hummed, watching him attempt and fail to compose himself, before he eventually collapsed beside you on the bed, sweat slick and warm.

The Targaryen lineage had long since been deemed cursed, a price to pay for defying the old Gods in Valyria.

Dragon blood flowed through the descendants of those who once performed magic to control the beasts. It is said that the Gods had tried to eradicate them for their sins.

The Doom of Valyria; where the ground split itself in half and burst.

And then infertility for those who survived.

When the last dragon died, it was also said that the magic in a Targaryens veins had nowhere to go, resulting in a madness that was swiftly becoming common for the royal breed.

"Every time a Targaryen is born, the God's flip a coin."

Perhaps Maekar's line was cursed.

His brother had created two honorable young men to continue on the legacy of leaders. One to be King of Westeros and the other to be Lord of Dragonstone.

His own wretched offspring had not been as blessed upon birth, no matter how Maekar wished to shape them.

Daeron, his firstborn, had been a child who cried throughout the night. His restlessness never ceased, even as he reached adulthood. Cursed with dreams of death and destruction, he was well on his way to drink himself into an early grave.

Not a warrior.

Not a scholar.

Not a politician.

A whoring drunk.

Aerion, his second born, was worse. Capable and intelligent. Beautiful and lithe.

But above all else, he was delusional and cruel. He had been promising in his youth, but wickedness was planted when he learned of the blood he harbored. The young man fancied himself a dragon, and for that, he would one day suffer.

From torturing his own siblings to throwing cats down wells and even forcing servants to drink boiling wine, Aerion was rotten.

Out of his siblings, he was the first to be wed. The hope Maekar held arrived in the shape of a highborn lady.

With no Valyrian blood flowing through your veins, Aerion detested you. He hated the lack of silver-gold hair on your head, and he hated the lack of violet in your eyes.

He had wanted a sister and would have even settled for a cousin, but his father brought forth a complete stranger.

No traditional Valyrian wedding took place either. He did not get to bind your blood and claim that at least some dragon blood flowed through you now.

A dream he had since he was a boy was thrown out of the window the second he entered the Great Sept of Baelor and draped a cape over your shoulders instead. His Houses sigil was embroidered into it, but he couldn't help but think that you were an imposter amongst his kin.

He performed his duties that night and felt slighted when no child bloomed. He didn't visit your bed again.

It wasn't until Ashford Meadow that he finally slept beside you, forced to share a chamber.

A tourney for Lady Gwin Ashfords nameday was held in the Reach. Neighbors to the Stormlands, the journey had not been long nor tiring.

Prince Baelor and Prince Valarr rode south to join their family as well.

When Maekar left to search for his missing sons, Aerion's front finally dropped.

No longer having to deceive his father, he drove his lance through the jugular of a horse, resulting in its death and the broken leg of its rider.

That night, he broke a puppeteers fingers.

A "mockery", he claimed.

A "veiled attack" on house Targaryen.

A simple hedge knight challenged him, and the Prince would not forget that.

By the next morn, the first Trial of Seven since Maegor the Cruel was conducted.

"Fear not for me, wife." Aerion had told you when he was dressing in his armor, voice mocking. "The God's rule in my favor. They know who the true champion is."

If only Aerion actually believed in those God's.

The Trial started with a shock. Hand of the King, heir to the throne, Prince Baelor joined the opposing side, fighting against his two nephews and younger brother.

The horn sounded, and horses startled.

It was a foggy day, and the silver metal of each fighter's armor left it easy to mistake one for another. Aerion's spiked visage stood out amongst the others, even as he rolled about in mud.

Competitors fell, and others persevered.

Aerion's screams were heard when a sword caught near his groin, slicing through a weak spot in his armor. When he thought he killed the hedge knight, Ser Duncan rose again.

In the end, beaten beyond belief, Aerion was forced to withdraw his accusations, lest he succumb to a worser fate.

No real consequence came from the grounds until Prince Baelor fell, skull caved in by his own brothers mace.

Those in attendance took a pause.

In a land he did not hail from, Baelors body was laid to rest. He should have been back in Kings Landing or even Dorne, not in Ashford Meadow. Instead, his pyre was built the day after his death.

Nobody but the Septon spoke, wishing the man well in his transition to the afterlife.

Maekar, beaten and bruised, stood like a statue, unaware that his brothers last words were praises of how strong he could be. His mace struck true, and his big brother suffered because of it.

At the end of the service, only Valarr lingered.

You joined your good father and his sons back to the castle, observing the glum atmosphere as lesser Lords and Ladies packed up to leave the grounds.

The Tourney had ended.

Before the procession, Maekar had sat silent in the room while Aerion rested in a milk of poppy haze. By Baelors funeral, his last sip of the elixir had worn off while he was alone. He was awake, aching beyond belief with no help.

Daring to set your eyes upon your mangled husband, the door opened with a creak. The hinges were not oiled as well as the ones in Summerhall.

The Prince could not turn his head, laid in bed with the sheets just above his sternum, his swollen eyes were set upon the ceiling.

He was gnarled with open gashes upon his face, bruises along his forehead, and matching black eyes. Never had you seen him like this.

Your hand raised, covering your mouth as you stood over him. It was a ghastly sight, one you were sure he would not have wanted you to see. He did not want to be vulnerable with the likes of you around. It was why you had not visited him the day before.

His dry lips parted, parched for water, but also reacting to his obscured vision of you.

"Is it the Mother or the Maiden who looks down upon me?" He rasped, speaking words you had not expected. His jaw barely moved, likely sore. "Mayhaps the Gods are cruel and such a beautiful sight is really the Stranger..."

Never had Aerion described you as such.

Your mourning clothes were nothing far from the colors of his house, which you were often forced to wear. You had not expected to be attending a funeral and were unprepared when it came to it.

Surely, Aerion was jesting. It was like him to jape about such a thing, especially when Baelor had gone against him. He likely thought his uncle deserved it.

"I ache, my Lady..." He whispered then, eyebrows stringing together.

"You are healing, husband." Lord Ashfords Maesters had attended to him, and his wounds were clean, but the stench of festering flesh permeated around the chamber.

His features softened. "What?"

"You are bruised. And your leg..." You trailed off, unable to truly speak of the extent of his injuries when Maekar was the only one to truly know. Too close to his manhood with the possibility of permanently altering his gait.

"No," He tried to shake his head, but he did it with a slowness that showed the ache. "Husband. You called me husband."

Confusion struck you then. You had referred to him with the title since you wed him.

His tongue darted out, wetting his lips. "My lady, I do not recall having ever seen your face before..."

You had never seen him so unguarded, so soft. Now, he claimed to have never seen you before. This time, your eyebrows furrowed. "I am your wife, Aerion. We wed late last spring. Do you truly not remember?"

You were dumbfounded upon hearing such a thing. Could Aerion be toying with you again? Or was this a serious result of the Trial?

"I am wed to you?" He questioned, his lilt gentle. Slowly, his split lips spread into a subtle smile. "Truly, my lady?"

Your head nodded, and your hand lifted, hovering, hesitating to touch the one he had resting on his abdomen.

"Yes..." You breathed.

He sighed loud enough for you to hear, looking as if his smile would widen, only for his face to twist up. His jaw clenched, and his nostrils flared while his upper lip curled.

All he knew was that he was in pain. He recalled no dragons. No blood purity.

"Do you require milk of the poppy?" Your eyes darted to the bedside table, where there was no more of the suppressant. "I will alert the Maester. Please wait here, my prince."

You were unaccustomed when it came to taking care of your husband, but when that same confused tone left his lips, you paused.

"Prince?"

Aerion often took arrogant pride in his title. He thought it to be well deserved for someone like him. The three Conquerors paved this path for dragons and in turn— him. He would not let anyone forget that.

Your skin finally met his own when your hand settled over the back of his wrist, barely touching it.

"Need you anything, husband?" Your voice was nothing more than a murmur, wary of this forgetfulness.

He continued to stare up at you before attempting to shake his head again. "Nay.... I think I would quite like to keep looking at you."

You nodded and brought a chair closer to his bed, making promises to stay by his side, watching over this alternate of your husband. A version of him you had never once seen, but would cherish.

You brought his ailment to the attention of the Maesters and helped feed Aerion more suppressants. You helped him into robes when the family had to depart from Ashford Meadow and kept a keen eye on him as he scowled from the front of the wheelhouse.

When the idea of sending this vulnerable version of Aerion to Lys was spoken by Maekar, you protested with tears in your eyes. In the end, Aerion gained his lucid state back, reminding you just how monstrous he truly was. Horrified by his recollection of softness, his tongue was sharper than a blade.

He was shipped off the second his deepest gash scarred.

A/n: I have wips for Maekar, Daeron, Aerion, and Valarr. I need motivation. Omg. This is why I was on break for two years. :P

Again, this was just a trial run.

The pink ribbon snaps in the wind. Again. Fucking hell.

It’s the third one this month, and you’re running out. You crouch to pick it up, fingers brushing damp concrete, when a boot crunches gravel too close behind you. You've been cutting smaller strips from one large ribbon hoping for the best.

The prison yard is quieter than usual today, most of the group is out on a run, leaving just a handful of people behind. You’d been counting on that. Fewer eyes means fewer chances for someone to notice how you flinch when voices rise, or how you always take the long way around to avoid walking past the men sharpening knives by the fence. But now, someone’s standing right there.

"You always do that?" The voice is low, rough, and unmistakable. Daryl Dixon. The man who hasn't left your mind since he found you in the woods, heartbroken by the death of your family and lost from the group you'd been traveling with. You'd never seen a horde before that day. You don’t turn around. Your ribs press tight against your lungs.

The kids will be waiting soon. You’ve got the old alphabet books laid out in the cellblock, you've turned into a makeshift classroom, the pages smoothed flat after being crumpled in your bag for weeks. They like the one with the dog. You like that they still care about dogs despite all the things they've seen.

Your ribbon slips from your fingers again, caught by a gust that carries it toward Daryl’s boots. He bends before you can, picking it up with calloused hands that look out of place holding something so delicate. His thumb brushes the frayed edge where you’d cut it too close last time.

“Ain’t gonna last if you keep tearin’ ‘em,” he says, not necessarily unkindly but definitely not tenderly. He holds it out, and you take it without meeting his eyes. Your fingers barely graze his, but the contact sends a jolt up your arm anyway. You tuck the ribbon into your pocket like a secret.

“Kids’re askin’ for you, ain't class about to start?” he adds when you don’t speak. His voice is quieter now, like he’s trying not to startle you. It works. You risk a glance up and find him squinting against the sun, his crossbow slung over his shoulder like always. There’s a fresh scrape on his jaw that he must’ve picked up from the last supply run.

You nod, suddenly aware of how close he’s standing. The heat from his body radiates in the space between you, and you catch the scent of leather and pine resin clinging to his vest. It’s not unpleasant.

Inside, the kids are already clustered around the makeshift desks when you slip in, their chatter dying down as soon as they see you. Little Amy grins, her front teeth missing. “You’re late,” she accuses, but there’s no malice in it.

“Sorry, kiddo” you murmur, smoothing the ribbon between your fingers before tying it loosely around a chunk of your curls to beat the heat. The prison has been humid and genuinely disgusting the past few weeks because of the summer heat. The kids don’t laugh like the others do when your hands fumble twice trying to tie it. They just watch, curious, as you open the dog book.

Daryl lingers in the doorway longer than he needs to. You feel his eyes on the back of your neck, steady and warm. Not judging.

Later, when the kids have scattered and you’re stacking the books, he appears again, you hadn't even realized he'd left- the skilled bastard. This time, he’s holding something small.

“Found this near the fence,” he mutters, shoving a scrawny gray kitten into your hands before you can protest. It’s all bones and big eyes, its fur matted with dirt. A piece of its ear is missing. It mews weakly, claws catching on your sleeve.

You cradle it against your chest instinctively, your heart doing something complicated in your ribs. Daryl’s already turning away like he didn’t just hand you a piece of the world.

“She’ll keep the rats out,” he says over his shoulder.

You press your face into the kitten’s fur to hide your smile.

The kitten begins sleeping with you, curled against your collarbone that night, its tiny body rising and falling with each breath. You’ve named her Thistle, for the way she clings, for the soft prick of her claws when she kneads your skin through your shirt. The ribbon you ripped today is forgotten. Mostly. The disappointment of losing one of the only things that helps you feel like an actual girl- no, an actual woman, still nags at you. Keeping in touch with your femininity and grace when you're covered in dirt and despair is harder than anyone ever expects.

Daryl doesn’t mention it again, but three days later, a length of pink satin appears on your cot. It’s wider than the ones you’ve been rationing, untouched by scissors. You run your fingers over it, pulse jumping at the implication, he must’ve been looking. The thought knots your stomach in a way that isn’t entirely unpleasant.

Thistle bats at the ribbon when you lift it, her ears twitching. You’re tying it around a loose curl when footsteps pause outside your cell. It’s him. You know by the way the air changes, something in the rhythm of his breath, the weight of his silence.

“Got somethin’ for the kids,” Daryl says, voice gruff. He doesn’t come in. Doesn’t even look at you directly. Just holds out a plastic bag filled with crayon stubs and half-used coloring books salvaged from God knows where. You take it, your fingers brushing his. His hands are warm. Rough. You wonder if he feels how yours shake.

“They’ll love these,” you say, barely above a whisper.

Daryl grunts, but his eyes dart to the ribbon in your hair. A muscle in his jaw flexes. “Hope that one ain’t gonna fray,” he mutters before walking away, leaving you clutching the bag like it’s something precious.

The next summer storm rolls in after midnight. Thunder shakes the prison walls, rattling the bars of your cell. Thistle bolts under the cot, her tail puffed out. You crouch to coax her out when water splashes cold against your neck, the ceiling’s leaking again, a steady drip that soaks through your blanket.

You’re gathering Thistle in your arms when a shadow fills the doorway.

“My cell’s dry.” Daryl’s voice is low, barely audible over the rain. He doesn’t wait for an answer, just turns and walks down the hall. You follow, Thistle tucked against your chest, her claws pricking your skin through your shirt.

His cell smells like leather and gun oil. There’s a lantern flickering on the floor, casting long shadows over the walls. His cot is narrow, but he’s already shoved a folded blanket against the wall to make space. You sit gingerly with Thistle attempting to squirm free to investigate her newfound land.

Daryl leans against the far wall, arms crossed. “Roof’s been shit since day one, ain't a surprise” he says, like an apology.

Lightning flashes, illuminating the sharp lines of his face. Thunder follows, shaking the floor. You flinch, hands curling into fists. Daryl doesn’t say anything, but when the next roll of thunder comes, he sits beside you. Close enough that his shoulder brushes yours.

“M’ not gonna hurt you,” he murmurs, like he's approaching a scared animal. Maybe you are a scared animal. That's what humans are now, right?

Thistle climbs into your lap, purring. You stroke her fur, focusing on the vibration under your fingers instead of the storm.

“Merle used to say thunder was just God playing bowling.” Daryl’s voice is quiet, almost lost under the rain. “Dumbass.”

You huff a laugh before you can stop yourself. Daryl glances at you, something unreadable in his eyes.

The storm rages on, but the space between you grows warmer.

The lantern flickers again, and Thistle’s ears twitch at the sudden shift in light. You watch her pupils expand, black swallowing gold, as another crack of thunder shakes the prison. This time, you don’t flinch as hard, you couldn't, not with Daryl’s shoulder solid against yours, not with the way his fingers twitch like he’s considering reaching for you but thinks better of it.

"You ever had a cat before?" he asks suddenly, voice rough-edged but softer than you’ve ever heard it.

You shake your head, fingers still buried in Thistle’s fur. "No. Always wanted one, though." The admission feels too big for the space between you, but Daryl just nods like he understands.

"Had a dog once," he says after a beat. "Got hit by a car when I was nine. Merle said it was my fault for lettin’ him off the leash." His jaw works like he’s chewing on something bitter. You don’t know what to say, so you press your knee against his instead. He doesn’t pull away.

The storm eases by dawn, leaving the prison damp and smelling of wet concrete. You’re stiff from sitting so still, but Thistle stretches in your lap, her tiny claws kneading your thigh through the fabric of your pants. Daryl’s already on his feet, rolling his shoulders like he’s shaking off the weight of the night.

"You stayin’?" he asks, not looking at you as he picks up his crossbow from where it leans against the wall. His voice is casual, but his fingers tighten around the weapon’s grip.

You hesitate, Thistle’s purr vibrating against your legs. The leak in your cell won’t have fixed itself, and the thought of returning to the damp cot makes your skin crawl. But staying feels like too much, like stepping into a space you weren’t invited to occupy.

Daryl reads your silence like it’s a language he speaks fluently. "I've got extra blankets n’ the space" he mutters, nudging a frayed gray bundle with his boot. "Ain’t usin’ all of it anyway."

That’s how you find yourself moving your things into his cell the next day, one armful at a time. The kids watch with wide eyes as you carry your stack of books past the common area, little Amy trailing after you like a duckling.

"Are you and Daryl married now?" she asks, serious as a heart attack.

Your face burns. "No. Just- just, sharing space."

Amy frowns. "My mom said people only share rooms when they’re married or when there’s no more rooms."

Daryl chooses that moment to appear, a dead rabbit dangling from one hand. He freezes when he sees you, his eyes darting from your flushed face to Amy’s expectant stare.

"We run outta rooms?" Amy demands, hands on her hips.

Daryl’s ears turn red. "Mind your business, kid," he grumbles, shoving the rabbit into her arms instead of answering. "Take this to Carol. Tell her to stew it."

Amy giggles but obeys, leaving you standing there with your arms full of blankets and the weight of Daryl’s gaze on you.

"Kids ask too many damn questions," he mutters, stepping closer to take half your load. His fingers brush yours, lingering a second longer than necessary.

You resist the urge to curl in on yourself from the blatant affection.

That night, you lie on your side of the cot, Thistle curled between you like a living barrier. Daryl’s back is to you, his breathing slow and even. The prison is quiet save for the occasional drip of water from the ceiling down the hall.

"You awake?" you whisper.

Daryl hums in affirmation.

"Thank you. For- " You gesture vaguely at the cell, at Thistle, at him.

Daryl shifts onto his back, the cot creaking under his weight. Moonlight filters through the barred window, painting silver stripes across his chest. "Ain't nothin' much, just bein’ decent." he mutters, but his hand finds Thistle's tiny body between you, fingers brushing yours in the dark.

“Ya know,” he continues, cautiously. “I don't get the whole frilly thing ya do, feels like some damn riddle, but if it makes ya happy.”

You fall asleep next to him feeling, oddly, accepted.

The next morning, you wake to an empty cot and the smell of coffee. Daryl's vest is gone, but his crossbow leans against the wall, a silent promise he'll be back. Thistle bats at your hair ribbon until you sit up, her purr loud in the quiet cell.

You're reading to the kids when the gate clangs open. The group's back from the run, voices overlapping in exhaustion and relief. Little Amy tugs your sleeve. "Daryl's got blood on him," she whispers, eyes wide.

Your heart stutters. You force yourself to keep turning the page, but your fingers tremble. The kids don't notice, they're too busy craning their necks toward the commotion outside.

Boots scrape concrete behind you. Daryl leans against the doorframe, his shirt sleeve torn and a fresh cut above his eyebrow. He's holding something behind his back. The kids swarm him before you can speak.

"Didja kill walkers?"

"Did Glenn cry again?"

Daryl scowls but doesn't shove them away. His eyes find yours over their heads. "Got somethin' for your teacher," he grunts.

The kids gasp as he produces a mason jar filled with wildflowers, pink ones, their petals frayed at the edges but vibrant against the glass. They ooh and aah, tugging at your arms until you take it. The jar is warm from his hands.

"Found 'em near the creek," Daryl mumbles as blush creeps up his neck and ears, already turning to leave. Little Amy sticks out her tongue at his retreating back.

"He like-likes you," she sing-songs.

The flowers sit on your makeshift desk for three days before they wilt. You catch Daryl looking at them sometimes when he thinks you're not watching, his expression unreadable.

On the fourth day, he comes back from patrol with a dented can of pink paint. "For the kids' room, it'll make it look a lil’ more like a real classroom" he says, shoving it at you. The metal is cool under your fingers, the label half-peeled away.

Its everything to you.

You spend the afternoon painting one wall while the kids nap, your hair tied up with the ribbon Daryl gave you. He appears in the doorway, arms crossed, watching as you stretch to reach the top corner.

"Need a hand?"

You nod, handing him the brush. His fingers are careful around yours, calloused but gentle. He paints the highest parts while you do the lower, your shoulders bumping occasionally. Neither of you speak, but the silence isn't heavy, just warm, like sunlight through glass.

That night, Daryl comes back late smelling of gunpowder and sweat. He pauses in the doorway, taking in the pink wall visible even in the dim lantern light.

"Kids'll like it," he mutters, sitting heavily on the cot.

You're already under the blanket, Thistle curled against your stomach. "I like it too," you admit softly.

Daryl's hands still where he's unlacing his boots. He doesn't look at you, but his shoulders relax slightly. "Ain't too bright of a pink?"

You shake your head. "Reminds me of sunsets. Before."

The word hangs between you. Daryl nods like he understands, like he's been waiting for you to say it. He strips down to his undershirt and lies beside you, careful to leave space. Thistle migrates to the foot of the bed, her tail flicking.

Rain starts around midnight, gentle at first, then pounding. You wake to Daryl's hand on your wrist as lightning flashes, illuminating his face inches from yours.

"Just a storm," he murmurs. His thumb strokes your pulse point.

You don't pull away despite the urge to sprint away from everything. The storm. Him. The outbreak.

The storm passes, but Daryl’s hand doesn’t. His fingers stay curled around your wrist, his thumb moving in slow, absent circles against your skin. You count his breaths, steady, even while Thistle’s tail flicks against your ankles. The rain drums against the roof, a sound that should make you tense, but Daryl’s grip grounds you like an anchor.

Morning comes gray and damp. Daryl’s gone before you open your eyes, the cot cold where he’d been. Thistle mews from the foot of the bed, stretching her tiny paws toward your face. You scoop her up, pressing a kiss to the top of her head before swinging your legs over the side. The pink ribbon sits on the crate beside the cot, frayed at the edges but still holding its color. You tie it into your hair without thinking.

The kids are already waiting when you reach the common area, their noses pressed to the newly painted wall. Little Amy spins when she hears your footsteps, her grin wide. "It’s pretty," she declares, dragging you by the hand to admire their handprints in the corner. You crouch, letting her press your palm into the wet paint beside hers.

Daryl watches from the doorway, a cigarette dangling from his lips. His eyes flick from the pink wall to your ribbon, then away. He doesn’t speak, but when you catch his gaze, he doesn’t look ashamed of being caught either.

Days blur. You teach the kids to spell their names in the dust on the floor; Daryl brings back a dog-eared dictionary with half its pages missing. You find him reading it sometimes, his brow furrowed like he’s memorizing the words. Thistle grows bolder, stalking the halls like she owns them, but she always returns to curl against your ribs at night.

One evening, you’re braiding Amy’s hair when Daryl appears in the doorway, his vest streaked with mud. "Got somethin’ you should see," he grunts, jerking his chin toward the yard. The kids scramble after him, but he waits for you, his boots scuffing the concrete.

Outside, the sun dips low, painting the prison in gold. Daryl leads you to the fence, where a doe stands frozen in the clearing beyond. Her ears twitch, her dark eyes wide and wary. The kids gasp, pressing their faces to the chain links.

"Pretty," Amy whispers.

Daryl’s shoulder brushes yours. "Reminds me of you," he mutters, so low only you can hear. Your breath catches. The doe watches you for a heartbeat longer before bolting into the trees, her white tail flashing.

Daryl doesn’t raise his crossbow.

That night, you lie awake listening to his breathing. Thistle purrs between you, her tiny body a warm weight against your side. The lantern flickers, casting shadows across Daryl’s face. His eyelashes flutter, he’s not asleep either.

"You didn’t shoot her, why?" you whisper.

Daryl opens one eye. "Wasn't hungry, ain't need to kill it for no reason" he lies.

You smile into the dark. His hand finds yours under the blanket, his fingers rough but careful. You lace yours through them, and he doesn’t pull away.

Rain comes again, harder this time. The leak in your old cell has spread, the ceiling groaning under the weight of the water. Daryl rolls onto his side to face you, his free hand brushing a damp curl from your forehead. "Stay, please?" he asks, like it’s that simple.

Maybe it is.

Thunder rattles the bars, but you don’t flinch. Daryl’s thumb traces the curve of your cheekbone, his callouses catching on your skin. You lean into his touch, and his breath hitches.

The storm rages on, but here, in this narrow cot with Thistle between you and Daryl’s hand cupping your face, the world feels quiet. Safe.

His lips brush yours, once, twice, testing. You kiss him back, and he makes a sound low in his throat, his fingers tangling in your frizzy curls. Your ribbon comes loose, slipping to the cell floor unnoticed.

Outside, the rain slows to a drizzle. Daryl’s mouth is warm, his hands gentler than you ever imagined. He murmurs your name like it’s something sacred, and for the first time since the world ended, you don’t feel like you’re waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Thistle yawns, stretching between you. Daryl laughs against your lips, the sound rough but happy. You tuck your face into his neck, breathing him in, leather, gunpowder, home, Daryl.

The kids will ask questions tomorrow. You’ll stutter through answers, your face burning. Daryl will grunt and change the subject. But tonight, his hands learn the shape of you, the hip dips gracing your waist, the chubbiness of your thighs, the way your breath hitches when his calloused fingers trace the scars on your knees from childhood tumbles. He kisses like he talks, sparingly, with purpose and his teeth graze your bottom lip in a way that makes your stomach clench.

Morning comes sticky with summer heat. You wake tangled in Daryl, his arm heavy across your ribs, his face buried in your hair. Thistle’s gone, probably hunting roaches in the cafeteria. The ribbon lies forgotten by the cot leg, trampled in last night’s haste. You should move. The kids will be waiting. But Daryl’s breath is warm on your neck, his fingers twitching against your hip like even asleep, he’s making sure you’re still there.

He startles awake when you shift, his grip tightening reflexively before he blinks the sleep from his eyes. “Mornin’,” he rasps, voice wrecked. His stubble scrapes your shoulder when he nuzzles closer, inhaling deep like he’s memorizing your scent. You’ve never seen him like this, so soft-edged, unguarded.

The gate clangs open, Glenn’s group returning early. Daryl tenses, but doesn’t pull away. “Stay put, take the extra rest” he murmurs against your skin, lips brushing the freckle behind your ear. You should argue. Someone will see. But his hand slides up to cradle your jaw, tilting your face toward his for a kiss that’s slow and thorough enough to make your toes curl.

Footsteps approach. Daryl breaks away just as Glenn’s shadow darkens the cell doorway. “Uh.” Glenn’s voice pitches high. “Carol says- breakfast. If you’re- yeah.” He retreats before either of you can speak, his footsteps hurried.

Daryl huffs a laugh, rolling to sit up. The cot creaks in protest. “Guess they know.” His thumb swipes over your knuckles, a quiet apology.

The cafeteria buzzes when you enter. Conversations stutter. Eyes dart. Daryl shoulders through the crowd, piling two plates with squirrel meat and wilted greens before steering you to an empty table. His knee presses against yours under the tabletop.

Amy bounces over, her braids fraying. “You kissed Daryl!” she announces, loud enough to silence the room.

Your fork clatters. Daryl scowls, but his ears are red. “Ain’t your business, kid.”

Amy grins, undeterred. She plops into your lap, whispering loudly, “He blushes real red.”

Daryl chokes on his coffee.

Days blur into nights. Daryl starts leaving little things where you’ll find them, first, a packet of strawberry gum tucked in your pocket, then a dented harmonica for the kids, and a pink-handled knife that fits perfectly in your grip. You press the wildflowers he brings you between dictionary pages.

One afternoon, you catch him showing Amy how to hold a crossbow. His hands are patient around hers, his voice softer than you’ve ever heard it. “Ain’t a toy, remember that” he warns, but lets her aim at a tin can. She misses by a mile. Daryl doesn’t laugh. Just adjusts her stance and says, “Try again.”

You love him. The realization punches through you like a bullet.

The words sit heavy in your chest, too big to say aloud. Daryl glances up from adjusting Amy’s grip, catching your stare. His eyes narrow slightly, he knows that look, the one where you’re thinking too hard, but Amy tugs his sleeve, demanding his attention back. You turn away before he can read you any further.

That night, thunder rolls in like an afterthought, distant but insistent. Thistle abandons her usual spot between you to sulk under the cot, she’s grown finicky with age, less tolerant of Daryl’s shifting. He’s restless tonight, his fingers tapping an uneven rhythm against his thigh. You pretend not to notice until his pinky brushes yours on the blanket, deliberate.

“Spit it out,” you coo, tracing the scar on his knuckle.

Daryl’s fingers still. He exhales through his nose, sharp, like he’s steeling himself. The lantern flickers, throwing shadows across the sharp planes of his face. “You know m'not good with words, not like you are” he mutters, finally. His thumb presses into the hollow of your palm.

You turn your hand over, lacing your fingers through his. “Try.”

He scowls at the ceiling, jaw working. The storm rumbles again, closer now. Thistle hisses under the cot.

“Kids asked where you were at dinner,” he says abruptly. His voice is gruff, but his fingers tighten around yours. “Told ‘em you were my girl by accident.”

Your breath catches. The words hang between you, raw and unpolished.

Thunder cracks, shaking the walls. You flinch.

“Yeah?” you whisper, giddy.

Daryl’s free hand lifts, hesitates, then brushes a curl from your forehead. His touch is careful, like you’re something fragile. “Don't want to take it back,” he grunts.

You swallow. The words press against your ribs, too big, too soon. But Daryl’s looking at you like he already knows, like he’s been waiting. So you lean forward, pressing your forehead to his. His breath hitches.

“Say something, please” he murmurs, rough. Not a demand. A plea.

The storm breaks overhead. Rain lashes the barred window.

“I love you,” you whisper.

Daryl goes still. Then his hands cradle your face, calloused thumbs sweeping your cheeks. He kisses you slow, deep, like he’s mapping the shape of the words against your lips. When he pulls back, his breathing’s uneven.

“Knew that already, silly woman” he mutters, but his voice cracks.

Daryl's hands don't leave your face, his thumbs still tracing the damp tracks under your eyes you didn't realize were there. The rain drums harder against the roof, but the sound is muffled now like the storm exists only outside this cell, outside this moment where Daryl's looking at you like you've handed him something precious. Thistle yowls from under the cot, her tail thumping against the metal frame in protest. Neither of you move.

"Say it again," Daryl rasps, his voice raw in a way that makes your stomach flip.

You swallow. "I love you."

His fingers tighten slightly in your hair not painful, just present. The lantern flickers, casting shadows across the scar that bisects his eyebrow. He opens his mouth, closes it. Tries again. "Ain't never..." He trails off, jaw working like the words are stuck. You press your palm flat against his chest, feeling the rabbit-quick beat under his ribs.

"You don't have to say it, you've shown me it."

"Love you, too." The words burst out of him like a gunshot, harsh and sudden. He freezes, eyes widening like he didn't mean to say it like that. But then his shoulders slump, and he's leaning forward to press his forehead to yours again, his breath warm against your lips. "Damn it, woman. Love you so much it hurts."

The confession sits between you, trembling and alive. You kiss him because you don't know what else to do with the weight of it, slow at first, then deeper when his hands slide down to grip your waist, pulling you into his lap. The cot creaks ominously. Neither of you care.

The lantern gutters low, painting the cell in flickering amber. Daryl’s mouth is hot on your neck, his teeth scraping just enough to make you squirm. His hand slips under your shirt, rough fingers skimming your ribs, slow, deliberate, like he’s memorizing the way your breath hitches. You bite your lip to stifle a whimper, and Daryl pauses, lifting his head to glare at you.

“Don’t do that,” he growls, thumb brushing your bottom lip to pry it free.

“Someone’ll hear,” you whisper, even as your hips cant against his thigh.

Daryl’s nostrils flare. He leans in, his breath warm against your ear. “Ain’t need to be quiet, sweetheart.” His hand slides down, palming you through your pants, and you choke back a moan. Daryl huffs, annoyed. “If we weren't in this damn prison,” he mutters, nipping your earlobe, “I’d make you scream till your voice gave out.”

The dirty threat sends a shudder through you. His fingers make quick work of your button, slipping inside your underwear to circle your puffy swollen clit with frustrating precision. You bury your face in his shoulder, muffling a gasp as he adds pressure, his rhythm relentless.

“That’s it,” Daryl rasps, lips dragging along your jaw. “Let go, c'mon.”

You bite into the meat of his shoulder to keep quiet when you cum, your thighs clamping around his wrist. Daryl watches you unravel with dark, hungry eyes, not stopping until you’re pushing his hand away, oversensitive and trembling.

It's the fastest you've ever cum.

Before you can catch your breath, he’s flipping you onto your back, his knees nudging yours apart. He strips your pants down your thighs with impatient hands, his gaze locking onto yours as he ducks between your legs. His tongue is flat and hot, licking a slow stripe that has your back arching off the cot.

“Daryl- please,”.

He doesn’t answer, just hooks your thighs over his shoulders and digs in. You fist the blanket, toes curling, as he flicks your clit with the tip of his tongue, then suckles gently. The wet sounds are obscenely loud in the tiny cell as he moves his head side to side. You slap a hand over your mouth, but Daryl pins your wrist above your head, lacing your fingers together.

You read the message loud and clear.

The cot groans under Daryl’s weight as he crawls up your body, his lips slick with you. He kisses you hard enough to taste yourself on his tongue, his hips grinding down against yours so you can feel how hard he is through his jeans. His fingers fumble with his belt, ungraceful, hurried, but you bat his hands away and do it yourself, your fingers steadier than you feel. The buckle clinks loud in the quiet cell.

Daryl hisses when you wrap your hand around him, his forehead dropping to yours. “Christ,” he breathes, hips jerking into your grip. His cock is hot and heavy in your palm, the tip leaking when you thumb over it. He kisses you again, messy and off-center, his teeth catching your bottom lip.

“Wait,” you gasp, pushing at his chest. Daryl freezes instantly, his whole body going rigid above you. You nod toward the crate beside the cot where the jar of salve sits, the one Carol makes for blisters. Daryl’s eyes darken with understanding. He grabs it, flipping the lid off with his thumb and coating his fingers hastily.

Daryl’s fingers circle your entrance, slick with salve, his touch light enough to make you squirm. “Easy, gotta stretch ya” he murmurs against your neck, his breath hot as his thumb finds your clit, rubbing slow, deliberate circles that have your hips jerking off the cot. You whine, high and desperate, and Daryl’s fingers press inside without warning, two at once, stretching you in a way that burns just shy of pain. His teeth scrape your collarbone as he scissors them, his free hand pinning your thigh open wider. “That’s it,” he growls when you clench around him, his voice rough as gravel. “Taking it so well.”

You gasp when he curls his fingers, hitting a spot that makes your vision white out for a second. Daryl watches your face intently, his pupils blown black in the lantern light, his lower lip caught between his teeth. His fingers twist, dragging against your walls in a way that has you arching, your nails digging into his biceps. “Daryl- please- want it,” you slur needily against his lips.

He pulls his fingers out with a wet sound, wiping them hastily on his jeans before gripping his cock to line himself up. The first press burns, just for a second, before he’s sliding home, his hips flush against yours in one smooth thrust. Daryl exhales sharply through his nose, his forehead dropping to yours as he stills, letting you adjust. His entire body trembles with the effort of holding back.

You shift experimentally, and Daryl groans, low and wrecked, his hands tightening on your hips. “Fuck,” he grits out, his eyelashes fluttering. “Gimme a minute.” His voice is strained, his breath hot against your lips. You tilt your hips, testing, and he curses again, his fingers digging in hard enough to bruise.

When he finally moves, it’s slow at first, his thrusts are shallow as he watches your face. But then you hook your ankles behind his back, pulling him deeper, and Daryl's patience snaps. His rhythm turns rough, his hips pistoning against yours with a desperation that knocks the breath from your lungs. The cot creaks violently beneath you, the metal frame protesting with every snap of his hips.

Daryl’s hand slips between you, his thumb finding your clit again, rubbing tight circles that have you gasping. “Cum for me,” he growls, his voice frayed at the edges. “Wanna feel it, c'mon, know you can, sweet thing” His fingers press harder, his thrusts losing their rhythm as he chases his own release. You bite into his shoulder to muffle your cry when you cum, your body clamping down around him like a vice.

Daryl’s hips stutter when you gasp against his shoulder, your fingers tightening in his hair. “Wait- you can’t,” Your voice cracks, breathless. His rhythm falters, but he doesn’t stop, his breath hot and ragged against your throat. You dig your nails into his biceps. “Daryl, listen- we don’t have anything for after.”

He groans, low and frustrated, his forehead dropping to yours. His hips jerk once, twice, as if he's testing his own restraint before he grits his teeth and pulls out abruptly. The sudden emptiness makes you whine, but Daryl’s already gripping himself tightly at the base, his jaw clenched. “Fuck,” he hisses, his thighs trembling. His thumb brushes your hipbone, an absent apology, as he strokes himself roughly over your stomach.

You watch, transfixed, as his muscles tense, the corded line of his neck, the way his Adam’s apple bobs when he swallows hard. His release spills hot over your skin, his breath coming in sharp bursts against your collarbone. For a moment, he just breathes there, his fingers still tangled in your hair, his body bowed over yours like a question.

Then he huffs, annoyed, and reaches for the rag draped over the crate beside the cot. “Ain’t how I wanted to, ya know...” he mutters, wiping the mess from your belly with more care than his tone suggests. His ears are pink, his brows knitted together like he’s personally offended by the inconvenience. You bite back a smile, trailing your fingers down the tense line of his spine.

“Next time,” you murmur, and Daryl’s gaze snaps to yours, sharp and hungry. The rag drops forgotten to the floor as he leans in, kissing you slow and deep, his tongue tracing the seam of your lips like he’s memorizing the taste.

Thistle chooses that moment to yowl from under the cot, her tail flicking indignantly against Daryl’s boot. He breaks the kiss with a grunt, glaring at the space beneath the bed. “Damn cat,” he mutters, but there’s no heat in it, not when you can feel his grin on your cheek.

You laugh, soft and breathless, and Daryl’s expression softens. He brushes a damp curl from your forehead, his thumb lingering at your temple. “Weren't laughin’ when I was buried in you proper,” he teases, but the corner of his mouth twitches.

Outside, the storm has faded to a drizzle, the prison settling into its usual nighttime rhythm, murmured conversations, the distant clang of the watch shift changing over. Daryl stretches out beside you, his arm heavy across your waist, his fingers tracing idle patterns on your hip.

“Gonna find somethin’,” he says abruptly, his voice rough with exhaustion. “For after. Next time.”

God, yes, you want that. You want this.

You turn your head to look at him. His eyes are already closed, his lashes dark against his cheeks, but his thumb keeps moving in small, absent circles against your skin. Like even half-asleep, he’s making promises.

You press closer, tucking your face into the hollow of his throat. His heartbeat thrums steady under your lips. “I love you,” you whisper.

Daryl’s arm tightens around you, his breath evening out. Thistle finally emerges, leaping onto the cot with a disgruntled chirp before settling at your feet. The lantern gutters low, casting the cell in flickering light.

The morning after, you wake to Daryl already gone- but his vest still hangs on the chair, his crossbow propped against the wall. A message: “Out on a run.” Thistle kneads at your thigh, her claws pricking through the thin blanket. You stretch, wincing at the tender ache between your legs, and spot the pink ribbon from last night now tied haphazardly around your curls. Clearly, a feeble attempt by Daryl at keeping your hair from tangling overnight.

The smell of burnt coffee hits you halfway down the cellblock. Carol’s at the stove, her shoulders stiff and she doesn’t turn when you hover in the doorway. The silence stretches too long before she finally speaks, her voice flat. “Daryl took Glenn and Michonne out early.” She jerks her chin toward the counter where a chipped mug steams. “Left that for you.”

The coffee’s lukewarm but sweetened with condensed milk, the way you like it. You cradle the mug too tight, the ceramic biting into your palms. Across the room, Amy giggles into her hands when you catch her staring, her braids bouncing as she whispers to another kid. Your face burns.

Daryl’s crossbow is missing from its usual spot by the gate. You try not to count the hours.

By midday, the kids cluster around the painted wall, tracing their names in the dust. You’re helping Amy sound out “cat” when the gate screeches open. Daryl strides in first, his vest streaked with mud, a burlap sack slung over one shoulder. His eyes find yours immediately before flicking away just as fast. Glenn trails behind him, lugging a dented toolbox, while Michonne peels off toward the armory without a word.

The kids swarm Daryl before he can escape, tiny hands plucking at his sleeves. “What’d’ya bring us this time Mr. Dixon?” Amy demands, her grin gap-toothed.

Daryl chuckles, swinging the burlap sack down with more care than his rough hands suggest. The kids crowd closer as he digs inside and brings out crinkled comic books, half-melted crayons, a dented harmonica that makes Amy squeal. But when his fingers close around something small and pink, his eyes dart to yours.

He tosses the ribbon your way without ceremony. It flutters into your lap, silk, not frayed polyester like the ones you’ve scavenged. The color matches the wall exactly. Your throat tightens.

“Found it in some rich woman's closet,” Daryl mutters, already turning to leave, but Amy grabs his sleeve.

“What about my present?” she whines.

Daryl scowls, reaching back into the sack. He pulls out a fist-sized teddy bear missing an eye and shoves it at her. “Happy?”

Amy hugs it like a treasure, but her nose wrinkles. “It smells like dead people.”

“Everything does,” Glenn sighs, passing by with an armful of salvaged pipes.

The reminder breaks your heart.

Daryl’s already halfway across the yard when you catch up, the ribbon clutched in your fist. He slows just enough for you to fall into step beside him, his shoulder brushing yours. Sweat darkens the back of his shirt, the scent of gun oil and pine clinging to him.

“Silk this time.” you say quietly, holding up the ribbon.

Daryl’s ears redden. He kicks a pebble, watching it skitter. “Ain’t gonna unravel in the wash, s’ more practical."

The implication that he plans for you to keep wearing it, that there will be washes and days and mornings lodges under your ribs. You reach for his hand, threading your fingers through his before he can overthink it. Daryl stiffens, his head swiveling toward the watchtower where Rick’s silhouette paces. But he doesn’t pull away.

Thistle weaves between your ankles as you near the cellblock, her tail flicking against Daryl’s boot. He toes the door open with a grunt, revealing his neatly made cot, first, with your patched quilt smoothed over the thin mattress.

“Thought you hated chores,” you tease.

Daryl shuts the door with his heel, crowding you against the wall. His nose brushes yours, his breath warm. “Knew we'd be tired, thought it would be nice,” His thumb traces your lower lip where it’s still tender from last night. “Got somethin’ else for ya, well, us.”

From his pocket, he produces a single foil packet, crumpled but intact. You blink at it, heat rushing to your cheeks.

“Found a whole box in some trucker’s rig,” he mumbles, shoving it into your hand like it might burn him. “Ain’t expired.”

The plastic wrapper crackles in your grip. Daryl’s watching your face with an intensity that makes your knees weak, his pupils swallowing the blue of his eyes.

The wrapper slips from your fingers, landing soundlessly on the floor as Daryl crowds closer, his hands bracketing your hips. His calloused thumbs press into the dip of your waistband, a silent question. You nod before he can ask, and his mouth crashes into yours hot, and insistent, teeth scraping your bottom lip. The foil packet crinkles underfoot as he backs you toward the cot, his fingers already working the button of your jeans.

“Wait,” you gasp when his palm skims your bare stomach. Daryl freezes instantly, muscles coiled tight, his breath ragged against your throat. You fumble for the packet, hands shaking as you tear it open. Daryl watches, nostrils flaring, as you roll the condom over him with deliberate slowness. His hips jerk when your thumb brushes the head, a strangled noise escaping his clenched teeth.

The cot groans under your combined weight as Daryl lays you back, his body a solid line of heat above you. He kisses you like he’s starving, deep, messy, his stubble scraping your chin before pulling back to drag your shirt over your head. The cool prison air pebbles your skin, but Daryl’s mouth is searing as it traces the curve of your breast, his tongue flicking over your nipple until you arch off the mattress.

“Daryl- ” His name fractures in your throat when his fingers dip between your thighs, finding you already wet. He hums approvingly, the vibration traveling straight to your core as he pumps two fingers inside, curling them just right. Your hips buck, but he pins you down with his free hand splayed across your belly, his grip just shy of rough. It enhances the feeling of fullness tenfold.

“Like that, don’tcha sweetheart?” he rasps, dragging his teeth along your collarbone. His fingers twist, scissoring you open until you’re gasping, your nails scoring his shoulders. Daryl’s breathing is uneven when he finally lines up, the blunt head of his cock nudging your entrance. “Look at me,” he orders, voice wrecked.

You do. His eyes are black with want, his lower lip caught between his teeth as he presses in slow, so slow it burns. You clutch at his biceps, your thighs trembling around his hips, and Daryl stills when he’s fully seated, his forehead dropping to yours. His chest heaves against you, sweat-slick and shaking.

“Okay?” he grits out, the word ragged.

You nod, tilting your hips experimentally, and Daryl groans, low and guttural. His first thrust punches the air from your lungs, his second has you seeing stars. He sets a brutal pace from the start, his hands gripping your thighs hard enough to leave marks. Every snap of his hips brushes that perfect spot inside you, the friction building until your toes curl into the thin mattress.

“Touch yourself,” Daryl rasps, his voice rough as gravel. “Wanna watch, please.”

Your fingers falter at first, oversensitive and clumsy, but Daryl captures your wrist, guiding your hand down with surprising gentleness. His thumb presses against yours, showing you the rhythm he wants for you, firm, insistent circles that have you gasping within seconds. Your cheeks heat up when you hear the lewd squelches coming from between your legs. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you feel your slick dripping onto your thighs and his balls. Daryl watches with hooded eyes, his thrusts turning uneven as you writhe under him.

“That’s it,” he breathes, his hips stuttering. “Gonna cum for me, baby?”

Baby. That's new. You decide now that you love it.

The pet name, paired with the relentless drag of his cock, sends you over the edge. Your back bows off the cot as you clench around him, a silent scream caught in your throat. Daryl follows with a choked-off groan, his hips jerking erratically as he spills into the condom. His forehead presses to your shoulder, his breathing ragged against your damp skin.

For a long moment, neither of you move. Then Daryl carefully pulls out, disposing of the condom with a grimace before collapsing beside you. His arm slings over your waist, tugging you against his side like he can’t stand the space between you. Outside, footsteps echo down the cellblock, Glenn whistling off-key, the kids’ laughter bouncing off concrete walls.

The footsteps pause outside your cell. A hesitant knock. "Uh- Daryl? Rick wants you on watch in ten." Glenn's voice cracks on the last word.

Daryl doesn't move from where he's sprawled half atop you, his nose buried in your hair. "Tell 'im I'm busy," he snarks, the vibration rumbling through your ribcage.

Glenn makes a strangled noise. "He said now."

You press your smile into Daryl's collarbone when he curses colorfully, his arms tightening around you like a petulant child refusing to let go of a favorite toy. His fingers trace idle patterns down your spine, a silent apology for breaking your afterglow, before he finally rolls off the cot with a grunt.

"Five minutes, Glenn" he mutters, snatching his vest from the floor.

You watch as he dresses with hurried efficiency, the muscles in his back flexing as he shrugs into the worn fabric. The pink ribbon still dangles from your fingers, silken and incongruously delicate against the prison's grim backdrop. Daryl notices when he turns, his gaze dropping to your hand.

"Keep it on," he says gruffly, buckling his knife sheath. His eyes flick to your bare shoulders, then away just as fast. "Looks pretty on ya."

You're still laughing softly when he leans down to kiss you, quick and bruising, before stomping out, the cell door clanging shut behind him.

Thistle emerges from her hiding spot under the cot, tail twitching indignantly. She butts her head against your ankle, demanding attention now that the interloper has left. You scoop her up, pressing a kiss between her ears, and she purrs like a rusty engine.

The ribbon slips easily into your curls, its silk cool against your scalp. You finger-comb the worst of the tangles, wincing when your muscles protest the movement. Every ache is a brand, a reminder of Daryl's hands and mouth and the way he'd whispered mine against your skin like a vow.

Outside, the prison hums with midday activity, shouts from the garden, the rhythmic clang of someone repairing the fence. You pull on your least-damaged shirt, still smelling faintly of Daryl, and step into the sunlight just as Amy comes barreling around the corner.

She skids to a stop, her braids swinging wildly. "Didja do it?" she stage-whispers, eyes comically wide.

Oh my god.

Your face flames. "Do what?"

You hope to god this child has no idea what she's talking about.

Amy rolls her eyes, bouncing on her toes. "The thing! The kissing thing!" She mimes an exaggerated smooching noise that has you choking on air.

Phew.

Before you can formulate a response, Carol appears like a specter, her arms laden with laundry. "Amy," she says mildly, "go help Lizzie with the radishes."

Amy pouts but obeys, shooting you a conspiratorial grin over her shoulder as she skips away.

Carol's gaze lingers on the ribbon in your hair. Her expression is unreadable. "Heard you two made quite the ruckus last night," she says finally.

You freeze.

A ghost of a smile flickers across her face. "Relax. Concrete walls are thicker than they look." She adjusts the bundle in her arms. "Just...be careful, with the kids about, yeah?"

The warning hangs between you, heavy with unspoken meaning. You nod, throat tight, and Carol moves on without another word.

You find Daryl on the watchtower, his crossbow balanced lazily across his knees. Rick stands beside him, their conversation low and serious. Daryl spots you first, his shoulders stiffening almost imperceptibly before he schools his expression back to neutral.

Rick follows his gaze, his mouth quirking. "Take five," he tells Daryl, clapping him on the shoulder with deliberate amusement before descending the ladder.

Daryl waits until Rick's out of earshot before scowling down at you. "The hell you doin' here, woman? Sun's brutal."

You shrug, enjoying the way his eyes track the movement of the ribbon in your hair. "Missed you."

Daryl's scowl deepens, but his fingers flex around his crossbow. "Ain't been gone an hour."

"Too long."

He mutters something that sounds suspiciously like damn fool, but when you reach for the ladder, he's already leaning down to haul you up, his grip unshakable. The tower sways slightly under your combined weight, and you clutch at Daryl's vest for balance.

His hands linger at your waist even after you're steady. "Shouldn't be up here, ya gonna get heat sick," he grumbles, but makes no move to let go.

You rise onto your toes, pressing a kiss to the hinge of Daryl’s jaw where stubble scratches your lips. "Wanted to see if you'd blush in broad daylight," you tease. His grip tightens, fingers digging into your hips as he jerks his head toward the yard below where Glenn nearly trips over his own feet pretending not to stare.

"Quit it, girl" Daryl hisses, but his pulse jumps under your mouth.

The wind catches the ribbon, fluttering it against your cheek like a caress. Daryl tracks the movement, his calloused thumb brushing the silk where it’s tied. "Pretty," he mutters, so low you almost miss it. The word punches through you, not pretty girl, not sweetheart, just pretty, raw and unguarded.

Below, Rick’s voice carries as he barks orders. Daryl tenses, his body shifting instinctively between you and the ladder. "Gotta get back, I'll be done soon" he grumbles, but his hands slide up to cradle your face, his thumbs sweeping your cheekbones. The kiss he gives you is quick, stolen, his lips warm and chapped, tasting of coffee and gunmetal.

You’re still smiling when your feet hit the dirt. Amy materializes like a specter, her grin wicked. "He blushes," she announces, again, triumphant.

Carol’s washing basin clatters nearby. "Amy Josephine, leave them be."

But the damage is done, Daryl’s crossbow bolt thunks into a target with unnecessary force from the tower.

Night falls with a tension you can’t name. The prison feels too small suddenly, every glance from the others weighted. Daryl’s absence at dinner is conspicuous; Glenn keeps clearing his throat like he wants to say something until Maggie kicks him under the table.

You find Daryl in the armory, methodically cleaning bolts. His shoulders stiffen when you step inside, but he doesn’t stop you from sliding onto the stool beside him. The silence stretches, broken only by the rhythmic scrape of steel on wood.

"You’re hiding from them" you say finally.

Daryl’s jaw works. "Nah."

The bolt in his hand gleams under the lantern light. You reach out, tracing the fletching. "They know, its okay,"

"Damn right they know," he snaps, then exhales sharply through his nose. His fingers flex around the bolt. "Just ain’t used to- " He cuts himself off, scowling.

You wait.

"People lookin’," he mutters finally. His knuckles whiten. "Like I’m some… goddamn sideshow."

The vulnerability in his voice cracks something in your chest. You press your palm flat against his back, feeling the tension coiled beneath his shirt. "They’re looking because they’re happy for you."

Daryl snorts, derisive.

"For us," you amend softly.

His shoulders drop incrementally. When he turns, his eyes are dark, searching. "This… what you want? Me bein’ difficult?" He gestures vaguely, like the words are physically painful. "Like this? Out in the open?"

The question hangs between you, fragile as spun glass. You take his hand, pressing his calloused palm to your sternum where your heartbeat thrums. "I want you," you say simply.

And whatever comes with you.

Daryl’s breath catches before he drags you forward by the grip on your shirt, his mouth crashing into yours with enough force to knock the stool over. The clatter echoes in the cramped space, but neither of you care. His teeth graze your bottom lip, possessive and rough, and when he pulls back, his pupils are blown so wide they swallow the blue.

The bolt rolls across the floorboards, forgotten, as Daryl crowds you against the workbench, his hips pinning yours. His breathing is ragged against your neck, too fast, too uneven for the simple act of kissing. You feel the tremor in his hands where they grip your waist, the way his pulse jumps under your lips when you press them to the hollow of his throat.

"People'll hear," you chastise, even as your fingers tangle in the straps of his vest.

Daryl growls low in his chest, the sound vibrating through you. "Let 'em." His mouth finds yours again, insistent, all teeth and desperation. When he pulls back, his lips are reddened, his pupils swallowing the pale blue of his irises. "You're right m’ tired of hidin'."

The confession hangs between you, raw and unexpected. You trace the scar on his eyebrow and Daryl leans into the touch, his eyes slipping shut for a brief, vulnerable moment. Outside, footsteps approach, then pause at the door. Daryl tenses, his body shielding yours instinctively.

The footsteps hesitate, a shuffle, then retreating. Daryl exhales against your temple, his grip loosening. "Goddamn nosy bastards," he mutters, but there's no real bite to it. His thumb traces the hem of your shirt where it's ridden up, his touch unexpectedly tender considering the way he'd just kissed you like he wanted to devour you whole.

A giggle drifts through the thin metal door, Amy, no doubt, followed by Glenn's hushed scolding. Daryl's jaw clenches. "Shoulda nailed that brat's feet to the floor weeks ago," he grumbles, but you catch the way his lips twitch when you laugh.

You smooth your hands up his chest, feeling the frantic rabbit-quick beat beneath his ribs. "You're really okay with this?" you whisper. "With them knowing?"

Daryl stares at a point over your shoulder like the answer's written on the wall in invisible ink. His fingers flex against your hips once, twice, then he shrugs, gruff and awkward. "Ain't like they don't already." The corner of his mouth quirks. "Hell, bet Carol's got a damn betting pool goin'."

The image startles a laugh out of you, bright and unexpected in the dim armory. Daryl watches the way your face changes when you laugh, something hungry and awed in his gaze. He ducks his head suddenly, pressing his forehead to yours with enough force it almost hurts. "'Sides," he mutters, so low you feel the words more than hear them, " It's worth it."

Your breath catches. Daryl Dixon doesn't do sweet talk, not really, but those two syllables land like a punch to the chest. You curl your fingers into his vest, anchoring yourself as the world tilts.

A sharp rap at the door makes you both jump. "Dinner's getting cold," Carol calls, her voice dry as dust. "Unless you two aren't hungry."

The mess hall buzzes with conversation when you enter, Daryl’s hand hovering at the small of your back like he can’t decide whether to push you forward or pull you back into the shadows. Every head turns, Glenn chokes on his beans, Maggie elbows him hard, but it’s Amy’s triumphant squeal that makes Daryl groan. “Toldja!” she crows, bouncing in her seat. “Toldja they were kissing!”

Carol slides two plates across the table without looking up. “Eat,” she orders, though her mouth twitches when Daryl scowls at the extra helping of peaches on his tray, your favorite.

Daryl eats fast, shoulders hunched, his knee jostling yours under the table whenever someone stares too long. You press back, steady, until his leg stops bouncing. His fingers brush yours when he passes the salt, deliberately, and your stomach flips.