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“He’s set to be an independent operative, but know he is working for and with us.” The colonel’s words then officially etch the truth in stone.

Mando comes around basecamp like a ghost. Barely staying put for you to register his presence, yet the whispers about him grow.

“I heard he took out a whole imperial squadron and a Moff too.” Dyana, your closest friend, tells you enthusiastic to catch up on all the rumors.

Then Ward calls for you, and you miss out on any other gossip Dyana and the others had.

“I’ll be heading to Coruscant this week to meet with a few higher ups and senators… I need you to do all the debriefs with Mando while I’m away.

It’s like a rancor suddenly barreled into you.

“Wait, me?” You stupidly question confused, and Ward shoots you a look, raised eyebrows and all.

“Do you think you’re not capable of handling this, ranger?”

“No, colonel.” You quickly reply, and she nods.

“Good, that’s what I thought.”

When you see her off, it must be obvious how hesitant you still are. Her sturdy hand gives your shoulder a reassuring pat.

“Don’t worry. He’s not as scary as everyone thinks he is.” Ward reassures, but it doesn’t soothe you much.

Especially when the day arrives and you find yourself waiting for him.

Just like before, the mandalorian saunters in and your focus is immediately drawn to him. But then, it gets knocked out of orbit when you find he’s not alone.

A tiny green creature waddles in beside him, childishly blinking at every sight. Why is a child with the mandalorian?

“Where’s Ward?” A rich striking voice startles you. Of course the terrifying warrior would sound this intimidating.

“Went to Coruscant for a meeting.” You reply partly stunned you’re actually talking to him.

“And you are?” But then mandalorian questions, sharp and distrustful, and it pisses you off. He’s the newcomer here, and he decides to question you?

“I’m the person you’re stuck with for your debrief and mission logs unfortunately.” Your voice whips out sharp.

He doesn’t say anything.

“What about Teva?” He counters again, and you want to scream. What’s this guy’s problem?

“Out on a mission,” your reply is sharper, bladed with annoyance.

“If you want you can personally contact Ward and explain why I’m not satisfactory enough for your debrief. I’m sure she’d love that.” Then the defiant reply escapes you faster than you can stop it.

It’s as if the whole cantina mess hall heard you because it becomes deathly silent.

The mandalorian simply stares you down with his unflinching helmet. Then the warrior turns and strides out not saying another word.

“I think you pissed him off.” Wolf snickers breaking the stillness.

A sense of dread looms as you realize you might’ve truly just gotten yourself into a mountain load of trouble.

Ward calls that night, and you knew it was coming.

“Why do you want to start a fight with the mandalorian?” She asks calmly over the comms.

“I’m not! He started it!” You can’t help but childishly counter. You even further explain how demanding and untrusting he was.

The colonel sighs.

“You have to understand… His people don’t trust easily. And for good reason. Try to be the one to play nice here.”

You want to be petty and say he needs to as well, but you can’t argue with Ward.

“Do the whole debrief drunk.” Zeb jokes about it with you the next day, and you scoff.

But by the time sunset arrives you start getting tempted to get a drink because maybe Mando isn’t showing up.

Until he does. And again he’s not alone. The strange but sweet little creature continues waddling alongside Mando.

It’s awkward as hell when he approaches your table. The tension lingers thick from yesterday prickling across your skin in the worst way.

You don’t even know if you should say anything

“Mweh?” A surprisingly soft little noise floats through the tension and you turn towards it. You blink down to find the mysterious little being staring up at you with sweet wide eyes.

With curious claws, the baby reaches for the loth cat charm dangling off your belt, the one of many trinkets your niece has given you.

Melted by the sight, you grin and scoot closer. Then you unclasp the charm for the baby to examine it more.

“You like it? It’s cute right?”

The little one agrees with a chirp sounding so endearing.

Something softly clicks. If a creature so tiny and innocent as this baby confidently travels with the mandalorian, then he couldn't be that much of an ass.

Someone sighs. Then settling back into your seat, you find the mandalorian seated across from you. The baby hops up to sit beside him. Yet his eager eyes remain happily taken with your charm.

“That imp base on Hoth had no leads.” He speaks first.

You’re stunned.

Your gut urges you to not make a big deal about this, to simply now see him as another coworker.

So you nod and casually plug in the info on your datapad.

“Hoth was a long shot, but we appreciate you going.” You even add that in.

You knew of a few pilots who served during the Hoth raid. It’s an unforgiving planet, takes a lot of guts to investigate that icy fortress.

“What’s the next order?” Mando asks firm, all business, just like Ward had told you.

You slide him a bounty chip containing info on a possible military officer who could be running a smuggling ring. The mandalorian doesn’t say anything else, simply takes the card and stands up.

“Come on, kid.” All he does is address the baby, not even sparing you a second glance.

Cute and so politely, the kid hands back your loth cat with a noise that feels like a thank you.

“You’re welcome, little cutie,” you tell him warmly.

Once the pair are out of sight, you sigh exhausted, relieved, and sprawl out on the table glad it’s over. Someone barks a laugh, and you aren’t even embarrassed about it.

You can’t wait till this is over.

It’s already been a week and a half of being grounded, doing these debriefs with Mando. You miss being in the skies. But all that hope of getting back in the clouds gets squashed.

“I need to negotiate a few more issues with Senator Organa… can you continue to do the debrief?” It isn’t much of a question but more of an order from Ward.

So you meet with Mando for the rest of the week and into the next. It’s cordial, barely speaking for more than ten minutes with each other.

You try to be friendly, make a joke about the weather, but he just silently stares at you, obviously annoyed.

And it pisses you off all over again.

But you think of the adorable little baby who eagerly tags along with the terrifying hunter. The kid sweetly waves, and you wave back. You started bringing treats after his guardian chided him for eating some of yours.

The annoyed sigh Mando gave when you brought more snacks to share was worth it.

This time you decided to bring something else along with you.

It was the first charm your sister gave you when you became a pilot. A tradition her daughter, your niece, now does with you.

“Look!” You eagerly hold up the plush creature that makes the baby’s eyes go wide.

With adorable tiny grabby hands, he reaches for it and you happily hand it over.

You grin pleased seeing how pleased the kid coos.

“What’s your name?” The sudden question from Mando surprises you.

A bit stunned, you give it to him.

He nods solemnly, repeating it. Your heart does a strange flip hearing his deep voice say your name.

“This is Grogu.” He then introduces the kid who chimes in hearing his name.

“Nice to meet you, Grogu.” You excitedly greet the kid.

Then you turn to Grogu’s guardian. This solemn but striking mandalorian now has you curious to who he is. Your mind thinks about the rumors that have spread about him.

“And you? What’s your name?” You ask politely, but immediately you can almost hear Dyana screaming at you. She’s become the new expert on Mandalorian customs.

“They’re private people,” she had told you, confirming what Ward had said. “It’s probably why not a lot of people know about him, much less his name.”

“I’m sorry, forgive me.” You stammer quickly. “You don’t have to give it.”

A moment passes, and you worry you’ve unraveled this tentative truce or whatever it is.

“Din… Din Djarin.” His full name. It’s lovely.

“Din…” you repeat it.

“It’s nice to meet you too.” And you mean that.

Mando, Din, nods, and you think it’s worth the few weeks being out of the skies.

When Din and Grogu leave you realize the kid still holds onto your plush charm.

“Come on kid, give it back.” Din urges noticing too.

“No it’s okay. He can keep it. Give it back to me next time.” You grin at the baby, and Grogu giggles pleased at the answer.

“What do you say, kid?”

Grogu chirps a sweet thanks and waddles away content with the plushie in his arms.

The next day, as promised, he brings it back. But you exchange another charm with him. This time it’s a cute cloud with a sweet face. Eager for the new trinket, Grogu ditches the plushie and you laugh.

Work then follows suit. Din explains on the intel he’s slowly gaining on the imp official.

“Taking a bit longer than expected.” Din gruffly admits.

“Don’t worry. Rodents like him know how to hide. It’s not your fault. Then again that’s probably an insult to rodents.” You’ve been trying to stay professional, channel your inner composed Colonel Ward. But the old rebel pilot comes out.

Suddenly, a chuckle follows.

Din laughed.

You swear you misheard it. But the way Grogu giggles agreeing with his protector, you know you heard correctly.

“A fair statement.” Din agrees.

And you grin back at him. A golden victorious feeling bubbles in your chest.

Watching the pair leave, you find you’re excited to see them again.

The rest of the debriefs go smoother than ever. You bring new charms for Grogu to play with, and Din seems to settle in more.

“You have a lot of those.” He even comments a bit dry when you exchange another new charm with Grogu. This time it’s a fuzzy bantha.

“Managed to gather a small collection.” You explain.

“Really… couldn’t tell.” Din deadpans.

That’s when you realized he just joked with you.

“Think you might like those two,” Zeb teases the next time he drops by the mess hall.

“It’s called being civil.” You stubbornly reply while messing with the holopad, and the Lasat warrior barks a laugh.

“Civil? Yeah sure.” He teases further.

You stay stubbornly quiet.

“Don’t worry… They’ve a pain in my ass too.” Zeb huffs, and it does soothe your annoyance.

Especially now that something is festered in you, a sort of curious itch to learn more about Din Djarin.

“I heard… he really did blow up an entire imperial base. That’s how Teva found him.” Dyana is happy to spill more gossip about him.

“He’s quiet, doesn’t talk much. So I doubt he’d say anything even if he did.” You mutter.

“Does he really keep a pet around?” Dyana presses for any new info.

The word ‘pet’ sounds harsh.

“He’s more like the kid’s guardian.” The word ‘parent’ instead wants to slip out especially after you’ve seen Din’s fatherly watch over the baby.

“Oh that’s even more interesting! Why didn’t you tell me this earlier?!” Dyana shrieks.

“You’ve been busy.” You half lie.

You could argue that it’s because you want to protect Din’s trust and don’t want to disturb that. But the truth is, you don’t want to share this little secret bond you’ve cultivated with him.

You however rapidly kick those thoughts away.

Ward will be back sometime this week. Your brief time with the Mandalorian would be over soon.

Except that time comes sooner than expected.

The next morning Colonel Ward arrives, an early return. Disappointment arrives just as fast. You knew this was only a temporary thing.

Trying not to feel annoyed, you now work on your x-wing. Deep under the hull, you refuel trying just to keep your mind focused here.

“Didn’t know you were a mechanic.” Suddenly, the rich voice of a certain mandalorian echoes in the hanger.

You scramble out from under the ship confused if you heard right.

But standing off to the side are indeed Din and Grogu.

“What? Thought I just did paper work and worked as an assistant?” You tease.

Din chuckles, and it sinks into the glowing sunlight coating the hanger in its glory.

“You’re looking at one of the New Republic’s best pilots!” Dyana.

She perks up emerging from the other side of the ship, and you shoot a glare her way not even knowing where she came from.

“A pilot?” Din questions, curious.

His helmet tilts towards you.

“Sometimes,” you shrug.

“And I wouldn’t say best.” You weakly laugh then glower at Dyana again. She simply beams innocently back at you.

“One day you gotta tell him about Endor. Though I’m sure you have plenty of fight stories to share too, Mando!”

You want to strangle her.

“You fought at Endor?” Din asks, helmet fully facing you and voice faintly awed.

It all makes your skin feel heated and tight.

All you can do is shrug again.

Endor seems like so long ago now. You were so much younger then. Wild and ready to sacrifice it all for the sake of protecting everything you loved. A small secret corner of your heart aches for those days of when you flew with such fire.

“Well… gotta go! Nice to finally meet you both!” Dyana nods to Din and smiles at the baby before scurrying away.

A traitor in the flesh fleeing if you ever did see one.

“So…an x-wing pilot.” Din comments, still watching you. His curious and impressed tone ignites a strange sensation in your chest that threatens to consume you.

“On good days I am.” You again shrug with a half smile.

“So what was Endor like?” He inquires, and you’re surprised he’s curious about that.

“Don’t know, never went on planet… kinda was busy flying around.”

You don’t even need to see his face to know he’s giving you a silent unamused stare. He must not think your joke is as funny as you do.

A surprised giggle does come though. Both you and Din discover Grogu effortlessly climbing up onto the wing of the ship.

“Kid.” Din chides.

“How did you get up there so fast?” You laugh amused at the sight of this tiny creature waddling on top of your x-wing.

Din sighs, truly parental.

“I take it that you fly?” You ask him yet keeping your gaze on Grogu to make sure he stays safe.

“I do.” Din answers, confident.

“Must be why he’s so curious and comfortable around ships. It’s good when kids get to experience being in the air.” You think of your niece who eagerly tries to convince you to fly her around.

“My niece is the same way.” You reveal.

Din hums a noise, acknowledging he’s listening.

“Is she the reason why you have all those charms?” He asks in a tone softer than you’ve ever heard.

“Excuse you, they are medals of honor.” You jokingly try to sound offended.

“With you I wouldn’t be surprised.” He replies deadpan, and you snicker.

“But yeah… she’s the one who gives them to me.” You explain how it was your sister who first started giving you those charms to decorate your x-wing.

They were to remind you to come home safe.

“I was ordered not to come home unless I brought the charms back safe and sound.” You repeat the same words your sister told you.

A soft breeze enters the hanger bringing in a welcoming cooling touch. But it’s then you realize how close you’re now standing next to Din. You didn’t even notice when you or him moved closer to each other.

“That’s… sweet.” His voice carries a tenderness that sneaks under your ribs and sinks in deep.

You turn and find he’s already looking at you.

Under Din’s gaze, it’s like you’re caught in a tractor beam unable to speak or move.

Dangerous thoughts have already begun clouding your mind, and they all connect back to this man. Like how you’ve noticed how broad his shoulders look, and how strong he is helping move crates around the base. What’s worse is you’ve begun wondering what this mandalorian looks like under his helm.

Grogu’s little giggle finally draws your attention away. Currently he peeks inside the cockpit through the window.

“So I take it this is your ship?” Din asks.

“No, I stole it.” You quip back.

“Sure you did.” His dry reply makes you snicker.

“It’s how I got to fight at Endor.” You jest, stealing a quick glance at Din. Of course he shakes his head unamused.

“Thought you didn’t see Endor.” He uses your dry joke back at you, and you can’t help it.

You playfully elbow him.

Another little giggle comes. Glancing back to the ship, Grogu now peers over from the wing’s edge grinning at you and Din.

“Little troublemaker, are you going to be a pilot one day?” You smile at Grogu.

“Mweh!” He squeals.

“I think that’s a yes,” you tell Din proudly.

“No.” Din answers back firmly.

“It’s okay I’ll teach you one day,” you counter sweetly, and the baby giggles more.

“No.” Din repeats again firmer.

A small cluster of pilots approach. Their laughter and conversation fill the air. Guess this moment is over.

“Still need to see Ward… shouldn’t keep her waiting.” Din is smooth about making his exit.

Quickly Grogu jumps into his arms, and you bid the duo goodbye for now.

You haven’t been in the air for long, but it feels like you’re floating now.

The moments you see the pair become like scattered stars.

Months settle in, and a routine follows. You sometimes see Din in the mess hall cantina when you return from a mission. Discussing with the colonel, all you can simply do is give your boys quick smiles.

Other times Din stops by the hanger where you linger now more than ever hoping he drops by. You and him talk about work, missions, the various planets visited.

You want to ask what got him to work for the new republic, but you don’t want to disturb whatever is growing between you and him.

“It’s budding love.” Dyana sagely declares one evening at the cantina, and Zeb agrees.

“It’s not!” You screech over a drink.

“I don’t think Mando has said more than five words to me, yet I see him talking to you so much.” Another pilot chimes in.

“He talks to Zeb the most!” You argue back. The two of them are often paired up on missions now. You try not to get annoyed by it.

“Not as much as you, kid.” Zeb rebuttals.

“Don’t think we haven’t seen the way he hangs around the hanger for you.” Sash Ketter snickers, and it only ignites the discussion once again.

You dismiss all their words as attempts trying to rile you up.

Because you don’t want to face the truth. You long for your chats with Din, even just to see him for a moment and play with Grogu.

It’s just an awful infatuation. That’s it.

Your small vacation break now approaching may be more of a blessing than you realize. It’ll hopefully give you time to clear your head.

“I’m heading home to visit family. I’ll be sure to bring back something good.” You tell Din the next time you run into him outside the cantina.

“There’s no need. Just… be safe.” Din nods.

His gentle words carry you the entire flight home.

The brief week away provides peaceful moments of relaxation. While you enjoy the time spent with your sister’s family, you long to return to Adelphi.

“So, what did you get me this time?” You ask your niece the day before you’re set to head back.

“I got you… THIS!” She proudly raises up an odd creature. You can’t even tell what it is.

“She made it herself.” Your sister whispers, and your eyes go wide.

“What?! Why didn’t you tell me we have an artist in this family now?!” You cry excitedly scooping up your niece in your arms and tickle her with glee as she squeaks excitedly.

“Actually before I go… Do you think you can help me make one too?” You ask her and your niece's eyes light up.

With eager hands she gathers all her supplies to deposit them on the table ready to craft.

“So… are you going to tell me who you’re making this for?” Your sister asks slightly suspiciously as you add little puffballs to your monster creation.

“What if I just want my charm to have a friend, huh?” You deflect.

“Yeah sure.” She’s not convinced but thankfully doesn’t press any further.

As hard as it is saying goodbye to her and your niece, you’re thankful to finally be back to your routine.

And of course, the new little charm sitting in your pocket seems to hold so much weight.

Din returns a few days after you. It’s hard trying to ignore the bubbling joy that rises watching him approach your x-wing first.

“Welcome back.” He greets and Grogu squeals adorably scurrying to you.

Eagerly you welcome his jump into your arms, and you squeeze him tight.

“I miss you too,” you tell Grogu but hope his father knows you mean him as well.

“And look, I got something for you.” You shift to hold Grogu in one arm.

Then you hold up the new charm.

“What is it supposed to be?” Din sounds confused and slightly alarmed.

“It’s a little monster,” you reply lightly insulted.

“My niece and I made these, and I knew someone who might like it.” You grin towards Grogu now.

“Bweh!” He cheers and draws the charm into his small arms so enamored with the strange monstrosity already.

“See! He likes it, that's what matters.” You huff proudly at Din.

Grogu chirps like he agrees. You laugh then catch Din’s chuckle too.

“What do you say, kid?” Din says.

Grogu however doesn’t say anything. Instead he leans up and hugs you. His sweet little arms curl against your neck.

Holding this baby so tight is like holding a little newborn star. You’re grateful for this moment and hug Grogu close, closing your eyes to fully embrace this wonderful tiny soul.

“You’re welcome, little troublemaker.” You softly tell him.

The baby then settles into your arms as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Worried you might have overstepped, you quickly snap your attention to Din. His helmet stays focused on you.

You wonder what his eyes look like, what color swims within his gaze.

“Glad you’re back safe.” Din’s voice sounds low, softer and a bit thick.

“Me too,” you reply, letting yourself sink into whatever it is overtaking your entire heart.

This infatuation, or whatever it’s mutated into, grows stronger. And it terrifies you.

But you’re reminded quickly there are more terrifying things to face.

The wound isn’t looking good.

You’re more pissed at yourself for getting ambushed by damn pirates. This operation was supposed to be simple, check in on the distress signal intercepted by base. But one pirate ambush later and you’re now stranded trying to stop the bleeding.

You just hope the emergency signal you sent back to camp went through. Leaning against your ship, you take a deep breath trying to calm yourself down. You’ve dealt with worse. You can handle this.

Until something pierces your back, and a scream of pain escapes you. Electricity courses through your body knocking you to the ground.

Everything stings. You can barely concentrate, but you hear them. Gleeful disgusting laughs swirling all around. The damn pirates…

“Think of the price we’ll get for x-wing parts!” One of them muses.

“Or even for the pilot, quite a cute one.” That comment unleashes a panicked feral terror.

Get up, you have to get up. Even though every part of your body stings, screaming to stay still, you have to move.

You slowly try to sit up through the aftershocks, but then a boot comes to slowly step on your chest, pressing you down to the dirt.

“Nah uh little pilot, where do ya think you’re going.” A voice snickers.

You clench your jaw hard. This isn’t looking good.

A sudden blaster shot fires and immediately takes out a pirate with accurate precision.

“What was that?!” One of them screams.

Then a blaster shot silenced him.

“Step away from her now.” Din.

Or someone sounding like him.

The voice is deadly, terrifying, and you wonder if it even is Din.

Then the pirate towering above you with his boot still pressing on your chest suddenly gets thrown off.

Weakly you cough sitting up. While you do, you witness Din in action and realize he’s truly here.

And the way he attacks, effortlessly slicing through the pirate captain and the lackeys that try rushing him - he’s incredible.

You’ve never seen anyone fight so fluidly and powerful. You’re witnessing one of the most powerful warriors in the galaxy…

And he’s here to save you.

A small concerned whimper comes to your side and immediately you glance down. Grogu quickly waddles to your arm and flashes his wide worried eyes up to you.

“I’m okay, I promise.” He must see the wound, and you try smiling reassuringly.

He hums a small noise at you. Then he closes his eyes, laying his little claw against your elbow. Slowly a gentle warmth suddenly crawls up your shoulder.

What is he doing?

The stinging pain vanishes instantly. Reaching up to your shoulder, you find no wound.

“Mweh.” Grogu peers up at you with a small little wave.

“You really are something else, little trouble maker… thank you.” You fondly stroke his fuzzy little head, and he beams.

Din urgently yells your name and soon rushes to kneel before you. Gloved hands reach out to steady your shoulders.

“I’m fine.” You now reassure him and move to squeeze one of his hands.

An exhale escapes Din, relieved.

“I’m sorry you both had to come all the way out here. I’m sure there are better bounties to hunt.” You half tease.

“Don’t apologize.” He immediately snaps.

Grogu makes a sad noise as if chiding his father.

“Just glad you’re safe.” So Din gently adds and steadily helps you stand.

Zeb lands moments later with a mechanic to help patch up your ship. The entire time Din stays by your side, letting you lean against him for support. His guiding hand never leaves you.

You’re given the rest of the week off to recover.

“So was Mando on a mission with you when my distress beacon went out?” You ask Zeb when he drops by to check on you.

He snorts, giving you a knowing side eye smirk.

“Is that what you think?” Zeb doesn’t elaborate even when you pester him.

It’s Dyana of course who reveals the truth.

“Mando was the first to rush out. Ward had to practically stop him before he flew off on his own.” Her words unravel something effortlessly in you.

How can you ignore these feelings for a mandalorian anymore?

“I think it’s romantic.” Dyana thankfully doesn’t judge you when you finally admit everything to her.

There was no time for romance during a rebellion, during a war. Even now you almost scoff at the idea. There are other things to do, other things to focus on than get lovesick over someone.

But Din dismantled all those old thoughts in you, leaving you exposed and almost greedy for someone now.

“It’s okay to want that you know… romance and companionship.” Dyana tells you already sensing your hesitation.

You know her and a cute mechanic have been dating off and on for a while. She’s always been urging you to get out more, maybe try to find someone. Guess you just had to wait for a mandalorian to show up.

But you have to put all those giggles and feelings aside.

Your time resting is done, and immediately you’re thrown back into the rush of work.

A mission and orders arrive a few days later on your datapad.

Raid strike this week, get ready

It’s not a full strike squadron, but you’re thankful Zeb is tagging along.

“Think your boyfriend might be joining us.” He teases, and your eyes narrow hard. Now you regret him being here.

“I don’t have a boyfriend.” You rapidly dismiss.

“Huh uh.” He rolls his eyes.

As if summoned to add to your pain, Din enters the command center. It feels like feral lizard birds were released in your stomach.

Immediately his helmet spots you. Grogu perched on his shoulder chirps upon seeing you. Trying to act relaxed, you give the boys a casual wave and bright grin.

Zeb chuckles, and you silently shush him again under your breath. You walk to meet Din halfway.

“Glad you’re doing better.” He says, faintly warm, and you nod grateful.

“Thanks to my two heroes,” you thank them both again. Grogu beams toothy when you tickle his chin.

Din doesn’t say anything.

“Guess we’re finally teaming up.” So you speak up first.

“Seems like it,” Din agrees.

This isn’t the first time he’s seen you in your pilot gear. Hell, he just rescued you last week. But for some reason, you feel more self aware than ever.

Thankfully Ward enters, drawing the room’s attention to her.

The mission is to ambush the warlord now barricaded up in his mansion. He’s apparently greatly armed and even hired a small air brigade. It’s why this strike squadron was called in. You’re curious why Din is here though.

“Without the mandalorian’s intel, we wouldn’t have this opportunity. So we will be following his lead.” She sends her focus to him.

Din simply and silently nods back.

Then he moves to the holo map and gives details about the estate. Hearing how commanding and surefire his voice resounds, the way he walks confidently and without any hesitation, he’s incredible.

But there’s no time to linger on this warrior.

It’s time to fly.

“Finally get to see you in action,” you tell Din as he walks out with you.

“Guess you will.” He replies with a hint of something playful, and it only speeds up your racing heart.

All you can do is laugh before parting ways.

“Don’t get lost in the clouds.” You teasingly yell to the mandalorian and he looks back at you from over his shoulder.

You can’t see Din’s eyes, but you hope they’re amused.

Him and Grogu now trail away from where you’re stationed, and you settle into your ship.

Your x-wing roars alive, and the familiar comms flicker in your ear. Then the call signals electrify the start to battle.

“Delphi squadron, lock in.” Teva announces on the main channel, the leader for this run. Everyone follows suit locking in their coordinates.

“Blue 9, standing by.” You chime in, readying the flight path.

“Starfighter, standing by.” Then a new voice floats through your helmet.

The tone resonates rich as a stormy ocean sending a shock through your system.

Hearing Din in your helmet does something to you so wild that you feel guilty at how fast your core clenched. You recollect yourself fast.

That’s when you notice the ship he joined in with.

A starfighter? There’s no way. Those ships don’t exist.

But again, you’re proven so wrong.

Among the gunfire and smoke, the sounds of battle, a new gleam of silver catches your attention. The Naboo N-1 fighter is a marvel.

A sleek whisper of a dream, one minute she’s a simple flicker of light then the next she’s firing directly in the trenches of the fight.

But as in awe of the ship as you are, it’s the mandalorian who leaves you breathless.

Din flies amazing. The fast maneuvering, the excellent read he makes of the battle, among his readiness to swoop in and out of tight spaces - you’ve never seen anyone fly this beautifully.

It inspires you, the type of flying that makes you want to soar higher to catch up.

So you do.

You embrace the rebel pilot you always might be and dive through the canyons chasing after one of the bandits the warlord hired.

Quickly you dispatch the enemy ship then swirl and maneuver your x-wing to return to the open sky.

“Target on your left.” Din’s voice suddenly thunders in your ear, chiming in on your personal channel.

“Got it.” You reply steady and twist fast enough to fire on the swing mid air.

“Got him, great shot!” Listening to Din’s deep fierce voice over your private channel, his voice colored in pride, you have to mute the channel to exhale.

Because a wave of arousal crawled up your spine so fast you had to bite your lip. Now you try settling yourself down again.

You pride yourself on being composed when you fly. There of course have been times when you’ve gotten emotional and maybe reacted.

Yet here this masked man completely disarms you.

It’s a fight you realize you won’t win.

The raid is successful, and the warlord gets taken in alive. That’s the win that matters.

“Great job,” Din suddenly voices back in your comms, still sounding so proud, and you melt all over again.

“You too, thanks for the support,” you answer back, just as fond, then rapidly switch over the channel.

“Captain,” you ask Teva on his personal comms.

“Before we leave, do you think I can test Mando on how he flies?”

Teva takes a moment then sighs.

“Make it quick.”

Giddy you quickly chime back onto Din’s channel.

“Wanna go for a run?” A part of you worries he won’t want to join you.

“Lead the way.” But Din quickly answers, and you pull back up to the clouds.

The planet is rather gorgeous, full of lush canyons and towering mountains. It’s a flight playground. Among the skies, twisting and twirling down through the natural landscape, you and Din soar around each other, with each.

Playful, yet delicately cautious, your x-wing revolves alongside his starfighter. Din keeps up with you every moment. Quietly the image of a dance among the clouds floats into your mind.

“Up for a race?” He suddenly asks.

“Oh, you know it.” You agree, excited. You settle into your seat, ready to take off.

But in a flash, he zooms past you.

“What the hell?!” You shriek over the comms.

Din’s husky laugh in your ear is a beautiful reward.

Returning back to Adelphi, you and him fly beside each other. Ward gives everyone the night off, and the cantina already seems to shine extra bright landing in.

Settling into your spot in the hanger, you notice Din lands his starfighter closer than ever.

Sliding off your helmet, for a moment you worry about how bad your hair looks, how messy and sweaty you must be.

But heading down the ladder, Din already walks towards you.

All your worries vanish. You don’t even care how fast you walk towards him. Here standing before Din under the low lights of the hanger, the world melts away.

“You were incredible.”

“You flew… amazing.”

Both you and Din speak at the same time, words jumbling up and getting tangled. It startles you, even his shoulders stiffen a bit.

Then you laugh.

“No, you were the incredible one.” You tell him first.

“Not compared to you,” he shakes his head.

“Glad I finally got to see one of the Rebellion’s and New Republic’s best pilots in action.” There’s a smirk in his voice, and heat burns through your veins.

Any words you want to say, he’s stolen them right from you. All you’re reduced to is a love struck fool caught in the orbit of this powerful mandalorian.

Din doesn’t say anything either. It’s like you and him can’t look away from the other standing this close.

“Hey! Ya two love birds gonna join us or what?” Zeb suddenly breaks the spell, and your blood instantly boils.

You hiss foul curses at Zeb, and he only cackles with laughter.

Embarrassed and trying to escape this moment you shake your head heading towards the exit.

“Come on, let’s go celebrate.” You manage to smile at Din hoping to dispel any comments about what Zeb said.

The mandalorian follows you into the mess hall cantina. The lively celebratory air glimmers with joyous laughter. It’s a welcoming atmosphere, and even Wolf along with a few other pilots ask Din to join them.

“Maybe in a bit,” He nods, instead staying by your side when you approach the bar.

“No pressure, but drinks on me if you want.” You offer.

“I’ll pass, but thanks.” He instead places down credits for your drink, and you thank him with a toast.

“Come on, let’s see how good of a sabacc player you are.” After taking a huge sip, you allow the alcohol to sting in the best way.

“Think you might be dissapointed,” Din chuckles.

Of course he’s a damn natural.

Everyone at the table cries in frustration when he wins the second round, and you even narrow your eyes at him.

“Oh, so you’re a liar.” You joke good naturedly.

“Never said I was good or bad.” He answers and it’s rather coy, lighter than what you’ve heard from him.

“Next time Mando I want you comin’ with me off planet! We could really win big.” Someone suggests and now it’s comforting seeing how much everyone has warmed up to him, how much Din has settled in here too.

Until you realize the baby is missing and immediately turn to Din. Maybe it’s the atmosphere but you lean closer to him placing your hand against his arm.

“Wait, where’s Grogu?” You ask concerned and low.

Din leans closer to you, his helmet almost grazing your face.

“Don’t worry, he’s asleep in the barracks.” Din’s answer comes low, reassuring.

Then he reaches up to lay his hand on top of yours. It’s a reassuring hold, a soft touch that brings comfort.

You exhale relieved and don’t have time to realize what he just did until someone drags Din away to play darts.

He squeezed your hand, and you now fight against a dumb smile just thinking about it.

Even after another round of getting your ass kicked at cards, you don’t care. You glance over to Din.

A cluster of pilots surround him. You’re not surprised. He’s a marvel, someone truly remarkable. But one of the prettier pilots slides up next to Din, batting her eyelashes so dreamily up at him.

Something fierce, venomous and coated in jealousy, strikes.

Reaching to Wolf, you nudge his shoulder a few times, and he knowingly looks at you. Not saying anything, he discreetly slips you a smoke stick.

You head out of the cantina into the soft warm night and light up. The smoke in your lungs settles you down for a moment and cuts through the alcohol.

Dumb Mandalorian man making you feel this way…

Taking another drag of the smoke stick, you watch the smoke you exhale mix into the air.

“Didn’t know you smoked.” Din.

His voice melts into the night like he stepped out of the shadows themselves. As he wanders towards you, you shift to lean against the rail of the patio.

“Not often,” you truthfully answer. It’s been a long time since you lit up.

A bad habit you picked up during your rebellion days, being as young as you were around seasoned veteran pilots. It became a way to calm yourself down and stop your hands from shaking from the nerves.

You even tell him that.

“What made you join?” He asks, tentative and quiet.

A loaded question but one you feel comfortable enough to answer, especially with him.

The empire took so much from you. You’re grateful you and your sister managed to keep each other safe, look out for each other. You weren’t lying when you joked about stealing ships. Learning to steal is how you survived for a while as a kid.

Then you accidentally stole from a man named Luthen Rael, and your life changed. Whatever he saw in your eyes that day when he caught you… it kept you alive.

He’s the one who helped get your wings, got you in touch with rebellion once you could fly. Once you joined, you never saw him again.

“Never looked back since.” You tell this all to Din.

You don’t regret your choices. They’re what brought you here after all, kept you safe even during the danger.

“You did what you had to… you should be proud of the life you’ve made. Of the wars you've fought and survived.” Din sincerely commends you, and his words settle deep in your heart.

You softly thank him, appreciating the sentiment.

“And you? What brought you to the New Republic?” Taking another drag of the smoke stick, you finally decide to ask.

This time he’s sighing and moves to lean against the rail beside you. He’s pressed up right beside you.

“Benn a long way to get here as well.” He’s vague, but explains how he was, and still is a bounty hunter by trade. How that path led him to the kid. How Grogu is by Mandalorian creed his son and apprentice now.

“I couldn't keep getting involved with pirates, working for gangsters. It’s not the life I wanted anymore.”

It’s admirable seeing how valiant Din’s spirit shines, yet you hear how weary his soul must be like he carries so much guilt.

“There are wars you’ve fought too, Din. You should be proud of your victories. Even the ones you don’t think you should be.” Maybe it’s the fading alcohol and slow numbness of the smoke stick, but you want more than ever to just hold him.

You go to take another drag to stop yourself from doing anything reckless, but find your smoke stick is burnt to its final end.

“I don’t.. deserve such kind words. But thank you.” Din’s voice is thick, tangled in thorny emotions.

Yet underneath it all, he sounds softer and raw, like a man trying to find comfort in your words.

So you turn and see his striking dark T visor gaze on you.

A moment passes where it’s just you and him under the night sky, staring at each other.

“No matter what path you took, I'm glad you’re here.” You earnestly tell him.

In such a short amount of time this mandalorian has reawakened something in you and takes up such a large part of your heart.

“Me too.” Din mutters, nodding.

Another x-wing lands outside stealing your attention away as the engines break the quiet night air.

“Always been curious to how they fly.” Din suddenly comments sounding intrigued.

“You wanna see?”

He turns to you, helmet tilted incredulous and challenging.

“Come on,” so you challenge him back with a toothy grin.

Immediately Din follows behind you, footsteps quick yet terrifying agile.

The hanger sits in eerie stillness this time of night.

“Should we even be here?” Din asks low, a bit cautious.

“Didn’t take you as a ‘by the books’ guy, Mando.” You use the common name everyone calls him as a tease.

“Only when it comes to my employer.” He replies unamused.

“Trust me, we’ll be fine.” You wave him off and he continues following you further into the dark hanger.

He doesn’t know it, but this place, especially for pilots, is an infamous makeout spot. You try not to think about that too much.

There you arrive at your x-wing.

“Hop in,” you nudge him towards the ladder.

“What?” Din sounding so boyish and confused makes you laugh.

“Get in,” you urge.

Sighing defeated he climbs up the ladder to the cockpit and you follow. You look away trying not to stare at his cute ass.

“Can we even fit in this?”

“X-wings are capable of holding various types and sizes of pilots. We are not the empire, thank you very much,” you proudly declare.

The hatch opens, and Din jumps in. The dashboard and control panel light up as he takes a seat in your chair.

Your throat goes dry seeing him sit in the same pilot seat you fly in.

“Throttle, control stick,” he points out immediately.

As much room as you have, it is cramped standing up. So you curl to the side, closer to him, but keep your eyes on the control monitor.

“It’s got a good radar system.” Din comments admiring the monitor too.

You rattle on about how these are the upgraded models everyone got after the war. The original ones you used during the rebellion are classic, but the upgrades were warmly welcomed.

“Sorry, this all must sound boring.” You weakly laugh.

“It’s not. Tell me more.” He reassures.

You’re about to until you hear commotion around the hanger.

So, quickly you scramble up and around to slide into the seat -

Right between the V of Din’s legs.

You crouch low and drag him down too.

“Wh…what are you-”

“Shh…” you shush him. “Have to lie low just in case.”

“So we should leave.” Din urges urgent.

“We’re fine.” You reassure him now.

The commotion you thought you heard passes by, and silence returns.

You exhale a bit relieved, moving to sit up. Then you grin at him from over your shoulder.

“See… told you we’d be fine.”

He stays quiet.

It hits you. Maybe you upset him or crossed a line being this close. Though you aren’t fully pressed up against his chest, the position is still intimate. You’re literally between his legs.

You want to apologize, especially now that the courage fades away fast.

But all you can think about is how stunning Din is, how gorgeous he looks here in your ship.

“One day you should fly it.” You truthfully blurt out while staring at him.

“Don’t think Ward would let me.” He stiffly replies.

“I would.” You immediately counter.

“Plus you look good in here...” Then you realize what you just admitted.

So you try to recover fast.

“Knowing your skills, if you had been with us during the rebellion days, you would’ve fit in just fine. Probably would’ve even been half as good as me.” You add hastily, half joking, hoping he doesn’t linger on anything you said before.

You now glance away to check out the window. The hanger is thankfully still empty.

Then Din suddenly softly breathes your name.

You’ve never heard it sound so holy and raw that it rips you wide open. You completely shift around to glance at him in the lowly light cockpit.

“How inebriated are you?” He asks husky, thick.

“I could recite the entire radar flight plan chart we made for Endor.” You tell him completely wide awake now. Every part of you feels like a live wire completely focused on this man.

His low weak chuckle makes your stomach flip in the best way.

Din exhales, breathy and deep.

You don’t want to over step, don’t want to ruin this. So you patiently wait, hoping he makes the first move.

Feeling his arms slide around yours, tentative but curious, you’re galvanized.

Immediately you rise and twist around to fully stare down at him. Looking at Din for a moment, here in the cockpit of your ship, you want to burn this image into your memory. Want to consecrate this in a way you never may do with anyone else again.

You rest your legs on either side of his, caging him in then you settle down onto his lap.

The soft low noise Din makes is music to your ears.

He says your name, but it sounds more like a warning.

“I want this… I want you.” You tell him, finally admitting the words out loud.

Then, you grind down on his lap, straddling him, and immediately pleasure floods into your system.

Din groans, and it spurs you on instantly.

Frustrated that you’re still in your damn flight suit, you unzip the top, slide off the jacket, and exhale feeling the coolness reach your skin. Sliding your hands up to his shoulders you whisper his name.

Then you grind against the bulge in Din’s pants pressing into you, and your mind goes foggy.

But not foggy enough that you notice Din remains still.

Everything collides into you with a halting stop. What if he doesn’t want this?

“I’m… I’m so sorry.” You halt your movements and apologize composed as you can. Awkwardly you lift yourself off of him.

“No I-” Din starts, but then stops himself.

You settle back down on him but this time further back on his thighs.

“Do you… not want to do this?” You ask cautiously. “Because it’s okay if you don’t.”

It’s okay if you don’t want me, is what you actually want to say. But you’re not brave enough for that, no matter how many empire ships you’ve shot down.

“No.” Din noisily exhales frustrated.

His hands go to rest on your thighs. His head falls forward, crestfallen.

“I want this, want you. Just afraid I won’t be able to stop.” He admits weak.

“You don’t have to stop… I don’t want you to.” You admit, soft and greedy, deciding not to hold back now.

Here in your ship, you think maybe he’s become your prey, trapped in your spiderweb. But then his helmet ever so slightly tilts up to you. Under the watch of his unflinching visor, you now feel like a prey caught within a hunter’s gaze.

His heavy breathing grows stronger and reignites something in you.

“Din,” You mutter his name, and he lets out a strained curse.

“I think about you… too much.” Din reveals like it’s a painful truth, as if the words hurt to say.

“I think about you all the time.” The truth leaves you effortlessly now.

“Wonder about what color your eyes are,” You decide to be the brave rebellion pilot you are.

“If you and the baby are safe, eating well,” you add, and he chuckles breathily.

“I think about how brave you are and how… lucky I am to know you,” you continue feeling molten and sentimental now.

Din says your name again, this time tender, and it almost causes you to falter.

So you lean closer to his helmet.

“I think about how handsome you are… imagine your cock inside me.” You mutter and hearing the words aloud feels too much.

But then his strong hands dig into your thighs and slide you on his lap fully, dragging you across his clothed cock.

How strong he pulled you, the fast friction draws a whine from you.

“Yeah?” He growls and leans his helmet directly against your face. The cool beskar touching your skin is heavenly.

“Yeah.” You moan, and your hips begin their rhythm again.

This time it’s not just you moving. Din finally grinds up into you, and you see stars. Your underwear sticks to your sticky core, but you don’t care.

Not when you and Din rut against each other and his hands chart a path all over you. One hand slides up to your neck, anchoring you close to him. The other moves to your back, sliding up to bunch your tank top in his grasp.

It’s too hot now, and you’re wearing too many clothes.

So you weakly draw away from his hold to reach up and yank your top off.

Then you wiggle the last bit of the jump suit off, trying to let your hips and legs be free. But it’s hard.

Din even chuckles at your struggle, and you shoot him a look, annoyed. Patiently, he helps slide the material down until it pools down your legs.

Now you’re simply in your underwear, completely bare before him.

The sensation of his gloved hands running up your stomach, across your back, reverently taking in every inch of your bare soft skin, it melts you.

“Beautiful,” Din breathes in awe.

Then one of his gloved hands crawls up to knead your breast in his grasp, pinching your nipple. Your head falls back, and your hips return to seek relief. Grinding against him without the jumpsuit, the friction is so much stronger, a delicious undercurrent making you want more.

“Din,” You sob, feeling the pleasure build fast.

“Want you inside of me,” you whimper quickly getting drunk on him.

He cusses again sharp, dragging you harder against his clothed cock.

A loss comes when his hands leave your body, but wearily your eyes open once you feel him move to his pant buckle. Eagerly you join in to help.

His cock in your hand is warm. He’s thick, delicious in size. He’s already leaking, and possessed by something raw you lean down to lightly spit on his cock. Din groans so loud you think it rattles your bones.

Stroking his cock slow, you love feeling his mess mix with your spit.

He quickly hisses your name.

“Inside now,” he urges, a desperate man. Clutching at your hips hard, he practically draws you up.

Who are you to deny your mandalorian?

He helps slide off your stick underwear, now fully bare.

Before you sink down on him, you lean closer to his helmet.

You don’t have to say anything. You simply look at him, a final reassurance to see if he wants this the way you want him.

A gloved hand curls up to your face, cradling your sweaty face, stroking your cheek. His touch is fond, and it rocks you more than anything.

He nods firm, so sure.

So you sink down on him, guiding him into you. Both you and him moan and the world implodes in the most beautiful way.

When you were younger and around the veteran pilots, they used to share tales of how they’d christen their ships. Back then, you couldn’t imagine bringing anyone into this sacred space to do that.

Now you don’t want Din to leave it.

A fervid raw desperation has you clinging to him, Din touches you so protectively, keeping you close. His hands clutch you firm, like he’s worried you could fly away from him at any moment.

Needing to be closer, you curl against his neck. You ache to kiss his skin. But the smell of gunpowder, of something beautifully musky, purely Din, floods your mind and makes your mouth water.

His pace grows sloppy, and you feel it coming too.

“Where?” He slurs urgently.

“Inside, got the implant,” you mutter half dazed, but when you feel his cock twitch inside you moan embarrassingly loud.

“Inside Din please please please.” You now beg, wanting to feel him so badly.

“Not until you come first, wanna feel you.” Din demands growling back, and it pushes you over the edge.

Your climax knocks you into another realm. You’re floating. Din follows you over not long after with the deepest groan.

His warmth fills you, even feel it leaking out, causing you to whimper so content.

Exhausted you flop against his chest loving the cool press of his armor against your bare skin. Then a part of you hisses to pull away. Until Din’s helmet gently leans to rest against your head, and his gloved fingers tenderly stroke your back keeping you in place.

“So… you ever done that before in here?” Din asks, partially joking but still curious.

You shake your head no.

“You’re the only one.” You reveal.

His hand tracing across your skin suddenly stops. Then it fully draws across you to draw you closer to him in a soft like embrace.

An aching adoration for this man cements itself into you. It’s now etched into your heart and now your ship. Maybe the two are the same.

After this night, you find him everywhere now.

Anytime he or you return back from a mission, one seeks the other out.

Din and Grogu now even rest in your quarters.

The lodging here is small, but it’s become your makeshift home. Grogu snuggles up warm among the blanket pile you’ve made for him on the extra cot. And Din sleeps beside you in your bed.

You believed it was something sacred to know a mandalorian, but you realize it’s a true honor to find one seeking rest beside you.

Bathed in the moonlight leaking into your room, you and Din stare at each other lying side by side.

You wish he could relax more, maybe take off his armor.

But remaining helmeted, you understand his creed and don’t want to push. It’s just a small piece of you being selfish and wanting to see him.

“What’s wrong?” He notices your silence.

“I wish I could make this more comfortable for you.” Is the best way you can tell him.

He chuckles.

“Don’t worry, I’m fine.”

To even prove it he settles deeper among the pillows sliding closer to you.

“Nicer than the cot that I have on Nevarro.”

You almost laugh. He’s so endearing sometimes and doesn’t even realize it.

But you’re reminded he does have a home.

“What’s your place like on Nevarro?” You ask about it.

“It’s good, simple.” Such a boring classic Din answer.

“Maybe… one day you can see it.” That addition he makes has your heart racing.

“Yeah, I’d like that” you nod, grateful for the offer.

Slowly your eyes close on their own now.

“Brown,” until suddenly he blurts out a random color.

Wearily opening your eyes blinking at him a bit confused.

“My eyes… they’re brown.” He reveals.

A soft grateful smile warms your face as you thank him.

You fall asleep beside him, wondering about his home, what it would be like to wake up and see his beautiful brown eyes.

But those daydreams get shoved away fast.

Missions begin piling up. The empire trash is getting sneakier, working faster in the shadows. It keeps everyone busy. You barely see Din. When you do the exchanges are brief, simple glances or even short catch ups.

Ward eyes you and Din suspicious but of course aware.

Approaching Din you try avoiding the colonel’s gaze as she leaves.

That’s when you spot the ship that flew in yesterday.

“You wanted… this hunk of junk?” You dubiously stare at the razor crest. This is the beloved ship Din apparently had been searching high and low for.

“She flies better than she looks.” Din defends.

Grogu excitedly waddles up the ramp eager to be inside the old ship.

You still eye the gunship worried about how good she can protect the cargo she’ll soon be carrying.

“Might not be a x-wing, but I trust this ship with my life.” Din senses your apprehension.

You give him a soft elbow nudge that barely makes his budge. But he playfully nudges you back, and a grin tugs at your lips.

“Ugh,” Zeb groans with faux disgust seeing you and Din. You roll your eyes.

“You know, I notice with all the markings… this ship looks like it could fit in with a gold squadron.” You tell Zeb nudging your chin towards the paint.

He barks a laugh.

“Wouldn’t that be a sight. This piece of junk flying with us?” Zeb muses.

“I don’t know…I think the crest would fight right in.” You shrug, fond.

“Yeah? Think we could get Mando in a uniform?” Zeb adds and Din flat out shuts that down with a hard no.

It makes you and Zeb snicker.

Now you head in to examine the ship yourself and look around. The older metal, the antique design and layout, it really doesn’t ease your apprehension, but you trust Din.

“Your beskar boy has shit taste picking a ship like this.” Zed snorts heading up to the cockpit.

“Shut up.” You practically hiss at him.

But he leaves you and Din alone.

It’s hard to navigate this strange space lingering between you and him, as if neither you or him know how to move.

So you decide to be brave. You grab his hand and squeeze it.

“Be safe,” you nod to the mandalorian.

He quietly nods back, gathering your hand in his. He squeezes back just as firm.

You head out of the razor crest and into the bright afternoon sun. From the cockpit window you spot your boys. Din nods a farewell, and Grogu spotting you waves down from the control panel. In his grasp is your silly little monster charm.

Not moving from your spot, you keep your eyes on the ship until it fades into the jump of hyperspeed.

You don’t hear from Din for half a month.

It’s nothing new. You’re had months where missions kept you both busy. And from how displeased she was with the last mission, Ward apparently has him working on something fierce.

Then another week passes, and you’re sent on a protective mission to Chandrilla.

It takes your full attention. But the entire time your mind is on Din. Are he and Grogu safe? Is everything going okay?

“You must be in love.” The Senator you’re escorting on the mission says suddenly. Embarrassment floods you fast.

“I’m sorry?” You ask slightly confused.

He smiles at you kindly.

“You’ve been sighing, seem distant. Like a heroine kept away from a lover.”

Shit.

“I apologize. I promised I’m focused.” You reassure him, and the senator laughs.

“It’s fine, my dear,” he reassures, then leans in eagerly. “So tell me about the lucky person.”

Now here you are telling this Senator about your awful admiration for the mandalorian.

“Oh, a mandalorian.” He whispers in awe. “They’re a rare kind. He must be quite a sight.”

He is. But he’s more than that.

He’s kind and unbelievingly sharp. Strikingly powerful, and unwaveringly supportive. There’s a compassion that walks hand in hand with Din’s firm courage.

“Oh you got it bad,” the Senator laughs.

It’s unfortunately true.

How fast and quickly this mandalorian has disarmed you, but what else would you have expected from a warrior like him? Maybe you were doomed from the start to fight against feelings for such a fierce conqueror.

The thoughts of him keep you going through the mission.

Arriving at base camp, you instead find there’s already commotion.

Din has returned, but he’s not alone.

Jabba’s son, Rotta the Hutt, is with him.

At least Din and the baby are safe.

Standing off overlooking the beach, Din patiently watches Grogu play among the beach waves with the young Hutt.

“So, looks like you’ve been busy.” You say moving to his side.

“Tell me about it.” He sighs.

The rundown he gives you is surface level, getting tied up among the Hutt twins while trying to search for the infamous Commander Coin.

“Things might get hairy soon. I’m heading back to Nevarro to lie low for a while.”

His somber tone says more looms.

“Din…” you mutter cautiously.

He turns to you.

“If you’re in any danger…know that I want to help.” You urge, hoping he’ll tell you more.

“I know.” He nods, yet says nothing more.

Please, your heart begs, please let me stay by your side and fight with you.

But you know fighting against this adamant man is a losing battle. So you sigh and reach down to your belt.

The charm you have on today is your favorite, and you hand it to him.

“Remember to bring it back to me.” You can’t even look at him because your eyes suddenly feel like they could spill over a river of tears.

His gloved hand cradles your face, letting you fully look at him.

“We’ll be fine.” His voice soothes you steeled with resolution.

You nod, fighting harder against tears.

Then Din leans down. He presses his helmet against your forehead. You close your eyes and lean into the cool beskar.

With a goodbye hug to Grogu, you tell the sweet little soul to keep an eye on his dad.

This time, you don’t have the strength to watch them leave.

You throw yourself into any available mission.

Ward must sense why you’re doing this and in a punishment of sorts, she instead sticks you on filing reports.

“Mando will be fine,” Teva tries to reassure you.

You hope he will be. Days pass and you try to settle into a routine.

But then a group of Anzellans arrive in a panic. You’d been working on your ship when they landed.

Currently they rapidly relay a message to Ward. She patiently tries to listen to all of their worried voices.

“What’s going on?” You ask Wolf.

“Apparently Mando and the kid are stuck on Nal Hutta… don’t think it’s looking good.” He mutters back somber.

Absolute dread is unleashed in you.

You don’t realize you’re moving until you’re standing right before the colonel.

“Let me join the rescue strike.” You urge.

Ward turns to you, then sighs, even says your name a bit heartbroken. That says enough.

“Are we really considering not going?!” Your voice raises, shocked and upset.

“It’s not that simple.” Ward, calm and composed, tries to clarify, but just hearing that line feels like an alarm goes off in your head.

“What isn’t simple?! He’s one of us. We have to rescue them.” You argue back harder.

“There are protocols. And with the intel and alliance we’ve tried establishing with the Hutts we can’t just strike in, ranger.” Ward sharply explains, putting you in your place.

Anger burns through your veins.

“She’s right, colonel…” Teva suddenly speaks up.

“Mando is one of us.” He agrees with you.

More Delphi officers stand up.

Before Ward can even say anything, you turn on your heels and head out of the hanger zipping up your flight suit.

You don’t care if this will get you in trouble, hell even dishonorably discharged. Din needs you. Grogu needs you.

Then you hear a few others arrive in the hangar.

Ward calls out your name. This is it.

Turning towards her, you ready yourself to accept whatever punishment. Yet, you instead see your commander in her flight suit as well. Your eyes can’t help but widen.

She sighs yet gives you a half grin, understanding.

“I should sit you out on this mission.”

“I know. I’ve accepted that I’ll be doing reports for the rest of the year.” You sleepily shrug.

Her smirks grows bigger.

“Try two years,” she says heading to her ship.

You’ll happily accept that too.

The twin’s palace is heavily guarded, and it’s a true dogfight on Nal Hutta.

Then Din’s voice electrifies the coms as he reports in with Colonel Ward. Absolute relief blooms in your chest, and you feel like crying. He’s alive.

Now you fly harder and faster than you ever have. It reminds you of Endor. That final battle all you thought of was the hope right before your eyes, knowing something precious was so close and needed to be defended.

That’s what this feels like.

You manage to knock out a few droid ships, but the main focus is on the palace.

Yet Din remains inside.

And Ward gives the command to light the place up.

“Get out of there. Please.” You whisper out loud or maybe to the force itself.

Then, the stronghold goes under flames.

You and the others circle around, flying out of the line of fire from the explosion. Yet your stomach stays in knots.

“Anyone got eyes on Mando?” Wolf asks before you can.

Out from the smoke, there among the water below, you spot them. Your boys are alive.

A watery relieved laugh escapes you as you blink away the tears.

“Go pick up the trash, Zeb.” Ward jokes, and you can’t even be mad.

Knowing they’re safe is all that matters.

Vibrating with so much emotion, you land besides Zeb’s ship hoping to see them.

But Ward of course arrives first.

You instead idle by your x-wing, pretending to be checking your engines. Ward tells him the truth about the Hutts that even you didn’t know. So that’s why she finally agreed to go.

“And… we don’t leave our own behind.” Her words resound within you.

Din deflects, saying how he’s not with the New Republic.

“Sure you aren’t Mando, sure you aren’t.” She says.

“If you aren't one of us… Who do you think helped convince us to come?”

Ward’s insinuating tone shoots a shock up your spine.

You keep your gaze on your ship, refusing to even look their way. Focusing on mindlessly keeping busy, you don’t notice footsteps approaching until you move out from under the wing. There Din stands waiting.

He’s here.

Grogu cries gleefully, and your attention turns to him. You eagerly accept him into your arms hugging him tight.

“I’m so proud of you. You must have been so brave, my little ranger.” You even press a kiss to his fuzzy head, addressing him as the courageous officer he is.

The baby coos back fond, embracing you with his sweet but sturdy little arms.

While he’s still in your hold, your eyes open to find Din.

He stares unwavering at you, and your eyes water again.

“Welcome back,” you croak out.

Din nods, then, he raises up your favorite charm you gave him.

“Had to bring this back.”

With a watery laugh, you shake your head.

“Your dad is so silly,” you half whisper to Grogu who giggles, agreeing.

A sigh leaves Din but, in a few steps, he walks towards you.

Then you and Grogu are gathered into his embrace. You immediately wrap one of your arms around Din.

“Thank you… for coming for us.” Din’s voice is gentle, grateful.

“Always.” You answer back with a resounding truth.

Your job is tied here, and you might fly for the sake of the New Republic. But you believe your true wings, your heart’s flight navigation, now will always include a path for and to Din Djarin.

Currently he chats with Rotta, from what you heard might be staying here too.

Once you head into the mess hall Ward calls your name. With a patient knowing grin, she holds out the datapad with the promise of the paperwork you knew would be waiting for you.

Logging in with your chain link, a new message suddenly chimes onto the monitor from an unknown contact.

It contains a coordinates location to Nevarro along with a single message attached.

Stop by whenever, we’ll be waiting

Quickly, you start the reports happily accepting your punishment.

Sunday:

You went to Sunday mass since you needed some guidance from Father Lantom. It’s been ages since you set foot in a church, let alone prayed, but ever since you moved to Hell’s Kitchen you’ve been met with constant hardships.

Your shitty apartment raised it’s rent, you need to replace your tires which is $500 dollars you don’t have, and you’ve been denied a promotion at your workplace after you’ve been the most productive employee in there. You’re tired. The last place of positivity you could think of was this church.

You’ve met Father Lantom when you you first moved in on a park bench where you two spoke about theology and the existence of a God through the basis of your current hardships. After a lengthy conversation, he advised you that if you ever needed to talk to him or the big man upstairs then you to come to his church where you would be welcomed with open arms.

And here you were, listening to Father Lantom wrap up his sermon about keeping faith. He flashed you a smile as he went down the steps and head into his living quarters which left you semi-alone in the pews.

Tears well up in your eyes threatening to leap down your cheeks as you take a deep breath; putting your hands together to finally pray for the first time in years.

“God… I know it’s rich hearing from me after so long, but after everything I’ve been going through? You’re the only stable thing I can turn to. Please…Please let me be okay after everything. This will pass, but protect me while it passes? Amen..” You sigh as wipe the tears in your eyes. You make your exit with a little more faith than you had before and head home.

Coincidentally, Matthew attended that same Sunday mass when he heard the desperate prayer of a person whose voice was like honey to his ears. He couldn’t describe this fascination but he knew he couldn’t just let it slide. So he did what any normal person would do: he followed you around.

This following lasted for a good 4 months as he learned your routines, your likes, your dislikes, anything he could possibly get from overhearing your angelic voice speak.

He followed you to work where he learned how shitty your coworkers treat you. He’ll take note of that later. Matthew then followed you to the train station where he could overhear the music you like to hear on your way home. Early 2000s stuff is respectable in his opinion. Once you were home, Matthew perched up on your buildings roof to watch over you. He would not let a single person lay a finger on you. You have the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen as your loyal servant.

Oh, but nothing could have prepared him for what he was hearing underneath him tonight. He could hear a buzzing hum, different from the neon lights surrounding the area, but that buzzing hum mixed in with a new sound that made Matthew’s breath falter.

It was you.

You were in bed writhing in bliss using your vibrator after such a long week of pure stress and there’s no better stress reliever than an orgasm or two. Your legs are spread open wide as you work the toy into your lubed up cunt. Right hand pumping while your left hand works on your clit making you pant like a bitch in heat; just chasing for that high.

Matt could hear everything you were doing. Your gasps, your whimpers, your moans, the slick sound of your cunt engulfing the toy you’re using. He could barely stand while his ears studied your noises nor could he properly rationalize since the blood that was once in his brain went straight down to his cock, but that didn’t stop him from what he was about to do.

You could feel your orgasm start to brew inside your womb. You knew your cervix would hate you in the morning but you don’t care at this point. It feels too damn good. Your eyes flutter shut as your climax begins to rise up within you, but your pleasure was cut short and replaced with terror as you felt a strangers lips on your neck.

Your diaphragm expands to let out a scream but the masked man covers your mouth before you can. “Easy, sweetheart~! Don’t let me interrupt you~!” His voice was husky; sultry as he worked on your pulse points. In your terror, your body betrayed you by giving you goosebumps from how soft his lips were on your skin.

He desperately started kissing down your collarbone and he reaches the soft mounds of your breasts. He takes the one hand he has available to free them from the confines of your top to knead them; his fingers reaching to roll your nipples in a way that has you shuddering. You cannot believe that your body is acting positively to this stranger’s actions but you just can’t help yourself.

It feels good, you feel good, and that’s all you want to feel right now; no matter the circumstance. He hears your soft whimpers and just smiles at how sweet you gave into him. It gives him the confidence to let his hand off your mouth and replace it with his lips. The masked man kisses you passionately as if he’s starved for you. His lips feel so plush against yours and the contrast of the scruff on his cheeks excites you for more of it.

The masked man separates from your lips and connects them to your sternum, your abdomen, and finally to the plushy upper part of your pussy. You watched as he removed the toy from inside you and replaced it with his tongue.

The moan Matt ripped from you was ten times better than the one he heard above you especially since it was him prying them from you. Matthew has waited for so long to finally have you like this. He’s fantasized it for a couple of months, but to finally take it? It’s a whole different rush.

Matthew laps your juices to savor your sour-sweet taste; drinking until his eyes glaze over in his mask. He focuses his tongue to curl around your clit and sucks on it until he feels your thighs clamping around his head. Matthew’s hands fly up to grasp at your thighs and pulls you onto his mouth further.

The coil in your womb begins to tighten as his tongue works you in a way you’ve never experienced before. Your legs are trembling at the near overstimulation this man is giving you and it feels so fucking good. Every partner you’ve had in the past is buried by this man’s ability tongue fuck you.

The masked stranger seems to feel how close you are to finishing when he plunges two fingers into your core; curving them to hit that yummy spot that has you seeing stars: “That’s it, angel~! Give me what I want~! I’ll clean it right up~” He’s moans against your cunt just eager to drink your climax.

Your mind goes blank as your orgasm hits you at full force while you’re gripping at the sheets below you. Desperation fills your voice as your orgasm hits you in waves; The masked man keeping his promise of drinking every last bit of your release.

Once you came down from your high you look at the stranger in front of you. His half covered face is glistening with your slick and you can’t say that he doesn’t look sexy as fuck with your juices all over his face.

You watch him wipe his bottom lip with his thumb and lick the excess off. A chill goes down your spine when you see him smile devilishly at your spent frame. The straining tent in his pants tells you that he isn’t done with you just yet; not like you want him to be.

Your stomach turns in apprehension as you watch him unbuckle his pants to finally unveil his neglected cock. You stare in awe at his heavy looking cock and you can feel yourself getting turned on again.

The stranger walks slowly over to the edge of the bed, boots thudding on your wooden floors, until he stops by your ankles. In a swift motion he grabs you by them and pulls you toward his exposed sex; his cock lying on top of your puffy cunt. You can see how deep he’s going to fuck you and it makes your stomach fill with butterflies at the mere thought of it. Are you actually going through with this? Are you that desperate to feel good that you’re just welcoming this to happen instead of fighting and screaming?

Your thoughts are cut short by the masked man tapping your entrance with the leaking tip of his cock making your heart rate increase. The man above you breathes in deep as if he’s preparing mentally for what he’s about to do.

Matthew can’t believe he’s about to take you like this. His chest heaves as he fights his conscience on whether or not he should stop. The angel telling him that he’s taken it too far but the devil tells him that he’s has not taken it far enough. His morality and carnal desire battle within his head, but he can’t hold on any longer. He needs more.

His beard smells like you, his tongue is still savors you, he can hear the slick replenishing in your pussy as the position he has you in apparently is turning you on again. His brain phases into a blank state as he lets his carnal desires glaze over completely.

You watch the masked man take one last breath of composure before he presses your knees onto your chest and shoves his throbbing cock into your heat. The stranger hunches over you as he starts plowing you into the mattress and all you can do is take it.

The noises that escape your throat are breathy and hitched as your body and conscious still can’t make up their mind. Arms gripping onto the strangers hoodie to try and ground yourself in the moment he’s giving you. Once you allow yourself to feel good all you feel is the strangers cock slamming down onto your cervix. The release of restraint finally has you moaning in ecstasy as you feel each and every inch of this man’s cock stretching you to its blissful limit.

The stranger’s voice groaned in the most primal way as he bullied your womb. “S’good~ Need it- Need you~!” The carnal need dripping from his mouth like drool as the masked stranger takes your body as his to take.

A new coil of heat begins to rise within you as you take in everything that’s happening to you. His cock feels so fucking good as it abuses your slick walls; cunt clenching as he hits that sweet spot within you that has you arching your back.

Your breathing becomes more and more erratic as he prioritizes all of his efforts into prying that orgasm out of you. In an effort to make connection with the masked stranger your weakly bring your hands to his face; wanting to see more, but he denies you by grabbing your wrists and pinning them beside your head.

“No! No…not yet..” he rasps as he sinks down to your newly exposed neck. He licks, bites, and sucks on the exposed skin. It has the coil in your womb at its limit. Your body stiffening at the sheer amount of pleasure this man has been giving you; making you cum all over him. The stranger groans in your ear as his hips stutter during your peak. He spills within you, hot ropes of cum coat your insides while the masked man fucks it all back into you.

His hips slow to a stop and all that is heard in the room is the cacophony of panting between the two of you. The stranger gives your face a few more kisses before he starts pulling away from your core; whining at the sudden feeling of emptiness.

The masked man stands tall as he puts himself back into his pants which makes you realize how bare you are. Shyly, you grab the comforter on your bed to give yourself some sense of modesty while you watch the man in front of you. You see him readjust his mask as he makes his way to your window.

A waiter is there: young and blonde with a face that spelled jadedness earned from countless shifts toiling in this restaurant. He’s clearly walked into worse in his career.

“More water?” he offers, tone deadpan.

“I’m good, thanks,” you smile sweetly in response, “but please get me another bottle of soju.”

“One soju, then,” he repeats, before stepping away from your table.

Meanwhile, Clark sits across you with his face on fire. He manages an apologetic look at the waiter before throwing his gaze up, silently thanking the company for booking you a private room.

A warm pendant light looks back at him.

The Korean barbecue dinner is billable to Planet Publishing for two reasons: your birthday, and the success of your second novel under the house’s wing.

It’s the book you have open in your hands: Owls on a Moonlit Marsh, a gateway drug to fantasy for romance readers, and a steamy page-turner for fantasy readers.

Now Clark didn’t edit that book. He’s just invited to this company-expensed dinner because the two of you were in Gotham for a creative writing event, in which you were one of the panelists.

And you certainly didn’t let his politeness deter you from dragging him along, pushing past his insistence that you should spend Planet Publishing’s money with someone special—maybe a boyfriend.

(Was it rude to feel relief when you told him you didn’t have one?)

So, here he is. With you. Slightly full from an extremely delicious assortment of meats and banchan, listening to you complain about the pain in writing pleasure.

Clark Kent convinces himself that you brought him along because it’s the kind thing to do. The convenient thing, even. For once, you’re in Gotham, and this place has crossed your socials too many times. He just happened to be on a business trip with you.

That dress you are wearing isn’t low-cut to seduce him so much as to make yourself look beautiful. (And God, do you look beautiful.) It’s not flirtation that flashes in your eyes, just everyday mischief. Maybe soju-induced intoxication.

But that smile… The curl of it is so dangerously familiar, he finds his eyes averting from it to not provoke any untoward ideas—because the only ideas he’s getting are rather untoward.

Between the thoughts Clark Kent thinks to avoid heartbreak, there’s no way to misinterpret that smile.

Six months of working with someone is enough time to figure out whether you’re into them. Except Clark—if he were to admit at gunpoint—would say that being ‘into’ you is a massively understated way of expressing the specific feeling he’s dealing with.

You’re under his skin like an influence.

“Now where was I…?” you hum, scanning the page of an open book.

You point at the page. “Oh, right. His shaft.”

Once again, thank God and Perry White for the private room. Otherwise, saying the word ‘shaft’ while you read smut out loud might get you kicked out of this sleek restaurant.

“That scene was good,” Clark coughs. And he doesn’t just say that because he likes you, but in all honesty. “It’s sexy. And vulnerable.”

The main characters have gone through a literal book-load of feelings, which culminated into what has been described by Tumblr users as a “clit-throbbing” smut scene. In working with you for half a year, he deeply understands—the first part about going through a lot of feelings, that is.

The latter part? He can only dream.

“Thanks, Clark. Flattery gets you everywhere,” you beam. “I have a praise kink.”

Gosh, it’s so darn warm in here. (The charcoal’s been dead for a while now.)

“I was being serious.”

“Really? You think it was good?” you reply so earnestly he sits up straighter at the attention. “I was worried we were getting repetitive—M and I could only substitute the word ‘cock’ so many times.”

Clark nearly chokes on his rice wine.

If the publishing house let you loose with your word choices, people will get ID’ed at the counter for wanting to buy your books.

And M? She’s the reason he’s working with you: the editor for your first two novels, now on maternity leave.

M stands for Mary, but only those closest to her would know that her full given name is Mary Magdalene.

Alanis Morissette would like a word.

“I’m sure ‘thrust’ is the same,” Clark murmurs, fixing his glasses.

You give the comment a thought. “Actually, not really.”

“Yeah?”

“Mm-hmm,” you nod. The green soju bottle glints in the dim as you swirl it around. “I suppose… it’s the sensation that I find difficult to write.”

Clark tries to school his heartbeat. Be professional. That’s the one thing he vowed when taking up this job: you can’t edit a critically acclaimed romantasy if you don’t take it seriously.

And the two of you haven’t gotten there. Writing the sex, he means, not having sex. There’s nowhere for you and him to go on that part. And he definitely has not thought about it. Not in the slightest.

Professional, Clark scolds himself internally.

“How so?” he asks.

Your gaze shifts away from his. That’s rare.

“Well,” you begin, tone light as a feather, “it’s hard to write about something I haven’t felt before.”

A beat of silence. Then two.

“Sorry, what?” he pipes up, voice comically tiny. “I don’t think I heard you right.”

There’s nothing for him to be nervous about, though, because you’re grinning back at him like that wasn’t a dropped bomb. He’d blame it on the alcohol in your veins, but even while sober, you’re the kind of woman who just… shoots it straight.

God knows he loves it—his heart blooms in secret joy with every flash of honesty.

Like right now.

“I think you did, Clark,” you giggle, “and now you’re getting shy about it.”

“It’s the makgeolli,” he defends, though feebly.

“I’m a virgin,” you announce.

As if it’s the Declaration of Independence.

As if the waiter didn’t just enter and place another bottle of soju on your table.

You throw him a thank you with a pretty smile, to which the young man nodded. He leaves the room without asking if you need anything else.

You have the decency to continue after the door slides shut.

“And I mean that in the PIV sense. Not that the notion of virginity makes any sense, let alone penetrative virginity.”

“No, yes, of course,” Clark stammers in reply, all while his mind asks what have you done, then, and how do I stop picturing you doing it?

Because you did things with someone else. At some point in time, you were doing things with someone else. That makes him jealous.

Clark Kent doesn’t like feeling that green thing.

He’s jolted out of his slightly bitter reverie by a nudge on his calf.

It’s the tip of your high-heeled shoe. He doesn’t need to peek under the table to see, he can picture it just fine: maroon patent leather with a pointed tip brushing short, playful strokes over the fabric of his dress pants.

His heartbeat snags. The pulse floods south.

“But with your experience, Mr. Editor,” you smile coyly, “you’ll ensure my written work is as accurate as possible, yes?”

Call it in vino veritas, or call it Ma and Pa’s education, but Clark Kent can’t lie. Not well, anyway. The truth stumbles out of his lips soon as you stop talking.

He tries to make it sound casual.

“You know, I haven’t done it, either.”

Your eyes widen, gasping out in drunken surprise.

“Really. A catch like you? The world truly is ending.”

There are many graces offered to Clark Kent tonight, and maybe the small kindnesses he did in the past are paid back in this exact moment: the waiter saunters in again to announce that the restaurant is closing soon, giving Clark a second or two to collect himself after your remark.

A catch, you called him, while he catches his breath and gathers your coats from their hangers, while his heart flies away on wings of joy. You think he’s a catch.

Or maybe you’re just being nice.

You stand and turn around. He helps you with your sleeves.

“The meal was fantastic,” you tell the waiter on your way out, appearing completely sober—save for the warm lilt in your voice.

The subject is dropped just like that.

Meanwhile, on the short walk back to the hotel, Clark Kent can only think of how you’ve never.

And how you know he’s never, either.

୨୧

When you reach the hotel, he’s not sure if you’ll even remember anything in the morning, because you’re giggling in the elevator up when the height pops your ears.

He’s not just walking you to your room, but walking himself inside your room—to make sure you’re safe, of course.

The bedroom is a mirrored layout of his just next door. He watches as you cross the threshold, dump your coat on the floor, and kick your heels off before jumping face-first onto the queen bed.

He shakes his head, but everything he does bleeds affection: he hangs up your coat and places your shoes neatly onto the side.

Then you sigh into the cold sheets, as if laying there is the best feeling in the world, and Clark tenses.

You’re safe. He isn’t.

Because that sigh reminds him of another sound.

A moan—airy, short.

Yours.

It happened last night. He could only hear it because the hotel walls aren’t as thick as he thought, or maybe because your beds were pressed up on the same side. It wasn’t loud—just him being really cognizant that your private existence and his are separated by one slab.

A concrete slab, sure, but still.

And his mind got the better of him, as it always does when you’re involved. The little noise was enough to make him think about you touching yourself. The image alone inspired him to do the same in the shower.

He’d spent a long time after feeling guilty for morphing that beautiful sound into something that resembled his name—that’s how inconceivable it is, a person like you being into a person like him.

Still, if he has a character flaw, it would be the endless hope that pours out of him. It’s in the way he tucks you under the covers and fixes a strand of your hair after.

He’s about to leave when you grab his hand.

“Don’t go,” you murmur, eyes half-closed. Even so, he sees them glazed—with both alcohol and a brand of loneliness he can’t bare to subject you to—and he folds easily.

The smile you smile when he slips under the covers is just about worth the torture of holding you in your bed.

You snuggle up into him, face buried in his chest.

But then you go and make things even harder for him. Something you keep doing even while drunk.

“Clark?” you slur.

“Hm?”

“You know I’d give it to you, right?”

“Give me what?”

“My virginity.”

Oh.

How cruel, he thinks to himself. The things people say under the influence.

“Go to sleep,” he says softly, stroking the top of your head. She doesn’t know what she’s talking about, is what he tells himself to keep the feelings at bay.

But his mind recalls the shape of your moan, and how perhaps he didn’t make it sound like his name.

You murmur something unintelligible. He wonders if you can hear the wild bang of his heart. Your prolonged silence and even breaths mean no.

He drifts off soon after.

2

You wake up feeling like a person in a daytime pad commercial who just slept like a person in a nighttime pad commercial.

That is to say: you wake up comfortable because you slept amazing. The only minor complaint would be the lack of bodily warmth on your sheets.

On the other side of the bed are wrinkled sheets, suspiciously Clark-shaped. Flashes of last night play in your head: the Korean barbecue, alcohol burning your throat, the smell of him under your sheets…

…and the things you told him.

Oh.

Well, you said what you said. It certainly isn’t the first time you embarrassed yourself just to make him look your way. The dress last night is another recent example.

Life goes on, and you figure your colleague-slash-friend probably returned to his room right after he woke, most likely flustered even with no one looking.

On the nightstand is a tall glass of water and Advil. Must be Clark’s doing.

You drink the medicine down despite 1) feeling in perfect health and 2) knowing that the water won’t quench the thirst you have for the man who poured the glass for you.

And boy, does Clark look like a tall glass of water when you see him again in the lobby, seated in one of the plush armchairs. You keep telling yourself it’s the suit, but the hotel receptionist is wearing the same color and cut—yet you’re not salivating at the sight.

“Good morning,” you chirp, wheeling your small suitcase while you walk towards Clark.

He stands. He always does when you enter a room. Those manners and looks in one person would incur panic upon suburban mothers everywhere.

“Thanks for the Advil.”

“It’s no problem.” He smiles back at you. You sense immense politeness—more than usual. “How did you sleep?”

“Really well. You?”

“Yup, out like a light.”

“Must be the alcohol,” you reply.

It would’ve been a decent lie, if not for the whole beat that passed silently before Clark coughs out a response equally weak to yours.

“Yes, it was… really good alcohol.”

You agree that the soju was excellent, but the better the booze, the worse the sleep.

You know you slept well because he was in your bed. You just don’t know if this is his normal display of shyness or if he’d rather die than admit it.

Either way, it’s just who he is: Clark is too kind to turn you down and too professional to ever address what you told him last night.

Lucky for you, there’s plenty of time to lick your wounds.

The two of you drive back to Metropolis. Clark sits behind the wheel of his car. The traffic leading up to the Interstate is egregiously heavy, just like the air inside the vehicle.

Small talk makes it worse—and for the record, the two of you usually converse just fine. His mindless distraction is changing radio stations as if he knows what he wants to listen to. Meanwhile, you pretend to do something productive on your laptop: developments for your third novel, the last of the installment.

Developments. Psh. All you have are bullet points.

ves forced into divine deal with zalrythar god of secrets

she can’t tell anyone including cass

figure out b plot

cass thinks ves is pulling away and confronts her

she obv stonewalls

angst haha

resolve b plot

cass and ves both end up in god-mandated sex

That takes you less than a minute to type out. The car hasn’t moved for the last seven.

You spend the next three staring at his hands on the steering wheel.

୨୧

Even when traffic eases as you reach Metropolis, the tension doesn’t. It thickens the closer he gets to your destination, palpable by the time Clark turns into your street. The GPS lady shuts up at this point, leaving you and him to stew in silence.

Your apartment is just up ahead. He’s slowing the car down and you internally curse yourself.

There’s no way you can take any more of this, the tip-toeing a shared truth like it’s a secret. There’s no way he isn’t aware—he wouldn’t be so quiet otherwise. And you’ve seen him truly oblivious: someone would ask him out to dinner and he’d think it’s because they want to talk business.

If you do this, he’s probably going to think you’re even more shameless than he initially thought.

What he doesn’t know is that you want to be an honest person around him. Just your luck that, in your case, being honest means shamelessly wanting him.

“Clark?” you call out as he tugs at the handbrake. Your voice isn’t fully gathered, underused in the silence of the ride back, and you sound a little less sure than you’re used to.

“Hm?” he hums back, looking over at you. The car hums, too.

You shift your body to face his, seatbelt clicked free, like that’s going to help you breathe in better.

“Something happened yesterday.”

His jaws clench once. Eyes widen a fraction. You aren’t asking a question.

“Yes. We slept toge—I mean, I fell asleep on your bed.”

Clark Kent isn’t a good liar by nature, but you’d be lying, too, if you said you didn’t pay special attention to his voice. The words come out too fast, and there’s a slight pinched quality to his voice that clues you in on his farce. You’ve known him long enough to learn his tells.

“And?” you ask.

He thrums his fingers on the steering wheel.

“You also told me… you’re a virgin.”

You don’t spare a beat, lest he finds a way to escape this situation.

“And so are you.”

He nods. “Yep.” There’s a pop on the ‘p’, heavy with an acceptance of his fate.

Your lip twitches up in amusement—he looks so close to spontaneous combustion, the tapping of his fingers like a ticking time bomb.

“Gosh,” Clark smiles, the shaky, worried kind, “you don’t think that’s funny, do you?”

That catches you off-guard and a little offended. “Why would I? We’re in the same boat.”

“No, yes, of course,” he stammers. “I'm sorry, I just—"

“—thought an erotic novelist can’t possibly be a virgin?"

There’s a pause.

" Yes,” he admits. “I mean, it’s my fault. I assumed. From your books, of course! Not from anything else.”

You laugh a little at his jitteriness, and funnily enough, he seems to relax.

“It’s okay. I was just—” you search for the right word, “tickled. Two virgins writing and editing paperback smut.”

He laughs this time. You take in the dimples of his cheeks, and suddenly the totally silent car ride home fizzles out like a distant memory.

“Not that I think sex is a prerequisite, by the way,” you add, just to make sure you’re not staring at him too much. “You’re a good editor, Clark.”

He seems to be taken aback, eyes locked on yours.

“That’s because you’re a great writer.”

He ends that sentence with your name, spoken it’s holy. Something in you cracks open.

The reality is that writing comes easy because he fuels your dreams. All you do is extend them. You take every little thing he gives you in real life, surgically pluck it out of context, and blow it out of proportion. The lingering brush of his hand after a hug. A touch on your lower back in a crowded room. Him leaning down to hear you better.

He’s the fire that kindles your prose. Inspires your imagination until he’s shaped like a man who wants you.

Writing is the highest form of wishful thinking, after all.

You used to think Clark Kent wanting you is an impossible thing, but now? Maybe it’s not.

Because his face takes on a kind of expression you’ve only written about.

His eyes darken.

“Clark?”

“Yes?” he replies, a microsecond too fast. He’s scared. Or nervous. Or both.

Either way, you are too—because there’s no turning back after this.

“That’s not all I told you, was it?”

You catch his throat bob. When he speaks, his voice is taut, like the air in the car.

“No.”

Your fingers twitch from seeing his jaw clench.

The urge to touch him wins out, and you find yourself moving both hands to cradle his face, thumbing at the tense spot. His breath visibly hitches: you can tell from the rise of his chest when you bridge the gap between your seats.

“I meant what I said, you know,” you murmur, not even looking him in the eye anymore. Your gaze lands lower.

His lips are parted so beautifully… but you make sure to stare straight into him when you nail your own coffin shut.

“I’d give it to you.”

He needs to know you mean it.

As if those words were permission, he leaned down and closed the gap entirely, kissing you.

He’s more sure than you thought he’d be—and God, that’s past tense, because you now know how he kisses: slow, deep, with the rumbly beginning of a groan brewing in his chest. You melt into his body as much as the car will allow, the hand on his face slipping back to card through dark locks.

That’s when he feeds the sound straight into your mouth.

The groan isn’t the only thing that travels. His hands do too. One drags a path up your side to tug you closer. Another snakes to your nape, as if the kiss could get any deeper.

Your tongues dance and you moan at his taste.

“Fuck,” you breathe, lips still on his. You nip at his bottom lip in between words. “You want it? Want me to give it to you?”

His reply is hazy above all yes, like he just woke from a dream or is drifting into one.

“Yes. Please. I want it—want you.”

“Good,” you smile, releasing his lip with a pop, “wanna take yours, too.”

The look on his face is something you wish you could photograph.

He’s red—just from kissing—lips swollen and rosy, a tiny, faint pool of drool out one corner. His glasses are askew.

You fix it with a smile.

“Come upstairs.”

3

Upstairs takes an elevator ride where he stands behind you to hide his boner—just in case someone walks in, he reasons—but you make it through your door soon enough.

Not without you fumbling with your keys and giggling into his mouth.

By the time Clark tumbles into your bed, bringing you down with him, he’s already painfully hard under his slacks.

Everything smells like you.

Your hand on his chest draws a cheeky line down his stomach past his belt, and he sighs in relief. You sit back on your haunches, still straddling him, finally palming the tent that’s formed in his pants.

He gasps at the touch, mouth open, already missing your lips on his.

“So hard already,” you murmur. “Take this belt off.”

He obeys, quiet except for the clink of metal. The belt drops somewhere on the floor with a thunk. Your pretty hands work his zip, tugging just enough to reveal a dark blue pair of boxer-briefs.

Then he feels your weight shift on the bed. Watches you move down until you’re face-to-cock with his still-clothed erection.

“How far have you gone, Clark?” you ask, light as a feather, breath warm against the fibers of his underwear. The sight of you smiling between his legs is so dizzying, he grips the sheets for anchor. “Did you at least get blown?”

“Yea—ah,” he pants, because your hand is on his cock again. Palming. Squeezing.

You hum. Fingertips playfully stroke down his length from over the boxer-briefs, fondling his balls. “When was the last time?”

“Don’t know,” is his immediate, husked-out answer. There’s no past in his mind. Just the present, as unbelievable as it is—your bed, you, your hand, your pretty face… “Don’t care, just, please—”

As if triggered by his begging, you sit back up, leaving his cock completely touch-starved.

He sighs, because you’re thumbing his bottom lip. The touch isn’t kind. As a matter of fact, it’s a little mean: your finger is pushing his lip to the side, teasing the plush of it, pulling it down just a bit before letting it bounce back.

He likes it.

You chuckle when he takes your thumb in his mouth, even before you push it past his lips.

“So eager,” you drone, your other hand stroking his hair. “You want it that bad?”

“Yes,” he says, except it sounds more like mmph with his mouth occupied.

He lets your thumb go, only to kiss at your open palm. One quiet sound after the other, he presses his lips into your hand more—until very soon, he’s literally making out with it. His own hand is gripping yours close to his face, keeping you still.

“What exactly do you want, Clark?” Your words carry more breath than voice, and his blood sings.

“Anything you’d give to me,” he answers.

It’s at that point you choose to wrest your hand away, settling back down between his legs. You lean down to peck on his hard-on—it jumps excitedly under the fabric. You laugh, thumbing at the waistband.

Then you pull his boxer-briefs down, and there he is.

All of his inches, eight or nine, you’re not sure, but the exact measurement doesn’t matter—not when he’s relatively equal to the length of your forearm.

Surprise, surprise. Your big sloppy crush has a big fucking dick.

A dick so pretty you might cry—especially because it’s already crying a pearly bead at the tip. You trace a prominent vein that runs on the underside, lick your lips as he bucks into your hand.

You look at his face and a cruel amusement takes over you: Clark is propped on his elbows, cheeks bathed red, jaw slack like he’s just ran up fifty flights of stairs.

And you haven’t even done anything.

Rising up to your knees, you move to his face. A kiss on his lips, slow and deep. Then ten more light ones all over his cheekbone, jaw, neck, throat, up to his ears, at which point he’s stuttering out the beginnings of your name.

Your hands part his legs wider, letting you situate yourself more comfortably between them. He gulps. You move back down to the center of his expanse. Your head tilts, mouth a dangerous distance from where he’s most sensitive.

“Can I kiss you here?”

Your fingerpad teases the tip. Pre meets your skin, warm and sticky. You smear it on his fat head.

“Yes.”

Christ, was that a whine? Your little smile turns devious, nose nudging his cock. It twitches again, as if autonomous from the rest of him—like it’s developed its own mind and is begging you greedily to give it more.

“You’re so big, Clark. Will you even fit?” you muse, fingers curling around him, pumping once, twice. He throws his head back with a grunt, the movement so sharp you think he might be pulled at with a leash.

Well. You’ll figure out the answer to that later. For now, you should play with your meal.

You slip the tip into his mouth and watch shivers wrack his body. After swirling your tongue on it once, you let go with a pop, purring.

“So sensitive. What am I gonna do with you?”

Meanwhile, Clark is losing his mind.

“Your—f-fuhh—fault,” comes his raspy reply just as you descend one, two, three inches more. Gosh, your mouth is so warm, so tight…

You chuckle, and the vibrations rattle him up to his ribcage. It occurs to him that he might’ve said those things about your mouth out loud. Rather than mortification, he feels elation, because even when you move up and the warmth is gone, you’re teasing his tip with your tongue again, and it feels so good he might cry.

The circles in his vision must be mimicking your wet heat drawing patterns on him.

One of his hand sinks into a pillow, the other cards digits through your hair.

An expletive escapes the moment you hollow your cheeks, far too sudden for him to take back.

“Fuck,” he gasps, the sound tailing off with dumb, repeated attempts of forming your name. Most of his brain is in his hips now as they swivel in hopes to get more of him in your mouth, but your fingers splay beautifully on the rippling muscles of his abdomen.

“Uh-uh. Stay still.”

Following orders is usually a thing he’s good at. Just not today. Not now.

Now, all he can think of is how good it feels—his mouth echoes those thoughts with babbles of “so good, feels so g-good, you’re perfect”—and how if you keep this up, he’ll come in an embarrassing amount of time.

It’s already taking everything in him not to let that happen.

But then he catches you look up at him.

The sun’s still out, bathing the room with enough light to show him exactly what makes him nearly crumble:

Your pretty lips, wrapped around his thick cock, head bobbing up and down to reveal the glisten on him—a mix of precum and spit—your hair messy around his hand.

“Stop,” he groans, holding your skull still so he can gently pull himself out of you. There’s a line of drool that connects your mouth and his cock. “Stop, don’t wanna come—”

The surprised tinge in your reply almost breaks his heart. “You don’t want to?”

He shakes his head, reconstructing his breaths. “Not until I’m inside you.”

For once in his life, you don’t talk back, and he’d be damned to let the opportunity slip.

Clark Kent grew up learning how to take things into his own hands. He puts that into practice with you, grabbing you up by the waist, laying you down on the bed. He takes your clothes off: slowly, because every inch of bare skin is the closest he’s been to heaven, because he wants to savor this, because he thinks you’re beautiful.

Says it too, even if it’s whispered.

He has you in your underwear, teasing the strap of your bra. “Can I take this off, sweetheart?”

You nod instead of giving him mouth. A rarity.

He’ll give you mouth, instead: by kissing you as he unclasps your bra with one hand (still no comment from you). Once it’s off, he drags his lips down your throat, then collarbone, then your heaving chest, where he lets himself stare for once. His warm breath caresses your skin, while heat pours out from his gaze.

He finally leans down, laving at a nipple. Polite first, hungry just two seconds later. His entire mouth is involved: sucking at your chest, a large hand squeezing around your flesh to feed more into him. Your hand digs into his curls when he hums, teeth grazing playfully as you arch for more.

He looks up.

You’re a dream. He’s sure he’s dreamed of this once—except instead of blurred images and hazy glows that tortures him at night, the scene is crystal. He sees everything through his glasses: each strand of lashes on your pretty eyes, the color of your skin against the sheets, how your hair splays on the pillows.

Actually, speaking of pillows—and dreams…

“Here,” he wrests one from under your head and taps the side of your hips, “lift your hips up for me.”

You do it, but it seems you’ve found your voice again. The cheeky retort comes out breathless.

“Really, Clark? You’re gonna use that line on me?”

He adjusts you on the pillow, lips pursed—both from your tease and the sight of you, naked, save for the cute underwear raised up to meet him.

It’s already wet at the gusset. There isn’t much for him left to imagine.

“Just because you’re a writer doesn’t mean you’re immune to it,” he hums, peeling the material off of you. You instantly fall silent.

He groans at the sight of you clenching around nothing, slick threatening to dirty the pillowcase you’re resting on.

Two fingers drag a path down your mound to your wet entrance. Two moans erupt when he circles there—yours higher pitched than his, because he touches like it’s payback for some unseen grudge. Surely you don’t know how long he’s thought of you like this, how long he’s struggled with the guilt of fantasizing about his hot colleague, only to find this.

Your soaked cunt winking at him.

“You’re so wet,” his digits dip, collecting your juices. Your hips buck. “Is this from sucking me off?”

“No, I was thinking about winning the lottery,” you moan, betraying your impatience, “yes, it’s because of you, stupid!”

He laughs. He’s wanted you way too long—you can wait a little longer.

“Need to prep you,” a thumb pushes the hood off your clit, only for him to do nothing but look at it.

You shiver under his gaze, tease audibly lacking the bite. “Is this how you do it—stare?”

His eyes meet yours, blue eyes almost burning. Your throat bobs. That’s what fuels him.

“You tell me,” he murmurs, “you’re the erotic novelist.”

Fingers explore again, barely touching, always circling, and he bites back a moan at the sight of you arched like that, like your hips are hungry for more. His touch doesn’t relent, although it’s taking everything in him not to take every part of you right then and there.

“Clark—”

“You wrote something like this before,” his thumb swipes your clit. His name on your lips breaks, but those eyes on your face never does. “Page 347 of Owls. ‘When his finger sinks inside her, she gasps like she’s never breathed air’…”

Just then, he does as he says. His middle finger stretches you, one knuckle deep at first, then two, then all the way in. You writhe, stuttering a moan at how slow he is, before the sound dies in your throat with a gasp.

The base of his palm presses against your clit.

Clark catalogs your reactions with the precision of a machine. The warmth of his touch is anything but. So is the slight crinkle between his brows: signs that he’s testing his own boundaries by stretching yours so slowly.

“Or is it the next page? ‘The rhythm he sets replaces the beat of her heart—except nothing about the slow scrape of his fingers echoes the relentless thumping in her chest.’”

When he moves his fingers, the dimples on his cheeks begin to show. He smiles down at you, free from the pretense of professionalism:

He doesn’t commit your lines to memory because he’s a dedicated editor. He does it because he thinks about doing those things with you—so, so often.

“Fuck—Clark—” you whimper, the syllables choked out as his other hand pins your hip.

One finger becomes two, but the pace doesn’t change. Still arduous, still torture. Clark’s eyes are glazed: in watching you lose your mind underneath him, he loses his in trying to erase true words laced with alcohol. Your voice floats in his memory:

And I mean that in the PIV sense.

Does that mean you’ve done this before, with men who aren’t him? Were they any good? Did you like them, or did you let them in your bed just to use them? Doesn’t make a difference, Clark decides, because they still got to be with you. Were they the reason you wrote passion so well, or was it because they were so shit at it you had to take matters into your own hands?

Speaking of taking matters into your own hands, your voice floats in his memory again. Not words this time.

“You touched yourself, didn’t you?” Clark grunts, fingertips kissing your cervix at the word touched, “Two nights ago. In the hotel.”

You don’t answer, but your widened eyes said enough.

He leans down. Presses his forehead against yours.

“Heard you through the wall. Sound so sweet. Wanna hear it again.”

He kisses your lips once before moving down the expanse of you, flat on the bed between your very open legs—thanks to his gentle grip around one ankle, spreading you out for him to see.

But before you can shiver at the loss of his warm shadow, his lips closes around your clit, and you give him what he wants.

An open moan, loud enough to bounce off the walls.

Clark moans, too. The sound vibrates directly onto your cunt, you can’t help but spasm. He doesn’t stop. The flat of his tongue presses entirely on you, never really still: soon, he starts sucking and licking and teasing your poor clit. He tastes you, and a steady stream of muffled groans leak from his mouth—the same way your pussy leaks juices around his thrusting fingers, the squelch squelch squelch growing faster and louder in the room.

“You wrote about this so many times,” he murmurs against your slick, “d’you like it that much?”

Your answer is an unintelligibly keen noise.

“I love it,” Clark is purring now, hazy with your taste, “I’ll help you write lines later, m’kay? Want you to soak my hand, my tongue—”

Your body must’ve mistook that as an order, because the orgasm hits you out of nowhere, hot-white and sparking off your every nerve. You arch, convulse, slurring his name like you can’t speak while your pussy gushes around his fingers as they thrust through your spasms, unrelenting.

He breathes out a blasphemy, the first “oh my God” you’ve ever heard coming out of his mouth. Your senses are only starting to come back, but he replaces his fingers with his tongue, and you can’t hear anything past your own scream.

He fucks you just like that, lapping at your juices like he hasn’t drank in ages.

Something within you unstitches, and you feel your body leaping past overstimulation to overwhelming pleasure. You don’t tell him to stop—how can you, when he’s so clearly drunk on your pussy? He moans words into you like it’s a pet, coos of “You’re so pretty when you come”, “Tastes so good for me” vibrating against your core.

The cool frame of his glasses bumping against your inner thigh only makes everything feel better.

“Clark,” you cry, and he already knows. Already mumbling encouragements into your cunt.

“Want you to come again, honey, c’mon, you can do it, yeah?”

You do. The crest tugs at your spine like a string, and your hips seek his mouth as if looking for a place to give.

He takes it—slurping, licking, kissing.

When your white-edged vision comes back from the dappled blurs, he’s already shirtless and sitting on his heels, looking down at something.

You follow his gaze.

It stops at his cock resting on your stomach—the exact measure of how deep he’ll be.

There’s a smile on Clark’s face. Kind, but not kind enough that he won’t fuck you into the mattress.

“See that, sweetheart?” he leans down, feeding the words straight into your ear. “We’ll make sure you take everything, m’kay?”

When you whimper and close your eyes—because how is that thing going inside you?—he tuts once. Cups your jaw with a broad palm, still sticky with your juices. Another time and place, you’d scold him, but now?

“You need to watch,” he says, “so you can write about it.”

Your eyes blink open, only to find his pupils blown out black.

Now you’re screwed—or just about to be.

The fat head of his cock rubs against your hole, hot, smearing precum on your cunt. You mewl, eyes fluttering shut again, but he tightens his hold on your jaw, whispering “c’mon, honey, look at me” like his voice doesn’t make things worse.

Like he’s not just as wrecked.

Lips slick, parted, and a little swollen, hazy eyes half-lidded, Clark Kent is the picture they put next to the definition of lust.

But you’re the same, because his cock nudges your clit again and you melt, stammering your truest wish into his mouth:

“Please, Clark, please fuck me, need you to fuck me—”

How he isn’t already cumming all over you is beyond his comprehension.

“Oh, attagirl,” he breathes, before finally sinking in.

The stretch isn’t as painful as you thought it’d be, but maybe that’s just how desperate you are for him. Clark doesn’t seem to be holding up so well, though: he’s panting just a breath away from your lips, exhales shaky at the tightness that wraps around him, holding back the need to just slam into your perfect heat.

Inch by excruciating inch, he sinks into you, then stops. You gasp at the feeling: full. How you managed to take him all so easily is a mystery.

You call his name, clenching around him. His answer is strained, brows knitted.

“I’m only halfway in, baby.”

A wave of desire and dread washes over you at the realization. Those blue eyes, though black now from dilated pupils, drift momentarily down, before they lock onto yours again.

He pushes in.

Your jaw falls slack in disbelief, walls stretched by the veiny ridges of him. His girth bullies your cunt to take his shape. He watches as he thrusts the thickest part of him inside you, studying each twitch and blink and stutter, looking out for pain, but finding pleasure above all else.

This time, you know he’s all the way in. Your vision blacks out a little at the heft.

“There we go, good girl, so good for me, you’re perfect…”

Those words come tumbling out, both a reassurance for you and a distraction for Clark—because you’re so warm and tight and wet around him, he might lose himself if he doesn’t focus.

“Breathe for me,” he hums, but he’s not breathing right either.

This is it. His cock is inside of you—the first one to ruin you, if he doesn’t mess this up and ruin himself first.

Meanwhile, you watch Clark pant above you, his forearms flexing as they bracket your head, face red from restraint.

The sight makes you clench and he moans.

“D-Don’t—a—ah,” his chest heaves.

That pulls a grin out of you, weak as it is. You clench again, this time intentionally.

He grits your name out between teeth. “I said, don’t.”

“Why?” you husk, even though you know the answer.

“Gonna make me c-come.”

You stroke his cheek to guise the fact that you’re not doing much better yourself—not with all eight, nine inches of his hard cock pulsing directly against your walls like that.

The thought strikes you then: this is the closest you’ve ever been to someone—quite literally speaking.

And it’s Clark who’s holding you right now. Clark. Endlessly polite and often sweet Clark. Easily ragebaited into a rant Clark. Charming without meaning to, helps with the best of intentions Clark.

It’s precisely because you’re with him that your mouth decides to say something stupid. Call it a defense mechanism—from what, you’re not sure, because he’s already inside you, what the fuck are you defending yourself from?—but the words slither out anyway.

Playful. Teasing. You say it right by his lips, the exact opposite of what you had in mind.

“You can cum, Clark. I’ll just find someone else to help me write my book.”

When in fact you’ll never let anyone else between your legs ever again.

Something in Clark shifts. His throat bobs with it, eyes sharpening past the haze of lust.

Then he’s on his knees, gripping your hips with both hands, before thrusting up without pulling out even an inch—like deeper is possible. You feel him in your lungs. He does it again.

This time, both your eyes and his snap down to the faint bulge near your stomach.

The view doesn’t stay for long. He drags his inches out of you, slowly, all the way to the tip, before plunging deep once more.

“Fuck—!”

You’re busy crying out when he leans back down. His hand gathers your wrists above your head, the other firm on the side of your hip—both anchors to the slow pace he builds.

“‘s this what you need?” he rasps, voice broken between lazy thrusts that ring loud, “Writing—nmm—material?”

“Aah—”

“You gonna write about how,” thrust, “he’s so deep, she can see him in her stomach?”

Your eyes widen, first at the bulge on your lower belly, then at him.

“About how she cries out for him?” Thrust.

“—a-nghh—”

“How she’s clenching around him,” he mouths against your ear, words slurred, “like she doesn’t want him to leave?”

The cant of his hips pick up speed, and soon there are plap plap plaps of his balls slapping your ass under your moans and his. His hand on your wrists becomes a lever from which he thrusts.

The air hangs heavy with sweat and a heady scent. The bed begins to creak.

You’re rutting up into him, the swivel of your hips growing more and more desperate with each murmur of his name—he watches you the entire time, entranced by the roll of your bodies.

“Fuck, look at you,” he whines at the sight, eyes glazed over.

“Wanna touch,” you mumble, drool beginning to pool on one side of your lip. Your fingers claw the air. “Please, let me touch—”

He lets go of your hands. You drag him into a kiss that tangles your moans together, all while his hipbone bumps into yours again and again.

The freedom he gives you damns him: your hands raking down his chest makes him shiver, so do your nails digging into his bicep. The worst part happens when you tug at his hair: a response to one particular slam that hits a spot in you, in turn drawing a garbled moan out of him.

You can’t stop touching him, and he’s all the worse for it.

With each fuse of your hips and his, your walls clutch him like you’re trying to keep him inside. Out to the tip, in to the hilt, splitting you open with each store, coating his cock with you while he bullies that spot that makes you beg so beautifully: “yes, Clark, please!”

It’s clear you’re close. It hasn’t been long since Clark got acquainted with your pretty pussy, but the way she clenches is enough to clue him in.

He’s not doing any better: eyes dark behind glasses that sit askew, swollen lips parted. His only hope now is to pound into that gummy spot in you again and again and again while he spews praise in your ear—make you come before he does, because it’s too good for him not too: he’s so hard and you’re squeezing him so tight, rubbing delicious friction that’s all at once too much and not enough.

You respond with nails raked down his naked back, the mantra of ‘Clark Clark Clark’ shooting ecstasy straight to his head, fueling the piston of his hips.

The sounds of your bodies aren’t helping him hold on: wet slaps betray the mess he’s making out of your pussy. Every thrust makes him yours. Make you his.

He groans at the thought. Depraved as it is, his cock being the first to ruin your pussy does something indescribable to him. At the tail end of that thought is something sweeter:

The same way that he’s your first, you’re his. He doesn’t want any other.

He paraphrases professions of love into everything else but the words he loves working with. Instead he employs a language said by the body: through his hips now ramming deep strokes into you, the way his arms wrap around you until you can’t see anything except him. Your heels drag on his back now—he spares a second to hook one over his shoulder before plunging back into you, deepening the angle.

He glances down. Your nails sink into his arms. They look pretty.

You look pretty: eyes blank, hair a mess, skin misted with sweat as you lay arched underneath him…

“God, you’re perfect,” he breathes.

Meanwhile, you're so full your brain decides to empty itself. Its only care right now is your basest of needs.

“So good,” you whimper, “Clark you feel so good, gonna cum…”

“Yeah? Me too, honey,” he pants, voice reedy, “where do you want me?”

“Inside, p-please, need you inside—”

That answer unspools all restraint in him, and he lets his hips go of their very last bit of restraint: he pistons into you with abandon as he siphons groans into your lips in exchange for your climbing moans, the two of you feeding into each other’s lust until your heat is too much.

“I can’t, honey, I—”

It’s too late: he’s spurting all the way inside you, breathlessly gasping your name.

“Gah—nggh—”

The flooding sensation of his orgasm, hot and sticky, triggers your own. The tension shatters in your body: your legs quiver on his shoulder and around his waist, voice broken as your nerves turn into livewires that burn bright at the edges of your vision, electrifying everything to white.

He’s on you the entire time you come, breath warming your ear. The spurts don’t stop. You’ve never been fuller—until he pulls out of you and you moan, not just from the loss of his cock, but also the messy splatter of him on your stomach and tits.

The thought is faint, but the sensations are real: he’s still fucking cumming.

Now you’re just not quivering, you’re a quivering mess. Even with your senses flashbanged, slowly reconstructing themselves from that orgasm, you register the warmth that drips down your hole and onto the bedsheets.

Then the quiet lands. Your breaths even. He still hovers over you, glasses fully fogged up and crooked. The sight is stupidly hot, but you don’t like that you can’t see him.

You slowly take them off.

Blue eyes look back at you. His pupils aren’t so dilated now, and you see a different emotion in them as they widen.

Concern.

“Gosh—I—are you okay? did I hurt you? ”

He thumbs at your cheek. It’s wet. When did you start crying?

“No, no,” you stammer, “I’m fine. It’s just… that was—”

You stare, wordless. He stares back.

“It’s perfect. You’re perfect, Clark.”

His shoulders drop with heavy relief, warm breath fanning your face as he leans over you again.

“Thank goodness.”

That makes you giggle.

“Don’t laugh. I’ve wanted you for so long, I can’t possibly mess this up.”

A beat. You blink up at him. “You have?”

He doesn’t answer. Just buries his face in your neck, undoubtedly redder than before. His voice is muffled against your skin.

“I just—I like you so much it hurts.”

You huff in amusement, raking your fingers through his hair. A silent plea for him to look up at you.

He obeys. You smile, thumbing the fat of his cheek.

“When I touched myself two nights ago, I was thinking about you.”

His eyes widen, though just a fraction. Maybe it’s not so unbelievable, after all—but he allows himself to expend the last ounce of his surprise.

You raise your brow. “Is it really that unexpected?”

He kisses your fingers. Sweetly this time. “I… It’s an outcome I’ve never considered.”

You lean up. The peck lands on his chin. “Why else would I invite you to an expensive Korean barbecue, silly?”

Clark smiles so earnestly it almost blinds you. Thank God he hides in your neck again.

“So you like me, too?”

“Yep. Like, a lot.”

୨୧

Ten minutes later, you’re in the bathtub, back pressed against his chest.

The sun is setting outside, the drawn blinds creating light serrations that spill across your bathroom tiles. Metropolis is strangely quiet. The only thing you perceive is the lazy drip of the faucet into the water’s surface.

Maybe you’re just preoccupied by the replaying of your memories. Every little detail collects in the forefront like the soap suds Clark massages into your shoulders—before you know it, you’re stringing together words in your head, a momentum you can’t stop even if you wanted to.

Huh. You’re… inspired.

Maybe you should do this more often.

Clark kisses the nape of your neck as you bask in the silence. The sensation grounds you back to reality, and a realization dawns. You sit up straighter in the water.

He notices.

You turn to face him.

“What’s wrong, honey?”

“My suitcase,” you say, “it’s still in your car.”

He smiles so warmly you think you might melt and be one with the bath water. The expression looks so sweet and innocent on him… except you feel his cock hardening against your ass.

“Sweetheart, I don’t think you’ll be needing clothes for a while.” 

THREE MONTHS LATER 

“C’mon, write something,” Clark pants playfully, hands on your hips, driving his cock into your weeping cunt as he watches the fat of your ass bounce with each thrust, “You can do it—you’re a smart girl, aren’t you?”

Time doesn’t make any sense, not when he’s rubbing against your walls so good, but you do know you’ve been at this for a while. Your body can’t even hold itself up: chest glued to the damp sheets, ass held up by his hands, arms limp in front of you.

Your hands rest above the keypad of a laptop. On its screen is a word processor, its typing cursor blinking back at you tauntingly. The page’s contents are measly, only about halfway filled—unlike your cunt that’s full with his length.

It’s your fault for planning so many sex scenes. But it’s the final installment of your trilogy, the perfect breeding ground for emotional sex.

You’re guessing that breeding ground is what Clark thinks about you, too, aside from his undying respect for you: because his thrusts are getting messier the way you know he’s about to cum, and sure enough, with his chest against your back and his mouth sputtering “that’s it, take it, gonna fill you up, sweetheart, you’ll let me?” in your ear.

He waits for your pathetic mewl of an okay to spill inside you.

His orgasm pulls a weak one out of you, because God knows how many times he’s made you. You shake underneath him, gasping for air while he does the same.

Then it begins: the delicious replay your mind does after every tangle with him. While the shivers ebb, your memory picks up the details…

Your feeble fingers begin to type. Slowly, as if each key ignites a thing he said not ten minutes ago.

You can hear Clark smile in his voice. He buries his lips in your hair.

“One week till the manuscript deadline,” he husks. “Let’s work hard together, yeah?”

Then his hand drifts down to play with your clit and you lose your train of thought.

Oh, well. Surely Planet Publishing can extend a deadline for their bestselling writer.

BONUS

Herons Under Sycamore Shade — Author Interview with Cat Grant

Q: Speaking of sex, there’s a lot more this time around.

A: Well, it’s the last book. I wanted it to go out with a bang, so to speak.

Q: This is a personal opinion of mine, having read all three, but you should also know that many reviewers thought the quality of erotica was somehow better in this one. To quote the Gotham Gazette: “…breathtakingly real while making you forget about reality.”

A: That’s such high praise. Thank you!

Q: What changed (between the first two installments)?

At this point, the author smiles in a way that I can only describe as coy. Don’t believe me? Ask the photographer.

A: Let’s just say I have good source material.

Matt had a… fantasy, if you will. He’d thought about it for a while, unable to stop once he’d had the idea.

He would argue that it is actually a very understandable request, but absolutely kind of kinky none the less.

He’d been out for a while doing his vigilante work, in the pouring rain.

Coming back early tonight, decidedly too distracted by his idea, he’d texted you to meet him on the roof of your shared building.

He could hear you were still awake as he approached. His little night owl, he smiled at the thought while biting his lip.

Curled up in one of Matt’s soft shirts, you had been laid in bed reading when a text came through from an unsaved number.

You recognised it though, as Matt’s burner phone.

Snatching the phone up, you quickly scan the text, scared he’s in some kind of trouble.

He wants you to meet him on the roof.

It’s absolutely pouring, you’d been listening to it loudly thud against the windows while you read.

You scramble out of bed, running around frantically to find yourself a hoodie, trousers and shoes before you quickly make your way upstairs. Fearing the worst, that he’d been badly hurt and needed help.

Bursting out the door into the pouring rain, you spin round quickly as you try to look for Matt.

A hand suddenly clamps over your mouth from behind, as another arm is wrapped round your waist and you’re pulled into a firm, warm body.

You yelp, the sound muffled by the glove.

“Hey angel, fuckin’ missed you” came a deep rumbling voice in your ear not a second later. Not giving you a chance to really be scared.

He took the hand off your face and moved it to rest on your neck. You let out a breath you didn’t even realise you were holding as you recognised it instantly. Matty. Your Devil.

Your horny devil, apparently, you think to yourself as you feel him grind the crotch of his rough suit into you from behind. Clearly needy already. It makes your stomach swoop in arousal.

“I had an idea” he starts, lips leaving kisses up and down your throat, licking up the rain drops that slipped down towards your chest.

“Been thinking about it for a while now” he continues, kisses coming up to your ear again, then your cheek. He suddenly span you around to face him.

You looked up at Daredevil through wet dewy eyelashes. A small gasp escapes your shiny lips as you take in the sight of him. He’s drenched. The rain rolling down his red suit.

Matt had taken the mask off as soon as he got there, hating the feeling of it being wet and steaming up.

His head was tilted towards you, hair sticking to his forehead. You could see some bruises on his cheek bone from the LED lights opposite, a small gash that was new. His lip was split, the rain washing the blood away since he reopened it kissing your skin.

He looked gorgeous. Even if his grin right now was positively sinful.

Wrapping your arms around his neck, you continue to look up at him, “oh yeah?” You ask softly. You blink at some of the drops of rain that fall on your face.

He’s just still for a second, head tilted slightly as though he was listening to something, as though he hadn’t really heard you.

“Matt?” You ask, searching his face for a clue.

“You’re so beautiful” he replied, earnestly, all the teasing from his voice gone.

You almost rolled your eyes at his teasing, but then a wide smile spread across your face when you remembered that he can in fact actually see you right now.

Well, in a way.

Matt could hear the individual water droplets on your skin, your clothes, helping to create the clearest picture of you he could possibly get.

You always took his breath away when he gets to sense you like this.

He’d been thinking about it since he left and it was already pouring, looking forward to an excuse to fuck you as Daredevil.

Not that he needs one, he thinks you might love it even more than he does. But as soon as he saw your face up close, he got distracted, too full of awe for you.

The water trick kind of worked while you showered together, just not as well, the water came in streams rather than drops so there wasn’t as many individual sounds to pick up on. You were a bit blurry. The shower didn’t hit your whole body at once like this.

Snapping back into himself, Matt’s devilish smirk returned as he worked his lip. He started kissing up and down your throat again, coming up to whisper his gravely voice in your ear.

“Let me fuck you up here baby” he licks at the raindrops on your cheek “please angel, let me see you” he begs, almost using his devil voice.

You hesitated slightly, worried about being caught by one of your neighbours, but the thought left as quickly as it came knowing Matt could hear anyone coming.

As soon as you start to nod your head, heart rate picking up significantly at the idea, Matt’s wet lips smashed against yours. The smell of your arousal flooding you at his suggestion, breaking what little self control he had left.

He led you into a filthy kiss, tasting the rain and small amount of tangy copper from his lip. He explored your mouth with his wicked tongue.

Suddenly, he bent to grab the backs of your thighs and lifted you up against him effortlessly, wrapping your legs round his waist. You moaned slightly as he resumed his consuming kissing, feeling the hardness under his tight red trousers at your core. He takes the time to grope your ass and grind you against him as he kissed you.

He walks you both over to a small raised garden area, in the centre roof, the wide brick base surrounding it, almost like a big square brick plant pot. The centre had some small bushes and flowers, adding some nice decor to the otherwise dull rooftop.

When Matt had been planning finer details, he’d found the perfect height for his hips to meet yours if he laid you along the wall.

Gasping between kisses, you both continued to devour eachother in a deep, slippy kiss. Matt’s hand came to rest on your throat, as he broke away from you slightly.

“Can’t wait to see your pretty fucking face as you come on my cock” he all but growls, as the hand on your throat began to push you down, your legs staying around his hips. He follows, bending over you and begins to work at your clothing.

Ever considerate, Matt leaves your hoodie under you, to save you from being the cold damp wall directly. His hands run up and down your body, grasping at your breasts, stomach, hips.

He starts kissing your neck again, moving down across your collar bones. Tounging away at the rain droplets across your skin.

He dips down more then drags his tongue all the way through the valley of your breast in a vulgar display, moaning as the taste of your pheromone filled sweat and the rain mixed in his mouth.

“You taste so good angel” he groans roughly. You hum out his name, hands tugging on his damp hair, tugging him impossibly closer with your legs.

A shiver ran through you as Matt worked his way down to your stomach, leaving you open to the assault of the heavy rain from above.

Without thinking, you use your arm to cover your eyes from it, too focused on the way Matt’s lips felt against you.

He paused, head tilted up towards you so you could see the rain slipping down his face.

“Uh, honey” he half laughed in his normal voice, breaking his devil persona, “the whole point of this is that the rain hits you so I can actually see your beautiful face while I fuck you” he smiles up at you amused.

You immediately huff out a laugh and remove your arm, “sorry baby” you say guiltily but with a smile on your lips.

You’d forgotten that he could “see” you right now you while under the rain, which meant he could see your face clearly as he made his way down towards your waistband. You’re so used to it not mattering if your face is visible when he goes down on you.He’s usually pretty preoccupied too.

Right now, he could sense every part of your body in detail, with his nose still pressed against your wet stomach, from where every heavy drop of the rain made tiny sounds all over your soft skin for him to pick up on.

He smiled proudly at himself for the idea as he works his way down to your waistband.

Quickly tugging off your sweatpants and underwear, he leaned back so the rain would splash all over your body.

You gasp and goosebumps cover your skin from the sudden cold hitting the warm skin of your crotch. You lift your head up to look at him after you don’t feel him come back.

Matt is just stood there for biting his lip, hand palming at the bulge in his pants like he can’t help it.

He bit the fingertip of the glove on his other hand to pull it off. Your eyes tracked the movement and your heart sped up even more at his unnecessarily attractive actions.

He picked up your leg again so he could come and stand inbetween your thighs, then took his other glove off and used his big warm hands to spread your legs open further.

He still didn’t lean over you though, making sure all of you was under the rain.

You gasped and squirmed as the cold rain hit your hot clit and already wet folds.

Matt groaned loudly, palming himself again.

“So pretty for me, let me see you touch yourself baby” he grunted, gripping your thigh tightly, not as collected as he was a second ago.

He hears your heart skip as you blush and slowly slide your hand down your stomach, finger dragging through the rain drops that littered your skin.

Watching, he started to undo his trousers, you hand made its way down to your warm core.

Your eyes slipped shut as you brushed your fingertips over your already throbbing clit and moaned, feeling overwhelmed with the feeling of the cold rain pelting down on you and your warm hand.

You start to rub a small circle on your bud and the hand on your thigh grips you tighter.

When you open your eyes and look at Matt again, he’s undone his trousers and stroking his throbbing cock firmly in time with your hand.

“Fuck baby, you’re so pretty, wish I could see your face like this all the time” he groans out, squeezing his length harder.

You hum at his voice, always loving how he sounds. You pick up speed a bit with your finger and Matt’s hand moves from your thigh to slip a finger inside of you.

You moan out “Matty” at the intrusion, and arch your back off the wall.

Matt immidiatly sets to work curling his finger into the spot that makes you keen for him. He adds another finger and matches the pace you have on your clit, humming to you about how good you are for him.

Both of you shiver and moan together in the pouring rain, while Matt took his time thoroughly indulging himself in the sight of you.

His fingers pick up speed and you can feel the water droplets of rain being flicked over your pussy and thighs from how fast his hand is working his cock now, he can tell how close you are.

“Come on angel, let me see you come please” he starts rambling, “let me see your pretty pretty face”he says, breathy moans escaping in-between his words.

He presses harder into your g-spot with an expert precision and your back arches as you cum on his fingers, keeping your rhythm with your clit to drag it out as long as possible.

Your free hand grips the wet fabric of your hoodie tightly. As you tense, your legs drag Matt suddenly stumbling even closer to you as he groans loudly.

He manages to keep his balance and comes on your hand, cunt, and up your stomach, towards your chest.

You shiver at the contrast between the cold rain and his hot spend hitting your skin.

Matt bends over you, shielding most of you from the rain and rests his head on your chest, catching his breath for a second. Then he suddenly sits up to pull you into a deep kiss. You moan again against his lips.

“You’re so beautiful when you come, god I love you” he mumbles, speaking into your mouth. Wrapping your arms round his neck, you pull him deeper into the kiss.

“I love you too” you mumble back. You can feel his warm, still hard cock resting along your slit, and he gasps slightly as you buck your hips slightly.

You’re suddenly not as satisfied anymore, wanting nothing more to feel him inside you right now. You tug his wet hair so you can whisper in his ear.

“Please, fuck me… Daredevil” you moan, before biting his earlobe softly.

“Oh fuck” he groans in agreement, nodding his head as he leaned back a bit so he can guide himself inside you.

“You wanna get ruined by Daredevil on the roof huh? Want everyone to hear you belong to me?” He teases roughly, deep voice coming out, as he slowly sinks into you, warming you up from the inside.

“Yes, yes, yes, please Matty please” you moan as your back arches at the feeling of his first slow, but deep thrust.

You’re both already overstimulated from your previous orgasms not even five minutes ago but that just spurs you on even more.

Matt leans back off you completely, so the rain falls back on you, lifts your hips to him, hands tight on your thighs and sets a rough pace.

He angles his hips so he slams into your spot with every thrust, making you cry out at the intense pleasure he is giving you.

All while using his sexy, deep voice to tell you how beautiful you are when you’re crying on his cock, how he’ll never get tired of the sounds you make when he’s deep inside you.

He grinds into your core deeply and it pushes a loud moaning wail out of you, the friction of his pelvis against your clit making it twitch.

“You gonna come like my good little slut?” Matt grunts out, close as well.

He can read your body so well, can hear how close you are. He thrusts just a little harder, while his finger starts to rub circles at your clit.

He’s completely mesmerised by the feedback he’s getting through the heightened senses, the way your back is arching off the wall when you snap, your face scrunched up in bliss, mouth wide open in a long drawn out moan, catching rain drops on your tongue

“Oh fuck baby, so pretty” he grunts out, feeling you walls squeeze and ripple over his cock. The sight of you has him thrown into his own orgasm.

He thrusts into you hard, his rhythm faltering as he comes deep inside you with a loud rough groan, filing you with his hot come.

He shifts so he’s leaning back over you, shielding you from some of the rain as he tries to catch his breath.

He kisses water droplets off your own heaving chest absentmindedly as you both came down from your highs.

Matt opens his mouth to say something, only to pause when he realises how cold you are.

Goosebumps littered your skin and the shaking from your orgasm had turned into shivering.

He slowly pulls out and tucks himself back into his boxers, leaving the trousers undone in a way that unfairly showed a sexy bit of his lower stomach and the trial of hair leading further down.

Suddenly you’re pulled to sit up, and Matt is lifting you up into his arms bridal style.

“Grab your stuff will you baby?” he asks, pressing his nose and forehead to the side of your face, leaning over slightly so you can reach it.

You grab your hoodie, pants and shirt, rolling them into a ball to hold. You press as much of yourself as you can into Matt’s neck and chest after he hoists you up a bit.

You don’t worry about being seen by any neighbours, trusting Matt’s senses to know if anyone would be a problem between here and your warm apartment.

They’d see him dressed as Daredevil as well so he makes quick work of the stairs, carrying you like nothing. It always makes you swoon, how strong he is. He carries you down with confidence, since he can sense where the stairs are and all.

Matt gets you to unlock the door in his arms, walking you both inside the safety of your cozy apartment, makes a b-line straight for your shared bathroom, and plops you down on the counter.

You gasp at the cold marble touches your ass, which he laughs at softly, leaning in to mumble an apology at your lips.

He starts the shower before standing in between your legs again and starting to give you a little show while taking off his suit, knowing how much you like it. You bite your lip and unbashfully watch him reveal his muscled torso.

You run your hands up his chest, brushing over his nipples on your way which makes him shudder slightly, to his shoulders, making your way up to stroke through his wet hair as he leans down to kiss your neck.

Sighing at the content feeling, you continue your movements with his hair, which always seems to make him almost purr.

“I love you Matty” you say quietly, voice full of adoration.

Matt pulls his head back up to you, and says “I love you too angel. God you’re so beautiful” earnestly.

He quietly thinks to himself how bitter he is that he can’t see you come for him every time like that.

“You’re not so bad yourself, handsome” you tease, running your hands over his solid stomach.

That makes him smile cheekily at you, pulling him quickly out of his thoughts.

Matt kisses you again sweetly, then pulls away to take his trousers off, then lifts you by the ass again and climbs into the shower with you around his waist.

Carefully setting you down on your unsteady feet, you both cling to eachother closely, washing and touching each other all over as the hot shower water worked it’s magic to warm you both back up.

After the chill had left your bones, you both climbed into bed and you wriggled into Matt’s warm chest quickly.

He wraps his arms round you, pulling you to him and kissing your head, whispering sweet nothings into your hair.

You swiftly fall asleep, the late hour catching up to you. Matt following quickly, once your heartbeat he was listening to became steady.

Three days. That’s how long you've been in here, counting by the rhythm of the ration slot and the heavy clank of boots that come once per shift change. Three days since the bounty hunter who calls himself Vane dragged you off your transport with a vibroblade at your throat, smiling like he'd won a sabacc pot. He hasn't told you what he wants yet, clearly being the kind of man that likes to make a woman stew.

You shift on the metal bench that passes for a bunk, drawing your knees up to your chest. The durasteel wall behind you is cold even through your shirt, but you press your shoulder blades into it anyway, because the cold is a real thing, and real things are rare in here.

That’s when you hear him move.

The cell next to yours was empty when they put you in. You'd stared at the dividing wall for the better part of a day, watching the seams, listening for breathing, and there had been nothing. But somewhere in the long stretch between the last meal and the dimming of the lights, they must have brought someone in, because now you can hear the unmistakable scrape of something heavy against metal, the dull clink of what can only be armour settling.

You hold your breath and hear a long exhale on the other side – mechanical, filtered. Like it’s passed through a vocoder before it reaches air. You know that sound. Every spacer this side of the Rim knows that sound.

A Mandalorian.

You don't know what possesses you to speak. Loneliness, maybe, stupidity, definitely and you turn your face to the wall.

"Hey."

There’s nothing for a long moment, just that mechanical breathing, even and slow, like a man who’s been in worse places than this and is conserving himself for whatever comes next.

"You're awake."

His voice lands in your chest like a stone dropped down a well. Low, rough at the edges, made stranger by the helmet's modulator, carrying that slight metallic burr that turns every consonant into something with teeth. It should have been off-putting, but it isn’t. It’s the first voice you've heard in three days that isn’t Vane's oily purr, and your whole body leans toward it before you've even decided to.

"Can't sleep," you reply. "How long have you been in there?"

"Couple hours."

"I didn't hear them bring you in."

"They didn't want you to."

You press your palm flat against the wall, as if you can feel him through it. You can’t, of course, the durasteel thick enough to stop a blaster bolt. But you imagine him on the other side, sitting the way you’re sitting, his helmet tilted toward the sound of your voice.

"Are you hurt?" you ask.

He pauses. "Nothing that matters."

"That's not an answer."

"It's the one you're getting."

You smile, in spite of everything. "Fine. Don't tell me your name either, then."

"I wasn't going to."

"Of course not." You let your head tip back against the wall. "So, what do I call you for the purposes of this limited conversation?"

"Mando works."

"Very original."

"It’s functional and descriptive."

You laugh, a tiny breath of one, surprised out of you because it’s been a long time since anything has made you laugh. You hear him shift on the other side of the wall, a slow grinding of beskar against metal that you feel more than hear, the vibration humming through your spine.

"What did you do to end up in here?” he asks.

"Wrong cargo on the wrong ship. You?"

"Wrong face on the wrong wanted poster."

"Yours or his?"

"Mine, apparently."

"Hm." You trace a finger along a seam in the wall, following its line down to where it meets the bench. "Are you going to kill him when you get out?"

"Yes."

He says it the way another person might say I'm going to get water. No inflection, no heat, just the flat statement of a future fact. You should be frightened of him, but you’re not. There’s something steadying about that voice, that certainty. As if the universe is a problem he’s already solved, and you’ve only stumbled into the middle of his working.

"Take me with you," you say, before you can think better of it.

"You don't know me," he replies, with the shape of a laugh through the modulator.

"I know you're not him."

"That’s a pretty low bar."

"It's the one I've got."

He goes quiet for a while after that. Not an uncomfortable quiet, rather the kind that feels like company. You listen to him breathe, slow and even, and try to match your own to it, and find after a few minutes that you have. You inhale when he inhales and exhale when he exhales, as if you’re sharing a single set of lungs through the wall.

"What's your name?" he asks.

You tell him without thinking, the syllables just leaving you, soft, into the dim red dark.

"That's a good name.”

"It's just a name."

"There’s no such thing as just a name."

You turn your face to the wall and press your cheek to it. The metal’s less cold now, or you’re warmer – one of the two.

"Say it again," you whisper.

There’s a pause long enough to make you think he might refuse. Then his voice comes, lower, slower, and he says your name the way you've never heard it said before, like it has weight, like it’s a thing he’s setting down carefully on a table between you, where you can both look at it.

Something flutters low in your belly, and you tell yourself it’s hunger. Three days of nutrient paste can do things to a person.

You know it isn’t the hunger.

"Tell me something," you say, mostly to fill the silence. "Anything, I don't care."

"Like what?"

"Like…what's the last good meal you had and on what planet. I don’t know, anything."

You can hear him thinking about an answer before he speaks. "Tiingilar. On Nevarro. But there was too much spice, and it burned my tongue for an hour."

"You eat through that helmet?"

"Not in front of you, I wouldn't."

The phrasing is so specific, so oddly intimate, that it makes your face hot. In front of you. As if he's thought about it. As if you’re a person whose presence would change what he does with his mouth.

"Why not?" you ask, voice careful and quiet.

"It's the Way. No one sees my face."

"No one?"

"No one living."

You let that sit and take in the whole shape of it — the loneliness baked into it, the discipline, the strange tender violence of a vow that old. You think about a man who hasn't shown his face to anyone in years, who eats alone, who sleeps alone and who would die before he breaks that code.

You think about what it would mean if he ever did break it for someone.

"What about touch?" you ask, and you can hear your own pulse in your ears now. "Does the Way say anything about that?"

He pauses for a single beat. "No."

"No, it doesn't say anything? Or no, you don't…?"

"It doesn't forbid it."

"Oh."

The silence after that has a different quality, the silence of two people who’ve both noticed the same thing at the same time and are waiting to see who’s going to acknowledge it first. You feel your fingers curl against the wall and the wall against the line of your thigh through your trousers, the cold of it sinking through and meeting the heat of you.

"Mando," you say finally.

"Yeah."

"When's the last time someone touched you?"

The modulator catches his exhale and turns it into something like static. He doesn’t answer right away and so you wait. You can be patient when you need to be, and right now, with your cheek to the wall and your blood loud in your throat, you need to be.

"It’s been a long time," he admits finally.

"How long?"

"Longer than I'm going to tell a stranger."

"I'm not a stranger, you know my name."

"That doesn't make you not a stranger."

"Doesn't it?"

You imagine him in the cell next to yours, that helmeted head bowed, his gloved hands resting on his thighs. You imagine his shoulders pressed back against the same wall you’re pressed against, the only thing between his skin and yours a few centimetres of durasteel and a lifetime of bad decisions.

"What about you?" he says.

"What about me?"

"When's the last time anyone touched you?"

The directness of his question startles you. You've been the one playing this game and somehow, he’s taken the cards out of your hand without you noticing.

"A while," you admit.

"How long is a while?"

"Long enough that I think about it when I shouldn't."

"When shouldn't you?"

"Now," you say, "for instance."

You hear the soft sound through the modulator that you decide, immediately and with some certainty, is a laugh, or the closest thing he allows himself to one. It’s a warm sound and it goes straight down your spine and pools at the base of it.

"You're thinking about it now?" he asks.

"You asked."

"I did."

"Are you going to ask what I'm thinking about?"

"I think I'd rather you tell me."

Your face is suddenly on fire and you’re grateful for the wall, grateful for the dark, grateful for every centimetre of durasteel that keeps him from seeing the colour you must be. You press your forehead against the metal, close your eyes and feel the steady, mechanical sound of his breathing on the other side.

Fuck it, you think. You’re never going to see him and he’s never going to see you. If you both die in this place tomorrow, the only thing left of this night will be the air it’s moved through.

"I'm thinking about your voice," you say.

"My voice?"

"That's where I'd start."

"Where would you start with it?"

You wet your lips. "I'd want you to keep talking. I'd want you closer to the wall. I'd want…I'd want to put my ear right up against it, and I'd want you to put your mouth right up against it on your side, and just…talk. About anything. I just want it in my head."

You hear him move, hear the scrape of beskar against the wall, and you know, even though you can’t see him, that he’s shifted closer, that the helmet is nearer to you now than it had been a minute ago. That if there were no wall, he would be a hand's breadth away.

"Like this," he says, and his voice is lower than it had been, the vocoder rasp gone soft, almost a whisper, and impossibly intimate for that. "This close enough for you?"

"Yeah," you breathe. "Yeah, that's…that's good."

"Tell me what else."

"I'd…" You swallow. "I'd want you to tell me what you'd do."

"What I'd do?"

"If there wasn't a wall."

He takes his time with the answer. You can hear him thinking, hear him deciding, hear the moment he gives himself permission to say what he wants to say. It comes through the helmet as a small exhale, almost a sigh.

"I'd put my hand on your throat," he says.

Your breath catches.

"Not to hurt you," he adds. "Just to feel it, your pulse. You've got it going pretty fast right now, I bet."

"How can you tell? It's…it's not the only thing it's doing."

"No?"

"No."

"Tell me."

You press your thighs together, the friction of the rough fabric almost too much. You haven’t realised how wound you've been, how three days of fear and adrenaline has sat in you with nowhere to go, and now his voice is a key turning in a lock you haven't known was there.

"I'm wet," you say, quiet, into the wall. "I've been wet since you said my name."

The sound he makes then isn’t modulated. It is – for just a fraction of a second – something raw that slips through underneath the vocoder, a breath that turns into something else, and you want to live in that sound, want to wear it.

"Show me," he says. "Tell me. Whatever you're doing…tell me."

"You first."

"I'm hard."

The directness of it punches the air out of you. He says it the way he said yes, I'm going to kill him, flat and true, a simple fact of the universe.

"Are you touching yourself?" you whisper.

"I want to wait."

"For what?"

"For you."

Oh. Oh. You bite down on the inside of your cheek to keep from making a noise that will carry. Some part of you is still aware that there are guards somewhere in this facility, that Vane is somewhere in this facility, and that anything either of you does or says too loudly could be heard. But the bigger part of you, the part that’s been starving for three days and probably longer than that, is already past caring.

"Together, then," you say.

"Together."

You work your hand under the waistband of your trousers. The fabric’s stiff and unfriendly, but underneath it, you’re soft and slick and so ready that the first brush of your own fingertips makes you gasp into the metal.

"Talk to me," you say. "Mando…keep talking."

"I'm undoing the belt," he says. "Just the cod, the rest stays on. You can't be careless in a place like this."

"Yeah."

"I’ve got my hand on it."

"Tell me…tell me what it looks like."

"It's hard. It's been hard since you asked me about touch. And it’s leaking a little at the tip. I'm wiping it with my thumb."

"Are you…are your hands gloved?"

"I took the right one off – for you.”

You whimper softly, and don’t even try to hide it. You have two fingers circling your clit now, slow, the way he’s talking – slow and deliberate, with that mechanical control that you suspect is the only thing keeping him from coming apart already.

"What about you?" he says. "Tell me what you're doing."

"I've got my hand down my pants. My fingers…” you exhale. “I'm so wet, Mando, I can't…I'm circling, just circling, slow."

"Slow's good."

"I want it to be your hand."

"What would my hand do?"

"It would be slower than mine and heavier. You'd make me wait. You'd make me…you'd make me ask."

"Would you ask?"

"Yes."

"Ask now."

You can’t think because you can barely breathe. The wall against your forehead is wet from your breath, the metal smelling faintly of iron. “Please."

"Please what?"

"Please touch me. Please…please don't stop talking, please put your fingers in me, please…"

"How many?"

"Two, start with two."

"Tell me when."

"Now. Mando, now…"

You push two fingers into yourself and the sound you makes is hot and high and you press your other hand over your own mouth to muffle it. On the other side of the wall you hear a sound through the modulator that’s almost a groan, but not quite. He’s holding it back, but you hear the shape of it, hear the way it cracks the calm in his voice.

"That's it," he says. "Tell me how it feels."

"Tight. Hot. I…Mando, I haven't…I haven't done this in so long, I…"

"I've got you."

"What are you doing?"

"Stroking, slow. Long strokes. My grip's tight, I…fuck…"

That word through the modulator, low and almost involuntary, is the most vulgar thing you’ve ever heard. It makes you clench around your own fingers, and whine into your hand.

"Say it again," you beg.

"Fuck."

"Again."

"You feel that good?"

"Yes."

"What if it was me? What if it was my hand inside you?"

"It is. Right now, it is. Tell me you're thinking about it."

"I am. I'm thinking about…about pushing you up against this wall where you can't move. Where I can hold you there with one hand and use the other…"

"How many?"

"Three. You'd take three."

"I would."

"You would. You'd take everything I gave you, wouldn't you?"

"Yes."

"Say it."

"I'd take everything you gave me."

You add the third finger. It’s a stretch, just on the edge of too much, and that edge is exactly where you want to be. Your thumb works your clit in tight circles and you pant against the wall, against your own palm, and on the other side of the durasteel a Mandalorian is stroking his cock to the sound of your voice and you’ve never, in your entire life, been so undone by a man you’ve not seen.

"Mando."

"I'm here."

"I'm close."

"How close?"

"Close. Close, I…keep talking to me, please, please, just…"

"Listen to me," he says, and his voice has dropped to something so quiet it’s almost a breath, almost prayer. "Listen. You feel like silk. You feel like the best thing I've put my hand in in years. If I were there, I'd have my mouth on your throat right now. I'd have my teeth on the place where your pulse is. I wouldn't bite hard, just enough that you'd feel it for days. I'd have my fingers in you all the way to the knuckle, and I'd be working you open, slow, until you were begging me, until you were saying my name…"

"I don't know your name."

There’s a pause. A long one, during which you almost stop breathing.

"Din," he says. "It's Din."

Something cracks open in your chest. He’s given you something he’s not supposed to give, given you something that, by his own laws, no one should have. And he’s given it to you with his hand on his cock and your name in his throat and a wall between you. And you understood, in that moment, that you will never, not as long as you live, hear that name said in that voice again without falling apart.

"Din," you say.

"Yeah."

"Din…Din…"

"Say it again."

"Din, I'm…"

"Come."

You come around your own fingers with his name in your mouth and the metal of the wall against your forehead, and you bite down hard on the heel of your hand to keep from screaming. On the other side of the wall, you hear the shape of his climax through the modulator, the cracked-open sound of a man who hasn’t let anyone hear him in a very long time. It goes on, and on, and on, and when you finally collapse back against the bench, you’re trembling all over, slick with sweat, your fingers still inside yourself, your breath coming in pieces.

For a long time, neither of you speak, but you can hear him breathing. You lie back on the bench with your trousers half-undone and your hand against your chest and your heart hammering up into your palm and listen to him do the same on the other side of the wall.

The dimmed red lights buzz faintly overhead and somewhere far down the corridor, a door cycles. The world is still in here, the way it always was – but underneath the stillness, something new is sitting between you that hadn’t been there an hour ago. You can feel the weight of it and suspect he can too.

"Din," you say, just to see if you’re allowed to say it again.

"Yeah." His voice is rougher than it has been, the modulator doing its best to flatten it out and failing. "I'm here."

"Are you alright?"

"That's my question."

"I asked first."

"I'm alright."

You smile at the ceiling. There’s something so absurdly him about it – a man who has just come apart with a stranger's name in his throat and is now answering you in two-syllable monosyllables, the way he probably answers everyone about everything.

Your fingers are still tacky, your face still hot and you feel, somehow, like you’ve just survived something rather than enjoyed it.

"I'm alright too," you say, in case he’s waiting for it.

"Good."

"Din?"

"Yeah."

"You shouldn't have given me that, should you?"

He’s quiet for a long time and you let him have the quiet. You've learned, over the course of the night, that his silences are a kind of speech, that he’s a man who turns things over thoroughly before he sets them down.

"No," he says finally. "I shouldn't have."

"Are you sorry?"

"No."

"Good."

You roll onto your side, facing the wall, draw your knees up and tuck your hand under your cheek. The metal is warm now where you’ve been pressed against it, warm with the warmth of you, and you imagine that on the other side of it some matching patch of beskar is warm too, warmed by a helmet that’s been resting against the same plane of durasteel for the better part of an hour.

"Are you really going to kill him?" you ask.

"Yes."

"Tomorrow?"

"As soon as I get the chance."

"Will I get to see it?"

"You'll be out of the cell before it happens, I'll see to that."

You close your eyes. The certainty in his voice is a strange thing to lean against, but you lean anyway. It’s the most solid thing you've had to lean against in three days, maybe longer.

"Din?"

"Yeah."

"Tell me something else. Anything, just…keep talking, until I fall asleep."

"What do you want to hear about?"

"Anything that isn't this place."

You hear him shift, heard the soft sigh of the helmet against the metal as he thinks about it and settles him in.

"There's a marsh moon," he says, "out past Trask. There’s nothing on it, no settlements, just water and reeds as far as you can see. The water glows at night. Some kind of bioluminescent thing in it. You walk through it and your boots light up the whole pool, blue, like you're walking on stars."

"Have you been there?"

"Once."

"What did you do there?"

"I refuelled, sat on the ramp of my ship for a while and watched the water."

"Alone?"

"Yeah."

"I'd like to see that."

"I'll show you."

Your chest does a thing it has no business doing, given the circumstances. You press your cheek harder into the wall, not rusting yourself to answer, because if you answer, your voice is going to do something embarrassing.

"Keep going," you say when you can. "Tell me more."

So, he does.

He tells you about a desert at dawn on a planet whose name you don’t catch, where the sand turns the colour of beaten copper in the first light. He tells you about a forest where the trees grow so close together that you have to turn sideways to walk between them, and about a kind of bread they baked on Sorgan that you eat with your hands.

You don't know when you fall asleep. You only know that somewhere in the middle of a sentence about a city built into a cliff face, your eyelids give up, and the last thing you remember is the steady metal-edged sound of his voice telling you about the way the wind moves through the canyon at night and, for the first time in three days, you’re not afraid.

****

You wake to white.

Not red, not the bruised dim red of the night cycle, but the cold flat white of the day lights, full and unflattering and merciless on your gummed-shut eyes. You squint and sit up, your body protesting in a hundred small ways and you put your hand to the wall before you've even fully remembered why.

"Din?"

Nothing.

You frown, sleep still thick in your throat.

"Din,” you cough. “Are you awake?"

Nothing.

The breathing’s gone, that’s the first thing you notice, the absence of the slow, even, modulated breath that has become, over the course of the night, as familiar to you as your own pulse. The cell on the other side of the wall is quiet. Not the quiet of a man sleeping, but the quiet of a room with nothing in it.

Your stomach drops.

You scramble off the bench and go to the front of the cell, pressing your face to the narrow slit in the door, trying to angle your eye to see down the corridor. You can’t see much, but you notice the edge of the next cell's door…

…which is open.

Not forced or blown, rather open the way a door’s open when someone’s unlocked it and walked out. The interior, what little of it you could see, is empty. No figure on the bench, no silhouette by the wall, no beskar.

"Din?"

Your voice comes out smaller than you mean it to.

You stand there for a long time with your forehead against the cool metal of your own door, and you try to talk yourself into the reasonable explanations. He’s escaped and he’s going to kill the man who put him here, and a man who says a thing like that the way he said it isn’t a man who stays in a cell longer than he has to.

He said he would see to it that you got out before it happened.

He said I'll show you.

You believe him. You had believed him at the time, and you believed him now, in the cold white morning, with your hair stuck to your face and your hands trembling slightly from cold or hunger or the aftershock of a night you’re still half-convinced you dreamed.

You go back to the bench and sit down. You put your hand against the wall, except it isn’t warm anymore. It’s cold all the way through. He’s been gone for hours, probably, since not long after you fell asleep, because that’s the kind of man he is – the kind who waits until you’re safe in sleep before he does what he has to do, so that you won’t have to lie awake listening to him do it.

You wonder if he said goodbye. If somewhere in the dark, between one of his sentences about canyons and the next, he said something soft to the wall, and you hadn't heard it because you were already gone. You hope so. You hoped he'd put his gloved hand against the metal one last time and said your name the way he'd said it the night before.

You draw your knees up and wrap your arms around them. Then you press your forehead to them and you breathe, slow, in and out, the way you’d breathed with him in the dark, except now you’re doing it alone, and the rhythm doesn’t match anything but the memory of him.

It’s then that you notice it.

A small thing, set on the floor at the base of the dividing wall, on your side, where it must have been pushed under through the narrow gap between the wall and the floor – a gap you haven’t noticed before, a gap barely wide enough for a finger but wide enough, evidently, for this.

You pick it up.

It’s a sliver of beskar, no bigger than your thumb, cut clean, the edges smoothed. A scrap, probably, from some repair he's done to his own armour a long time ago and kept in a pouch for reasons that are his and not yours. The metal’s warm in your hand, even though it shouldn't have been.

Wrapped around it, twice, is a thin strip of leather. And on the leather, scratched in with the point of something sharp, in letters small and precise and careful, he’s written you a message.

Wait for me.

That’s all. No name, no instructions. no promise more elaborate than those three words, in a hand that has pressed hard enough into the leather to scar it.

You close your fingers around the beskar and shut your eyes. You press your closed fist to your mouth and sit there in the cold white morning of the cell that has held you for three days, and you don’t cry, because you’ve not cried in years and you’re not going to start now. But something in your chest does a thing that’s very close to it – a hot, full, aching thing that wants out and can’t get out and so just sits there, glowing, like the water on his marsh moon.

Down the corridor, very faint, you hear footsteps, heavy ones, coming closer.

You open your hand and look at the sliver of beskar once more, and then you close your fist around it again and tuck it into the inner pocket of your shirt, against your skin, where no search would find it without finding you first. You straighten your spine, wipe your face with the heel of your hand and set your jaw.

You wait.

Because he's asked you to. Because he’s coming back. Because a man like that, a man who said yes the way he said it and I'll show you the way he said it and Din – Din, it's Din – into the dark, to a stranger, through a wall, breaking a vow he has kept his whole life – that man doesn’t say wait for me unless he means it.

The footsteps get closer then stop outside your door.

You hear the soft electronic chirp of a lockpad being overridden – not the heavy clang of guards cycling a door open in the normal way, but the cleaner, quieter click of someone who knows exactly which wires to cross and which ones to leave alone.

The door slides back and there he is. Beskar from helm to boot, the morning light off the corridor lamps making a hard silver line down the curve of his pauldron. Blaster holstered at his thigh, vibroblade still wet at the tip. He fills the doorway like he’s been built to fill it, and the visor turns toward you. You stood up so fast you nearly crack your head on the underside of the bunk.

"Took your time," you say.

The modulator catches the tired amusement before he's even spoken. "There were six of them."

"And Vane?"

"Five."

You snort because you can’t help it. He steps into the cell, glances at you, glances at the wall, glances – pointedly – at the floor where the sliver of beskar had been. He doesn’t say anything about it because he doesn’t have to. The angle of his helmet says, good, you found it, and the small tilt that follows says come on, and you’re moving before he's finished the gesture, ducking under his arm into the corridor.

"This way," he says.

"I know which way."

"Then go."

You know the layout of this facility because you’ve spent three days memorising the sliver of it you could see through the door slit, and because, it turns out, you also saw the schematics two weeks ago in a briefing on the Crest – a briefing you had pretended to listen to while throwing ration wrappers at the back of his helmet.

You take the left at the junction and he covers your back. Then you take the service stairs down two levels, through the maintenance hatch and out into the cold dawn air of a landing platform where a familiar gunship sits waiting with its ramp already down, because he landed it himself before he came for you and he isn’t the kind of man who leaves a door closed when he might need to run through it.

The ramp clangs shut behind you, the engines spool and you brace yourself against the bulkhead as he takes the pilot's seat and throws the Crest up off the platform with the kind of brutal efficiency he uses for everything. The planet falls away under you, the stars come up, and you’re free.

You stand in the cockpit doorway, breathing.

"Don't say it," he says, without turning around.

"Don't say what?"

"Whatever you're about to say."

"I wasn't going to…"

"You were going to."

"I was going to say thanks."

"No, you weren't."

You laugh, finally. It comes out shaky, the adrenaline leaving you in a slow drain. You let yourself slide down the bulkhead until you’re sitting on the deck with your back against the metal, and you put your hands over your face and laugh until your ribs hurt.

He punches the coordinates in, sets the autopilot, then stands up, slowly, the way he stands up when his back hurts and he doesn’t want you to know. But you know, because you've been flying with him for nine months and you know every small tell his body makes through the armour.

He crouches in front of you and puts his gloved hand on your knee.

"You alright?"

"Yeah."

"Look at me."

You take your hands off your face and look up at the visor. The T-shape of it is the same as it’s always been. The same as it’s been across a hundred campfires and a thousand cantina tables and the dozen times he’s sat across from you in this same hold and cleaned his weapons while you cleaned yours.

The same, and not the same.

"We really need to stop doing this," you say finally.

"Doing what?"

"The wall thing. The talking through the wall every time a job goes sideways, and they put us in adjoining cells thing. This is…Din, this is the third time."

"Fourth."

"What?"

"Fourth. You're forgetting Ord Mantell."

"Ord Mantell was a closet, not a cell."

"Still a wall."

"Still a wall," you allow.

He huffs, his hand still on your knee. The leather of the glove is warm from the inside of his fist, and you can feel each individual finger, and that he’s not lifting it away.

"It's because we don't talk like this anywhere else," you say. "You know that, right?"

"I know."

"You only get like that when there's a wall."

"I know."

"It's ridiculous."

"I know."

"Din..." you hesitate. "That's the first time you've told me your real name."

"Yeah."

You lick your lips. "Fuck me."

The hand on your knee tightens, just a fraction, just enough that you know he heard you.

"Don't," he says

"Fuck me. Let’s get it out of our systems. Once, properly, with nothing between us and…and I swear to you, I swear, the next time some Hutt-licking bounty hunter shoves us into a holding block, neither of us is going to need to do the wall thing ever again, because we'll have done it, and the tension will be gone, and we can go back to being…"

"Being what?"

"Whatever we are."

"You think that's how it works?"

"I think it's worth finding out."

You watch the visor, watch the way his shoulders move when he breathes, watch the long, calibrated stillness of a man who’s already decided what he’s going to do and is making himself take an extra second to be sure of it.

"You don't know what you're asking for," he says.

"I do."

"You don't."

"Din, I had three fingers in myself last night while you talked to me through a wall. I think I have some idea."

The sound that comes out of him isn’t a laugh, it’s something rougher, something he doesn’t quite catch in time, and his hand leaves your knee and goes to your jaw, gloved thumb against the corner of your mouth.

You stop breathing.

"Stand up," he says.

You stand he stands with you, and you have to tip your head to keep looking at the visor. He looks down at you for a long moment, and then his other hand comes up and he hooks one gloved finger under the collar of your shirt and tugs, gently, until you take a step toward him, and another, and then his back is against the bulkhead and yours is against him and his arm is around your waist.

"Once," he says.

"Once."

"And it doesn't fix anything."

"Probably not."

"And you're going to have to be quiet, because the autopilot doesn't know what to do if you scream and trip the proximity alarms."

"Din, I am going to scream."

"Then I'll cover your mouth."

You go hot all the way through and feel your own pulse in places that have no business having a pulse. You press your forehead against the cold beskar of his chest plate breathe in the smell of him – leather and weapon oil and metal warmed by the body underneath.

"Bed. Bunk. Somewhere. Now."

He picks you up, one arm under your thighs and the other across your back, like you weigh nothing, like he's been waiting a long time for the excuse to find out exactly how much you weigh. He carries you down the short ladder into the hold and through to the narrow alcove where his bunk is set into the wall and sets you down on the edge of it. Then he stands between your knees and starts, with great deliberation, to undress.

The pauldrons came off first, heavy clunks against the deck. Then the vambraces, the chest plate, the cuirass, the thigh plates. He sets them all aside in the order he always sets them, the order you’ve watched him set them in a hundred times, and the familiarity of the ritual mixes with the unfamiliarity of what’s happening making your head spin a little.

The flight suit comes off next. Black, snug, all the seams you’ve stared at across many a hold while pretending to read. He peels it down to his waist and you see the long lean torso of him, scarred in a dozen places, a constellation of old hurt, a body that has been keeping itself alive for a long time and has the receipts.

There’s scant hair across his chest, dark and soft-looking, narrowing down toward his waistband and a long pale scar that wraps around his ribs like a vine. There’s a tattoo, small, on the inside of his left bicep – a mythosaur skull, no bigger than your thumb – that you have absolutely never known exists.

He keeps going. Flight suit all the way off, boots, trousers and the under-layer beneath. Everything. Every stitch.

Except the helmet.

He stands there in the low light of the bunk alcove, completely naked from the neck down, hard already, his cock heavy against his thigh, and the beskar catches in the dim light off the bulkhead in a way that makes the helmet seem almost a separate creature from the body that’s offering itself to you.

"Din...”

"No."

"I didn't…"

"You were going to."

"I wasn't…"

"You were."

"...I was."

"No."

"Just the eyes. Just…just let me see your eyes."

"No."

"Please."

"No."

He says it gently with no heat in it, as a feature of the universe, not a refusal of you. And then he steps closer and takes the hem of your shirt in both bare hands and pulls it off you, slow, then drops it on the floor on top of his own.

"You have me," he says. "All of me. Just not that."

"Din…"

"All of me," he says again, and he puts his bare hand flat over your sternum, between your breasts, hot palm and rough fingertips against your skin, and you forget what you had been going to say. "Everything else. You can have everything else. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"Say it."

"I understand."

"Then take it."

He kisses you.

Or…the helmet does. He presses the cool flat front of the beskar to your forehead first, the way he had once or twice before in moments you’ve not allowed yourself to think too hard about. Then he tilts his head and brings it lower, pressing the brow of the helm to your mouth, just for a moment, just enough that you feel the cold kiss of the metal on your lips, and then his hand is sliding up to cradle the back of your neck and he tips you back onto the bunk.

He kisses everything else with his hands.

The pads of his fingers move down the line of your throat. His thumb skates across your collarbone. His palm cups the underside of your breast and his mouth – the front of the helmet, the smooth lower edge – drags slow against your nipple, cool and unyielding, and you arch up off the bunk with a noise that you try, and fail, to keep quiet.

"Shh," he says.

"I can't…"

"You can."

"I can't…"

His hand comes up and his fingers slip into your mouth. Two of them, the same two, and you bite down and moan around them and he makes a low sound through the modulator.

"Good. Like that. Quiet."

He keeps going down, the helmet tracking down the line of your sternum, the soft place under your ribs and the flat of your stomach. His other hand works your trousers open and shoves them down. You kick them off, and your underthings with them, and then you’re naked under him, and the cold metal of the helmet presses against the hot skin of your inner thigh and the contrast makes you whimper around his fingers.

"Din…"

He doesn’t answer with words. He answers by taking his fingers out of your mouth and replacing them, slowly, between your legs. Two fingers, the way you’d asked for last night. He finds you slick and ready and he hisses, audibly, through the modulator.

"All night," he says. "Like this?"

"Most of it."

"Greedy."

"For you, just for you."

The fingers push in slowly, deeper than yours had gone, longer, more deliberate, and you make a sound that starts high and would go higher but for him pressing the front of the helmet to your sternum.

“Quiet, I told you."

"I'm trying."

"Try harder."

He fucks you on his fingers for what feels like a small eternity. Long, slow, brutal strokes, his thumb finding your clit with the precision of a man who knows where every nerve in a body lives and where to put pressure on each of them. You’re drenched, shaking, biting the back of your own wrist to stay quiet and he’s watching you do it, the visor angled down at your face the whole time, and you know – you know – that behind that visor his eyes are on your mouth.

"Din…Din, please, I want…"

"Tell me."

"You inside me, properly. Now."

He takes his hand away and shifts upwards, bracing one hand on the bunk beside your head and the other on his cock. You feel the blunt heat of him drag through your slickness and your hips buck up of their own accord and he makes a low strangled sound.

"Wait. Wait, look at me."

You look at the visor.

"Are you sure?" he asks.

"Din."

"Say it."

"I'm sure. Fuck me, please."

He pushes in slow, so slow you think you’re going to die of it. He pushes in to the hilt and then holds there, his forehead – the brow of the helmet – against yours, his bare chest against your bare chest, his hand on your jaw and the metallic rasp of his breathing the loudest thing in the world. You can feel him trembling, just slightly, with the effort of not moving.

"Alright?" he asks.

"Move."

"Alright?"

"Move, Din…"

He moves the way he does everything – efficiently, without waste, with the calibrated intensity of a man who’s decided what he’s going to do and is now doing exactly that, and nothing else, and nothing less. He sets a rhythm that’s deep and steady and merciless, and you wrap your legs around his hips and your arms around his shoulders and press your face to the side of the helmet, to the place where his ear would be, and you say his name into the beskar over and over again because you can’t say it into his mouth.

"Din…"

"I'm here."

"Din, harder…"

"You'll bruise."

"I want to bruise. Please, Din, please…"

He fucks you harder. He braces both hands on the bunk now, one on either side of your head, and drives into you with the long, full strokes of a man who’s been holding himself in check for nine months and has finally been given permission to stop. The headboard of the bunk knocks, softly, against the bulkhead in time with each thrust, and your hands roam his back as you map him by feel.

The helmet stays on.

You beg, somewhere in the middle of it. When the pleasure has stripped your inhibitions down to nothing, you put your hands on the sides of the helmet and say, "Please, Din, please, just…just let me see…" and he catches your wrists in one hand and pins them above your head.

"No. Not that. Anything else. Anything else but that."

"Anything?"

"Anything."

So, you take the anything. You take his hand off your wrists and put it around your throat, light, the way he said he would in the dark. You feel his fingers settle there, careful, finding the pulse, and he makes a sound that’s almost a groan, almost the sound you heard through the wall last night, and his thrusts falters for one stroke and then comes back harder.

"Like that?" he asks.

"Like that. Like that. Din…"

"You're close."

"Yes."

"Stay quiet."

"I can't…"

"You can."

He puts his other hand over your mouth. Bare, hot, dry and rough and you moan into it. He fucks you through it, hips snapping against yours in a rhythm that’s losing its precision, finally, after how long you can’t say, and you feel him start to come undone above you – felt the small involuntary movements he’s no longer controlling, feel the way his head bows and the helmet presses to your temple, feel the choked sound through the modulator that you’ve now heard five times in your life and will, you suspect, hear a great many more times before you’re done with each other.

"Come for me," he says, against your ear, against the metal between your ear and his mouth. "Now. Now, sweetheart, now…"

You come around him with his hand over your mouth, his other hand at your throat, his cock buried to the hilt and his forehead against yours, and you scream into his palm. He feels you go – feels every pulse of you around him – and he makes a sound you’ve never heard him make before, a real one, a whole one, unmodulated and choked and human, as he comes inside you, hard, in long pulses that you feel all the way up into your stomach.

Then he collapses – not all the way, catching himself on one elbow carefully – but his full weight comes down on you in a way it hasn’t, and the beskar of the helmet rests cool against the side of your face. You wrap your arms around his shoulders and hold him, his bare back slick under your palms, his breathing wreckage.

"Din," you say when you can.

"Yeah."

"You called me sweetheart."

He freezes fractionally. "I did."

"And...I lied."

"About what?"

"The tension. It's not gone."

His forehead – the brow of the helmet – presses harder against yours.

"No," he agrees. "It's not."

"What are we going to do about that?"

"Try again."

"Now?"

"Give me five minutes."

You laugh into the side of his helmet and feel his shoulders shake, just a little. You run your hand up the back of his neck to the very edge of the helmet – the place where the beskar meets the skin – and let your fingertips rest there.

He doesn’t stop you or pull away. He lets your fingers stay at the line where his hidden self begins, and he lets you keep them there, and that, you understand, is a different kind of yes.

You take it, close your eyes and keep your hand where it is.

Five minutes, he said.

You can wait five minutes.

You have, you reflect, gotten very good at waiting for him.

➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰🚀➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰

PART TWO

===

You blame your restlessness for making you bring it up.

“What was that, sweetheart?” Frank asks, his sleepy mind trying to comprehend your mumbles. He hugs you tighter and leans in closer to your shoulder.

“I wanted to ask if… you knew what… noncon was. The… kink.” You murmur quietly, thankful you weren’t facing Frank. He hums behind you, and you run your hands along his arms crossed over your midriff.

“... Nah. Could you describe it t’me?” You feel him shift, the word ‘kink’ likely waking him up. Your lover was always eager to please, his thumb beginning to rub gentle circles on your waist.

You take a breath, nervousness in your veins. “It… is short for consensual non-consent. Basically… we pretend that… someone between the two of us doesn’t want sex, or wants it to stop, but it keeps going anyway.”

You feel him freeze, and he pauses before he hugs you tighter. “... Uhuh. You like that?” He asks, tone unreadable. Regardless, you see no reason to lie.

“The… idea of it. Roleplaying it.” You emphasize, now treading more lightly given your initial jump. “What do you think?”

Frank sighs, taking a pause to choose his words. “If you’re th’ one actin’ like you don’t want it, that don’t sound like something I can stomach, sweetheart m’sorry.” He apologizes, and you turn to face him.

“No, hey… don’t… you don’t have to apologize.” You reply hastily. It was only then you got to see Frank’s expression, a mix of disappointment directed at himself and anger at the tangent the kink made him think of, jaw tight, gaze clouded. “Are you okay…? I shouldn’t have brought that up so randomly. I’m sorry, Frankie.” You cup his face, mind racing with regret.

His hand, gentle, runs along your arm, the other cupping your cheek. “M’okay, baby… Just can’t imagine… hurtin’ you like that, even if it’s jus’ pretend.” He pulls you to his chest as if shielding you from something invisible.

Frank hurt people. Killed people. His hands have taken lives. He hunts down rapists and pedophiles out on the street and delivers hell to them on a silver platter. The kink you described felt too real to him due to his sheer proximity to humanity’s most depraved no matter how he tries to wrap his head around it being merely roleplay in a safe and consenting setting.

But at the end of the day, it was a kink that you’d expressed interest in. It’ll only be the two of you, and you were the one to ask him of it. Frank won’t drop this so easily, not without trying.

“Could you tell me why you like it?” He inquires.

“Hey, no. We don’t have to… I don’t want to force you-” You start, and Frank nods, running his fingers through your scalp.

“Yeah, I know, baby… but I’m asking because maybe we could get to the bottom of that want, yeah? Give it to you in other ways.”

How thoughtful. But in truth, Frank never passed up an opportunity to answer any of your desires, especially once they were already voiced. Him being firm and honest with what he can or can’t handle while you never tried to cross those made for a wonderful dynamic between the two of you. Easy, comfortable. Freeing. Exploration became exciting instead of anxiety inducing. Every attempt would always be with a clear conscience and the assurance that you can stop any time, anywhere.

“Please?” He asks when he notices your subtle hesitation to speak, placing a soft kiss on your forehead. Being in Frank’s arms was always nice and toasty, perfectly contrasting the cold rain out your window.

Kinks could come from experiences you wished to take back power from, or sometimes from out of nowhere. In this particular instance, your case was more of the former.

“Okay… well—” You relay the story to him, fragments of past traumas that all led to the emergence of the desire, Frank’s face morphs into one of disbelief, then into anger as he holds you in his arms and you finish speaking.

“M’sorry that happened, sweetheart.” He was seething, resting his forehead against yours before he leaves a gentle kiss there. He’s glaring at the wall as he holds you, body tense. “You got a name? Remember what the fucker looked like?”

You look up at him, see the way his adam’s apple bobs and the way his breath is shaky, limbs tense and wound up. He means it. “Frank…”

As alluring of a power fantasy it was to have Frank seek out revenge on your behalf, you weren’t keen on him getting any longer of a criminal record than Madani had already absolved him of.

“Anythin’ I can get a lead on. I’ll do the rest. Please.” Frank whispers hastily, you shake your head no.

You tell him that it was okay, that it was a long time ago (he grunts out that it doesn’t matter as his hold on you tightens, that the bastard had ‘no right, you hear me? No goddamn right.’), that he’d healed a lot of your pain by virtue of just being the way he was and being by your side.

He wants to offer this to you. It wouldn’t be a problem. He’d kill this bastard for you like it was a Sunday stroll through the park.

But you insisted otherwise, gentle in your firm decision, so Frank channels that energy elsewhere, to the matter at hand. To being of service in other loving ways that weren’t vengeance or bloody retribution.

He slips the blanket higher over you and you find his immediate attempt at comforting you endearing. His hands rub along your back, wide and warm against your skin. “That shouldn’t have happened to you.” He murmurs, arms tense as he holds you. Frank’s muscles are flexed, charged with this deep-seated anger.

The trauma was years ago, but you still end up feeling a bit teary eyed at his tender reaction, further amplified by his kisses on your forehead. The two of you stay like that for a while, with you drowned in the comfort that is your steadfast lover.

“Thank you, Frankie…”

“‘Course. I love you, sweetheart. Y’hear me?”

A smile graces your features. “I love you too.” He meets you halfway when you inch upwards to kiss him.

Frank’s hand keeps combing through your hair, the other pressing his fingers into your lower back. Coupled with the warmth of his body and how the blanket keeps it in, you’re off to sleep in minutes.

Your lover is glancing around the room as he thinks, then he puts his thoughts to words. “Sweetheart, ‘bout that kink—”

At your lack of reply, Frank moves back a bit to glance down at you, only to find you fast asleep.

This can wait. He’s thankful for the more time he’s got now to think about it. He gives you one last kiss to the top of your head before he starts to mentally run other possible scenarios he can offer to your desires instead.

—

Frank does some research on his laptop the next morning as he cooks breakfast, explores a couple of articles and peruses through some forums before he brings it up again that night after you’re both home from work, Friday evening.

“Sweetheart, ‘bout that kink.” He says as he’s settling into the couch for your Friday night TV show binge.

You blink at him, brows drawn. “Frank, we really don’t have to…”

“I want to give it a shot.”

Silence, then you let out a sigh.

“If you’re only doing this for me then I’d really rather not.” Frank had this tendency to serve even if he’d find little enjoyment in whatever it was you were engaging in, citing your desire for it as the fulfillment in and of itself.

You could tolerate (and appreciate) that with mundane things, but not here, not with this. Not when sex meant more than just an act to both of you.

“I want to give it a shot, s’right there. Said I want it.”

Now you’re both having a stubborn-off. A moment of the two of you just staring at each other passes.

“Are you sure?” You ask.

“I am.”

You let out a sigh, shaking your head and letting the ghost of a defeated smile grace your features. There was no arguing with Frank once he’s set his mind on something. His own determined expression softens and he moves to rest his arm over your shoulders.

“I read up ‘bout it, got the gist of it, from what I saw uh… there’s plenty of ways to go about it. Diff’rent dynamics. Diff’rent situations.”

He researched? He really means it, then. But it shouldn’t come as a surprise, Frank rarely half assed anything, save for maybe the one time he used dynamite to fish, You remember how adorable the smile on his face was as he told you the story.

“So my question is… y’know, the details o’ what you want. Help me out here, sweetheart.” Frank continues.

He’s pitching the ball back in your court, letting you inform and guide his determination to fulfill this.

“Uh…” You struggle to find where to start. Frank is patient as he waits. You intertwine one of your hands with his, resting them on your lover’s thigh.

“Okay.” You take a breath. “I guess I should start with… why? I think?”

“This isn’t to say that I don’t love how you always listen when I don’t want to do anything that involves… touching and intimacy. That’s hot and I’m so… so lucky.” The only thing Frank is very insistent on you doing despite your protests is you eating when you’re hungry and locking the doors.

Frank’s brows draw together as he shakes his head, “S’how it should be.” To him, you weren’t lucky to have him. He was lucky to have you. He’s just being normal, not letting his dick wanting things entitle him into mistreating you or taking you for granted. Like a person with common decency.

You smile at that, gaze softening. “I… you know what I mean. I really do love how you are, Frankie…” With him, you can say you just want to make out and it’ll actually just be the two of you making out. Frank’s self restraint when it comes to sex was off the charts.

There were never any slippery slopes with him, and you adored how he operated, always on standby at the slightest hint of discomfort or change in your mood and never showing his disappointment if either of you suddenly didn't want to continue. He’d been the one time and time again to actually stand by it when he says ‘no hard feelings.’

You could indulge in each other through plenty of other sensual acts, and you always enjoyed the way your intimacy with Frank didn’t always have to end in penetration or even an orgasm for it to feel like a complete and fulfilling experience.

“But just for the roleplay…” You continue.

Frank nods, repeating your words quietly. “Jus’ for the roleplay.” He lets you elaborate further.

“The thought of… you being just a bit more persistent? With wanting me? Gets me going.” 

Your lover’s gaze is focused on you, taking in your every word. Frank squeezes your hand in his.

“The idea that… you want me because you just thought of me, and you’re asking for me even though I don’t… invite you or hint to you that I want sex.” You’re speaking slow, trying to fight down the feeling of wordsalading. 

“It makes me feel… pretty, like I have that… that effect on you that you end up wanting me so much to the point of ‘forcing’ yourself onto me.” You make sure to do air quotes with your free hand. “I know its not like that in real life—”

Frank nods, processes your words. Your explanation made sense to him, he experiences something somewhat similar, really. He loves whenever you’d be the one to initiate intimacy with him, ask for him. It made him feel useful, worthy of the privilege to make you feel good, wanted, attractive—even if he personally thinks his mean mug and boxer’s nose does him no favors.

He imagines if you threw yourself at him and demanded sex out of the blue, touched him all over and whispered how much you needed him, it’d probably turn him on and boost his ego, especially if he was in a good mood that day.

This perspective is one he can more easily get behind. You wanted him to be more forthcoming with his (already very ardent) desire for you, more vocal, have more initiative (to the point of a pre-discussed, strictly fictional violation of consent).

Frank raises your intertwined hands and presses a quiet kiss to your knuckles. “Yeah, yeah I get that, sweetheart. Makes sense.”

His genuine interest and attempt at understanding makes you braver, less sparing in sharing your internal thoughts. “I think having this… simulated sexual coercion scenario would be hot, that’s all. I don’t wanna pathologize it too much.”

Frank nods encouragingly, the arm over your shoulders pulling you closer to his side.

“So y’wanna say no t’me, but have me sweet talk y’into it still?”

Your face grows warm at the thought. “Yeah… actually you could… straight up just touch me into saying yes instead of… waiting for me to say yes—again, it’s not like that in real life. I’m not endorsing it or anything—”

“S’okay. S’just us.” Frank squeezes your upper arm in a comforting gesture, running his hand up and down.

You nod, feeling this anxious pit in your stomach thrum with each breath. The junction between your lover’s neck and shoulder beckons for your head to nuzzle into it. He doesn’t mind when you do. “Thank you, Frankie.”

 There’s this internal attempt on your end to find words that’d more accurately describe what you want.

“Uh… imagine you want me to try food, and I’m being stubborn by saying I don’t want to try it—but you shove it in my mouth anyway and oh-wait! It tastes good.”

His brows are cinched together for a moment before he huffs out a chuckle at the analogy. “Uhuh.” He grunts, trying to connect the comparison.

“But! I wanna act like… it doesn’t taste good, or hammer home the fact that I really think you shouldn’t have fed me that spoonful. I’ll keep pretending I don’t like the taste even if the truth is the opposite.”

“So th’ fun in it f’r you is that you get to act all stubborn?” He clarifies.

“Pretty much?”

Frank’s brows raise. “Okay, ‘nd you like that?”

“Yeah.” There's a moment of thought on your end as your lover looks around the living room, clearly digesting what you’ve shared.

“Honestly, I wouldn’t feel safe enough to bring this up if you weren’t the way you are.” You realize late how off that sounded. “Not that it’s your fault or anything. It’s more of…” Frank feels your gaze on him. “You’ve always had so much self control when it comes to this… and so I know that if I ask for the scene, it’ll only ever be a scene.”

There’s this pride that blooms in his chest, nudging away his initial discomfort. You feel confident asking him for this because even if he acts in the improper, violating way your fantasy desires, he’s proven himself trustworthy enough for you to still feel safe with him after.

And Frank knows from the years he’s spent with you that your trust is not cheap. He’s earned it. You trust him enough to open this up to him, a kink that puts you in such a vulnerable position, a kink that others can so easily take advantage of—he won’t do that to you, you know he won’t. It calms the turbulence in Frank’s mind.

He understands you a bit better now as he thumbs at your intertwined hands. However, there’s still this hesitation in him that gnaws at the reassurance you’ve so gracefully given.

His gaze is trained on you as he listens to the voice of his trepidation. “See… ‘bout that… What I’m having a hard time coming to terms with is seein’ you struggle… d’you think the physical struggle is a... necessary? Part of it f’r you?”

Frank knew he was deconstructing the kink down to its barest and then taking away such integral parts of it, but the thought of being so rough with you, of seeing you in near genuine expressions of pain and him not helping you—would break him, even if it was just roleplay.

There's a moment where you ponder his presented compromise. “The… thrashing and yelling, you mean?”

“Yeah.” The mere thought makes worry churn in his gut, bile bubbling in his throat.

“I would say I don’t really… prefer it to be that intense? I don’t even want you to be mean.” (He never is.) “How do I explain this…”

“Sometimes people like the fight of it. How frantic it is.” You try to think of a more concise way to explain your desires.

“For me… I like feeling how strong you are, but not because you’d fight me.” You slip onto Frank’s lap and he’s quick to accommodate you. “I guess I—its me being powerless but I know I’m safe with you that… uhm, resonates.”

Your lover quietly thinks to himself, trying to apply what you say to his own imagination of the scene to see how he can go about it. His hand caresses your back and hips as he squints elsewhere, that expression he does when deep in thought.

There’s a clear vision in your head of how you want this to go. Frank carrying himself how he usually does, measured movements and hulking physique, crowding you on a random day. Large hands pressed against your body and keeping you still. Being able to push at his chest and not feeling him budge one bit while he’s on top of you. Saying no but being met with him shushing you, in the same breath reassuring you that he’ll make it so good for you—

But it’s so hard to put into words without combusting on the spot.

“Would… you be willing to read a story with that? It's just a couple of pages on my kindle. It’s kind of hard to explain on its own.” At his affirmative, you stand up, ready to get the device from the bedroom, but Frank beats you to it.

“I’ll get it.” He nods as he stands, pads over to the bedroom and re-emerges with the small e-reader, made even smaller by the size of his hand. He gives it to you on the couch before sitting down beside you again. You make quick work of browsing your library for that one story and set the starting page of the scene up for him.

The air is heavy. You end up being teased with his usual ‘This the kind of stuff y’read on this?’ line. You swat at his face but appreciate the attempt at lightening the rather serious mood. Now he’s reading on the couch while you’re watching TV beside him.

The character in the show you’re watching has just finished a rather riveting argument when Frank gently sets your kindle aside on the coffee table.

“Done reading?” You ask, muting the TV and continuing to speak when he nods. “What do you think?”

His expression was still just a bit troubled if not pissed off entirely. “Don’t like how he talks to her.” Frank murmurs, looking away to direct his frustration elsewhere.

You recall the attitude of the male protagonist in your head and it amuses you. He was one of those domineering types, written to have quite condescending, mean dialogue. You would have given Frank something less tropey to read, but you haven’t come across any more examples as complete as that scene. The one you asked him to read included the setup and the aftercare so it was still the most substantial one of your current collection of erotic literature.

(Not that you ever had to direct Frank on how to take care of you after sex, he insists on aftercare even for the softest of sessions, it was a non-negotiable to him, near instinctual. But you figured letting him see the male protagonist in a caring light would help him.)

You move from beside him to straddle his lap again, smiling at him and cupping his face. His expression softens a bit once he’s face to face with you, relaxing fully once you thumb at the hard line between his brows. “You don’t have to talk like that… whenever I ask you about a kink it’s always me asking for your take on it. How you would do it.”

That’s true. Frank nods, mulls the situation he’d read about minutes prior in his head as he thumbs at the plush of your sides.

“How d’you wanna go ‘bout that scene? You wanna keep the medieval part?” 

Oh.

“Ah, how about this…” You ponder, feeling emboldened by Frank clearly still wanting to make this work despite his own trepidation. “Just a normal day in the present, and the scene is I’m busy or I don’t want to rest yet, but I should rest.”

“Familiar.” He interjects, corners of his mouth tilted upwards, but lets you continue.

You chuckle. “Shush!” Frank chuckles. “So, then you try to ‘convince’ me to stop working and come to bed by uhm… fucking me… and then it feels so good I sort of… can’t argue my case for not resting anymore. Maybe I could actually be doing a chore so it's a bit more believable.”

The reframing definitely helped Frank warm up to the idea. Especially since he was no stranger to your moods of dodging rest unless you felt like you ‘deserved’ it. Looks like you just wanted to play the part of a stubborn person who didn’t want to listen, with sudden sex as the assisting factor instead of his usual tactic of cooking you food or caging you in hugs—emphasis on stubborn.

He recalls the scenes in the book, mind now having a clearer and way less intimidating frame of reference for fulfilling your kink. “So I enter the scene, walk up to you, start groping you no warnin’ whatsoever… you’d like that?” 

Frank’s gaze had this layer of intrigue to it. It was sweet that he approached this matter with a lot of thought and conversation where others would have been so careless. You were in good hands.

“Yeah… I would.” You smile, face flushed at the thought and at the way Frank was thumbing along your cheek.

“Would you prefer it if… I didn’t… struggle so much? Just some pushing and some of me saying ‘no,’ but… no crying or cursing you out. And I won’t say it hurts.” After all, Frank was always careful with you, near devout with the way he treats your body and mind, never once letting you take him without him prepping you first.

You picked up what your lover spoke of, the part that he couldn’t stomach. Even the mere thought of pretending you were in pain made him uneasy.

He sighs, and you see the way his shoulders slump to relax. He’d been figuring out how to propose exactly that without the kink no longer being what it was entirely. “Yeah. Please.” Frank gives you a kiss on the lips, and you mewl into it. His arms shift to hug you. “I’d like that. I know that’s th’whole point of your uh, kink, but I need to see that I’m not hurtin’ you.”

You nod, feeling fuzzy as you reciprocate his hug. Frank was an incredibly attentive lover who enjoyed learning by doing. He’s so in tune with you, with every movement and expression, that you could order him around completely non-verbally and you’d still end up getting whatever you’d asked for. It was only natural for him to feel discomfort at the idea of being shown such conflicting signals during intimacy, especially given his fulfillment being so deeply tied to how much he can safely pleasure you without violating any of your boundaries or underestimating the steep difference in strength between the two of you.

When you two part, you pepper kisses along his face, brows raising when Frank speaks. “Let’s use th’ stoplight signals. Yeah?”

Warmth spreads throughout your chest. “Yeah.”

Frank nods, thankful that you were deliberately clear about what you liked. He appreciates the story you’d made him read (save for the male character’s attitude, still), having a whole scene laid out to him like that from start to finish helped him piece a more cohesive picture of what you wanted.

There's a moment of silence before Frank speaks. “Alright.” He thinks to himself, more feasible ideas forming in his head. He was idly squeezing your thigh, sighing contentedly at the way the fat gives under his fingers. “Y’remember the safeword?”

You nod, leaning into his chest and answering with your shared safeword. He repeats it back to you, soft, solemn.

“Thank you, sweetheart.” He murmurs, kissing your forehead again. “Think you’re ready for it by t’morrow?”

“Are you? We can wait a bit if you want. It's no rush.” You parry the question back at him because he’s the one who made his reservations clear.

“Yeah. M’ready.”

—

The next day, he fingers you before the scene even starts. Loose cotton shorts and panties hanging from one of your ankles, your back on a set of pillows laid against the headboard while Frank sits on his haunches between your legs on the bed.

“Is this really necessary?”

“Can’t do that thing you want without hurting you if we don’t get y’ready.”

That changes your perspective, makes your face flush. Frank was always so thoughtful. His words manage to temper your impatience to jump into the scene, letting your body settle into the pillows he so dutifully stacked behind you. He’s hovering over your form, leaning down to give you a kiss that you reciprocate in kind.

He’s always patient when penetrating you, taking so long until he gets to a four finger stretch. Frank bumps the tips of his fingers up against your sweet spot and a strangled groan leaves your lips as he starts to whisper encouragement into your neck and shoulders.

He licks at the thumb of his free hand before gently rubbing it against your clit, feeling it twitch as he grinds his fingers in you the exact way that’ll make you come undone. 

Your walls shiver at the familiar sensation, making you start to pant. “Wait—don't make me come yet!” You whine, that gets Frank’s attention.

“Why not? Give ya a good time before we start.”

“I’ll get sleepy!” You protest, and Frank shakes his head, huffs with an amused expression, leaning over you to press your foreheads together. He eases up on the pressure of his fingertips against your g-spot, pacing it to a less insistent grind as he gets you used to the stretch. He drinks in the way your body instantly relaxes again once he lets up on the sensations.

There’s a smile on his face, endearment in his gaze as he whispers his next words. “I love you, sweetheart.”

“I love you too, Frankie.” Warmth blooms in your chest. “So much.”

“You’ll use th’ safeword if you feel uncomfortable, yeah?” He noses along your neck and shoulders.

You nod at him, turning your head to bump your nose against his. “I will, I promise.”

He nods, locks your lips together as he slowly pulls his fingers out of you. His demeanor caring in the way he’s still the one to slip your panties and shorts back on your hips.

—

You’re standing in front of the washing machine after having placed in a load and setting it to a run cycle. The newly dried, clean clothes were in the laundry basket, waiting to be folded. Frank’s evenly paced footsteps could be heard padding closer to where you were. He’s listening to your quiet humming as you make a show out of folding one of his shirts, your voice mixing with the idle sound of the washing machine.

“Sweetheart.” Your breath hitches with Frank’s slow approach behind you. His hands massage your shoulders.

You let it happen before you start playing your part, body melting into his warmth for just a moment. “Yeah?”

His breath fans against the shell of your ear. “Need y’real bad…” The tip of his nose drags along the junction of your neck, lips kissing behind your ear. “Been thinkin’ about y’all day.”

His admission makes your body run warm. “Oh… that’s sweet, Frankie, but… I wanna finish this first.” You slip away to grab another article of clothing from the basket, folding it and stacking it on the shirt you finished with earlier. 

Frank lets you keep up the act of folding laundry over the flat top of the washing machine, trigger finger twitching as he resists the urge to end the scene and actually help you with the chore (it’s what he would do outside of the scene, after all, help free up your schedule so you can both freely indulge in each other).

Your lover remains behind you, unmoving and patient. By the fourth shirt you’ve folded, he crowds you again, his chest pressed to your back, hands petting your hips. “Clothes can wait. I’ll help you after. Promise.”

“Frank…” His hands slip under your shirt, squeezing at the plush of your midsection with a satisfied sigh. His movements remain gentle, but his presence was so solid that it left little wiggle room with how he hounded you into the washer.

“C’mon, sweetheart. Don’t you like it when I touch you like this?”

“I do but—but not right now-”

“Shh, sh… j’s let it happen, baby. Promise I’ll make it good f’r you. I always make y’feel good don’t I?”

There’s truth to his statement, no instance of laying with Frank had ever left you unsatiated. And god, his tone. Just the right amount of condescension. No screaming, no yelling, but still so heavy with intention. You feel warm between your legs.

You’re sinking deeper into the scene, back arching against your lover’s body.

“You do, Frank. But I don’t want it right now.” You keep your voice soft, near embarrassed, even. Indulging in your role.

He kisses your shoulder, hips pressing your lower half onto the washing machine. You feel his fingertips caress the underside of your breasts.

“Color, sweetheart.” He murmurs, quiet, nearly drowned out by the sound of the washer.

“Green, Frankie—” He nods, his hands cupping your chest and thumbing at your nipples. “M-mm—what’re you doing? Didn’t I say—”

“Shh, sh. Jus’ lean back into me. I’ll handle the rest.”

“No—”

One of his hands sinks lower along your body, slipping between your legs, cupping you over your thin shorts. “S’okay. You’re okay.”

He notices. The subtle way you spread your thighs to accommodate his hand before squeezing them closed again, the way you let yourself sigh in pleasure before uttering your protests, the way you let the smallest of moans slip before telling him no.

He appreciates the signals, uses them to commit to the act more for you.

You feel him back away from you, and for a moment you’re worried if he’s okay. Before you can ask, Frank’s turning you around to face him, slotting his hips against yours, pinning you against the washing machine, your weight partially on him.

Frank leans in to pepper insistent kisses along your neck and shoulders as you try to squirm away, slowly but firmly pushing at his chest.

He doesn’t move an inch even when you apply more force to your hands. The realization goes straight to your cunt. He’s just so strong.

“Color, Frankie?” You whisper, checking in.

Frank didn’t expect to be the one asked this. His demeanor softens, hands stilling behind your upper back, under your shirt. “Green, sweetheart.”

You nudge your head towards his own, and he takes the cue to meet you for a kiss.

“Get off me, Frank—” You whine, tone dusted with a hint of faux panic. He feels your hands push at his chest again but he remains steady, unmoving. His only response to your squirming being a continuously heavy handed gentleness.

“I’ll make y’feel good, sweetheart. Jus’ gotta let it happen—” You shake your head no, but he chances your lips in a kiss, and that brings you to momentarily still, groaning in pleasure against his lips before you start to make a fuss again.

He pulls away and your mouth opens. Your next complaint dies on your tongue as Frank’s fingers are on your clit.

“Wait—no. Don’t, I-”

“Shh, sh sh. Why wait when I can make y’feel good right now, sweetheart? C’mon.” He coos, pressing your foreheads together.

Your brows are drawn, face flushed and mouth agape. Frank feels the way your hips are trying to jut into his hand and he makes no comment on it. He hikes you up just a bit higher to let your butt rest partially on the top of the washer, slipping your shorts off of you so he can run his thumb along your clit .

“Look at’you. Y’r wet, sweetheart. Want this just as much as I do.”

“That’s not how it works—” You bark back.

“S’okay if y’don’t think that. But this pretty pussy needs me, doesn’t she?” He coos, applying more pressure to your nub.

“No, stop—ngh-” Your protests die out into whimpers.

“That’s it… let me, sweetheart.” He kisses along your neck, sucking a hickey onto your skin.

You’re trying to push at his shoulders, but end up holding onto them instead. “A-aah—”

“Yeah,” Frank’s voice makes your head spin with arousal. “Thought so.”

Frank leans into your ear to whisper. 

“Yellow, sweetheart. Hold still. Don’t want it to hurt.”

You recognize the momentary slip in character. Your body relaxes, head resting on Frank’s shoulder.

“That’s it. Good girl.”

“Mm…”

“Doin’ okay?”

You can’t help but smile at his concern. “Yeah. You?”

“Peachy.”

A groan leaves you as Frank pushes two fingers inside, aided by his earlier stretch. Only when he pulls his head away do you return to your role. “Frank, I swear to god—”

“Shh…” He silences you with a kiss, one hand between your legs and the other supporting your back. He finds your sweet spot with practiced ease and drinks in the moan you can’t help but let out. Your expression is one of frustration, brows drawn and trying hard to glare at Frank.

Your nipples are stiff, peeking from your shirt. Frank leans in to suckle on them, the slick of his spit mixing with the rubbing of the fabric of your shirt driving you insane.

Your hands cradle his head for a brief moment before you’re trying to push him away by the shoulders again to no avail.

“Frank! Let me go—”

He’s groaning into your chest, alternating between peaks until you’re left with two wet spots on your shirt. He blows air onto them and watches you shiver at the change in temperature.

“Stop that!” You yelp, but your hips say otherwise, moving back onto his hand as his fingers grind against your sweet spot.

“Nah, nah.” He shakes his head. “Think you want somethin’ but y’don’t wanna admit it. My girl’s just too stubborn, but her pretty pussy’s so needy, ain’t she?”

He leans in for a soft kiss, letting you catch your breath. “C’mere. Know exactly what to do with you.”

“What…”

He slowly pulls his fingers out of you, lets go of you for a brief moment and you hear the familiar clinking of his belt as he shucks his pants lower. The anticipation doesn’t last long, Frank pulls your hips forward towards him, you’re now barely sitting on the top of the washing machine. His grip on your thighs tight. 

You feel your mouth water at the sound. “No, no no—” 

He aligns himself with a hand at the base of his length. You feel the tip of his fat cock nudging gently against your core.

“Need a color, baby.” He whispers. Your head spins at the idea of what’s next.

“Green… green, please—”

“Okay, sweetheart. I’ve got you. Shh, sh.” He caresses the back of your head with one hand, pressing your foreheads together. “Don’t hav’to beg.”

He seeks your hand, urges you to hold him. “Squeeze my hand real tight if it hurts, okay? I’ll stop.”

“Yeah. Okay…” You gnaw at your lip, need coursing through your veins. You nose at his shoulder. “Green, Frankie—”

“Alright, baby. I’m here.”

At your reassurance, his cock pushes into you. Slow and deliberate.

“A-ahh—stop!” You protest but don’t squeeze Frank’s hand. Frank takes that as your affirmative.

“Shhh, sh sh. This is f’r you. Always workin’ so hard. Let me reward you, sweetheart.”

“No, no no—” You wriggle your hips away, but Frank has one hand on small of your back.

It was exhilarating, your cunt hugs Frank’s length. You indulge in more sounds of protest, squirming against his hold only makes your walls tighten. 

“Look at you. Pretty pussy practically beggin’ for it with how well you’re takin’ me. Don’t tell me you don’t want it, baby.”

You’re shaking your head at his words, closing your eyes. Your voice is breathless as you exclaim. “Stop, stop—”

You let go of Frank’s hand to push at his shoulders. He takes the opportunity to support one of your thighs.

Frank keeps going, his hips thrusting slow. The angle makes it take a while longer for him to find your g-spot, but he does. Both of his hands now support your back.

Even despite the context of the scene, Frank was moving so gently, slow and deliberate with the way he massages your sweet spot with the tip of his cock. Your legs kick blindly, moans slip from your mouth. Your lover leans in to pepper more hickeys across your skin, making you tremble.

“Frank—I said s-stop—”

“S’okay… this is f’r you sweetheart. Let me get y’there. Make you feel good. Doesn’t it feel good?”

“No.” You pant. “I don’t want it right now, I told you—”

“Shh, sh… jus’ hold on to me, c’mon sweetheart.” Your hands do as he says before you can register it, nearly hugging him as he pushes up into you. “Promise I’ll help y’with the laundry after. I always do, don’t I?”

“Y-yeah—” That wasn’t a lie. Frank got into the habit of doing laundry more than you did.

“See? Just think you need a break from all these chores, always workin’ so hard.”

“That’s not—I said I didn’t—” Your breath feels like it's getting punched out of your lungs. Your core throbs, body warm with arousal.

“Shh…” He leans in to kiss you again, and you immediately switch into compliance. You forget what you were going to argue in that instance.

Your sounds of complaint die down into moans, head resting on Frank’s shoulder in faux defeat. He’s bucking into you slowly but so, so precisely that it's easy to melt into his hold.

“That’s it, sweetheart. Attagirl…” Frank purrs into your ear, cradling the back of your head with one hand. 

“Noo…” You whine, shaking your head against his shoulder feebly. Your hands weakly push at his chest. “H-hng—”

You could come like this, you think. There’s this familiar feeling of floatiness in you, brought about by a mix of everything in the scene, how well Frank was able to still feel so caring despite the context, how strong he was practically holding you up like this, how attentive he is to your body’s machinations, knowing exactly how to pull pleasure from you.

You sigh. Then, a sharp pain shoots up your ankle, makes you grit your teeth.

“Frank, yellow—”

Frank’s eyes widen, he pulls back immediately, hips halting but still making sure he’s supporting you. “What’s wrong, sweetheart?”

“Cramp—fuck.” You pat your left knee. “Ankle.”

Frank lifts you from the washer, gentle as he lays you down on the floor. “Alright, I’ve got you. Deep breaths.”

He straightens your foot, angles it to relieve the muscle. Finally, the tension releases and you lay flat on the floor of the laundry room, huffing a deep breath.

“You okay?” Frank inquires, still massaging your leg with soothing, intentful pressure.

“Yeah.” You giggle up at him, tracing his nose with your thumb. There’s a layer of embarrassment in your body language. “Sorry, I’m not much used to fucking anywhere else but in bed.”

His gaze softens, hand still kneading at your ankles. Frank chuckles, kissing your knee affectionately.

“S’okay. ‘Bout time we moved to the bed.” He noses along your knee. “Still wanna keep goin’?”

“Yes please, oh and… can you…” You sit up and he helps you. Taking the opportunity to lean into his ear, you whisper. “Carry me over your shoulder? Then I’ll go and flail around a bit.”

Frank amusedly shakes his head at your request, boyish grin gracing his features. “Sure, sweetheart.”

He helps you stand, then he hoists you over his shoulder easily.

“Frank! What’re you doing—” You shriek, unable to stop a few giggles from leaving you. To your credit, you do manage to accompany it with some gentle hits to his back using your fists while your legs flail around in the air.

“Gonna feel much better for you in bed.” He pats the plush of your ass gently as he pads over to the bedroom.

He sets you on the mattress, pins your body down with his. Frank lets you catch your breath before continuing. You’re panting from your earlier antics, hands on his shoulders.

Frank takes a moment to himself to simply admire you. Your face is flushed, mouth agape, just a hint of a smile on your face as you look up at him. He can’t help but press his lips to yours, and he relishes in the way you push back into him with even more fervor than his approach.

You’re both panting when you pull away. So much for letting you catch your breath.

“Color, sweetheart?” Your lover asks, nosing along your shoulder.

“Green.” You smile up at him.

“Let me get back in slow, okay?” He cups your face, sees you nod. His other hand moves to spread your legs but you’ve beat him to the act, already having your legs wide open for him.

You’re both sighing when he pushes inside and bottoms out.

He waits. You nod at him. You’re back to protesting once he starts moving.

“Shh, sh. Sh. Don’t run from me.” He coos. “Only gonna make y’feel good.”

“B-but—”

Frank is holding your hips flush against his own and the bed beneath you, thrusting into you deep. He’s going slow, but the strength in his movements were undeniably present with the way he has you unable to move away from him past your futile attempts at wriggling.

There’s drool pooling at the corner of your lips, your vision hazy with pleasure. “Stay right there n’ lemme make you feel good, sweetheart. Be good.” Frank’s tone is gravelly and low as he thrusts into you.

His words make your body tense, heels digging into the sheets. Frank was so solid above you, so present and unyielding. That familiar, achy feeling of your approaching orgasm making itself more known. Your eyes close, cunt gripping at Frank’s length.

“You like this?”

“Yes— I, no! I don’t—” Frank chuckles at your answer, half relieved and half amused at you clearly having fun with this.

“I think you do, sweetheart. No need t’be shy.”

You whine, unable to say anything at this point, mind too blissed out to form words. Shaking your head is the most you can muster over your groans with each of Frank’s well placed thrusts.

Your hands are pushing him by his chest and shoulders but your legs are locked behind his hips, body just wanting him near while your mind still tries to keep up with the role you set yourself to act out.

“Look at’you, baby. I can’t even pull away if I try. You want me right here, don’t you? Try to push me away but you want my cock right here inside you.” His breathing is laboured, shaky, groans slipping past in the manner that makes your blood run hot.

“Y’needed this real bad, but y’don’t wanna admit that.” He grunts when you end up nodding into his shoulder. “S’okay—never hav’to work yourself tired. Not while I’m here. I’ll make sure y’always rest good, yeah? Gonna fuck you so good every time so y’can relax.”

“Stop—”

“Nah, know exactly how my girl likes it, she’s just a little too stubborn sometimes. But I’m here. I’ll put y’to bed. Make it so y’don’t have to think so much all the damn time.” Each thrust has Frank bumping into your sweet spot just right. Your vision is blurry, eyes closing without realizing.

“Yeah, yeah. Just takes some convincin’ huh? Just need me t’push you a bit. S’for y’r own good.” His words make your cunt clench, the sound of him pushing into your slick drenched walls obscene.

“Fraaank—”

“Feels good, don’t it? I feel it, sweetheart. S’okay to admit it… won’t judge ya.”

“No!”

The pleasure’s all but consumed your willpower to stay in character. The way Frank was fucking you, slow, gentle, but so so present, hitting all the right spots, holding you down so deliciously with just enough wiggle room for you to stretch your back out when you arch it. The way he spoke, using this sweet, caring tone to thinly veil the subtle condescension you were craving.

You can’t help it.

“Frankie—”

“Yeah? 

“It feels good—” Finally admitting it felt just as good as all the physical sensations.

“Attagirl.”

Frank leans in close, whispering praise into your ears. How you’re taking him so well, how he’s doing this for you, how all you need to do is lay back and let him fuck you stupid.

You’re unaware of the drool slipping past the corner of your lips.

“You’re close, ain’t ya, sweetheart? Huggin my dick like a damn vice.” Frank groans, thrusts deep and grinding right into your most sensitive parts. “So good, baby. C’mon. Come all over my cock. S’all yours. All yours. I’ll take care o’the rest.”

“I—I…” You whine. “Frank!”

One of your legs is over the back of his hips, another kicking at the sheets. You’re too fucked out of your mind to keep up the act.

Your back arches, thighs trembling, a shout coming from your open mouth as you climax. Your arms are holding onto him like he’s a lifeline, body convulsing against his own steady, sturdy form.

Now Frank’s on the receiving end of being trapped, tanking the full force of your clenching walls as they milk his cock. He groans, loud and gravelly, into your shoulder, hips unable to move from the sheer pull of your legs now recrossed behind him.

“Oh fuck, sweetheart—”

Your moans are loud, ricocheting off the walls of the bedroom as Frank’s own orgasm overcomes his body. You’re groaning right into his ear, thighs trembling with the force of your pleasure. Your nails claw at his back, pulling him closer.

“T-that’s it—yeah, yeah, I’ve got you.” His arms are caged around your head as he presses his body into you. You’re still squirming, still clenching around his sensitive cock and it makes him hiss. “S-sh—shh shhh…”

Debauched noises slip past your throat with each pant as you come down. Frank lets his hands wander, his own heavy breathing filling the room. He’s still inside you, his thighs flexing with how sensitive he finds himself to be.

There’s a heaviness to your limbs from all the earlier thrashing. The slightest hint of a headache throbs at your temples from your prior shouting. You let your eyes close, you feel Frank prop himself up on his hands, watching you under him.

His rough palm caresses your cheek, thumbing at sweat on your forehead. “You okay, baby? How d’you feel?”

You will yourself to open your eyes, meeting Frank’s worried gaze. His expression softens when you give him a satisfied smile.

“So good…” You're breathing deep, still not quite calm but so, so thoroughly satisfied.

“Y’sure? Y’hurtin’ anywhere?” He shifts to pull himself out but is met with your locked legs behind his hips refusing his exit. “Sweetheart—”

“Stay, please…” You whisper, cupping his face, tapping the red tip of his nose with your pointer finger. Your chest is still heaving as you catch your breath.

Frank relents, nods as he rests your foreheads together. He’s silent for a few moments and you take the opportunity to speak.

“Y’did so good earlier…” Frank looks away at your praise, pushing his nose into your palm at his cheek.

“Yeah?” He grunts, pulling back to see you more clearly, newfound fervor in his veins. “Changed a lot about the scene.”

“You made it so much better than what I had in mind…” There’s this sleepy, blissed out lilt to your voice that Frank takes pride in.

“That right?”

“Mhm…” You hum. “You’re so sweet to me… Y’talk to me so nice.” A droopy smile is on your face.

“Like talkin’ t’you nice, sweetheart.” He murmurs. Eyes trained on you like a dog waiting for a treat.

“Mmm, y’touch me so nice too. Always feels so good.”

“Yeah?”

“Mhm.”

There’s still this dash of hesitation on his features despite your feedback that you’re quick to pick up on. You speak again.

“You okay? There’s something y’r not telling me…” You scratch the back of his scalp idly with both hands and Frank sighs at the feeling.

He looks both ways before addressing you again. “Sweetheart, you know I… I uh—” There’s a tenderness to his gaze, eyes begging for something you can’t quite piece together without more information from him.

“Won’t ever actually hurt y’like that, sweetheart, you know that, right?”

It clicks.

Your expression softens and you nod, cupping Frank’s face and relishing in the way he leans into your touch like an obedient dog. “I do… I know you won’t Frankie. Remember? The only reason it works is because I know you’ll never actually do that to me. It’s just roleplay.”

He nods, “Didn’t want y’to be afraid of me after.”

“I’m not. It’s just pretend.”

“Yeah… just pretend.” He sighs, relief flooding his veins. “Y’still feel safe? With me?”

“Always. Thank you for doing that for me.”

Your lover nods. “Course.”

Your thumbs trace circles along his cheek. Plenty of time passes with the two of you settled like that, Frank still inside you and laid atop you. You’re idly petting the back of his broad shoulders, feeling the ridges from your earlier scratches. “I should put some lotion on these.”

“Later. I’ll get’ya some water.” He murmurs, waits for you to nod before adjusting to slip out of you.

He comes back with two cold bottles of water, handing one to you and sipping half of his own. Frank climbs back into bed and takes the opportunity to spread your thighs open to check for any bruising.

He’s relieved to find none, transfixed by the way his come has started to leak out of you. It was sweet how he was always the first one to check over you every after sex (albeit a bit embarrassing with how straightforward he was about it). (Whenever you’d thank him for it he’d grumble about how it was just ‘how it should be.’ Typical Frank.)

You set your water bottle aside, unable to close your legs with how Frank had laid his head on your tummy. You don’t mind, lazily running your hands through his thick dark hair.

“Sweetheart?”

“Hm?”

There’s a pause, as if he’s debating speaking. “Think you can take some more? Want to kiss your pussy.”

Your face immediately feels warm, expression one of surprise. Frank’s looking at you with those deep, now black eyes of his, pupils blown out at the mere sight of your pussy earlier. “Oh—”

You can’t help but bite your lip before answering. “Go ahead, Frankie.”

He whispers his gratitude against your slick folds like a prayer and you reward him by pulling him closer, in the exact way he craves, reminding him that you want him just as much as he wants you.

—

You’re fresh from a quiet, comfortable shower, laid in bed.

“You really like it when I ask you for… things, don’t you.” The assumption leaves your lips after much silent deliberation, recalling the entire debacle before the scene and Frank’s stubborn insistence on fulfilling your desires.

He chuckles. “Yeah. You know I uh… I like it when y’put me to work.”

You’re soft, tender with your lover’s ever present affection and devotion. “Thank you for trying it for me, I know you weren’t the biggest fan of the idea at first.”

He nuzzles into your hand. “S’okay... Enjoyed doin’ it for you.” It makes him feel like a creep to admit, but he’s really less focused on the role he played and more of the fact that doing so was service to you, that he feels capable when he can meet your wants. He knows that you’re the one who asked for this specifically, that he’s as safe here with you as you are with him, under your newly changed sheets and burrito blanket that you two are sharing surrounded by the white noise of the rain against the window.

He leans in. “Y’came real hard, sweetheart. Felt like y’were going to snap me in half.”

“Hey!” You snicker, swatting at his face as he nuzzles into your shoulder.

“Kiddin’, m’kiddin’...” He murmurs in between kisses to your forehead and nose. Frank sighs, drinks in your warmth like a cold beer after a long day. He could fall asleep here, just settled beside your softness, his hands holding your back from under your shirt and his nose nuzzled between the valley of your breasts.

Your stomach grumbles.

He blinks.

A shit eating grin forms on Frank’s face. “All that squirming and yelling got’ya hungry.”

“Shut up!” You retort.

He shakes his head. “See, I was about to ask y’what you wanted to eat. But since you want me to shut up—”

You gawk at him and how he’s clearly entertained. “No, don’t shut up!”

Frank laughs at your reaction, feels the smile on your face as you hide in the crook of his neck.

—

Regardless of the earlier bickering under the covers, he carries you to the kitchen and cooks you a hearty plate of dinner while you busy yourself with making each of you some iced drinks.

Both of you enjoy the simple meal, clean up, and run back to bed. You’d just finished finding a perfect spot for your head on Frank’s chest when you remember something you’d both forgotten.

“Frank… the laundry—”

that’s why there were no words exchanged as he fucked you hard and deep, only the sounds of the bedframe creaking, his heavy balls slapping against your ass, and the occasional hiss of your name that always made you whimper louder from how scarce it is.

and you never minded, you know how he is.

so you kept clinging onto him, your body shivering as you felt the cold beskar through the thin nightgown you somehow left in his cabin. you moan out his name, how good he makes you feel, and the fact that you can sense how his cock would throb under every compliment you give him.

when the tension snapped, he’d let out a rare groan as you came, squeezing his cock so tight he followed. his white pearly seeds spilling inside you, filling you so deep and full you could feel his stickiness inside your guts—warming you from your insides.

and again, no words. but his aftercare? out of this galaxy.

he’d pull you into his chest the moment you calmed down, those deliciously big arms wrapping you like he’s afraid you’d be gone if he held you too loosely, he’s so gentle with one hand cradling the back of your head and his fingers tangled in your hair, the other running back and forth against your spine underneath your nightgown—all calming you down from the high he just made you experience.

he would bring fresh water, slightly cooled, just like how he remembers you preferring it, tipping the canteen down to your lips ever so carefully. the action helps you drink slowly, hydrating dry lips and a raspy throat from hours of crying out for him.

wrapping a warm cloak around your shoulders, tucking your hair behind your ears, before pulling you back onto his lap. lulling you into the comforting warmth as his helmet rests softly against your covered shoulder.

“shhh… take a deep breath,” the first real sentence he said since he’s inside you. his voice still muffled through the modulator, the raspy voice you enjoy listening too much now laced with a certain tenderness he only shows with you.

and you can’t see it, but you feel how his eyes would burn into you. checking your face to see if there’s any hidden pain, making sure you were okay again and again, like once wasn’t enough. or maybe he just loves seeing how pretty you are, even after the amount of roughness he gave.

gone was the skillful mercenary that half of the galaxy was scared of. he was never that with you.

“you good?” he asked softly, fingers moving just to wipe the sweat dripping on your forehead.

you nodded, a soft and weak smile etched on your face from the overwhelming pleasure you experienced and how cherished you felt.

and then he did the impossible. lifting up his helmet just the slightest, so he could kiss your forehead tenderly. his lips are burning your skin with how it lingers, making you freeze.

before you could say anything, he closed it back down. “sleep,” he whispered, fingers now brushing your cheekbones as he carefully lay you down, pulling up a spare fabric and tucking you under it and onto his chest.

“i’ll stay. thank you,” his tone so delicate it hurts, as his arms tightened around you, fingers absentmindedly running along your back before you fall asleep in his embrace.

and he made it happen, the promise of staying, never letting you wake up alone, and would always be there for you, that is, until he has to go, taking down one target at a time.

a/n: the credits rolled in and i immediately thought of this.

You’re usually the one in control.

Even when he’s on top, inside you, it’s your voice that guides him. Your hand in his hair, your lips against his ear telling him how good he’s doing. And Matt lives for that. Even now, a few months after that disastrous first time where he lasted all but 30 seconds before spilling into you. He needed it. Needed your direction and approval. But tonight? Something’s different.

You’re underneath him panting, your thighs shaking, and he’s got a rhythm going that he knows is working. Deep, steady strokes, hips grinding just right against your sweet spot with each thrust. He has a hand on the back of one of your knees, pushed up towards your chest to change the angle just enough that every thrust makes you both gasp.

And then he starts talking.

“Taking me so well,” he groans into your ear. “F-Feel so good around me, baby.” You let out a quiet whine. Not one word, no teasing remark. He keeps going. “Such a pretty pussy,” he grunts, a little shy but unable to stop himself. “God, you feel unreal.”

Your head falls back. Your fingers clutch the sheets. You try to say something, maybe Matty or fuck, but it comes out a broken and pathetic cry that barely counts as a syllable. And Matt stiffens slightly. Not with panic but disbelief. He pants, hips still rolling, “Are you...?”

You whimper again. Eyes lidded, mouth open, seemingly unable to even think. “Oh God,” he breathes, voice shaking. His thrusts stutter. He’s trying so hard to keep his rhythm, but he’s losing it, because the way you feel right now? Your eyes glazed over, your chest heaving, your breath caught in your throat like you’ve forgotten how to speak. And God, those whines. He’s never heard anything better.

“Fuck,” he groans, thrusting deeper, harder now, chasing it. “That’s so hot. That’s so hot," he whines, "Baby, are you even here?” You blink up at him, glassy-eyed, lips parted like you’re trying to form a word but can't. Matt loses his mind. He leans in, kisses you messily, you part your lips further allowing him to slip his tongue in. After thoroughly exploring your mouth, he presses his forehead to yours. “You always do that to me,” he whispers. “Always make me stupid. Thought I’d never get to see you like this.”

You clutch at him, nodding frantically. He's not sure if you're agreeing about his usual behavior or about also enjoying this state he's somehow reduced you to. “Want me to keep going?” he asks, voice low and unsure. “Want me to... to make you come like this?”

You manage one word.

"Please."

──────── ୨୧ ────────

You’re still blinking up at the ceiling, mouth parted, chest rising and falling like you just ran a mile. Your legs feel like lead, muscles twitching, hair stuck to your neck with sweat. Matt’s still hovering over you. His adorable cheeks are flushed and glowing. Smiling like he’s trying to be cool, but his dimples are giving him away. “So…” he says, brushing your hair back gently. “That was… something.” You blink at him. Still barely there. Fuzzy. Boneless.

He smirks a little, “You okay, baby?” You nod slowly. “I think… I saw stars.” He beams. “Yeah?” he says, trying for casual. But it comes out a little breathless, “Like… actual stars?” You laugh weakly and cover your face. “Oh my God.” He leans in and kisses your cheek, your jaw, your shoulder. Matt pulls back enough to face you again, eyes bright, biting his lip like he’s trying not to beg for approval. “Was it…” He pauses, cheeks turning just a little pink. “I mean, was it me? That did that?” You peek up at him through your lashes, “Matty.”

“I just...” He scratches the back of his neck. “I felt you. Your, your legs were shaking. And you weren’t talking. And you always talk.” You huffed a little, your hand weaving its way into his hair and stroking absently. “I was trying,” you mumble, tugging him down on top of you. “You broke my brain.” His breath catches. “Oh,” he says. Voice gone small. “Cool. That’s… that’s cool.” But his hips twitch against yours like he wants to do it again already. You feel it. And you laugh, tugging gently at his hair, “You’re smug.”

“I’m not!” He grins, ducking into your neck. “Okay. Maybe a little.” You chuckle, wrapping your legs around his waist lazily. “Gonna get cocky now?” He pauses, then mumbles, "Can I?” You bark a laugh, “Absolutely not.”

“Okay. That’s fair.” A pause. “But also I kinda want to try that again. For science.” You raise a brow. “You wanna try to break me again?” He lifts his head out from its hiding place in your neck. “Not break,” he says sweetly, kissing your lips. “Just, you know." Take care of you the way you always take care of him.

And then you moan a little into his next kiss.