Malina the Wise

He thought it would be sweet. That despite everything he was, all of his sharp edges and brute strength, he could make the memory of the first time he took you one that was untouched by pain and violence and all the other harsh things that came with being hunters.

But then this job had landed in their laps and they had been too damn quick following the first lead to the mark they got instead of doing some real digging on the guy like you usually insisted.

I don’t like surprises, you would usually tell him but this time exhaustion held your caution behind your teeth. The result of running on the fumes from too many hunts and barely any time to take breaks until all of that ragged bone-deep weariness had begun to creep in, leaving you itching to get this job out of the way so you could finally rest.

And of course, in the end, it bit you in the ass.

You had entered the club with only the knowledge that your mark frequented the place and it had all gone to shit almost ridiculously fast.

The drink that had been brought to your table, the server announcing cheerfully that first ones of the night are always on the house, had been laced. The effects taking hold of you the moment the last drop passed your lips.

And Din had watched, confused, as your eyes had become glazed. Lids heavy and gaze transfixed on the writhing bodies that crowded the glittering dancefloor.

He had asked you a question, 'any sign of the bounty?', and it was like you couldn’t hear him, like he was calling to you through water when he raised his voice to say your name.

Instead, you’d remained rooted in place at the edge of your seat– white-knuckling the smooth leather until he hesitantly placed his hand on your knee and then you had jerked. Snapping out of a trance like he’d burned you, a gasp caught in your throat and your chest heaving whilst you blinked at him.

“What–what is it?” You had demanded breathlessly and if he hadn’t been suspicious that something wasn’t right before, he certainly was then. There was a tremor to your voice he had never heard before and where his gloved hand still remained curved around your knee, heat seared through the worn leather and scorched his palm.

"Are you okay?" He'd asked, his gaze raking over you in a way he'd previously refused to allow himself.

You were wrapped in a silky little dress the colour of the midnight sky. The neckline dipping to reveal the swell of your breasts and the hemline short enough that the bare skin of your legs had seemed endless when you'd first sauntered towards him as he'd waited for you outside the crest.

Din hadn't been able to look at you for more than a few seconds at a time because he knew if he took any longer he wouldn't be able to think clearly.

He wouldn't have been able to concentrate on the job with the image of those legs wrapped around his waist blaring through his skull–that lipstick-stained mouth parted around a moan of his name as he imagined rutting into you.

But he let himself stare then– shoving down those thoughts so he could assess the situation properly. His heart dropping to his stomach as he took in the sweat that beaded at your hairline, the weak tremble of you hand as you lifted it to your forehead in an attempt to swipe the moisture away.

You glanced at him nervously as you did so, chewing your lip. “I don’t feel right, Mando.” You murmured. “Everything feels too tight, like I’m about to burst.”

He had scooted closer then, slid right along the plush seat of the booth to fit himself to your side as his thumb rubbed small circles over the flesh of your knee.

It was supposed to be a comfort, an unspoken gesture that he was there–that you were safe.

But instead you had groaned like he’d shoved his hand through your chest and gripped something vital, the sound of it nearly making him choke on his damn tongue as he thanked the maker that his helmet hid the way he’d had to sink his teeth into his lip to bite back a moan.

“Don’t stop please.” You begged, pressing your own hands over his when he went to remove it. “It hurts when you’re not touching me.”

His eyes had narrowed at that.

It sounded familiar– wisps of old tales floating around in his head before he remembered one about a poison that made you crave others, that made your blood boil beneath your skin until you found someone to offer the pleasure necessary to sate the all-encompassing need.

But how?

You hadn’t been out of his sight all day. You hadn’t ingested anything the two of you hadn’t personally made, except…

His gaze snapped to the glass you had recently drained, remnants of the shimmering liquid still clinging to the edges and he can smell it as he takes it in his hand to inspect it closer. That sickly-sweet smell, the strong blend of fruit and something synthetically syrupy.

He could suddenly feel eyes on him and when he looked up the server that gave you the drink is staring at him with wide, terrified eyes– face paling as Din’s suspicion brewed to a blinding fury that gathered around his head like a storm.

It had been intentional then. No doubt the bounty had caught wind that they were on his take and had taken measures to slow them down.

He would kill them for it–both of them. Would rip them apart and leave the mark of his violence behind in the mess of their insides as a warning should anyone else even think of coming for them in the future.

No one touched her and lived.

His vision had seeped red. His blood spitting in his veins before it surged with panic as your hand flew to your stomach and your expression crumpled into something agonised.

“Fuck.” He hissed when you hunched over beside him with a sharp cry of pain. “I need to get you out of here, now.”

“What about the bounty?” You panted, looking up at him through the fringe of your lashes that were wet with unshed tears.

You had looked so small in that moment– a far cry from the ruthless hunter people would whisper about after you had swept through their town. It made his chest ache, briefly drowning out that insatiable temper of his as he gathered you to his chest and raised a hand to cup your cheek.

“What’s happening to me, Mando?”

“Your drink was laced with an aphrodisiac, he probably knew we were following him.” He said as gently as he could, thumb stroking the swell of your flushed cheek as alarm rippled across your features. “I don’t think it’s lethal but I need to get you back to the ship before the effects get any worse. Can you stand?”

Instead of an answer you fucking whimpered. The needy sound of it shooting heat straight through his gut as your eyes grew dark beneath the flutter of your lashes and your fingers curled tight into his cowl.

Was it his touch or his voice that had prompted such a reaction?

Whichever it was you suddenly looked like you wanted to devour him and Din had to swallow down the fierce sweep of desire that urged him to let you.

To drag you onto his lap and lay himself at your mercy, the words 'use me, take what you need, whatever you want it’s yours' clawing savagely up his throat whilst he grit his teeth and wrenched his face away from yours to scan their surroundings.

They would have to exit through the back. The club was too crowded, with too many bodies between them and the main entrance, all packed tight, and when Din had stood to get a better look, another sight had stopped him dead.

Guards at the door.

One’s that definitely hadn’t been there when you both entered and he’s almost certain are slyly watching every move he makes as he quickly tugged you to your feet and bundled you into his side.

He wanted desperately to believe it was paranoia.

That it was in no way related to the poison working its way through your systemn, that the two of you were going to get outside and be able to make your way to the ship without an issue.

He’d never wanted to believe something so much in his life.

**

It was a trap.

Deep down, Din had known it as they’d stumbled into the quiet of dark corridors– the lingering thump of the music pulsing beneath his boots.

He’d known it when your legs had buckled and he’d scooped you up in his arms, cradling you to his chest like a newborn babe before he’d broke out into a run and nearly kicked the door of its hinges as they’d reached it.

But he hadn’t truly allowed himself to acknowledge it until he’d come face to face with the steel fence chained shut and the sound of a dozen footsteps descending upon them.

When he'd heard the door shut, the decisive click of the lock, and his rage had soared. You were sick and though he was sure it wasn’t lethal he couldn’t shake the feeling like he was running out of time to get you help.

And they were stood in his way.

So he lowered you carefully to the ground, his lungs tightening when a weak groan rattled from your throat as you sank back against the fence and hugged your knees to your chest.

“Did you really think you could take me down in my own club, Mandalorian?”

He needed to swallow down all that burning anger and think, needed to focus on the best way he could take them all out without letting a single one near you.

But then the bounty had made the mistake of looking past the vengeful mass of him to where you were curled up on the ground and any thoughts of a quick and calculated fight were snatched right out of his head.

“Pretty partner you’ve got there.” He’d leered, dragging his tongue over his lip. “She must be dying for someone to fuck her right about now. Maybe after I've killed you, I'll keep her as my whore and fuck that pretty pussy right next to your corpse.”

A terrifying sound had followed–something dark and ragged, drenched in a murderous brand of fury, and then Din’s vision swam black.

Just as the saber ignited in his hand.

**

When he came to, he was panting.

And in the aftermath, there was a mass of bodies, slack mouths and bulging, glassy eyes caught in the horror of their final moments. The air stained with the stench of singed flesh and the metallic tang of blood.

He stared at the carnage he created in a daze until you croaked his name and his gaze shot to where you're sat, wide eyed and trembling, staring at him in disbelief.

Or maybe it was fear.

He had totally lost his head after all, had been absolutely unhinged in the way he took them apart, piece by piece– limb by limb.

Maybe you wouldn’t be able to look at him the same now that he’d discovered what he was truly capable of when it came to you, the darkness that lay in wait ready to gorge itself on violence and spilled blood.

He approached you slowly with hands splayed wide in front of him, hesitation etched in every rigid line of him, as if one wrong move would send you scurrying away. But then, to his utter surprise, your lips quirked–voice cracking with a rasping chuckle.

“I’m not scared of you, Din.”

When he knelt before you, you reached for him easily. Lacing your fingers through his and pressing his gloved hand to the dewy skin of your cheek. “I was scared for you. I've never felt so fucking useless but then you– you did that and I–fuck–”

His voice went low before he could stop it, thick honey over gravel, a wicked flare of heat licking through his belly as your eyes suddenly burned dark. The black of your pupils drowning out their colour. “You what? Tell me.”

There was a second where you simply stared at him, lip drawn between your teeth and the admission weighing on your tongue as the space between you began to crackle and spark.

But then you took a long, shuddering breath and–

“I couldn’t take my eyes off you.” You whispered. “Seeing the way you ripped them apart for me, I liked it.”

Fuck.

He clenched his jaw, his free hand, his entire goddamn body. Everything he could to remain from lunging at you and burying himself inside you right there. It had to be the drug talking– it had to be.

At least that's what he was painstakingly trying to convince himself.

Because there were still remnants of that hungered energy within him, desperate for somewhere to go, and there you were telling him you had liked it, that you enjoyed him killing for you, when he was trying his best to be fucking honourable.

He tried to say your name, tried to curl his tongue around the letters in a way that wasn’t dripping want, but then you’d gasped and your heated expression dissolved into something frighteningly pained, tears springing into your eyes as you folded in on yourself.

His arms were around you in a second, his tone bleeding panic as he frantically scooped you up “We need to get you to the ship now.”

“It’s too late.” You sobbed as your body convulsed, arching and bending until he had no choice but to set you on your feet. His body pinning yours to the fence and his hands clamped around the curves of your hips to hold you up. “It hurts so much– please, Din–"

"We can make it. Let me carry you–I'll run and we'll get you the help you need. Some medicine or something."

"No, I can't wait that long." You whimpered. "I can't–I need you–I need you to touch me."

There was something close to defeat in the way he held himself as your hands came to cup the cheeks of his helmet, the gentle touch pleading. He didn't want it to have to be this way but stars, he didn't think he could handle you being in pain much longer either.

He should have protected you better, moved faster, fought harder.

He should have got you back to the ship the moment he realised something wasn't right, and then maybe you wouldn't have had to beg a man you had no interest in to violate you.

“This isn’t what you want, sweet girl.” He sighed, guilt bitter in his chest. “Trust me, as soon as the effects fade you'll regret what you are asking of me.”

You frowned then, sweat-damp brow wrinkling in a way that made Din ache to smooth out with his thumb as you peered up at his visor. “You think this is just the drug?” You murmured. “That I don’t know my own mind? Stars, Din, I’ve wanted you to fuck me from the moment I saw you.”

His hands spasmed at that, clamping tight as a startled groan slipped from throat before he could choke it back. Were you trying to kill him? Did tou not have any idea how close his restraint felt to snapping from that confession alone.

“Fuck–you can’t just say something like that.”

But you were too far gone, pushing up against his armour and curling a hand around the nape of his neck to wrench him down so you can whisper in his ear.

“I think about it all the time, think about how good you’d feel.” Your fingers brushed over the fabric covering his swelling cock and he jolted. “Wondering how you’d fuck me, if you’d make me come on your cock over and over until I was ruined mess.”

Shit.

His brain had turned to liquid, he was sure of it.

He caught your wandering hand, grunting as you palmed at him before he could drag it away and pin it to the fence at the side of your head. Your breath hitched softly as his other hand drifted down, ghosting past the edge of your dress, the scrape of worn leather on your bare thighs making your hips jump against his hand.

He could fucking smell your arousal and it was driving him insane–his mouth watering as he parted your thighs with one of his own.

“Pretty little thing, is that what you want?” Din asked, voice hoarse. “You want me to ruin you?”

His fingers dared to slip further, dipping past the soaked material of your underwear and when he slid a knuckle through your folds, you gasped.

“Yes.”

**

It was all too overwhelming the moment he broke.

The second your simple yes cracked him open and his breath hitched before he was burying you further into the fence. His fingers grazing the peak of your clit whilst obscene noises burst from your throat, wild and desperate.

If felt so fucking good that you were almost blind with it. All that heat and need swirling to a central point in your belly that could explode at any moment, burning brighter with every rough stroke of Din's fingers and the low rasp of his voice in your ear.

"That's it, mesh’la– let me help you."

You didn't know any words after that– none other than his name at least and the gasping chant of don't stop don't stop don't stop.

When he snatched his hands away you thought you would actually cry, a devastated wail brewed from the depths of your lungs before he hushed you gently. The cold kiss of his beskar soothing against your sweat-slick face as he nuzzled you before a different sensation against your thighs startled you.

Skin. Calloused and warm and completely bare.

In the midst of your babbled pleading you had missed him tearing the gloves from his hands and if you had thought the contact had been electric before then this was something else entirely.

His skin against yours felt cataclysmic. The moan you made when he hitched your leg over his hip and sunk those thick fingers deep inside you, unhinged.

"I want to be able to feel you when you come for me." He told you lowly, purred it in your ear, and you choked as he pressed his thumb to your clit in the most maddeningly perfect circles until you spasmed. Soaking his hand as the tension in your lower stomach snapped violently.

You were lost then.

Boneless against him whilst he curved himself over you and continued stroking your pulsing walls so all of that swirling pleasure became flame again, burning hot and wild enough that it made you let loose a desperate sob. Burying your nails in his neck, the other hand fisted around his cloak as another climax slammed through the dying breaths of the first.

“Oh maker, Din.” You cried out, hips jerking into his hand, thighs trembling whilst he eased you through it. His touch gentler this time, sweet, like he could sense anything harsher would fray you apart at the seams.

There was the cool press of his helmet touching your temple, a calming gesture that clashed with the rapid rise and fall of both of your chests. “That's it,” he murmured, pride equal parts soft and heated on his tongue, “good girl.”

You could hear when he removed his fingers from inside you. The liquid slip that would have made your cheeks flame under normal circumstances but only made you burn for completely different reasons then.

Your own fingers darting out to circle his wrist before leading the slick digits to the tempting plush of your mouth.

He made a low, feral noise–the sound of your name rumbling from deep within his chest as you let the tips of his fingers rest against your lips. Waiting for him to take the next step which he did without hesitation, pressing down until your mouth parted for him and he slid his fingers into soft, wet heat.

You were still aching, still throbbing like a raw, open wound, but it was slightly more bearable now. The orgasms that Din drew from you taking the edge off just enough for you to have this indulgence. A hint of worship.

The slow lave of your tongue against his skin as he shivered. Hips rocking into the cradle of your pelvis, making you whine around his fingers when his clothed cock caught you just right.

He dragged his fingers from your mouth with a hissed curse, rubbing the spit-shine of your lip in a daze whilst the hand on your thigh flexed and tightened its grip.

“We shouldn’t, not here.” Din muttered, swearing under his breath when you deliberately rolled your hips. “You deserve better than this and it isn't safe.”

But you heard what he left unspoken.

We shouldn’t but I will if you want it. If you don't tell me to stop, I’ll fuck you right here– surrounded by the bodies I killed for you and regardless of who might come looking.

You would die before you asked him to stop.

Even if you weren’t beginning to tremble again, your heartbeat picking up to a gallop and cunt fluttering around nothing as each nudge of his cock against your sex swept a blistering need through your veins.

Even if the reminder of the lengths he was willing to go to keep you safe didn’t make you maddeningly desperate for him.

“I don’t care.” You breathed as your stomach clenched. “Please don’t make me wait that long, I need you inside me.”

He inhaled sharply then, his broad chest heaving whilst he cupped your chin and peered down at you. A split-second hesitation before he gave in yet again.

“You’re going to be the death of me begging like that,” He groaned and then his large hands were skimming over your belly. Stroking down until he reached your underwear and tore it from your body with a brutal yank before wrenching you against him as the remains fluttered to the ground.

You made a soft noise of surprise and he chuckled, rough and deep and utterly addictive. The sound of it making heat swell beneath your skin and between your thighs, your head going dizzy.

The desire you had for him was an unhinged thing. Even without the drug you knew that you would still feel like this, like he could unravel you completely with the simplest touch or glance. Your hands shaking as you fumbled with his belt whilst he watched intently.

He let you stroke him, once then twice. His length hot in your palm, throbbing beneath your fingers when the pad of your thumb dragged over the weeping head.

It stole a rough moan from somewhere deep in his chest and then he was on you. Hands wrapping around your thighs to lift you against the fence, thin metal biting into your back but any hint of pain drifts from your mind like smoke as his tip caught at your entrance.

He took it slow at first. Let you feel every inch of him stretching you open as he bit back a wrecked noise, your cunt gripping him like a hot, slick fist, until he sunk to the hilt and your eyes rolled back.

Oh. Oh fuck.

It was a lot.

It was so much that it felt like he’d reached something devastating. That when he drew his hips back to drive into you again, you screamed– back arching violently as your vision turned white.

You nearly bit through your tongue whilst he continued to move. Each bruising snap of his hips punching you further up the fence, fucking you into it, the shrill sound of metal ringing through the night air as it shook beneath Din's strength.

You had practically begged him to ruin you and he was without even trying.

You would feel him for days after this.

Maybe weeks.

You would feel him in the marks his nails would no doubt leave on your thighs from his unrelenting grip, the hard edges of his armour that were embedded in your softness as you wound yourself around him. The way he was carving you open with each frantic thrust, creating a space inside you that only he could ever fill.

The tendrils of pain that had began creeping through your system from the drug snapped to pleasure immediately. You could feel it coiling unbearably tight, growing molten, white hot sparks making your blood catch and your stomach twist in knots.

“Fuck.” You sobbed. Nails scraping down his back, desperately trying to find some kind of purchase as your head falls to his shoulder. “Din, I think–”

“I know, baby.” He grit, shifting slightly until the harsh spear of his cock suddenly hit something catastrophic over and over and over. Your breasts bouncing with every thrust and his body shuddering as your cunt tightened around him. “Come for me, that’s it. Shit–let me feel it.”

You fell apart with a ragged cry. Bursting hot and wet around him as his pace slowed to a hint of something less punishing so he could stare, dazed, at the place where you’re joined. His skin and his armour that was dripping with your release.

For a moment there was only the strained sound of his breathing through the vocoder and then he groaned. Low and filthy.

"You're so fucking perfect." He praised hoarsely, the rough scrape of his voice making you even more boneless as you trembled in his arms. "Maker. I want to taste you. After I'm done fucking you I'm going to carry you back to the ship and taste every inch of you, clean you up with my mouth, and then I'm going to fuck you again."

That scorched you. It made something in your belly stir again despite how sated you had felt only seconds ago, made you clench helplessly around him and Din choked at the feel of it. “Would you like that?” He asked, breathless. “Think you can give me another?”

His cock pulsed inside you and you found yourself wholly incapable of response, beyond words and thoughts and anything that wasn't trembling moans as his pace turned brutal. The wet squelch of your cunt taking him deep, almost embarrassingly loud in your ears.

He bore down on that place inside you that made stars burst behind your eyes with a savage focus and all too soon there was lightning snapping in your blood. The sensation of it flaring hot and sharp, gathering into something furious and terrifying as his name bubbled up past your lips in a weak chant.

“I can’t–fuck–Din, I need–”

He slid his helmet along your cheek, tipped his head down until his forehead rested on yours. The skin of his neck felt just as flushed as your own when you gripped it to hold him there against you. The dark curls that escaped his helmet tickling your fingers.

“Touch yourself, mesh’la. Come for me again and I’ll give you anything you want.”

You shakily dropped your hand between you, spreading your fingers around the place where his cock was punching up into you before your fingers slid up to brush over the crest of your sex.

Stars, you were soaked.

All swollen and slippery and the moment you circle your clit you snapped. Bursts of energy crashing through your body so violently that your head spun with it, your lungs squeezing achingly tight, and your nails sinking in his neck as you cried out.

It made Din go rigid–a wild noise tearing through his throat as you yanked him brutally into his own release. His vision faltering and hips stuttering before they fused against your own whilst he spilled deep inside you.

**

You were exhausted– beyond spent and over-stimulated as the burn of the drug died down enough that you could feel the ache of every muscle creeping in and the kind of sleepiness that would see you comatose for days.

Your eyes were in fact already beginning drooping when Din carefully set you back on your feet. His hands warm and clasped gently around your arms, holding you up so he could peer at you whilst you were trying your hardest to sway back into the comfort of his broad chest.

“Are you okay?” He murmured, concerned. “I didn’t go too hard did I?”

You blinked up at him stunned, silent for a beat as you recognised the flicker of nervousness in the way he spoke, the way he held himself.

You cradled his face then, or where the helmet sat above his cheeks, and pulled his forehead down to yours. “No, it was perfect.” You reassured him and he let out a soft breath before melting against you ever so slightly.

“There is a slight problem though.” You laughed quietly, thumbs absentmindedly stroking over smooth beskar as Din tilted his head.” We’re locked out here and there’s no way I can climb that fence. I can barely feel my legs.”

He chuckled then–the sound of it brushed smug as his fingers stroked down your arms. “Leave it to me, sweet girl.”

He rest you gently back against the fence and your eyes slipped closed almost immediately before popping back open when you heard a loud thrum followed by the short screech of tearing metal. Chains hitting the ground with a clinking thud.

Your breath stuttered as you watched him stalk back towards you, saber in his hand, gleaming beneath the haunting light of it.

It made him look even more powerful than he already was. And the memory of what he did for you with that weapon, the evidence of it still strewn across the dirt, slammed to the forefront of your mind and made your mouth run dry. A weak flutter stirring in your belly despite your exhaustion, that he in no way helped by pulling you into him and swinging you up in his arms.

You made a soft noise of surprise and it only encouraged him to hold you tighter. Sealing every inch of you against him that he could as he carried you back to the ship– his voice brimming with promise as he murmured,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thank you very much.”

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

“H-hey, Mando?”

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

“Yes?”

“I…. w-well…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Alright.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What’s this memory?”

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

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

“Was that before you came the Nevarro?”

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

“Ouch.”

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

“Something reliable,” he adds.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You like it. You like it a lot.

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

“Likewise,” you smile back.

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

“Sure. Sounds educational,” you joke.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Cheers.”

“Cheers.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A pause streches between you.

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

“Shit,” you tsk.

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

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

“Hey so… can I ask you something?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Mando… Have you ever kissed anyone before?”

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

Oh god, you really are drunk…

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

“Too much,” you broach gently.

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

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

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

“Sooo, I’ll take that as a no.”

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

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

Do not finish that thought…

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

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

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

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

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

“Well, you assumed wrong.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah… Me too.”

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

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

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

“I appreciate the hospitality.”

“I appreciate the company.”

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

Nope. Not doing that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

When I drink. Suuuure.

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

“Now I know…,” he repeats.

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

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

“Don’t invite me in again.”

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

…what?

•

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

Damn… it’s been a while.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Street food it is.

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

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

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

“Okay, which onesss-“

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

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

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

Shit. Shit. Shit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

No. Stop it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’d like to see you try, Shop Girl.”

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

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

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

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

What the hell is he doing?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

•

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

I’d like to see you try, Shop Girl.

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

That’s it, Shop Girl…

You’re doing so well, Shop Girl…

Bend over for me, Shop Girl…

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

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

Right. Simple.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s been a whi-“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re mixing… tea?”

You hum a yes and nod.

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

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

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

“What does it prevent?”

“Pregnancy.”

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

Most fearsome bounty hunter in the outer rim, everybody.

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

“Guess that’s on me,” he says.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It was twelve the last time.”

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

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

Ugh, great. One of those.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And if I said yes?”

“I’m being serious.”

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

“That’s not the point.”

“Yeah? What is your point then?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Good…”

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

What you’re both afraid to say out loud.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Work call?”

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

“R-right! The pharmakits."

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

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

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

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

“Just… be safe.”

“I will…”

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

“Well... Until next time, Shop Girl.”

“Until next time,” you repeat.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And you love that he keeps coming back.

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

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

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

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

•

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Well… most people, that is.

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

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

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

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

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

“Hmm?”

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

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

“Alright, alright.”

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s nothing,” he deflects.

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

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

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

“Sounds like you need to get laid.”

Maker...

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

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

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

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

Dins helmet swivels back to Karga.

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

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

“Here we go…,” Din sighs to himself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Enough. Stop watching.

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

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

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

What… the fuck?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I need to have a word with you.”

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

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

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

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

“Like, right now,” you ask hesitantly.

“Preferably, yes,” he answers.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Aaww, a sleepover? Is it his first-”

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

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

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

Damn it… He’s such an asshole.

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

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

“You’re not,” you ask him sheepishly.

“I’m not,” he assures.

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

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

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

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

“Right.”

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

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

“Was it the thing about the name?”

“N-no.”

“Was it the Pantora story?

“No.”

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

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

“Okay, okay. Sorry. Go ahead.”

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

Your quirk your brow at him.

“Curious how?”

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

“… Sorry, what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No, you’re not.”

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

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

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

•

“Is all this really necessary?”

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

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

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

“Are you sure about this?”

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

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

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

“Can you see anything?”

“Not a bit,” you answer.

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

“Agh.”

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

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

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

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

“This help?”

“Yes, thank you,” you whisper.

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

And then… contact.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mando?”

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

“Is this really just about curiosity…?”

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

“Yes and no.”

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

So he lets it fly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Should I get a blindfold,” you tease.

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

“Next time.”

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

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

"Lay down for me."

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

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

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

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

“Mando…”

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

“Shop Girl…”

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

“Do you want this," he asks.

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

"Is this ok?"

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

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

She needs me.

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

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

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

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

“Right there... Perfect..."

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

"Then taste me, Mando."

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

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

"What are you- ah."

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes.”

“Say it.”

“Make me come, Mando... Please…”

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

"Oh Fuck! Fuck! Mando!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

•

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

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

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

Maker, he’s so good with his hands.

His body separates from you only to remove his flight suit and you whine at the loss of contact. Naked and panting for him. Within seconds he’s back on top of you and the feeling of his bare skin against yours makes your head spin. With everything so dark you wonder if this is even real. Maybe this is all a fever dream.

“Are you gonna show me how Mandalorians fuck this time,” you tease against his lips. Calling back to when he showed you how they drink. With your bare legs around his hips, you tease his resolve by running your inner thighs over his sides and you’re rewarded with a low hum. The hand supporting your neck slowly drags forward to find the base of your throat.

“You don’t need to know how Mandalorians fuck.” His wide grip gently squeezes the sides of your throat, just enough for you to feel the power in those hands. “Just how I fuck.”

Holy shit. You thought him gripping your jaw was hot. But this? This might’ve awakened something you didn’t even knew you wanted.

A whimper escapes you only to be muted by his mouth again. His tongue swirls with yours with a hunger you’ve never knew was there these past months and it’s such a relief to know that you weren’t the only one pining.

Mando’s mouth travels to your cheek, then jaw, finally finding purchase on your neck. Biting and sucking as his body presses into yours. He’s insatiable right now. There's no doubt that you'll find yourself covered in marks when the lights come back on.

You’re so lost in the moment that you almost don’t notice when something hard and warm presses against your inner thigh. Out of nowhere, a thought you haven’t even considered before decides to pop into your head at the very last minute.

“H-hold on!”

Your hands find his shoulders, urging him to pause. His lips unlatch themselves from your neck the second you blurt it out. Instantly propping himself above you with his hands on either side of your head.

“You want me to stop?,” he pants.

“No… Hell no. It’s just…”

How do you even begin to ask this?

“Um… I know I probably should’ve asked earlier but… you’re human, right?”

Mando blows out a low chuckle, understanding your underlying meaning. He feels human, from what your hands can tell anyway. He could be like his kid for all you know. It’s not that you’re not willing to go Inter-species, but your experience is mainly human. Plus with the lights off it’d be pretty difficult to figure out fitting things.

Taking your hand from his shoulder, he presses it against his chest where you can feel a dusting of hair. His skin is hot, damp with a thin layer of sweat and his breathing is heavy. He continues to lead your hand further down his torso so you can feel every hill and valley of his muscles. Eventually your hand hits a trail of hair down the middle and then…

Oh shit.

His hand guides you along the length of his cock. Encouraging you to explore every ridge from the thick base all the way up to the damp tip. He’s stiff and hot in your palm. When you give him a firm squeeze he groans and twitches in your grip.

Oh shit.

“Does that answer your question?”

The human part, definitely. Fitting is still debatable.

He lets you handle him. Giving you free rein to tug and tease as he bucks into your hand. He groans with pleasure and the power trip you feel knowing exactly how you affect this fiercely disciplined man makes the pulse between your legs throb harder. After a minute, his hand snatches yours to a halt, making your grip around his cock tighter.

“Show me where you want it,” he demands in a gruff breath. And you do just that. Pressing the damp tip against your clit. The contact sending a jolt of pleasure up your spine.

“Inside,” you plead. “I need you inside me.”

With an impatient huff, his hand comes down to take hold of your leg behind the bend of your knee. Spreading you wide and teasing your entrance before pushing himself inside. You gasp at the initial stretch, digging your nails into his shoulders. Mando curses under his breath and as he pushes you worry for a moment if there’s an end to him.

It’s slow, deliberate. Feeding his cock into your tight cunt until he’s pressing the limits of your walls. You shudder together when he’s completely sheathed and his hands grip your hips so hard his fingers dig into your flesh.

“Mando…” You throw your head back. Arching your whole body, waiting it to adjust to him. “Fuck!”

“I knew it,” he pants. “Fucking knew you’d feel good…”

He splits you in half and before you’re even ready the first hard thrust hits you. You whimper from impact and he thrusts again. Pinning you down by your hips to keep you at the perfect angle. Soon he sets a steady pace as he fucks you into delirium. It’s too much, he’s too much. Yet you moan and whine for more like each thrust might be the last. He feels incredible and you can only claw at his trim waist as it moves for you.

“That’s it… Good girl… Taking me so well… I wanted this… I want you to know every part of me.”

His words plunge into your chest like a dagger. Laced with a meaning that goes far beyond sex. Because you feel it too. You wanted him to be closer. You wanted him to know your name, know you. Even if it took this long to get here.

You feel one hand find your leg. Hiking it up so the back of your thigh lays flat against his chest. His hand drags up and down, caressing the soft flesh without losing a beat with his thrusts. A kiss presses on your calf and your head feels like it’s spinning. One moment he’s rearranging your insides and the next he’s giving your body sweet affection.

Tension builds in your core. Growing tighter and tighter with each hard thrust. Usually the second orgasm is more elusive to chase on your own. But this man is about to push you right into the next one not five minutes after the first one.

“Don’t… Stop…,” you pant. “Don’t stop, I’m so close, Mando…”

“Come for me... Let me feel you."

Then it comes. Tensing your entire body before coming down like a crashing wave. It’s spreads through every inch of your body, making you pulse and shake beneath his frame. You cry out in the midst of the euphoria, clinging to his shoulders, and everything feels so right. He moans along with you, feeling every tight pulse around his cock and letting you ride out the remaining waves.

“That’s two now, Shop Girl. You gonna give me a third?”

You let out a breathy laugh, still coming down from the clouds.

"I... I'm not sure I can," you chuckle.

"Yeah, you will," he pants. Amusement lacing his raspy voice.

Without out warning, Mando takes both your legs. Placing your calves over his shoulders as his leans forward. Folding you in half. And with one hard thrust, his cock drives back into you at a deeper angle. Your back bows and you swear you see stars in the blackness of the room. His lips land on the corner of your mouth and kiss their way to your lips. Offering a soft apology after the roughness. His strong arms are propped around you and you feel eclipsed under his broad body.

Soon his rhythm picks up. Becoming more desperate as he chases his own release. The room fills with the sound of your bodies meeting and you don't think you've ever heard anything more perfect. His panting picks up, his moans become louder, and the quivering breaths he makes when he finds a particularly deep spot will no doubt live in your mind rent free forever.

“You wanted me bare, didn’t you,” he huffs, pressing his damp forehead to yours.. “When you offered me that tea? You thought about me coming inside this perfect cunt, didn’t you.”

Caught red handed. Sure, you wanted to know if he had a partner as well. But the thought did cross your mind when he cornered you against the counter. You wanted to know how he felt bare, with nothing between you. Even dreamt a few times about it.

“Yes… Fuck, yes! Please! I want it!”

“You gonna come with me, Shop Girl? Hmm?”

“Maker, Mando! I’m right fucking there, please! I… I’m… ah-“

His firm hand grips your jaw. Whipping your face back to him so he can cover your mouth his. He kisses you deep, open and messy. No technique, just raw desire as he eats you alive. You moan and whimper against his mouth with each debilitating thrust he makes. He drives into you faster, harder. Relentlessly pushing you closer to the edge.

When it arrives, the orgasm hits you at full force. Wracking your whole body in convulsions as you scream, actually scream against his mouth. Your toes curl, your nails dig into his back and your cunt squeezes on to him for dear life like he’s never allowed to leave again.

Mando hisses through his teeth and he's right there with you. Ramming into you with relentless force as he chases his own release. His face dives into the crook of your shoulder and his arms scramble to take hold of you and he loses control. Letting out a sharp groan as he comes.

“Fuck.. Fuck,” he shudders in your ear. “Agh!”

His hips jerk against your body, driving himself as deep as you can take him. You feel his cock throb as he pumps into you again and again. Filling you to the point of spilling out and it’s... everything. Connected in such a profound way you’ve never felt before. In this moment, it’s hard to tell your bodies apart. You’ve melted and mixed and you never want to separate.

You ride it together, mold together, lose control together because you both knew it’d come to this. In the end this was inevitable. And in a galaxy filled with unknowns, in this you can be certain. A connection like this is few and far between. It’s real and raw and rare. Resisting that feeling was never an option, so why try?

Even in the climb down he doesn’t stop. Those hard demanding thrusts slow to a gentle drags as if he doesn’t want to finish yet. Hands glide all over each other’s bodies, soothing the other. All along his tense shoulders, you pepper soft kisses to his skin. Easing you both down from the clouds. He hums in the decent and it lulls you into an exhausted bliss.

Everything feels hazy and soft. You’re not sure how long you stay melted together like this. Minutes? Hours? But it’s needed. After a while, the breathing becomes steady and a soft, drowsy satisfaction settles between you.

“That’s the first time someone's come inside me,” you quietly confess. For a moment, Mando absorbs what you just said. Then you feel him prop himself in his elbows above you.

“Really?”

“Yeah…,” you breathe. Running your hands up the sides of his neck and resting them on his stubbled face.

“You know… since we’re sharing firsts tonight.”

He smiles and this time you’re able to know for certain by the feel of it in your hands. Leaning down, his forehead finds yours in the dark and you don’t think you’ve ever felt so whole before.

“I’m your first, huh,” he breathes. “I like that.”

There’s so many layers to this man. Quiet and withdrawn. Rough and demanding. Soft and caring. Each one is a trait you’ve come to cherish. You’re not sure if you love this man. But you’re definitely starting to fall for him. You can explore that treasure box later though. For now, you’ll take tonight for tonight and let whatever comes next between you arrive in its own good time.

“Me too, Mando...”

•

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•

💕 THANK YOU FOR READING 💕

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Miserable.

If Din Djarin could use one word to sum up the illness that was running its course through his exhausted body right now, it would be miserable. 

He couldn’t remember the last time he was actually sick. He would sustain some grueling injuries more often than not, but this was something else.

His voice was hoarse, his muscles ached profoundly, and he swore he could feel this fever down to bones. 

The Razor Crest felt remarkably humid, and Maker, all the beskar that covered Din’s body didn't help.

You’d done your best to take care of him, doting on him every chance you got, but that didn’t change how uncomfortable it was to be in a full suit of armour while he felt his absolute worst. 

You knew Din was especially stubborn, but that didn’t deter you from trying to convince him to take off the beskar.

You’d managed to keep the ship cool, turning the temperature down to the point where you were past freezing, but your comfort was the last thing on your mind.

Taking care of a certain sick Mandalorian was first. 

Trying to balance taking care of the child and doting on Din at the same time was a lot of work, but you were managing. Grogu seemed to understand that the usually menacing bounty hunter was a little under the weather right now.

Anytime you would bring Din medicine, water, soup, anything – little footsteps would follow tightly behind you. 

The child babbled at your side when you placed a bowl of warm soup by the cot, worried about his dad. 

“I know, honey,” you said softly while the child was looking up at you with his big, round eyes. His green ears tilted down slightly. “He’s not himself today, is he?” 

In response, Grogu cooed and reached up to signal that he wanted you to hold him. You obliged of course. 

You couldn’t help but feel a surge of warmth in your chest. It was almost cute seeing Din like this. A man usually so intimidating and reserved was now reaching out for you and the child, acting like he’d just been shot as he reached for the bowl of soup. 

If you were completely honest, you liked being his medic. Especially when you had such a cute helper by your side.

You sighed, looking at the sick Mandalorian.

“That bad, huh?”

He groaned in response.

Even though you couldn’t see his face, you knew that behind his helmet, he couldn't have been smiling.

“Let’s let dad eat and rest, okay little one?” you said to the child in your arms. He made a small noise in agreement, and you grabbed a thin blanket before the two of you made your way outside. 

Din had set the Razor Crest down in a quiet, forgotten stretch of space on a planet with no name that mattered since the two of you were in between traveling when he’d gotten sick.

It was beautiful here. Wide, open fields of grass and meadows. The wind was crisp and there was a river that quietly rippled nearby. A beautiful planet that was so peaceful and full of life. 

As you wrapped the blanket around yourself, you watched the child play in the grass and wobble around. You smiled to yourself at the sight, your heart feeling warm again. You’d imagined a life like this before:

Just you, Din, and the child living a peaceful, quiet life off the grid.

You had a feeling it may have crossed Din's mind, too.

Grogu made a happy noise snapping you out of your thoughts as you watched him pick up little things such as flowers and pebbles with the force. A small laugh escaped your lips.

“Good job, little guy!”

The child made more noises of excitement and happiness, and you felt complete. The only thing missing was Din beside you. 

You’d been too preoccupied to notice, but Din had been watching you and Grogu from the ship. He’d gotten up to get some water, too stubborn to bother you for something so simple, and noticed that you were outside.

Din felt his heart beat faster in his chest as he watched.

Why’d you have to be so cute? 

He wondered if you knew that he thought about you in this way, but he was leaning towards no.

The wind tugged at the edges of your blanket as your hair blew softly in the wind, and Grogu was still mindlessly wandering outside with your company. 

It was astonishing how something so simple made him feel so many things. 

Quietly, he made his way back to bed to rest, silently wishing you’d come and dote on him so he could catch a glimpse of your face again.

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“Hey, you.”

Your soft voice woke Din out of his sleep, and the gentle touch of your hands on his shoulder made his heart flip.

“You’re here…” he grumbled as his gloveless hand came to touch yours. You felt your cheeks heat up slightly and you let out a hum of acknowledgment.

He’d never done that before. Especially not with his gloves off. 

It took all your strength to pull your hand away from his. You held up a small glass bottle.

“Medicine,” you announced softly. “It’ll help you feel better.”

“Don’t need it.” 

You sighed and shook your head with a smile.

The stubbornness of this grown man, you thought.

“I’m going to leave this here in case you need it, then. Rest up, Mando.”

Mando.

The nickname made him perk up for a moment; he loved hearing your voice. He watched you quietly leave again, but he wished that you’d stay.

Your touch was so warm. Again, he found himself wondering if you knew what you were doing to him.

Din had been…testing the waters recently, so to say.

He was trying to see if you noticed the subtle things he did or said. Then, he would study you carefully to gauge your reaction. It was never anything super forward or out there, but he’d been trying in his own way.

At first, he started standing a little closer to you when there was space for him to be further. Just to see. He wouldn’t move away if you stepped into his space.

One time, he even placed his hands gently against your waist while trying to move past you. He noticed that when he did that, your cheeks went rosy.

Did you like when he did that? He desperately wanted to know.

Then his tone when speaking changed too.

He was reserved when you first came into his life. Very stoic and independent. He’d mostly nod to acknowledge what you said, but slowly and surely, he started to break.

Din reflected on that one time he slipped up and called you mesh’la, but luckily, you didn’t notice.

The growing ache in his body pulled Din away from his thoughts. Reality was so much worse than his fantasies with you in it.

Hesitantly, he reached over for the bottle of medicine you left. He was admitting defeat; this fever was awful.

Skimming over the instructions printed on the back of the glass, he lifted his helmet ever so slightly and downed the bottle. 

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After preparing dinner for both you and Grogu, as well as another bowl of soup for Din, you heard babbling and squeals coming from where the Din was resting.

Glancing back at the table where you last placed the little green child to sit, you noticed he was missing.

“Sweetheart?" you asked softly, calling out to the child.

You walked into where Din was sleeping earlier, but he was up now. He was sitting upright and playing with Grogu. You sat on the edge of the cot with a warm smile, catching the attention of both Din and the kid.

“You’re up,” you said with surprise. “Feeling better?” 

“There you are.” Din’s voice sounded slightly slurred through the modulator, the medicine clearly working its magic. He tilted his head and looked directly at you. “I like when you’re here.”

Your eyes widened. Was this just the cold medicine talking for him, or were your suspicions right?

“Din," you asked. “Did you take the entire bottle?”

“Yes.”

“You’re only supposed to take, like, half of that…”

“Oh.”

“Are you feeling alr–“

“You’re really pretty.”

You froze as his words interrupted yours.

Surprise was written on your face as you blinked. He let out a small laugh, clearly delirious from the medicine.

“I like when you stay, cyar’ika.”

Your heart was thumping against your chest. You couldn’t help but wonder again if he was truly out of it from the medication or if he was just loose around the edges right now. 

Perhaps the medicine was simply blurring his inhibitions, making it easier for the truth to slip out. 

After a few more moments of silence, you found your voice.

“You took a lot of medicine, Din.”

“I did, didn’t I?” he replied.

His helmet was tilted slightly, but you could tell he was looking right at you. You averted your gaze to the child who was babbling quietly in Din’s arms.

“So, by that logic, what you’re saying isn’t true. It’s just the medicine talking.“

“No, it’s true. I liiiike you.” 

You had to hold back a laugh at the way he was talking, but you could feel your cheeks heating up more than ever. 

“Okay, you need to lie back down. Come here, Grogu.”

You motioned the child towards you, unable to hide your smile. Grogu came waddling towards you on the bed. Gently, you scooped him into your arms and stood up, watching Din lie back down as he mumbled something to himself.

You looked at Grogu with a smile.

“What do you think, little one? Do you think he’s telling the truth?” The child babbled in agreement to your question, and you let out a breathy laugh. “Maker, you’re so cute.”

“Thanks. You’re cuter.”

You turned your attention back to Din.

“I was talking Grogu, but…you’re not so bad yourself, Mando. I’d like to see how much of this you’ll remember tomorrow morning, though.” 

“Okaaaaay.”

And true to your word, you held him to it.

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Morning eventually rolled around.

You were up early making breakfast with the child by your side. He squealed suddenly, causing you to turn around, only to be met with a familiar tall, broad figure covered in shiny metal. 

He sits down and his tone is normal again.

“Morning.”  

“Good morning," you replied normally.

He didn’t say anything else, but...you didn’t like the silence. You wanted to ask him about last night.

However, in order to save whatever dignity he had left after that, you decided to hold off on any serious questions for now. 

“How are you feeling?” you asked.

“Like I got hit by a speeder," he huffed.

Din looked over at you and suddenly, bits of pieces of last night came back to him.

“You’re really pretty.”

“I like when you stay.”

“I liiike you.” 

He shifted in his seat.

“Did I…say something to you yesterday?” he asked.

You stayed silent for a moment before answering.

“You were extra affectionate last night,” you replied. It almost sounded like you were teasing him. 

Din froze and he pretended not to remember. “…Was I?”

“Mm, very.” You gave him your full attention as you set breakfast down. “Nothing bad, though.”

He cleared his throat. “What exactly do you mean by affectionate?” 

You bit back a smile as you replied, “Oh, you know. Wanted me to stay close, kept reaching for my hand.”

“...Right. I was sick.”

“Mhm.”

“I don’t remember any of that.”

That was a lie, and a terrible one at that. Even with the helmet on, you could practically see him replaying the memories in real time.

“Did I say anything strange?” he asked carefully. 

There it was – your chance to dig deeper.

“Depends on your definition of strange,” you replied with a shrug. “Honestly, most of it was sweet.”

“Sweet?”

“Well,” you began. “You told me that I'm pretty.”

He groaned, but you continued.

“You also said that I'm cute. Then you said that you...liked me.” 

Another groan.

“And–”

“That’s enough.”

“It isn’t, actually.” 

Din didn’t argue back.

“You were very honest,” you continued with a small smile.

“How honest?” His voice was low.

“Relax. You didn’t reveal any Republic secrets or anything.” 

“You know that’s not what I’m worried about.”

The words slipped out before he could stop them, and silence settled between you. Din froze. You froze. 

For a second, neither of you moved.

“No,” you said, breaking the silence. “I suppose it isn’t.”

Gone was the attempt to play dumb. Gone was the denial. The truth settled between you and him in the stillness.

“So,” you added, unable to resist. “The good news is that you were very polite about it.”

Din let out a deep sigh as he braced himself for your rejection. “And the bad news?”

You stared at him. For a moment, you couldn't believe he was serious. The way his shoulders had gone rigid. The way he'd already begun preparing himself for disappointment before you'd even answered him.

As if there was any world where you wouldn't want him back.

As if you hadn't spent months hopelessly, painfully in love with him.

Din thought he was about to lose you. Your teasing smile faded.

“The bad news is that you apparently only confess your feelings when you're running a fever. You couldn't have done this six months ago?"

He sat there silently, clearly not following.

You shook your head, letting out a breathless laugh. "Do you know how long I've been waiting for you to figure it out?"

You watched the exact moment your words registered. He shifted ever so slightly. You folded your arms across your chest.

"I was beginning to think I'd imagined all of it,” you said.

"All of what?" he asked.

"The staring."

"I don't stare."

"The hovering,” you continued. “And don’t forget the finding excuses to sit next to me."

"I—"

"The fact that every time someone flirts with me, you suddenly become the most unpleasant man anyone's ever met. I spent months trying to convince myself you weren't interested."

"Months?" His voice was full of genuine shock.

"Yes, months."

The word seemed to genuinely disturb him, as if the idea that you'd been wondering all this time was somehow unacceptable. You should have been his all this time.

"You knew?" he asked hesitantly.

You stared at him. "Knew what?”

“That I…you know.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Din.”

“Yes?”

"You wear a helmet."

"Oh."

"You barely talk."

"Oh."

"And your version of flirting is handing me things without making eye contact."

"Oh."

You pointed at him again. "Exactly."

He visibly relaxed. You took this opportunity to take a seat beside him. No distance this time. 

“So you didn’t know?” he asked, turning to face you as you sat down.

You blinked.

“Do you have any idea how good I've gotten at reading you? You have one visible facial expression and it’s just…helmet. Of course I knew.”

“You did?” His head tilted. 

"Din Djarin, you once spent three days fixing a door that wasn't broken because you didn't know how to ask me to stay in the cockpit with you."

The silence that followed was incriminating.

You sighed as you leaned against him, laying your head against his beskar-clad shoulder. He didn’t stop you. 

"I was fixing the door," he told you.

"You were absolutely not fixing the door."

"I was.”

"It worked perfectly."

"It was making a noise."

"It wasn't."

"It was."

You looked up at him lovingly, and he looked down at you through his visor.

For a moment, all was still. All was quiet.

"...I guess this means I don't have to wait until I'm sick again,” he said, a faint hint of confidence returning to his voice. “Close your eyes.”

Your heart immediately began hammering. You searched his visor, as if somehow you'd be able to see the expression hidden beneath it.

Whatever you were looking for, you found enough of it.

Slowly, you closed your eyes.

Then there was the faint sound of movement as you felt him shift beside you, and a soft hiss of beskar.

Your breath caught.

And then...you felt it.

His lips pressed against yours.

Everything in the galaxy seemed to stop. He was yours. Warm and real and finally, finally yours.

The kiss lasted only a moment. It was just long enough to leave your head spinning, and you wrapped your arms around him to treasure the feeling.

When he pulled away, you were still sitting there with your eyes closed.

But when you opened them again, Din was already lowering his helmet back into place. However, this time, neither of you needed to say anything.

You both just knew.

The rain had softened into a light drizzle by the time Sentry finally let himself breathe again. The rooftop glimmered beneath the city lights, puddles reflecting gold every time the energy beneath his skin flickered gently instead of violently. Wind curled around the two of you in cold waves, but he stayed close this time, forehead still resting against yours like he’d forgotten how to pull away.

Your fingers remained tangled loosely in the damp strands of his hair.

Neither of you spoke for a moment.

Far below, traffic moved through the city in glowing rivers of white and red while thunder drifted farther into the distance. Sentry’s breathing had slowed enough now that you could feel each steady inhale against your lips, warm compared to the freezing rain collecting on his skin.

“You know,” you murmured softly, “normal people usually just buy weighted blankets.”

“What are you doing here?” he asked quietly.

His voice almost disappeared beneath the thunder overhead and by your shirt.

“You left,” you said. “I was worried.”

“I wanted to be alone.”

You snorted, half because of the way he was clinging to you proving he didn’t want to be alone and half because… well he knows you’ll always worry about him, “That’s usually when I should worry most.”

“I know.”

“You can’t just vanish after a mission and sit dramatically on rooftops during thunderstorms.”

“That does sound kind of insane when you say it out loud.”

“It’s very brooding superhero of you.”

“You make me feel…” He paused, searching for the words. “Less loud.”

Your expression softened instantly. Because for someone like him, that probably meant everything.

Lightning flashed suddenly bright enough to bleach the rooftop white and for a second, the gold in his eyes glowed too intensely.

“You know what I think?” you whispered.

“What?”

“I think you need sleep. And maybe pancakes.”

He blinked once.

“Pancakes?”

“Yes.”

“In the middle of the night?”

“I think you’ve earned breakfast food at illegal hours, you’re overwhelmed,” you said softly.

“No.” His voice sharpened instantly. “I’m dangerous.”

The wind screamed harder around the rooftop.

Sentry stared out over the city again, but his breathing had become noticeably uneven now, every inhale too fast and every exhale too restrained.

“You should go back to your room.”

“I’m not leaving you up here alone.”

His eyes shut tightly, his face turning to bury itself into your neck.

“You don’t understand what happens when I lose control.”

“You think I care about that right now?”

“You should.”

That snapped something in you immediately. You grabbed his face hard enough to force him to look at you. Rainwater dripped from your hair onto his suit while thunder rattled somewhere far below the clouds.

“You don’t get to decide what I’m afraid of,” you whispered fiercely.

“I’m crazy, baby…” he said finally, the words barely audible beneath the storm. “I need you to come here and save me.”

“You are never beating the dramatic allegations.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know.”

Your hand slid against his jaw gently, thumb brushing lingering rainwater from his cheek. He leaned into the touch immediately this time without hesitation, eyes slipping shut for half a second like affection itself exhausted him in the best way.

Then suddenly—

The ground disappeared beneath your body.

You let out a startled noise as Sentry lifted effortlessly into the air with you still in his arms, the rooftop dropping away below in seconds. Wind rushed around you instantly, colder and sharper this high up, and your hands grabbed onto him automatically while laughter burst from your chest in surprise.

“Sentry!”

“You said pancakes.”

“This is not the direction of pancakes!”

“It’s faster.”

The city stretched endlessly beneath you now, glowing gold and silver under the fading storm clouds. His arms stayed securely around you as he flew higher, one hand steady against your back while the other held your waist carefully like you were something precious.

You looked up at him breathlessly and slowly—carefully—he leaned forward until his forehead rested against yours.

“Thank you.” He whispered softly.

You gave his hands a reassuring squeeze and returned to where Bucky stood at the hotel room desk.

“There’s a tracker in the necklace, one sewn into your bag, too. If it gets too hot, use the beacon activator on the clasp, it’ll pulse your location and we’ll scramble everything available,” Bucky was saying. A light, lovely breeze swirled in from the open balcony doors, stirring the white curtains there, making them flirt and dance. Bob heard some of what Bucky said, but his mind seized on two words: too hot.

“Vorster is a pushover, nothing you can’t handle. He knows what’s on the line and what happens if he fucks this up.” Bucky finished his speech, shoving a few last-minute items into a cream-colored leather bag. A charm dangled from the zipper, another hidden device, another beacon in case things went wrong. The curtains and the bag didn’t hold Bob’s attention; your hand, your hand with a diamond ring he hadn’t given you was all he could see.

He could feel the Void inside, spreading, whispering.

She’s already trying to get away from you.

“I’m going with her.”

Silence. You were with Bucky by the desk in the hotel suite, Bob across from you both, sitting on the edge of the bed. But now he was standing. He looked between you, forcing himself to stop fixating on the ring. Bucky wheezed softly from his throat, head tilting to the side as he waited for you to step in.

“Bob…” You looked incredible. Maybe the best you had ever looked. Or the best you looked when you weren’t next to him, sweaty and breathless, fucked within an inch of your life. The best you had ever looked while clothed and decent. The ivory skirt suit was tailored to your exact measurements, luxurious without being ostentatious. You looked like a rich man’s wife; his card had declined last week when he tried to get a hotdog at the bodega down the street from the Watchtower.

His stomach turned over, pain singing in his ears.

You came to him, peeling away from Bucky, one hand settling over Bob’s chest. That it was the hand wearing that ring only made him feel more like he was going to fly apart at the seams. You’ve already lost her. “It’s not a good idea for you to come with me. I’m supposed to be undercover, right?” Your voice dropped to a private whisper, and you leaned in, touching your cheek against his. “We talked about this. It’s not real. It’s just a mission. One week.”

“One week,” Bob repeated, his throat closing up. His hand pressed yours firmer against his chest, over his heart. The diamond cut into his palm. The band started to grow hot, the metal igniting under his anger. You pulled your hand away, shaking it out, burned from the sudden flare of heat.

“Robert,” you whispered, pleading.

“Do we have a problem?” Bucky asked, turning to face you both, arms crossed, subtle menace in his tone.

Bob pinned him with a look over your shoulder.

“This is the job,” Bucky muttered, unflinching; he didn’t let the eye contact drop. You hovered between them, shoulders back, hands out, like a lion tamer sensing they were losing control. “We’re talking about mass brain washing tech, shit that could mobilize civilian armies overnight, compromise elections. She can’t back out now. This is a highly volatile target, if they get spooked there’s no telling how long they’ll go underground.” His tone softened. “You can stay in the same hotel, all right? If she pulls the beacon, you’ll be the first to know it.” His jaw worked back and forth, shoulders jumping as he lifted his chin, daring Bob to press it. “That’s the best I can do, man.”

This had all been made clear to him before he ever boarded the jet to accompany you overseas. It had also been made clear that he was not getting his Sentry suit back, not yet. His integration therapist still hadn’t signed off on the requisite paperwork and wouldn’t be doing so if Bob sabotaged a critical mission because he lost his shit in a jealous fit over a pretend arrangement.

“You promised,” you whispered. You had come to stand at his side again, holding his left hand with both of yours. Bucky looked away and turned back to the bag he had been packing for you. Bob knew it didn’t really matter what anyone said, that if he wanted to, he could put a stop to it now, or in five minutes, or in two days. Maybe he could just stop time altogether to keep it from happening, he wasn’t sure yet; the limits of his power were sketched in darker each day. Everything was still new, especially the trust he was giving himself. You? His eyes scanned down your face, his heart thumping harder just from your touch. You he trusted.

Are you sure?

“It’s fine. I’m fine.” Bob blinked through the confusion, the only sounds in the room coming from the rustling curtains and his heavy breathing. He brushed a kiss across your forehead, centering himself. He wasn’t a child, for Christ’s sake. He wasn’t a liability.

“Bob? Listen to me. I’ll figure out a way for you to still have your outlet,” you said, eyes squeezing shut at the feeling of his kiss.

Like a dog trained with a bell, just the word outlet made the world fuzzy at the edges; the sickness in his body was replaced with hunger and the fan in the bathroom kicked on just for a second. Bucky’s head jolted to the side at the sound.

Bob gazed down into your face, calm on the outside while a dozen increasingly alarming ideas unspooled themselves in his mind. You looked so concerned, so worried that this was too much too soon.

“You’ll be great,” he told you, summoning up a distant smile. “Don’t focus on me, okay? Focus on you.”

It actually sounded believable.

So ready to let her go. So ready to give up the fight.

Your relief was palpable, and he drank it in, snugging you to his side quickly for one last kiss before gently pushing you back, stuffing his hands into his pockets before it was too tempting to change his mind and reach for you.

At least he had the pleasure of watching you walk toward Bucky and the desk, the crepe fabric hugging your body like you were born to wear it. Fuck. In his pockets, his hands itched. He had only considered that this would be a test of his willpower, that he would be the one to get their heart cracked wide open, that he would be the one to break. But maybe that was backwards. Clarity struck like a bell. He was beginning to feel the power surges before they escaped—the room stayed quiet, just the curtains blowing around now, not even his ragged breathing loud enough to disturb the peace.

Bob watched you walk away wearing another man’s ring, and when the light caught it, he felt the atoms making it up bend to his will, ready to transmute. Anything could be anything could be anything. He had looked at this whole thing the wrong way—you had nothing to prove to him, and he had everything to prove to you. He made the metal heat up around your finger, just barely, almost imperceptibly, as you took the bag from Bucky. Your eyes locked onto him, brow furrowing until he winked back at you, just sweet, just playful.

You’re really going to let her go? Just like that?

And Bob’s expression didn’t change, nor did his relaxed posture; you had to begin your mission, but now he had one of his own--you were a god’s plaything, and he would make sure you remembered it.

Day 1

A car had been arranged to transfer you to the actual hotel where you would be staying; the target would meet you there. You spent the rider over repeating your backstory, filling in little details, stepping into character. When the car smoothed to a stop outside of concierge, a uniformed staff member rushed forward to open your door. You stepped out into the mild humidity; even the air smelled glamorous here. Ordinarily, you’d jump at the chance to do undercover work for a week in one of the most glamorous locations on Earth, leave behind the city for limestone cliffs plunging down to turquoise water; quiet, private inlets; medieval towers fit for a princess; all the expensive white wine you could run up on the New Avengers’ tab…

But that was before Bob, before you started to fall for a former sign-twirler who used the company credit card to buy tube socks. None of the excess around you made sense now—the exotic cars, the tailored couture clothes, the two thousand dollar a night hotel suites—not now, not now that you were missing a sidewalk art thing Bob had wanted to see back in New York, not when it was his turn to pick for team movie night, not just as he was beginning to settle into himself.

Concierge took care of your bags; you took care of yourself, trying to relax into the posture of someone else as you strutted into the lightly air-conditioned resort lobby. You caught yourself before thanking anyone that leapt to assist—Bucky had told you to ignore staff, to take everything in your vicinity for granted.

As you waited for your “husband” in the lobby, you couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong, that Bob was concealing his true anxieties just to comfort you. You didn’t want to make your temporary goodbye a whole thing, because drawing too much attention to the relationship, casting it in a negative light, would reflect poorly on both of you. And Bucky was right, this was the job, and things would never work between you if Bob couldn’t cool his jets for a single week while you tried your best to save the world. What would happen if you were actually in danger?

You shuddered just thinking about it.

And in this case, this mission, it had to be you coming in off the bench. You were still the least recognizable of the team, and with a convincing wig and heavier makeup, you were virtually a different person. Tia Mulder, to be specific, youngest daughter of a real estate mogul operating out of Dubai. Tia wore diamonds daily and didn’t sweat if one got lost. Tia never left the house looking anything less than elegantly coiffed. Brands begged on their hands and knees for social media collabs. She had staff. She didn’t even know what a sign-twirler was and would slap you at the suggestion that she should find out.

Tia Mulder had recently announced her engagement to reclusive tech developer Adrian Vorster, and this little trip to an exclusive, private resort in Boka Bay was your opportunity to keep tabs on him while he negotiated the purchase and transfer of core.ai, an innocuous sounding program capable of truly despicable things. And Tia Mulder was expected to flounce herself in adoration against Adrian for the duration of the trip; at least the booked suite could comfortably fit a family of eight. When nobody was looking, you would be able to escape back to yourself.

“Darling.”

Adrian Vorster strode across the understated, modern marble lobby toward you, dressed to complement you in cream-colored linen. You had studied the dossier Walker put together on the flight over but had either skipped or forgotten the part that showed Vorster was good-looking. He wasn’t tall, but he clearly exercised judiciously, and despite being in his fifties, there was still a bright, boyish quality to his face.

“You look radiant,” he said, reaching you with outstretched hands, pulling you in for three cheek kisses. “I trust your trip wasn’t too arduous?”

“Uneventful, yes.”

When you tried to lean away, Vorster reeled you in tighter, arm locked around your waist. You suppressed a surprised gasp. “I’ve already picked up a tail,” he murmured, voice quivering. “This needs to look real.”

You smiled through it. “Describe the tail. I’ll have someone handle it.”

“By the fern in the corner. Sunglasses. Collared shirt. Big watch.”

You nodded and pretended to kiss his ear. His grip loosened and you disentangled yourself. The smell of his aftershave was all over you now, eye-wateringly strong. “Marvelous, dear,” you said, beaming up at him. “Thank you for telling me.”

Swinging back around toward your luggage, you found it had already been handled.

“Mother is always so paranoid when I travel,” you sighed, digging your phone out of your purse, trying to make it look natural to unlock it with long, manicured nails. Fucking things. You found the contact labeled Mother which would send updates to the team. Typing out a description of the tail, subtly glancing at the man over the edge of your phone, you took a surreptitious picture and fired off the message.

“Give her my love,” Adrian was saying, looking at his own phone.

You suspected it was Bucky who sent back a simple: Acknowledged.

“We’ve got cocktails at seven,” he added, hooking his arm through yours, attention still pinned to his phone as he steered you toward the interior of the hotel. “I’m eager to show you off.”

“Mm.” Your gaze strayed to the other contacts in your phone. Bob wasn’t there, of course, too incriminating. Only contacts appropriate for Tia Mulder were listed. But his absence feels like a hollow in your chest. He liked to steal your phone and change the background image to silly shit--cats mid-cough, people falling over, his bare ass--anything to make your composure break, for a smile just for him to sneak out while Bucky lectured about professionalism and optics.

When you reached your suite, that ache for him worsened. Adrian held the door while you hurried inside, while the staff brought in an embarrassing parade of luggage and unpacked it for you. Until you were absolutely, completely alone, the charade must continue. A glass-walled terrace wrapped around the corner unit, giving breathtaking views of the bay below. Adrian escorted you outside, his gaze roaming between the organized dance taking place inside your rooms and you. He extended a hand, waiting for you to curl your fingers loosely inside of it.

“Smile, darling,” he purred out in his lightly accented English, a faded Afrikaans lilt wrapped around each word. “You’re in love.”

You didn’t do Bob the disservice of pretending it was him standing there. You didn’t want Adrian to mistake that genuine happiness for anything that belonged to him. “It’s been a long day,” you said.

“Indeed.” He sighed and ran a hand through his silvered ginger curls, his chin working back and forth in thought. “This doesn’t have to be unpleasant. I’m pleasant company when I want to be. If you want me to be.”

The staff were still bustling around inside. You were still under observation. It was almost a sure thing that one of them was compromised. Adrian glided slightly against the top of the glass railing, inching closer. His hazel eyes hardened, almost black even in the dazzling afternoon light. “I think you should be exactly as pleasant as this arrangement requires.”

“Diplomatic,” he laughed, but it never reached his eyes. “I can see why they chose you. Diplomatic and beautiful, I should say.”

“That’s not necessary.”

“It needs to look real,” he reminded you in a rasp, still keeping his light grasp on your hand. "These fellows are jumpy."

“Look,” you said. “Not feel. If you’ll excuse me, I’d like moment to collect myself before our first appearance together.”

His hand sank slowly away, but you saw the flash of regret in his eyes, the tension in his arm. You lifted your head and strode back toward the door leading inside.

“I’m not a lonely man,” he burst out, though it was whispered.

“And I’m not a lonely woman.” You hoped he heard the faint warning in your tone, the chill. For his sake, you hoped Bob was safely tucked away in his hotel enjoying room service and endless hours of syndicated television. He was still discovering the full scope of his powers, and it wouldn’t surprise you in the least if he had the pinpoint hearing of an owl. “I’ll see you later, darling.”

The cliff-side cocktail patio was already swarming with guests when you arrived. The views down to the water made your breath catch, and you fell a few steps behind Vorster as he led you out onto the warm terrace. Through your sandals, you could feel how sun-soaked the deck had become, and the gentler evening light crawled over your bare toes with a lover’s touch. Hills climbed out of the sea, distant giants, sailboats dotting the bay like bobbing gulls.

You lowered your sunglasses and took it all in, heart twisting painfully at the thought that Bob would love this. He found a way to appreciate everything, even stuff that annoyed most other people. If his therapist was late, he would shrug it off (I get to text you more), if the line outside the empanada place went down the block that was fine, too (There’s cat on the fire escape over there, see it?). That kind of gratitude wasn’t just a skill, but a blessing. You couldn’t imagine how much fun it would be to show him this--all the rich people in their giant hats who somehow managed to look pinched and miserable even in paradise, the electric firepit that you knew he would make flare a little higher just to see your reaction, the soft little loveseats just for two…

But Bob wasn’t there. You were stuck with Adrian, who huffed impatiently at your provincial amazement. Right. You were Tia Mulder and this would bore her to tears. With a shrug, you set your sunglasses back over your eyes and gently swiped your hand across your chest. “Acid reflux,” you said. “From the plane food.”

Vorster nodded and clucked his tongue, then put his arm around your waist and guided you toward an empty table not far from the outdoor bar. “My poor dove.”

“They only had gnocchi in a tomato sauce,” you went on, loud enough for others to hear.

“Barbaric,” he muttered.

A few curious faces turned to inspect you, but seeing your clothes, your manicure, your bag, your escort, you were soon deemed an acceptable person and the stares drifted away. You stared right back, deciding you belonged there, deciding these strangers would not make you feel like an animal in a zoo. As the two of you walked by a bench heaped with cushions, a woman fluttered her hand at Adrian and popped up to say hello.

“Adrian Vorster? What on Earth are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be in Amsterdam?” She was an energetic blip of a woman, with evenly tanned skin and big, swallowing brown eyes.

Adrian’s arm stiffened around you. “Let me handle this,” he breathed into your ear. Then, he detached from you to greet the woman, trading air kisses. “Melody, what a charming surprise. I was in Amsterdam, of course, but I had to sneak away for a celebration. This is my fiancé, you see, Tia. Tia, darling, come meet Melody…”

Melody turned out to be a welcome distraction, and she was a good warmup for the week ahead. She asked inane questions but not in a scrutinizing way. She was a good time gal, a bit of a lush, a gossip, and she instantly abandoned her friends to join you and Vorster at a private table with a huge, white sunshade. You had studied Tia’s preferences and backstory carefully, and lobbed back Melody’s questions with ease. After a while, Adrian relaxed enough to stop swallowing nervously whenever it was your turn to speak. Tia liked mojitos, so you had your fiancé order one off the menu, then a second.

You were halfway through that drink when your bag jolted against your ankle, your phone vibrating inside of it. With an offhand excuse and an apology—it could be mummy, and she fretted so—you fished out your phone, expecting an update from Bucky, but unlocked your screen to a message from an unknown number.

You froze in place. All of the pleasant noise around you faded--gulls screaming to each other in the bay, the soft terrace music, Melody and Adrian’s friendly banter. All of it was gone. You tried not to let it show in your face as your hands trembled around the phone.

does your fiancé know how much you love my cock?

At every moment, half of your heart was consumed with the idea that Bob was off somewhere in his hotel crying in the bathtub. But no, it appeared he had allowed Robert to take control of the situation. Well, at least he wasn’t crying. A chill wrapped around your spine at the thought of what Robert might do, worse, at the thought of what Sentry might do, at the thought of what you might have unleashed on this place.

You glanced up from the screen, and behind your sunglasses, you swept the deck looking for him. Nothing.

Your phone vibrated softly again, and you shifted it lower on your lap, under the table where nobody could see. It was a trap, of course. After that first message, the right thing to do was to block his number and get on with the mission, but you already missed him so much. And what was the harm? You were a professional. You could handle it.

More buzzing. Several messages came through back-to-back.

does he know I could make you cum right now without even touching you?

maybe I will.

maybe we should show him.

You bit down on your lip, breathing harder. Before you could text back warning him to calm down, not endanger the mission, a strange, buzzing power clamped around your legs, then wrenched them open under the table. Despite your own considerable strength, no matter how hard you tried to close your thighs, they wouldn’t budge. Melody burst out laughing; your head shot up. A seagull had shit on someone’s head. You forced out a giggle through your nose, panicking silently as a whisper of warm energy flicked across your panties.

are you wet for me? bite your lip again if you are.

Again? So, he was somewhere, somewhere with a view of the table. Perhaps your hesitation annoyed him; that ghostly, heated pressure of his power moved over your sex more insistently, impatiently. You squeezed your eyes shut and bit your lip for him. It required inhuman concentration to pull yourself away from the playful way he was teasing you beneath the table and scan the terrace again for any sign of him. And it felt like he had timed his appearance perfectly; golden hour hit, making his silhouette glow, the quiet hints of honey in his hair stand out, all of him so beautiful, as if the light itself had put him there, sculpted him just for this perfect moment. You couldn’t imagine where he had gotten those clothes—a soft, short-sleeved collared sweater and pale gray trousers that hugged his delicious thighs. However he had done it, he looked like he belonged.

Your eyes met across the tables and benches and fireplace, his gaze burning with rings of gold as his touch reached you again, pressing into you as if he was right there at your side, hand between your legs. His head tilted to the side, daring you to look away. You tried to listen for gaps in the conversation at the table, but it was getting more and more difficult to do anything but lose yourself to the pleasure, the building sensation…

Bob casually took a phone out of his pocket, tapped something out.

Your eyes crawled from his smugly satisfied smile to the screen. You could use your legs again, and all at once, the teasing stopped, leaving you breathless, bereft, clenching your body around nothing.

Don’t worry. The message read. I can be a merciful god.

When you glanced up again, he was gone.

“Darling, you’re flushed.” Adrian leaned over, pouting, remembering you existed, and pressed the back of his hand to your cheek.

You clamped down on a flinch. “It’s…these drinks,” you murmured. “They mix them so strong.”

Melody wound up staying and tagging along for dinner, which was a relief, because she was much better company than Vorster. She was an encyclopedia of who was staying at the resort, who was friendly and who was to be avoided at all costs. You only received a single message during the meal, which you didn’t catch until afterward. It was from Bucky, letting you know the tail had been handled and he was sweeping for more.

It was late by the time you and Vorster returned to your suite. The sellers had finally made contact, naming the time and place for the deal. They had moved it up by two days and it sent Adrian into a tailspin. He uncorked a bottle of brandy and drank directly from the neck, pacing by the free-standing fireplace that separated one unnecessarily huge half of the living area from the other unnecessarily huge half.

“They’re trying to throw you off balance, make you panic,” you said, lingering near the door to the wrap-around deck. “We took care of the tail. There will be more, and we’ll watch for them, but all we can do now is stay the course. Don’t let them get to you, this is a standard intimidation tactic.”

“Yes. Right. Okay.” He huffed and puffed but at least put the cork back in the bottle. Vorster slumped against the edge of the fireplace, gaze hovering over you in a way that made your skin prickle with alarm. “You were great today, by the way. I was…skeptical about this approach. But you were wonderful. Pitch perfect.”

“Thank you,” you said stiffly, taking a step out into the night. “Don’t drink too much, Adrian. You’re in love, remember? You need to look fresh and relaxed tomorrow. Go to bed.”

It seemed like he was going to take your advice, shuffling away and muttering to himself. Honestly, you didn’t really care what he did as long as he kept his head down. He was a grown man, though with how many weird, needy looks he gave you, it seemed unbelievable that he had made it this far into his life and somehow created a tech empire. It will all be over soon, you told yourself. And then I never have to see him again.

The night was chilled and you were underdressed for it, but the fresh air was restoring. You wandered down the long, narrow balcony until you reached the corner, took it, continuing down the west side of the building. The scruffy hills across the water twinkled with lights, old towers rising out of the gloom, painted silver by the half-full moon. At the end of the walkway you leaned against the glass, waist-high barrier and hugged yourself, staring out into the nothingness that plunged down toward the bay. Bucky had been extremely clear—you were never to be anywhere without the purse and the emergency beacon in arm’s reach. You fished the phone out of your bag then set the purse down at your feet, scrolling back through the messages from that unknown number.

A light behind you, fixed to the outside of the resort, blinked on. You turned and glanced up at it, watching as moths gathered. Smiling, you turned back to the screen, a wistful lump gathering in your throat. Sometimes he was such a painful romantic.

I miss you, too, you texted.

The little typing dots appeared, your pulse skipping at the sight of him, knowing he was somewhere thinking about you.

just say the word and i’m there.

Shit. You shivered, shaking your head, warring with the impulse to say: yes, of course, right now you stupid idiot.

Good sense and the mental image of Bucky beating your ass into sludge with his vibranium arm won out but it was a close-run thing.

We can't, you texted.

still worked up from earlier?

You smirked. Obviously, you told him.

can't have that, he texted. take this inside.

Then a picture came through of just his abdomen; he had pulled up his shirt, giving you a glimpse of his washboard abs, every muscle sleek and delicious. But maybe the best part was the dark trail of hair leading suggestively toward his jeans and what you knew bulged underneath...

You glanced over your shoulder to make sure you were alone. Fuck. This just wasn’t fair. You heard Vorster puttering around somewhere in his room and breathed a little easier. Not slower, but easier. You looked at the picture again, feeling it slide down you like his own sure hand. Maybe it was the salt in the air, but you could swear you could actually taste him, the tang of his sweat as you gathered it out from every crisp dent in his abdomen, lower, into the runnels carved along his hips leading…

Swaying against the railing, you wiped a hand down your face, once more faced with the impossible task of telling him no.

How do you know I’m outside? you messaged.

look up.

Out by the towers across the water, a dark shape hovered against the clear, unbroken landscape of stars. One word, one message, and he would be warm and solid against you, maybe Vorster wouldn’t see or hear, maybe he would never find out… Bob, perhaps kindly, made the decision for the both of you. Your phone buzzed against your palm.

you’re cold. go inside and warm up, baby.

And you knew it was Bob; he was always worrying, caring, still carrying the human anxieties of a man who had lived a lot of life. You watched him float for a while, growing more and more desperate to feel him close the distance. His hands on your back, his chest against your cheek, the heat of him like a solar flare wrapped in skin, the steely command in his voice when he told you to let go, come undone.

So quickly, almost without you knowing it, he had become home. Safety.

The light above you went out. You sighed and picked up your bag and dragged yourself back inside, wandering back through the labyrinth of sofas and bars and fireplaces to your room, carrying the heat of him with you, an ember you knew would never go out. You smiled to yourself, gratified that he was finding a way to cope with this hellish week. Sure, it was torture for you, but at least one of you was enjoying themselves. You dropped your bag next to the nightstand and grabbed your pajamas from the closet, then turned to go into the bathroom and take a very hot and very private shower.

Vorster was standing in the doorway, glowering.

“What were you doing out there?” he asked.

Oh boy. His words slurred together, he was unsteady on his feet, he was wasted. The knowing little smile you had been keeping for Bob vanished in an instant. “Just getting some air.”

“Who were you talking to?”

You shifted your weight from foot to foot, calculating how many steps it would be to him, how challenging it would be to incapacitate him if this went sideways, if he didn’t let it drop.

“Adrian,” you said calmly, firmly. “What do you think this is exactly?”

“We are being watched night and day,” he said, stumbling a little over his words.

You took a deliberate step toward him, letting your hand become a fist around your pajamas, warning without warning. “Go to your room. Go to sleep. You’re drunk.”

He blinked rapidly, then looked down at the empty bottle in his hand as if he didn’t know how it had come to be there. Like he hadn’t pathetically sucked down every last drop. You indicated your unwillingness to bend to the conversation, moving toward the bathroom, the door just to his left, your right. As you came near, his hand shot out, touching the wall, a bar between you and your destination.

“Who is he?”

You laughed incredulously.

“That man, that man at the bar with the long hair, he was staring at you.”

Gently, exerting just enough pressure, you pushed his arm down and back to his side, stepping into the darkened bathroom. “Adrian, I mean this in the most supportive way—you do not want to find out.” You didn’t put your back to him, reaching for the light switch. “You really, really do not want to find out.”

Day 2

It was past noon by the time you made it down to the beach. Adrian had slept in while sleeping it off, bleary-eyed and ill-tempered, but determined to put in an appearance with his adoring fiancé at the private tent cabana he had booked down by the water. All of your clothes had been packed ahead of time by Mel and a few assistants at the Watchtower, who had painstakingly scraped through social media posts to assemble a convincing wardrobe. Accordingly, the one and only bikini option the staff had put away in your wardrobe was not necessarily something you would have picked out for a beach holiday. It wouldn’t have been out of place on a Bond Girl.

And as you wiggled into it and threw on your sheer beach cover up, dutifully transferring the alert beacon to a more sand-friendly bag and joined Adrian in the common area, you got the distinct impression he was rallying and pushing himself to suffer full sunlight because of that tiny bikini.

Pig, you thought, greeting him with a forced smile, taking his arm and following him to the lobby, then outside to where resort staff came with shuttles to ferry guests down to the water. The ride was bumpy and Vorster looked like he was going to throw up on himself any second. You took a sparkling water from your bag and shoved it into his grasp.

“Hydrate, darling,” you hissed. “You look a little green.”

He groaned, took the water, and plunged into solipsistic hangover silence for the rest of the ride. The staff member driving the buggy cheerfully explained everything available at the cabanas, how to find the bar, what areas of the beach were best for suntanning, and which were best for swimming.

It was magical down by the water, something out of a dream. The white sand begged to be squished between your toes. You had never seen clearer water in your life. The cream-colored cabanas, curtained off and spacious, were placed several meters from each other for privacy. A waiter was supposed to be assigned to each shelter, but yours hadn’t arrived yet or was off tending to something else. This was immediately frustrating for Vorster, who hadn’t stopped mumbling about a Bloody Mary since you left the buggy behind.

You settled into one of the lounge chairs. In your beach bag, someone had packed two books. When you noticed one was your well-loved copy of Mounted by the Warlord, you had a feeling Mel was not the responsible party. Sweet Bob, making sure you had your smut on hand for a lazy, warm afternoon, something to take your mind off of the terrible noises Adrian’s stomach was making. You unpacked the books, setting them down on a squat, cloth-covered stump of a table alongside a new bottle of tanning oil.

Adrian was still mostly dressed, a long linen shirt half-buttoned over his swim trunks. He lingered, standing on the left side of the shelter, the curtain there pulled open enough for him to examine the beach and everyone on it.

“Seems too pretty of a place for all this unpleasantness,” he sighed. His eyes roamed back to you, then to the table with your things on it. “Do you need…should I…would you like me to…” He nodded toward the bottle of oil.

You rolled your head back and forth on your shoulders, summoning patience. “Oh, I already covered myself back in the room.”

“I see.” He didn’t even try to hide his disappointment. “I’ll be back. Need something to take the edge off.”

“Sure,” you said, smiling at him. “Take your time, darling.”

A handful of tufted white clouds stretched themselves across the sky. The curtain right ahead of you was pulled open, giving an unobstructed panorama of the crystal water and the emerald green hills swimming up out of it a few miles offshore. Birds swooped and played. It was going to get too hot to leave the shade soon, so you closed your book, put it back on the table and shrugged out of your cover up, then ventured down the strip of sand between the cabana and the water. The foam lapped at your toes, inviting and cool. You swiveled back toward the hotel, shielding your eyes from the sun as you looked for Vorster. You caught sight of him at the bar a way up the sloping hill. He had found Melody again, apparently, and hopefully that would keep him busy.

You waded out into the water, goose bumps skittering up your legs and across your arms. Tiny fish threaded through your ankles, then scattered. The sand turned pebbly and coarse, transitioning into bigger rocks. You sat down in the shallows, palms behind you, head back, watching behind your sunglasses for any sign of your lover. After his performance yesterday, you weren’t naïve enough to think he was done. But you didn’t recognize him among the guests frolicking the water or resting on their towels.

When the heat became too much, you picked yourself up out of the water and wandered back toward the cabana. Vorster was still off with Melody, but the waiter he had needed before was there, all smiles as you approached. He was a young man, a bit sunburned across his nose, freckly and friendly. With a little bow, he handed you a fresh towel and asked if you needed anything.

“The signature mojito, please,” you said, remembering your character. She would’ve left off the please, but he seemed charmed by it, hurrying off toward the bar, leaving you again in the breeze-ruffled stillness. You sat down on the edge of the lounge chair, gazing out at the water, head swimming from how much time you had spent just sitting in full sun. Sitting forward, hunched, listening, you waited for a bomb to go off, someone to scream—everything was going so smoothly, and that was not the New Avengers way.

Plucking off your sunglasses, you slipped them into your bag and retrieved your phone, checking, with a blush, to see if Bob had reached out again. But there was nothing. Silence. Faded voices. The waves hushing across the sand and rocks. You felt yourself getting sleepy, complacent enough not to notice that the pace and tread of the waiter when he returned was all wrong.

The drink landed in front of you, hovering, and you took it without thinking. Then, a single, warm finger traced down the line of your strap on the left side, over your shoulder. You jerked forward, shivering.

“You missed a spot.”

The curtain rings jangled as Bob switched the cloth shut behind him, leaving you enclosed in three walls of fabric. You twisted toward him, lips parting in shock; you hadn’t considered how devastating he would look in a pair of little European swim trunks. But now you were finding out, and you didn’t know whether to down your drink and tackle him onto the sand or slowly combust.

“You can’t be here,” you whispered, hypocritically gazing in lustful wonder at the hard, smooth planes of his chest, the wall of abs he had treated you with the night before, the cut arms dusted in freckles. You couldn’t bring yourself to look at his thighs, not even for a second, because your resolve would collapse.

Bob smirked and sat on the lounger behind you, reaching behind your back for the sun tan oil on the table. Hand trembling, you shoved your drink into the sand, not trusting your fingers.

“Bob. I’m serious. If anyone sees us—”

“Nobody will see us,” he said, playfully stern. “I can hear every conversation and footstep for a mile in every direction. Your fiancé is complaining to that woman about his ED. He’s already drunk again.”

“Great,” you muttered, hiding your face in your hands.

Bob twisted you away from him, making you face the water, his powerful thighs—the ones you refused to think about or look at—bracketed your hips. His thrumming, serum-enhanced heat pounded against your back. The cap on the oil flicked open, then you heard the naughty squirt of some of it landing in Bob’s palm.

His lips, harsh with stubble, brushed your left ear. “Unclasp your top.”

“What? Honey—”

One strong hand closed around your upper arm, squeezing. “Do it. If you get all messy, he’s going to notice.”

The words all messy made your vision dip. Things had a way of getting very messy when you two were alone. A strongly worded email from Valentina showed up in your inbox one day wondering why you seemed to go through so many towels… Heaven help you, you did as he said, fumbling with the gold clasp on your bikini top until it gave; you swung the cups outward, gasping softly as the weight of your breasts bounced against your ribcage. They weren’t allowed out in the open alone for long, Bob’s slick, oiled up hands scooping up your sides to encase them in his hot, squeezing hands.

Your head fell against his shoulder. He shoved his hips forward until they collided with yours, his dick hard and pulsing against your lower back. He massaged your tits roughly, palming them, then squeezing from the base, the glide of his skin across yours delicious, oil gushing around his slippery fingers as he teased out your nipples, pulling on them in rhythmic bursts until you arched and whimpered.

“Do you know what your body in this swimsuit does to me?” he whispered, pressing his nose to your temple. “This body. This body that belongs to me.”

All at once, you felt Sentry take over. It was in the possessive pinch of his thumbs and pointer fingers around your nipples, the slight, haunting reverberation in his voice, the heat suddenly scorching up your back and sides…

You gripped his wrists, whining.

“I’m not leaving until you cum for me,” he said, teasing flickers of energy dancing down your abdomen, ignoring the fabric of your bikini bottom, and nestling into your soaked folds.

“Robert, we don’t have time, we—”

“You don’t have time,” he corrected, laughing bitterly. You felt his head turn to the side as he listened for something. “He’s paying his tab, walking this way. You had better hurry up.”

“Please.”

You humped against what he gave you, pressure circling your clit like his thumb, like his tongue when he told you to sit on his face and pinned you there with his eerie, invisible strength until you were too shattered and overstimulated to form a thought. His smell wrapped around you, sunscreen and hotel soap and the indelible Just Bob scent that always clung to his skin, flannel bedsheets, comic book pages, sweetarts powder.  Something was inside you suddenly, not him but something like him, spreading through you, warm and expanding, a new experiment courtesy of his seemingly limitless power. And the thought that someone could just walk right in or happen by the open curtain wall and see you two together, Robert behind you, sinking his teeth into your ear lobe, his hands squeezing like he could milk sanity and sense out of your tits, your hips grinding forward against a cock made of sunlight itself, obliterated your defenses. Your breasts had become so slippery he was having trouble keeping them in his grasp.

“That’s it,” he groaned against your cheek. “I know you love to cum for me, you do it all the time. It’s our little secret—how much you love to moan for me.”

“Yes.” You grabbed his wrists, just needing something to hold on to, eyes shut and mouth open as you drew up and went limp against his chest, shivering, the sparkles dazzling on the water splitting apart as he sent you over the edge.

“So beautiful,” he murmured, stroking the sides of your breasts lightly as you bucked against the aftershocks. Gently, he tucked you back into your top, fixing the clasp, kissing your sweaty cheek. “You’re such a messy girl, what am I going to do with you?”

Your spine shocked itself upright as the curtain swung open behind you. Adrian was standing there, shirt open, eyes blank, oblivious, a plate of sandwiches in one hand. And Bob was gone, the only trace of him the drink still wedged in the sand, the new voluptuous shine across your breasts, and the curtain to your right fluttering, stirred by more than just the wind.

Day 3

Vorster had been in a strange mood since breakfast. On the boat tour that took you around the bay, he was brooding and silent, chewing his already stub nails. He avoided your gaze, though you frequently caught him staring when your attention was elsewhere. You couldn’t tell if he was being intentionally childish or something was genuinely wrong. His jumpiness made it impossible to enjoy a single moment of the excursion—you could feel the other guests observing him, avoiding him, whispering softly to each other on the other side of the boat.

When you returned to the resort, a staff member stopped you both in the lobby. A message had been left at concierge, scribbled down on a folded piece of embossed stationery. Vorster’s demeanor only worsened from the moment he had the paper in hand to when you finally crossed the threshold of your shared rooms. You were tired and thirsty from being out in the sun for hours, but there was no rest to be had—Vorster crossed to the sofa and sank onto it, unfolding the message, reading it, and making a sound like a wounded animal.

“They’ve moved the meeting again,” he grunted, shoving the paper toward you. “Tomorrow morning. What are they playing it?”

You didn’t say what you wanted to, which was that you were glad the timeline was shifting; you weren’t sure you could survive another four days of Bob putting you into a horny tailspin. Taking out your phone, you relayed the new information to “Mother” aka Bucky and despaired slightly that Bob had gone silent again.

Silly, of course, because it was better for both of you and the mission if he let things cool down.

“This is another test,” you told Vorster, dispassionate. “They want to see how you react.”

“And how shall I react?” he barked, flipping onto his side to glare at you from across the back line of the sofa. “I’ve no stomach for these games.”

You rubbed the vertical edge of your nose, fighting to keep your tone even. “You will react by getting lunch sent to the room. Tonight, you will react by going to dinner as planned. You will smile at me and flirt with me and behave as if nothing has changed.”

Adrian gave you a cool, unblinking glare. “I’m going to invite Melody; she at least will flirt back.”

“Adrian…” You sighed down at your sandals. “Don’t do that. I’m begging you not to do that. It will look strange.”

He flopped onto his other side, away from you, sulking. “This is torture, you know. You’re a very beautiful woman, but I can see someone else is already telling you that.”

“My personal life is none of your business.”

“There’s no practical reason for this arrangement to be so miserable. I know how to please a woman, you know—”

Your eyes swept nervously to the corners of the sitting room, then outside toward the perfect blue of the sky and the wrap around balcony. “Adrian. Lower your voice.”

I can hear every conversation and footstep for a mile in every direction.

“I won’t!” He slapped his palm on the slate floor and then rolled artlessly off the couch, spinning to face you. The high bones of his cheeks were pink with sunburn, his freckles more prominent across his forearms. His eyes darkened, almost black as they fixed on you from across the room. “You’ve been flustered this entire trip. Yesterday, you smelled like sex, though I’ve no idea how you managed it. Yet there’s an asking in your eyes. You’re unsatisfied, but I’m willing to help.” He began to arc around the sofa toward you, while you shuffled sideways to your right, toward the balcony. His eyes turned stormier, meaner, as he noticed your evasion. “I’m glad to help.”

You reached the door leading outside, facing him, and held up your phone, bag tucked under your left arm, beacon in grabbing distance. “Don’t make me worry mother, she will be extremely cross.”

“Ha.” Adrian stopped, perhaps coming to his senses. His nose wrinkled in frustration as he waved you off and stomped toward the bar. “Is that who’s left you high and dry? The Winter Soldier?”

This was bait, and as tempting as it was to frighten him with the truth, you understood that this mission was hardly more than glorified babysitting. An actual baby would be easier to deal with. His shoulders sagged as the fight went out of him. You approached him carefully, placing one mollifying hand on his forearm.

“We’re so close to this being finished,” you told him, in the voice of a mother placating a colicky child. “Tomorrow, we can go back to our lives. Try to keep the goal in mind, it makes these things easier.”

Vorster nodded, sighing with a shudder. “You’re right. Forgive me…I was out of line.”

He tried to reach for your hand, but you were already moving away.

One dinner. One dinner and it would all be over in the morning. Adrian didn’t listen to you; he invited Melody along, which was bothersome until you remembered Melody could carry the majority of the conversation. There was no stopping her, actually, and she hardly drew breath as course after course of Japanese-Mediterranean fusion dishes arrived at the table. Melody hardly touched the food, adhering to a strict gin and white wine diet.

While Melody held court on everything from Balenciaga’s winter collection (too overwrought, done before) to the absolute misery of hazarding Cinque Terre this time of year (so many Germans, good God), Adrian studied you over his martini while you studied the room over your own drink. Even nestled into one side of the resort on the first level, the restaurant still had a killer view of the water. The architect had understood that everything worth looking at was outside, creating a warm embryo of teak furnishings and soft orange textiles to set a mood without sabotaging the incredible views.

You suspected the tech sellers would have dispatched more tails, particularly after trying to make Vorster panic with another change to the schedule. A man in an ill-fitting suit and a bad haircut caught your eye. He was sitting at the bar, stealing glances at your table a little too frequently. Not good.

“If you’ll excuse me,” you said, leaning toward Adrian as you stood, collecting your bag. “I think I recognize an old friend by the bar.”

This was the pre-set phrasing. An old friend. Adrian knew what it meant, and sat up straighter, clutching the stem of his martini with new urgency. Thankfully, the atmosphere in the restaurant wasn’t overly stuffy; other guests rose to mingle with each other, wander out onto the attached deck to enjoy the outdoors, or escape to the bar to avoid their spouses. You took an empty place at the end of the counter, nodding mildly when the bartender took note of your presence. Taking out your phone, you pretended to use the front-facing camera to fix your makeup, instead snapping a picture of the suspected tail. You sent it to Bucky, then swiveled back toward the now attentive bartender to order.

“She’ll have a mojito.”

Your lungs constricted at the sound of his voice, deep and gentle. Sweet and knowing. Just beside you, Bob leaned onto the counter, one curl over his forehead, his cheeks still pink from being out in the sun too long. All of those delicious new freckles dusting his face were going to be the end of you. He was wearing another expensive shirt, dark blue, almost a perfect match for his eyes. He put the billionaires in the room to shame, effortlessly handsome.

You nodded at the bartender, blushing as you glanced down at your hands interlaced on the counter. Bob’s sleeve brushed your arm, and you closed your eyes and prayed to keep from whimpering.

“Where are you getting these outfits?” you asked in a whisper.

He laughed. “Clotheslines.”

“You’re stealing?” You twisted toward him, mouth open.

“These people live in castles,” he said, rolling his eyes. “And anyway, I put them back after. Maybe slightly used.”

You snorted down into your drink as the bartender handed it to you. After this, you never wanted another fucking mojito ever again. “Want something? I’ll put it on Vorster’s tab, he’ll never notice.”

“He might. He’s looking at us right now.” Bob closed the distance between you, his face so close to yours his breath skimmed your bare shoulder. His voice dipped, pitched low and dark with desire. "I don’t need anything these people can give me.”

You wanted to lean into him, press your cheek to his, feel the bite of his stubble against your skin, inhale the woodsy scent of his shaving cream. Your eyes felt heavy, your body responding to him like he had you trained, the need for him like a physical weight pressing down on your chest.

“I only want what you can give me,” he said, his front to your right side. You clamped your fingers around the sweaty mojito glass, afraid you would forget yourself and resettle that single, delicious curl back behind his ear. It whispered to you like the fucking Green Goblin mask. Touch me, touch me. Touch him. “When you’re ready for me just say the word.”

It was technically mission-related, so you told him, “Soon. The meeting moved again. Tomorrow morning.”

Bob nodded, his pinky grazing your wrist as he considered that news and then you again. “Think you can hold out that long?”

“We have to,” you said, grimacing as you sipped what felt like the eightieth mojito of the trip. They were good, but it got to a point...

“But won’t you be lonely tonight?” he asked, using a voice you were becoming all too familiar with. He had so many sides, but some were just for you. When the other New Avengers were around, Robert wasn’t nearly so talkative. Or such a brazen flirt. Bob was the one who indulged in PDA, holding your hand like it was the only thing keeping him from floating away. “No one to keep you company. No one to touch you, no one to fill you up.”

Your eyes squeezed shut and you swayed forward, bracing against the bar top. “Robert.” Just this much flirting was making you feel crazy. Your mind flashed back to the cabana the day before, his hands all over you, kneading you, pawing… You shifted, your body remembering it, too. “It feels like you put my boobs through a tumble cycle.”

His ears moved back. “I could help you with that.”

“You’d just make it worse.”

He leaned in, mischievous. “Are they aching for me?”

“Stop.”

“I’m just wondering, baby. I’m worried about you. I know how needy you get…” Bob did know, over the last few months, he had made it his business and his pleasure. His pinky traced up your forearm, the lightest, most teasing touch, and his eyes followed its trajectory, then continued up your arm to your neck, to your lips. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw his chest expand around faster breaths. His lips nearly brushed the edge of your ear. The heat of his power licked playfully at your toes. “I’ll be waiting.”

“I’m going back to the table now,” you said, loudly and confidently, like instructions for your own stubborn feet. Bob smiled to himself, waiting to leave the bar until you had collected your drink and started the short walk back to Vorster and Melody.

You expected an interrogation from Vorster, but he was seemingly still taken with Melody’s story. He didn’t even acknowledge your return. It didn’t sting, exactly, but you felt suddenly strange, lonely. Even knowing he would be gone, you let your eyes wander back to the bar, hoping for one more glimpse of Bob. The next sip of your drink made you feel dizzy and sick. You had no idea what Melody was even talking about or where they were in the conversation or how you would ever wedge yourself into it.

And it didn’t matter, because it would all be over in twenty-four hours, and you could go back home. Home. It was insane to think a place like the Watchtower could be home, but there it was. There was nowhere else that called to you in the same way. Bob had put in a request for new pillows, a request that was reluctantly granted by the team quartermaster after Bob insisted he was getting tension headaches that interfered with his therapy. Really, the pillows were for you, because you liked yours a lot firmer than the ones he kept on his bed. You kept a second toothbrush in his bathroom. Sometimes, when the mirror fogged from showering, you discovered he had left messages for you in the steam. Smiley faces. Cats. Hearts. Broke as a joke, he still managed to make sure your favorite candy was in the nightstand because it helped with anxiety attacks. You had only mentioned that precisely once, and the candy was there the next time you needed it.

You really thought you could make it until the mission was over until you shuffled back to the suite alone, feet killing you from the tall Louboutins (Tia’s forever footwear) alone. Melody and Adrian had decided to check out the pool-side bar, and you had tagged along until your feet felt like they were going to fall off. You came up with an excuse and left them there, but not before reminding Vorster that the two of you had an early morning. The pointed warning had fallen on deaf ears; someone had started a conga line, Adrian insisted on joining it, and that was your cue to jet.

Your footsteps echoed in the empty hallway, empty sitting room, empty kitchen. You left your heels in your room, freed yourself from the itchy hell of the wig, and showered thoroughly, then changed into a silk robe, downing a glass of ice water to try and chase away the lingering, sugary pre-headache halo left behind by the mojitos. It was late, and the bed was calling; you set your alarm for bright and early, but sensed your brain was still too awake. You padded back out into the main room, texting Bucky to let him know Vorster was still out with Melody. One of you needed to keep an eye on him.

A gentle, salt breeze rolled in from the balcony. You followed it back outside, idly pacing down the wrap-around porch, the wind fluttering the delicate fabric of the robe, lifting the hem. You combed your hair through your still damp hair and traced the hills across the water with your eyes, knowing you would miss this view but also accepting that you would trade it a hundred times over to be back in New York with your team, your friends, your Bob.

You followed the porch to its terminus, back in the private corner where he had turned on that light for you. Leaning onto the glass railing, you told yourself not to pine, not to think about him, but it was a futile command. A noise inside the sitting room jolted you. Turning, you saw the flat screen had turned on above the free-standing fireplace. It took a minute for the image to settle, then you smiled and shook your head, recognizing the darts and pool scene from Mystic Pizza. Julia Roberts with her red curls piled to heaven, rich kids with their feathered hair and turtlenecks, wailing saxophone music and all the sexual tension a person could want.

Bob had started taking you through his beloved collection of 80s VHS movies. Every one of them was cornier than the last, but it never felt like a wasted evening. It took you a few movie nights to realize he was showing you something about himself; he was never going to be an ultra-sophisticated guy. Even with Sentry around, it was never going to be champagne and caviar, it was going to be weeknight pizza specials, sweaty punk shows in Bushwick, and analog media, tube socks on the company credit card and borrowing cashmere sweaters off of clotheslines. You looked down at the diamond on your finger, and it had never looked more out of place.

You fished the phone out of your pocket, composing a text raving about Julia’s hair in the movie, but then you deleted it. It wasn’t the want of his touch that made you crack, though that was real enough, but the want of just him.

Please.

You had hardly hit send before a shape materialized out of the darkness, streaking across the sky like a dark comet. He moved so fast your eyes couldn’t track it. The silk of your robe fluttered again, stirred by the wind and by the speed of his flight. Bob was at least wearing clothes you recognized this time—an old worn in peppery gray tee and jeans. There was no self-satisfied speech or teasing, he just took you in his arms, checked you up and down to make sure this wasn’t an actual emergency, and then pulled you in, resting his chin on your head.

“Where’s Adrian?” he asked, unwinding you gently. He spun you in place, arms still around your waist as he led you closer to the window so you could watch the movie through it.

“Conga line,” you said.

“Can’t believe you skipped out on that for me,” Bob said, chuckling. “Oh! Here, I love this look she gives him—” He said, pointing around your arm at the screen. Julia Roberts was pinning the rich guy with a hot, cocky glance, holding it while she sank another trick shot at the pool table. “That gave me such a boner when I was sixteen.”

“Still does, I think,” you teased, wiggling back against him.

“That’s not from Julia.” He laughed, pressing a kiss to your cheek from behind.

Bob kissed along the curve of your left ear. “Couldn’t wait until tomorrow?”

You pried yourself out of his grasp, turning your back to the window to look up at him. At last, you could put that rogue curl back behind his ear; his eyes closed gently in pleasure as you did so. “Adrian is acting weird. Possessive. Today he tried to convince me to sleep with him. He thinks I’m with Bucky.”

It was the wrong thing to say; you saw the change in him right away, Bob receding and Sentry filling him to the seams. His chest flared, gold outlining his pupils. He took your right hand, flattening it against his chest so you could feel the mad tremor of his heartbeat.

“I’m not leaving you alone with him. I’ll stay out of sight, but I won’t be far.” He silenced your rebuttal with a kiss, sliding both hands up your neck to cup the back of your head. He was so warm, deepening the kiss the moment he felt your body relax against his. Groaning, he backed you into the window, his left hand slipping down your throat to your shoulder, pulling until the shoulder of your robe slid down, revealing your bare skin. He kissed and bit the flesh there until it was shiny and sore, hands gripping your ass, holding you fast against his chest, his hips, the thickening jut of his erection.

You knew it was your job to stop him, slow it all down, but you couldn’t, drunk off of the feeling of his hand traveling lower, palming your breast and squeezing where you were already tender and overworked from the previous day. He grinned at your helpless little sounds, thumbing your nipple to life before abandoning it to push the two halves of the robe aside and cup your sex through your panties. The fabric burned under his touch, disintegrated, leaving nothing but a faint, tingling heat behind.

“Bob, we shouldn’t—”

Your pleas were weak, and you both knew it. He dropped to his knees, nosing apart the robe to lap at the slick escaping you, wetting the creases of your thighs. Your fingers sank into his hair, tugging him closer, tightening when he licked you in earnest, his nose burying into your folds, bumping your clit in time with the rhythm of his tongue strokes. He peeled you apart with his thumbs, going deeper, harder, lost and groaning, eyes fluttering shut as his tongue fucked into you until your legs buckled and he had to readjust his hands to hold you up.

It wasn’t going to take long. All of his tormenting and teasing had left you in a constant state of sizzling arousal. He probably could’ve leveled you with a stern, golden-eyed glare and you would’ve doubled over. You lifted one leg, hooking your thigh over his shoulder, mashing his head into your cunt, faster, faster, convinced he was going to rug pull and leave you breathless and aching again, but no—he kept going, not even attempting to stop you from humping furiously against his head, determined now to chase that glimmering promise on the horizon.

“Fuck, Robert, fuck—” Your head thumped back against the window. Your breasts spilled out, naked for the cool caress of the night breeze. Somewhere inside the room behind you, you heard a door open and close. Your eyes flew open, but it was too late, you were too far gone, and the knowledge that shitty fucking Adrian might see you getting eaten like a buffet, split open on another man’s tongue, made the world flash white and hazy. You spared one hand from his hair, biting onto the edge of it to keep your moaning in check, eyes rolling back as Bob’s face slid higher, all of his concentration zeroing in on your clit, his lips wrapping around it and suckling until you couldn’t breathe.

Boneless, buzzing, you went perfectly still, hoping nobody had seen you. Bob, unhurried, stood, using the bottom of his shirt to wipe off his face. His eyes, still burning with gold, shifted from your wrecked face to the room over your shoulder. “I’ll keep him busy,” he said, strong, practiced hands slipping around your waist, holding you up again. “I’m not done with you.”

“If he sees us—”

“He won’t.” He sounded so sure, looked so sure. His knee parted your legs, and he glanced down to where your damp cunt met his thigh, grinding it against you, stirring the hunger only he could stoke so easily. “No, I’m not done with this body.”

You heard Adrian swear inside the hotel, lights flickering in different rooms. Bob smiled, smug, amused by this side quest he had put himself on while you undid his belt and pulled his jeans open. The fabric of his boxer briefs was soaked.

“Let me do that,” Bob murmured, freeing himself, the almost terrifying heat of his dick pulsing against your skin as he worked the tip back and forth from your clit to your entrance, waiting for the lights to dazzle in your eyes before he ground forward, lodging himself inside, hands dipping down to grip your thighs and hoist you up. You gasped, pinned roughly against the window, your exposed shoulders squeaking against the surface as he mouthed against your throat hungrily, shuddering as he pushed, and pushed, opening you up, taking what was his.

You had been waiting on that exquisite stretch for days, the memory of it and your own fingers never close to the real thing. The powerful thrum of his body couldn’t be recreated, or the way his evening stubble rasped against your cheek. You could feel the tension coiled in his spine, your hands looped over his shoulders, around his neck.

“God, you take me like a dream now,” he whispered, but you could tell his eyes were pinned to the inside of the hotel, tracking Adrian, keeping him on a wild goose chase as he turned on appliances and lights room to room. His concentration frayed as you squeezed him tighter between your thighs, flexing your inner walls. “This pussy knows who it belongs to now, doesn’t it?” The false ring on your finger burned slightly, a spiteful little warning. “Say it. Say it.”

“Yours,” you breathed, holding on for dear life. His thrusts were brutal, claiming, jarring the air out of your lungs. “My—my body is yours, this pussy is yours, I’m yours.”

“That’s right,” Bob grunted, sweat popping out along his brow as he dragged you up and down the window, using you for his pleasure, like a warm, living toy, his to fuck, his to please or not please. “You had a god on his knees, but now I have you where I want you. Maybe we should show him, show him how good you take me, how much you love getting fucked.”

You bit down on a wail, always powerless when he started to talk you through it. And you could tell Robert relished it, too, his dick swelling inside you, the flush across his cheeks higher and redder by the second. He loved every squeak and gasp and moan he drew out of your throat, and you had plenty for him.

His eyes flared orange and gold as he inched backward, just a little, giving himself a deeper angle, allowing you the space to grind your clit against his pubic bone. You couldn’t dredge up a single thought or fuck when it came to Adrian. It felt too good. If he saw you, he saw you. There were just your nipples scraping against Bob’s shirt, the friction of your bodies meeting, the squelch and slap of bare, slick skin, the sweet little desperate tremors you felt race down his back as he bounced you faster on his cock, building toward the gushing release you craved…

Bob’s mouth darted down to your ear. “Let it out, baby. Let me hear it.”

The radio inside the room roared on, deafening. You clung to him, the danger and the pleasure too powerful to resist. “Please, I’m so close, I need it, need to feel you—”

“Feel what?”

“Need to feel you cum…”

He jammed your hips against the window, holding you in place, grunting into a trio of fierce, concentrated thrusts, his hands slack on your thighs briefly as he went silent, shivering, a spasm down his back and the feeling of liquid sunshine spreading through your belly stealing the sound from you both. Bob wedged his hand between your bodies, tracing tight shapes over your clit until your mouth fell open and your skull bumped the window, the stars above bleeding into each other, white hot and searing as the cum he jerked into you as you unwound.

All at once, the lights in the hotel room went out. You heard Adrian swearing and stomping around. Bob gently lowered you to the ground, waiting until your feet stopped shaking to close your robe for you and make you decent. He leaned down, kissing your lips like it was just another sweet, private moment between you in the Watchtower common room. Then, his hand wiped between your legs, two fingers dragging through the mess leaking from you. He slapped that hand on the window, leaving behind a long, milky smear.

Day 4

It went wrong. Of course, it went wrong.

Adrian was groggy and hungover again in the morning. The sellers directed you to a location far, far from the resort. In the car ride to the meeting place, Adrian kept cutting you suspicious glances. You smiled through it, feigning innocence. Wisely, he hadn’t tried anything with you, and Bob had remained aloof, though you didn’t doubt he was nearby, monitoring.

You looked down at your bag in your lap, wondering how you would explain your presence at this meeting. It seemed odd that Adrian should bring his unwitting fiancé. Your eyes settled on the beacon dangling from the zipper; when you glanced out the window, you didn’t see anyone following.

The warehouse was a few clicks north, along the coast. It was rundown and smelled like rotting fish. Adrian’s knee bounced as you pulled up outside the row of dilapidated buildings.

“Just do as we rehearsed,” you told him, watching two large men approach the vehicle. Their blazers bulged where guns were hidden. “You know what price to give them. Stay calm. Don’t let them see you sweat.”

He wiped his hand across his forehead. “I’m already sweating.”

The armed men escorted you to a table set up behind the warehouse, on a broken, stony overlook with a view down the craggy cliffs to the sea. Gulls circled. There was a rank, dead quality to the air. You picked your way forward in your high heels, making in character complaints about the conditions while Adrian tugged nervously at his collar.

It was a cloudless day. You kept looking to the sky, hoping to see someone watching.

The table had been set with a white tablecloth and three glasses, a nice bottle of champagne chilling in a bucket. The ice had long since melted. You smoothed down your skirt and took a seat with your back to the water; you wanted to keep an eye on the comings and goings. You counted four men besides the seller. They wore odd, nylon masks, colorful, pixelated, like they were playing at censoring their own faces.

“It’s a beautiful day for business, darling,” you told Adrian, trying to calm him as he glanced in every direction.

The seller arrived relatively on time. He had a slender build, and arrived in a gray suit with no tie, one of those same masks pulled snug over his face, damp in the heat. When he sat down and launched into his spiel, you could tell he was using a voice changer, the outline of it bulging against his fabric mask.

“We appreciate your flexibility,” the seller said. He took a small container out of his jacket and set it on the table. It was the size of a ring box. He uncorked the champagne and poured some for each of you, though you weren’t sure how he was going to drink with the mask. He turned slightly toward you.

“Don’t mind her,” Adrian said, laughing like an idiot. “We’re celebrating our engagement. She’s not important enough to be a liability.”

“No, I’m glad she’s here,” said the seller. He leaned back, propping one ankle on the opposite knee. “She should know about the…irregularities we’ve observed.”

Your heart stopped. Oh no. Oh shit. You looked between the two men.

“I can’t imagine what you mean,” Adrian said, fiddling with his glass.

“I’m sure you can.” The seller tipped his head to the side, attention fixed on you again. They had seen you misbehaving with Bob. You were burned. He opened the box with the tech, taking out a card the size of your thumbnail. The sun caught on tiny filaments imbedded in the chip. “Our price has gone up. The cost of your degeneracy.”

Adrian flapped his mouth. You kept your face a blank mask.

“What is he talking about, darling?” you asked, lifting a brow.

“It gives me no pleasure to inform you of this, madame,” said the seller, speaking perfect English but with a French accent. Not France French, you thought, Algerian, maybe. “But your fiancé has not been faithful.”

You gasped theatrically, fluttering your hand over your chest.

“This is nonsense,” Vorster sighed, glaring toward the sea. “What does this have to do with anything? Let us get on with it, let us get on with the sale.”

“The price just went up again,” the seller sighed, putting the chip down on the table between the three of you. “The cost of lies.”

You watched Adrian over the top edge of your sunglasses until he muttered, “I went out with Melody last night. She must have drugged me, when I got back to the room I thought I was having a stroke—all the lights were flashing, it was a nightmare.”

“I can forgive,” you said softly, relief loosening your grip on the glass you had yet to drink from.

“How touching.” The seller pretended to dab his masked cheeks.

“So. What’s the damage, then? What’s the price?” Vorster demanded.

“Eight hundred and twenty million.”

Vorster’s face reddened as if he were being choked. “That’s unacceptable.”

“You said this was important, darling,” you said through clenched teeth. “And after all, it’s just money.”

He snarled, looking between you and the seller with darting eyes. “I’ll pay seven hundred and fifty, which is what we agreed upon in the first place.”

The seller clucked his tongue. “I’m afraid the price has gone up.”

Vorster rocked forward in his chair, jabbing an accusatory finger at the seller. “And I’m afraid you can go fuck yourself.”

“Darling—”

You saw the men advancing and their guns being drawn. The seller snorted, shrugged, then began reaching for the chip on the table. Without another thought, knowing this was it, that if this went south then these people would go underground for months or years and make the sale quietly to someone worse, someone who couldn’t be controlled or bribed, you lashed out with your right hand, grabbed the chip and shoved it in your mouth, swallowing.

The beacon activated just as Bucky killed the motor on his bike a mile down the road from the abandoned warehouses. Bob felt the crackle of energy from the receiver in Bucky’s bag before the sound emerged, muffled by the thick leather. Their eyes met across the bag.

“Go,” Bucky told him, hopping back on his bike and gunning the engine. “Go.”

Bob didn’t need the order; he was already gone.

Technically, he was on the bench. Technically didn’t matter when you were in danger. And it wasn’t like Valentina could afford to kick him off the team. The wind tore at him as he arced out of the sky, whistling down toward the warehouse, landing with enough force to knock every man in the vicinity off their feet. You were already gone, somewhere inside the dank, rusted innards of the warehouse, the walls of which were now stripped to the studs and at a slant from Bob’s descent.

Underground, in the twisting, narrow passages beneath the warehouse, he found the seller first. Dead. His throat had been slashed with a knife. Your shoes were abandoned close by. Bob followed the sounds of your breathing, then your screams. The walls were just in the way. If they were structural, he’d deal with that later. He barreled straight to your location, metal and stone and wood imploding; he emerged from a cloud of gray dust, finding you cornered at the far southeast corner of the basement.

Vorster must have used some kind of high-tech stunning device—a metal barb stuck out of your neck. Your eyes were glassy, your feet dirty and bruised from pelting through the basement and away from Vorster. He was on his hands and knees, over you, a knife aimed at your stomach. It turned molten in his hand, flashing orange and red, liquefied. He screamed and let go, reaching for the stun gun on the ground.

Bob froze him in place, placing him in a tight prison of energy, just hot enough to be deeply unpleasant. All threats managed, Bob raced to your side, scooping you into his arms. You were coming back to yourself, shaking your head, eyes livelier as you slid one arm around Bob’s neck and leaned into him.

Footsteps thundered down the stairs, Bucky using the tunnel Bob had blasted through the underground to reach your position at a run.

“I have it,” you mumbled, struggling to speak. “The chip. I swallowed it.”

“What do we do with him?” Bob asked, cold, hitting Vorster with the toe of his shoe. “He was going to cut it out of her.”

“Sick fuck.” Bucky shook his head. “We take him in. We take all of them in.” He put his fists on his hips, staring down at Vorster with a curled lip. “Vacation’s over, buddy.”

Bob slid the diamond ring off your finger, letting it drop, turning the band to slag before it hit the ground. He held you tighter, grateful just to feel you in his arms, to feel you safe and whole. “Let’s get you home.”

“Movie night,” you murmured against his neck, perhaps a bit delirious.

Soft-dark!Bucky, who hates the apartment, then hates himself for hating anything that has running water, a bed, and no one waiting to strap him down.

Soft-dark!Bucky, who is coming back from the grocery store one afternoon when the paper bag splits open in front of the hardware store.

Soft-dark!Bucky, whose oranges and plums roll across the sidewalk, whose bread lands in the gutter, whose jaw clenches so hard it aches because he feels exposed.

Soft-dark!Bucky, who hears, "Oh, shit, hold on," before he sees you.

Soft-dark!Bucky, who finds you crouching in front of him with two of his oranges in your hands, wearing the store apron, your hair a little windblown from dragging the discount chalkboard onto the sidewalk.

Soft-dark!Bucky, who sees you clicking your tongue at the ruined bag and saying, "These things are useless. Come in, I'll give you a better one."

Soft-dark!Bucky, who follows because he has nowhere else to put the groceries, and because you have his bread under your arm and the oranges in your apron’s pocket.

Soft-dark!Bucky, who, when you ask if he lives close by, says he just moved into the building down the block.

Soft-dark!Bucky, who adds, after a beat, that the place is falling apart.

Soft-dark!Bucky, who notices the smell of cut wood, dust, metal shelving, floor cleaner, and underneath all of it, something that is only yours.

Soft-dark!Bucky, who notices the little nick on your thumb, the smudge of chalk on your wrist, the way you push a drawer shut with your hip.

Soft-dark!Bucky, who leaves with a reusable canvas bag, his groceries, and the sound of your voice circling in his head.

Soft-dark!Bucky, who lies awake that night replaying it -your hip against the drawer, the small huff of breath when you stood up too fast, the care when sorting his stuff inside the bag-.

Soft-dark!Bucky, who tells himself he needs a screwdriver the next day.

Soft-dark!Bucky, who already has two.

Soft-dark!Bucky, who goes and buys it anyway.

Soft-dark!Bucky, who comes in while you’re restocking lightbulbs and pretends to study wall anchors like he knows a damn thing about wall anchors.

Soft-dark!Bucky, who does not smile often, but does when you say, "Oh, hi again. How’s the disaster apartment?” because you remembered him, because you’ve kept him in your thoughts.

Soft-dark!Bucky, who goes home and sets the screwdriver in an empty laundry basket by the door.

Soft-dark!Bucky, who does not fix the loose cabinet handle.

Soft-dark!Bucky, who goes back two days later for painter’s tape.

Soft-dark!Bucky, who buys sandpaper the day after that.

Soft-dark!Bucky, who buys a level, a box of screws, two cabinet knobs, felt pads, a wrench he does not need, a flashlight, wood glue, replacement washers, a tape measure, and a little packet of brass picture hooks.

Soft-dark!Bucky, whose apartment remains exactly the same.

Soft-dark!Bucky, whose basket fills slowly with small, useless proof that he has reasons to see you.

Soft-dark!Bucky, who starts knowing your shifts without meaning to.

Soft-dark!Bucky, who tells himself it is not stalking if he only notices.

Soft-dark!Bucky, who notices you always work the afternoon shift, notices you drink your coffee too sweet and too cold because you keep forgetting about it behind the counter, and notices your smile changes when you are being polite instead of pleased.

Soft-dark!Bucky, who starts walking past the store even when he has nothing to buy.

Soft-dark!Bucky, who pauses at the window if you are near the front.

Soft-dark!Bucky, who tells himself he is checking whether you got home safe when he sees you leave after closing.

Soft-dark!Bucky, who keeps enough distance that you never turn around.

Soft-dark!Bucky, who hates himself the first time.

Soft-dark!Bucky, who does it again the next night.

Soft-dark!Bucky, who tells himself the city is dangerous, that men are dangerous, that he knows exactly what a dangerous man looks like because he was one - because maybe he still is one- because maybe that's exactly why he's the only one who could keep you safe.

Soft-dark!Bucky, who watches a contractor lean over the counter one Tuesday, with an elbow planted too close to your hand, voice low and easy in a way that has nothing to do with hardware.

Soft-dark!Bucky, who stands by the paint chips with a strip of color samples he doesn't need, watching the back of that man's neck, doing the kind of math he was trained to do in a different context. Distance, angle, how many seconds.

Soft-dark!Bucky, who has never had much.

Soft-dark!Bucky, who has had his body stolen, his mind fried, his name erased.

Soft-dark!Bucky, who has spent decades being emptied out and then handed back to the world, and expected to act grateful there was anything left.

Soft-dark!Bucky, who starts thinking, quietly and then not quietly enough, that maybe he deserves one good thing.

Soft-dark!Bucky, who knows that is a selfish thought.

Soft-dark!Bucky, who lets himself have it anyway.

Soft-dark!Bucky, who hears “Bucky” from your lips and feels something inside him sit up like a starving dog.

Soft-dark!Bucky, whose body remembers want before his mind permits it, a pressure in his loins when you reach for something on a high shelf and the hem of your skirt rides up, gone as fast as it came, leaving him furious at himself for noticing, for wanting, like wanting were still a thing that got him punished.

Soft-dark!Bucky, who starts imagining you saying his name in his apartment, against his throat instead of across a counter.

Soft-dark!Bucky, who starts imagining you barefoot in his kitchen, wearing one of his shirts, complaining about the cabinet handle he still has not fixed.

Soft-dark!Bucky, who starts imagining what your hands would feel like against his chest, his back, then lower.

Soft-dark!Bucky, who has to leave the store early one afternoon because the thought arrives too vivid, too sudden, and his body answers before he can stop it.

Soft-dark!Bucky, who stands in an alley two blocks away, breathing hard like it's a flashback, except this one he doesn't want to end.

Soft-dark!Bucky, who does not think of taking you, but of bringing you home.

Soft-dark!Bucky, who knows exactly how that sounds.

Soft-dark!Bucky, who still comes into the store with his careful voice and his tired eyes and his useless little purchases.

Soft-dark!Bucky, who lets you tease him about becoming the most prepared tenant in Brooklyn.

Soft-dark!Bucky, who says, “Something like that.”

Soft-dark!Bucky, who is gentle with you every time he sees you.

Soft-dark!Bucky, who carries heavy boxes from the delivery truck because the kid scheduled to help called in sick.

Soft-dark!Bucky, who fixes the jammed back door in twelve seconds and pretends not to understand why you look impressed.

Soft-dark!Bucky, who walks you to the corner in the rain to take a cab because he has an umbrella and you do not.

Soft-dark!Bucky, who looks almost boyish when you say, “You’re sweet, you know that?”

Soft-dark!Bucky, who has been called many things.

Soft-dark!Bucky, who has never believed that one.

Soft-dark!Bucky, who goes home shaking because you touched his arm when you said goodbye.

Soft-dark!Bucky, who sits on the edge of his bed for an hour with that touch burning through his sleeve, then gives in -finally, helplessly- to wanting, his metal hand braced on the headboard as the other strokes his aching cock.

Soft-dark!Bucky, who hates how easy it is now. How fast his body answers for you when it answered for no one, nothing, for seventy years.

Soft-dark!Bucky, who thinks about the alley behind the store, the broken security light, and the back entrance you forget to lock until after counting the register.

Soft-dark!Bucky, who thinks about how easy it would be.

Soft-dark!Bucky, who hates that he knows how easy it would be.

Soft-dark!Bucky, who shows up the next day pale and quiet, buys a single pack of picture hooks.

Soft-dark!Bucky, who stares at your lips while you ring him up.

Soft-dark!Bucky, who listens to you talk about a customer, about the weather, about the chalkboard falling over again in the wind.

Soft-dark!Bucky, who has to look away first when your gaze finds his, even if he has never had to look away first from anything in the last few decades.

Soft-dark!Bucky, who thinks you have no idea how close you are to being his.

Soft-dark!Bucky, who smiles when you hand him the receipt.

Soft-dark!Bucky, who says, “See you tomorrow.”

Soft-dark!Bucky, who means it like a promise.

Soft-dark!Bucky, who stands there in the dim apartment, surrounded by all the things he bought from you and never used, and realizes the basket was never full of repairs, but full of steps.

Soft-dark!Bucky, who looks at all that and understands he bought a home in pieces before he knew who he was making it for.

Soft-dark!Bucky, who finally fixes the cabinet handle.

Soft-dark!Bucky, who makes the apartment quieter, softer, less broken.

Soft-dark!Bucky, who hangs the brass hook by the door and imagines your coat there.

Soft-dark!Bucky, who tells himself he can make it all nice for you, that you’ll be scared at first, but only at first.

Soft-dark!Bucky, who has survived too much to keep being empty-handed.

Soft-dark!Bucky, who has decided that the world has taken enough from him, and that this time, when it places something good within reach, he is not giving it back.

“My dearest brother,

I thank you for keeping me and my dear wife, Elizabeth, in your thoughts. I know that you are greatly preoccupied by your own troubles and hope you have time for meditation in your labours. I beg of you, try not to exhaust yourself.

I am in good health, as is Elizabeth; we are soon to return from our honeymoon. Our union brings me immense bliss and I am convinced to have married the greatest woman God could have granted. She bestows tranquility upon me, and I pray that the pleasant pace of our lives combined brings ease upon not only me, but us both.

Enough about me, I am thrilled to bear the joyous news in your life! Oh, brother, glad am I to read of this passionate regard and fondness you describe for the subject of your admiration! From your account of this woman, I am convinced that she is of the same intellectual brilliance as you, and I would never have expected you to seek out a lesser companion. I hope that her genius will inspire your own.

Though I wish to inquire, as you seemed to be in a hurry, are you engaged? For I formed an impression of such fortune. And I suspected that it was for this reason you wrote to me. However, my judgement could be wrong, for I had difficulty reading your letter, as the words were slightly smudged and your handwriting seemed shaky. Forgive me for my rudeness, but it could simply be my imagination. Your handwriting always resembled our father’s; it could be the very effect of the arduous study of medicine as well!

Regardless, I digress. I and Elizabeth would be delighted to invite you and this charming lady  to our temporary residence—Herr Harlander’s, of course. I need not remind you of the address, but all three of us would gladly meet her, whom I pray to be my sister-in-law.

However, I must go now. Our carriage has arrived, and I and Elizabeth are to travel to Edinburgh.

We shall meet soon. Please respond as soon as possible. I eagerly await the date of your arrival. I ask you both not to reject the invitation, I insist!

I and Elizabeth send our best regards from one of our many stops. We wish you well, and hope to see you soon and in good health.

I sincerely miss you, brother.

Yours,

William.”

The elegant clopping of the horses’ hooves over the stone ground, and the rustling of the moving carriage accompanied the voice of Victor’s beloved. “Are you eager to reunite with your brother after not having seen him for so long?”

The pair sat side by side within the carriage, their bodies parting by a few inches.

Throughout the ride, Victor had felt a growing sense of frustration. They had not even once spoken of their previous liaison, though he had desperately attempted to broach the topic. She persisted in redirecting the conversation when it came at hand, and she seemed to purposefully torment him with the withdrawals of his sincerest affection. His arduous trials of pressing his lips to hers, of hugging her body, or caressing any part of her were heartlessly rejected, as if nothing truly happened between them.

Victor could not understand the reason behind her coldness; he dared not call it modesty or a want of propriety, for he considered those characteristics long since erased in her once their passion merged that evening.

He felt as though their shared moment was no more than a dream, an illusion—so unreal.

“Well?” she prompted once more, re-capturing his attention.

“I am indeed, Miss,” he answered at last, straightening his spine as if to prove he was grounded in the present moment.

She hummed, observing his face intently for a moment—it made him shudder. “Tell me, what must I expect of your family? I do wish to make a good impression.”

“I assure you, they will be fond of your company, regardless of whether you try to comply with their taste in people, as long as I am the one bringing you in.” “My, then I shall try my earnest to not bring shame to you. I pray not for you to regret the decision of presenting me to your beloved ones,” the woman chuckled, looking out of the window. Due to the annoying bonnet she wore, her face was fully hidden from his eyesight.

He moved closer, trying to catch a glimpse of her. “You were invited. I should say, today you are our guest of honour.”

“You must have told your brother much about me for him to invite us both, I hope not the worst.” “No, not at all! I would never,” he insisted, following the lines of her silhouette with his eyes while she watched the passing houses. She sat tall, composed and, perhaps, even somewhat prideful.

Victor could no longer resist his urges, having succumbed to them once before. His arm swung over her shoulders, pulling her close to him. It must have caught her off guard as it forced her to face him.

“I am glad that you shall meet my family,” he whispered into her ear.

“What has suddenly gotten into you?” she asked. Though not out of concern, nor was there anger or annoyance in her voice, but curiosity.

“Oh, you most certainly know the reason.” He sighed, brushing the tip of his nose against her cheek while he breathed into her ear. “You certainly know my motives, but you choose to feign ignorance.”

“Well then, do explain my ignorance,” she cooed softly, challenging him with an intense gaze and an angelic smirk.

Victor needed to test his hypothesis before accusing her of something more, to test whether his beliefs were true. The only way to examine it was by conducting an experiment. Therefore, his lips neared towards hers, and his hand gently caressed her thigh, though her dress and the raincoat covered the yearned flesh—

Then the carriage stopped at the most inconvenient timing; the horses neighed loudly, stomping with their heavy hooves in place out of fatigue. The driver called out that they had arrived. 

Victor cursed under his breath, glowering through the window at the high walls of Harlander’s residence.

Without uttering a word, the woman climbed out of the carriage, and he felt the sting of salt burning the open wound in his heart.

Even while walking alongside her to the door, he dared not to touch her again, not to question her opinion of his boldness. He presumed that she might have felt offended by his intruding on her space, but it was hard to identify her true emotions from his sidelong glances. Her face was as still and reserved as ever. He wondered whether she was mentally preparing herself for the meeting, thinking of all possible scenarios for conversations, or dreaming of the kiss they could have had.

Even while in his daze, Victor knocked on the door with the elegant door knocker, unable to lower his gaze from the face of his beloved.

He could not recall the door opening and a familiar voice greeting them, “Brother! Come in, come in!”

He could not even recall coming into the house, or hugging his dear brother tenderly, or hearing his beloved and William exchanging polite introductions, slowly becoming more familiar with one another.

Victor was entirely absorbed in the woman, the shadows and light dancing within her irises, the curl of her lips, every movement of her muscles, a stubborn strand of hair poking out of her desired hairstyle.

He could not suppress the stab in his chest that radiated to his guts; the tingle that spread through every single branch of his nerves.

He did, however, remember entering the salon, seeing Elizabeth stand up from the sofa to greet her guests. He flinched as she kissed the woman on the cheek.

Victor felt obsessed, territorial, and he despised the fact that these emotions had integrated into the very marrow of his bones. He was taken aback by the intensity of his suffering as jealousy coiled in his veins, as his beloved spoke to Elizabeth, giving the other woman all her attention, and not even sparing him a glance. His hands clenched tightly into fists and his lower eyelid even twitched as he stalked the pair.

Perhaps he even regretted presenting his woman to his family.

The hosts and their guests were seated at a large dining table, ready to feast and to converse with one another. However, Henrich was still nowhere to be found.

“And what have you served us?” the woman queried, observing the plate placed before her.

“A lamb,” William answered with a bright smile, clumsily covering his thighs with a napkin. “Freshly harvested, roasted and rubbed with spices from countries of the East. We hope it pleases your palate!”

“Please, do not doubt it. I am very grateful for your consideration,” she replied politely, following the etiquette as the others did.

All of them indulged in the merriment with loud conversation, pouring each other cups of tea or wine, though one preferred to drink milk. The cooked lamb with the mingling aftertaste of the spices from faraway lands added to the ease, modifying their voices to jubilant and relaxed in the happiness of the union. Even the light of the candles on the table fluttered along with their laughter.

However, Victor’s mind drifted away from the blissful atmosphere, though he did remember asking his brother and his wife a polite question: ‘how was your honeymoon?’, to which his beloved added: ‘where have you been, and what have you seen?’.

William had huffed and blustered, unable to contain himself from reminiscing, seemingly excited to share his experiences from the honeymoon, sometimes tenderly patting his wife’s hand. Willam’s face had brightened and a new, healthy flush splashed it; though Victor could not recall much of his narrative.

He was much more interested in analysing Elizabeth, seeing her for the first time after so long. He had noticed the shift in her demeanor: she was paler, more modest and subdued. William’s touch did not uplift her spirit, and yet, she was not bothered by it either. It seemed as though her inner light had died, as though she repressed herself; her gaze was now lifeless as she stared at the wooden floor with narrowed eyes. 

However, once Elizabeth’s eyes rose to meet his—they were burning, piercing right through him with a passionate disdain hidden in their depths. It made him instantly avert his gaze.

And Victor noticed: he no longer felt those butterflies fluttering in his chest while looking at her. All of his affection had since shifted to his beloved.

His woman’s voice brought Victor back to reality. “You seem displeased, Missis Frankenstein, is the taste revolting?” the woman began once William was out of words.

“I apologise if I ruined your appetite, yet it is not the taste that is revolting,” Elizabeth replied politely, staring at the meal. She chewed as if eating a rock, and seemed to struggle swallowing the food. “It is the thought of a life I am consuming.”

“Tell me, how does it make you feel?” the woman asked, locking her eyes onto Elizabeth who avoided meeting hers.

Elizabeth’s brows knitted as she thought. “I feel disgust, guilt, grief… As though my mouth is filled with dirt.”

The woman hummed softly, taking a careful bite of the meat. “Yet, we are now following the natural order of life. One must consume the other to survive.” Then her gaze fell to the red cross resting against Elizabeth’s neck, and then back to her face. “After all, even God encourages us to eat his lambs.”

The hostess’s eyelids flickered at the bold claim, forcing her to look up. “In Eden, the first humans did not consume meat. They only began the practice following the Great Flood. It was an act of necessity, not of free will.”

“If words of encouragement, given in the Old Testament, are not enough, I can give you more instances. God, the Father, accepted the burning of the lambs as a sacrifice in the Old Testament. Jesus, the God Son, ate meat, importantly lambs, in the New Testament. Did they not?”

Victor shuddered uncomfortably, feeling a bit tense at the sudden change of direction in the conversation. He worried that this might ruin his family’s perception of his woman. Sweat began to bead at his collar beneath his white shirt.

He was not the only subject of her observations.

“I am willing to understand the implications of your words— Are you insinuating that God is cruel? God is vulgar?” Elizabeth pushed the plate away from herself. A spiteful spark beamed brightly in her dark eyes.

“God is just.” The woman replied. Victor resisted the urge to raise an eyebrow in surprise; he sensed that William had also subtly pulled back.

“Indeed, yet God does not bring unnecessary suffering,” Elizabeth said slowly, as though choosing her words carefully. “We should not excuse ourselves in His image.”

“But are we not created in God’s image?” The woman took a sip of wine, washing away the meat. “If God is allowed to consume meat without remorse, or disgust, guilt, grief, why should we?”

“God is not a human, and we must not compare ourselves with Him,” Elizabeth replied briefly, yet dismissively, clearly disliking the quoting of her own words.

“Of course, yet, we portray God,” the woman continued, as though adrenaline made her speak onward, yet her state was calm and collected. “The thought might not change your feelings towards the act, but it might grant you a different perspective on its morality. Eating meat is not immoral.”

“By your rationale, perhaps eating a human is morally grey?” Elizabeth exhaled as if laughing, folding her hands neatly on her thighs, though she leaned closer to the table.

William coughed quietly, embracing his wife’s hand beneath the table, silently begging her to control her rising temper. Victor felt inclined to follow his example, yet knew not to interfere.

“Is it not done by God also?” the woman replied with a smirk on her face while cutting through the flesh on her plate. “Remember, God did accept human sacrifices. God refers to humans as ‘lambs’. He praises his lambs, nourishes them, and in the end—eats them, though metaphorically. He kills. A murder is an act of violence, but if God commits it—it is just.”

Elizabeth’s head inclined to the side. “Do you believe in God, Doctor?” Coldly uttering the woman’s title, eyes narrowed at her as though she were trying to see right through her guest.

“Why of course.”

Elizabeth halted, ignoring William’s desperate signalling. “Are you playing God too, Doctor?”

“I sense that you are referring to Doctor Frankenstein’s work. In that case, then no, I am not the same,” the woman answered, grinning slightly wider than usual. Victor thought that the challenge, or rather ‘insult’ amused her; he swallowed his pride and remained silent.

“Your words are a double-edged sword. What do you seek to portray?”

“That I, unlike Doctor Frankenstein, do not experiment with death. I am not interested in deceiving God and disrupting His order. I respect His design: Death is the gift for humankind, and we may only allow ourselves to push it further away, yet respectfully, until it inevitably comes to us. However, stopping it permanently is simply illogical,” the woman spoke ever so slowly while chewing, fully aware that talking with a full mouth would be considered rude.

Elizabeth chuckled; Victor felt as if the pair of them had formed a bond at that very moment. It made him feel hurt: he wanted to argue, but his beloved continued before he could open his mouth:

“However, this meal is quite symbolic. It represents our connection to God and His wrath towards the lambs that do not follow the herd. God is not afraid of punishing, bringing plague and horrors of the Earth upon those who ignore Him. The lamb should be our reminder: to obey, to follow the herd, and to be sacrificed if God wills it. To live and to die when God commands. To be afraid, as you are followed by His watchful eyes. To never forget that you are but a lamb.”

Elizabeth’s gaze sparkled with curiosity, unknowingly if in a good way. “That is God’s design. He must keep order; otherwise, the world would crumble.”

“Absolutely,” the woman agreed, licking the remnants of sauce from her lips.

Victor knew that Elizabeth must have greatly disliked his beloved after the pointless arguing and the poor attempt to change her mind. However, he remembered his own first debate with Elizabeth and realised: she was intrigued, though suspicious and critical, perhaps even hateful, but interested.

Regardless, Elizabeth placed her elbows on the surface of the table, supporting the weight of her upper body. A playful smirk plastered her lips, and a rosiness even appeared on her previously pale cheeks. “Do you consider yourself an equal to God, Doctor?”

The last bite lingered on the woman’s plate.

An unfamiliar expression flashed across her face—Victor thought that it was a glimpse of a true emotion. The mask of politeness, that subtle angelic charm fell, replaced with a hint of something more sinister, though it was only a light grin. She even forgot to blink.

The change was fleeting, yet vital—he had never seen it before.

The woman peeled her eyes away from Elizabeth as she stabbed the last piece of meat. It was like a part of her was finally heard.

“Well, if one wishes to be an equal to God, one must create one’s own path, flee from the herd, but God hates disorder. Therefore, one must hide from God. Otherwise they will be devoured, as we are now eating the lamb. In this instance, the lamb died not due to natural causes, but by obeying the order.”

She inhaled meaningfully. Her gaze lingered at the piece of meat skewered on the fork, opening her mouth to finish it. Then her eyes rose to Elizabeth, concealing her intent with an unmoving smile—the expression Victor was so accustomed to. “I believe in God, I respect God and His vision; however, I do not hide from God.”

The two brothers sat beside one another on the sofa in the smoking room, enjoying some grapes and fine drinks. They spent their time reminiscing about their childhood, though Victor had the lesser pleasure of indulging in the past, and only awaited for the return of his lover. The ladies had retreated to Elizabeth’s study, as the woman had expressed an interest in seeing her collections of insects.

During their conversation, Victor saw the glowing aureola surrounding his brother’s golden head. There was the familiar undercurrent of mild disdain; unfair, involuntary, but there. William was the sunshine boy from birth, absorbing all of the happiness his environment could offer. Even a simple, yet honest talk, but with a brother whom he truly loved, uplifted his spirit to a higher degree.

However, after some time, William’s light intertwined with gloom, or rather worry, as leaned closer to his brother. As though he feared someone could be listening in. “Victor, is everything alright?”

“Brother, I am in love,” Victor answered, his lips curling upwards with these words—they sounded so unbelievable, but so pleasurable to spell out loud.

“That I can see,” William agreed, his voice slightly vibrating, as though in disbelief.

“I plan on marrying her,” Victor added, watching the increasingly shifting reaction in his sibling’s face.

William blinked a few times, with a smile similar to Victor’s spreading across his face. “Have you proposed to her already? Your letter was quite unclear and I wished not to intrude as long as our guest was in the room.”

The brothers were so different, from their appearance to their careers and personalities, yet the similarity of their facial expressions connected them both. 

“No, I wanted you to meet her before I would commit to the intent,” Victor chuckled, finishing the remaining cup of milk and helping himself to grapes with the other hand.

“Oh.” William joined to feast on a ripe, curiously staring at his brother. Then he stopped chewing to think for a moment. “Do you wish to know my opinion of her?”

“Go on,” Victor replied simply.

William appeared a little hurt by his dismissiveness, but regardless, still chose to answer. “I think she is... Peculiar. Handsome and intelligent, with a way of thinking that is specific to her; however, our interactions have been too brief to form a coherent opinion. Well, considering your interest in her, I believe she is a woman you could possibly dream of marrying. Though…”

Victor nodded joyfully until the last remark. “What is it?”

“I am not questioning your judgement.” William raised his hands in mock surrender. “For only you know whether you truly love her or not. Yet… Are you certain of proposing to her? Is your decision well thought out?” One of William’s eyes squinted, afraid to hear his response. “Yet again, I am insulting you, but I might think—”

“Yes, it is well thought out. Surely, there is a bond between us, you must have noticed,” Victor interrupted, roughly patting his brother’s cheek while feeling the blood flooding his own. “I will need you to be my best man.”

“Well…” William murmured, smiling widely. Rosiness coloured his cheeks. “I would be honoured. As long as you are happy, I will also be happy for you.”

Victor smiled to himself proudly, placing his cup on the coffee table.

“Victor,” William suddenly whispered, drawing his brother’s attention to himself again. “You have changed.”

“Have I?” Victor replied, wiping the droplets of milk off his lips with the back of his hand.

“Yes, though I cannot name it, you are far more relaxed, yet somehow anxious, distracted even. I wonder, have you even listened to what I was speaking about before?.. Perhaps love has truly changed you. You are not the same man I once knew.” Then William giggled, ruffling his blonde hair. “Ah, please, pay no attention to my silly words. I know not what I speak of also…”

“Ah, look who has finally come to see me,” a reedy voice whispered slowly, once Victor’s face peeked through the doorframe to a luxurious room. His tremor sounded disheveled and fairly quiet, weak.

On William’s suggestion, Victor decided to visit a person whom he had once somewhat appreciated, but now held so much resentment for.

After all, it would be rude not to meet the master of the house—Henrich Harlander.

Since their last meeting months ago, syphilis had destroyed him entirely, consuming the remaining parts of his body. One could hardly recognise him by his facial features, as the disease had eaten away at his nose and lips, and his bare teeth shone brightly. His skin was red with flush and rashes and burned hot, yet it had a sickly grey tone, blemished by bumps and deep wounds that revealed the holes in his facial bones. The ridiculous wig with which he had once hid his bald head was now long gone, revealing the deep ulcers that penetrated into his cranium.

His once determined and hopeful eyes were covered by a milky layer of mist, and also decayed like anything else.

Death was a natural order of life, Victor’s closest companion, but even then—seeing a once bright man now lying in a bed, covered by multiple blankets, surrounded by pillows and all, a prisoner in his own body made Victor uncomfortable. It was like a grotesque inversion of his own work. A rotting corpse which still breathed and spoke and moved, as though it had forgotten to die, but teetering on the brink.

“You did not join us for the meal. I was worried,” Victor spoke up, subconsciously averting his eyes  from the man’s face from time to time.

Henrich took a breath in; it sounded like his weak lungs would collapse at any second. “Consider yourself lucky. My appearance, I fear, would only ruin your appetite. I myself would be greatly uncomfortable dining with someone in my condition.”

“We separated on bad terms last time.” Victor sat down on a nearby armchair, ignoring his once-patron’s response. Victor felt pity towards the man, just as he had when he first discovered his condition. 

“I wonder who was at fault…” Henrich chuckled, moving his head only slightly to get a better glimpse at a once-friend.

“You know my reasons, I simply had no other choice. I could not put my life’s work at risk for the sake of fulfilling your wishes when there is only one possible outcome. It would be a waste of the money you had spent, as well as the last moments of your life, and my time.”

“Even now, you refer to my body as a waste?” Harlander huffed, but it seemed like he had tried to laugh. “Luckily, my heart is pure, and I carry no ill thoughts of you, only respect, Baron. That reminds me, how is your project? Well, I hope?”

“Very well,” Victor replied automatically, but only out of politeness, turning his head to the window. “However, I do not think badly of you either. How are you holding up?”

“Barely,” Henrich hardly exhaled the word, unable to blink due to the decay of his eyelids, though the flesh twitched as if he had intended to. “I am paralysed. I can no longer move. The most I could do is move my head. I am undeniably a burden, but glad to be in the care of my dearest niece Elizabeth. Yet, my suffering is immeasurable; I am rotting from the inside out. And to think that all of this could have been prevented if only you…”

Victor nodded, slapping his thighs. “Well then, it was lovely seeing you. I wish you… Good health—”

As Victor was about to stand, Henrich wailed out in pain. It spooked Victor so much that he flinched and rushed to his bedside, fearful of seeing this man die before his eyes.

However, leaning over Heinrich, Victor realised the shaking and wheezing coming from his was laughter. He leaned away from the bedridden man, glowering down at him. It was only a clever play.

“Sit down for a little longer, will you not? It has been a while since I last spoke with you,” Henrich said gently, slowly, as to protect his vocal cords from tearing.

Victor sighed, out of both relief and annoyance. “I believe I am needed—”

“Trust me, you are not. Now sit.” Though Henrich’s voice was fragile, the demand sounded threatening, making Victor flop on the chair again.

The childish grumpiness in his face made the sick man gargle out a chuckle. Then Harlander grew serious, his now dull eyes boring into Victor’s. “I wish to inquire, what do you think of my doctor? My caregiver?”

Victor raised a brow and shrugged in the armchair, wishing to be far away from the grotesque skull of a visage somehow still the man whom he once was fond of. “I would firstly prefer to know who your doctor is, only then can I state my opinion.”

“Well, it is the Miss whom you have visited with.”

Victor could not hide the surprise in his face, yet he sat still. “Her? How?— Then… Why… How could William not have recognised her?”

“You see, they have just recently returned and, once they left for their honeymoon, I had occasion to change my doctor. The previous one irritated me, not necessarily for being a bad doctor, but I grew tired of his nervous disposition. The new doctor I had chosen was our dear guest’s father; however, you see, the man is quite busy, overbooked and overworked, so he referred me to his daughter. And you know me, I am a man for science, I am all for innovations, therefore, I was curious to see a woman performing the task.” Henrich paused, coughing dryly. “Please, water.”

Victor did as asked, picking up a glass from beside the bed and assisting the man in taking a sip. Victor was patient, daring not to speak, fearing that the man might lose a thought. He wished to gather every single word about his beloved.

“So, now she is my caregiver, my doctor. She visits me every few weeks; therefore, Elizabeth and William have not had occasion to meet her before today. I think she is extraordinary, a true artist of medicine, and I must admit, I have never been treated as humanely as she treats me, once I was diagnosed with syphilis. If only my illness had approached me later, perhaps she would have found a way to cure me! She would have found a way for me to live.” He remarked and sighed dramatically, shifting his trembling head to a wall. “Alas, I can only dream of a different scenario, my fate was sealed before I was born…”

Victor shook his head, digesting his monologue for a bit, ignoring the veiled insult. “Well, if you are content with her service, I am delighted to know of it—”

“And you, Baron, what is your view on her?” Harlander interrupted, staring at him again with those soulless eyes.

It was as though death itself was staring back at Victor.

At first, he did not want to answer, but then he thought carefully, opening his mouth once more, “She is remarkable.”

“A worthy opponent to the Victor Frankenstein?” Henrich laughed, coughing afterwards.

“A companion, I would say.” Victor shook his head, failing to conceal a prideful smirk. “I intend on marrying her.”

“Ah, good luck.” Henrich laughed weakly.

“Thank you—”

“You misunderstood me: good luck.”

“And I heard you clearly…”

“Why would you not ask for my reasoning for wishing you good luck?”

Victor groaned, slapping his palms against his thighs again, and rolled his eyes, making sure to express his clear irritation. He had forgotten the cocky attitude which his then patron possessed. “Go on, enlighten me.” He leaned back again, arms crossed over his chest.

“You know, your tone is quite rude. But fortunately for you, I will ignore it,” Henrich cackled. “I do recall your disinterest in conversing with high society. Well, do you know that you are not the only intelligent man my doctor has bewitched in the past?”

Victor’s lower eyelid twitched, though he acted unbothered by knowing his beloved’s previous relationships. He half shrugged and forced his voice into a tone of unaffected calm. “Is it a bad thing? She is a brilliant woman, surely, intelligence alike could only attract her. I perceive it only as something natural.”

“The problem is that these men she previously entranced were brilliant—just like you. Proud. Influential with their novel ideas, their way of thinking. They attempted to define new laws of nature, and yet every one of them has since lost their minds. Every one of them changed after meeting her. Except for those whom she works with… Baron, I fear she hunts men like you—”

“Nonsense!” Victor snapped with a bark of laughter. He stood up swiftly and strode quickly across the room. “I was never keen on gossip, and my judgement on it shall not change. I will not allow myself to believe the lies of those scandalmongers who have also previously judged me!” He spoke imperiously, voice dripping with venom. “Oh, I wonder, how do they speak of you? Only well, I hope? Especially concerning your syphilis?”

“You have not changed at all!” Henrich exhaled painfully. “I only told you as I still consider you a friend, and you see me as a foe! I only wanted to advise you to converse with other men of your field, perhaps they might provide you with better insight?”

“There is no need. I doubt not her affection towards me,” Victor laughed, but it sounded more hysterical than genuine. His hands pointed to his heart. “We are meant to be!”

“Believe what suits you best, your mind I might not change. But do me a favour, do not tell her of what I have said, alright? I do not wish to lose a good doctor…”

“Trust, I have not the faintest interest in telling her such a thing. It is insulting, really!” Victor huffed, stomping towards the door.

“Baron! Stay!” Henrich called out weakly, coughing again painfully. “I have yet one more question to ask!”

“What is it? You still have a mouth, a tongue, a long one in fact, so speak!” He turned to the dying man again, showing off a deep frown.

Though Harlander’s lips were dissolved, he managed to grin like a Cheshire cat. He had caught the attention of his prey again. “It is more of a request. I would like you to consider: if death never brought you to God, perhaps a woman will?”

Victor inhaled sharply. “Laugh as much as you want, you bald-headed— You do not have much time left!—”

Suddenly, the door swung open.

He grew pale, as if seeing a ghost walk past him.

“Ah, there is my doctor,” Henrich chuckled, seemingly unaffected by Victor’s offence and taking delight in his shock. “I am glad to see you again, Miss. Is it the time of our consultation? I assumed we would meet again in a fortnight?”

“You are not mistaken,” the woman replied, walking past Victor and sitting down on the edge of her patient’s bed. “How are you feeling?”

“A man with a condition like mine could only feel a single way, but with you here, Doctor, I feel much better.”

The woman looked back at Victor over her shoulder with a delighted smirk. “Give us a moment, please.”

And Victor felt defeated, only able to remove himself from that dreadful chamber. Once he stepped to the other side of the door, his legs gave out, and he barely could have held himself together out of anger, jealousy and pity. So many emotions boiled within him, and only a firm drag of his hand over his face helped somewhat relieve them.

When the woman finally left Henrich’s room, it was a signal that it was time to leave.

While expressing their farewells, Victor noticed that his beloved had formed an unlikely bond with Elizabeth as both of them tenderly squeezed each other’s hands with a glimmer of mutual understanding in their eyes. It made him feel uneasy yet again, jealous.

The pair decided to walk for a little longer before hiring a carriage, for their legs felt stiff after sitting.

The sun was settling down, and fewer people walked the cobbled streets.

The smell of rain reached their nostrils, warning of the oncoming change in the weather. However, now it was pleasant and warm, with the last rays of sunlight playing with their shadows.

Peaceful moments like this increased Victor’s heart rate as their arms barely brushed one another, and when his beloved did not place them behind her back, even their hands would occasionally touch. It felt so intimate, creating a tingling in his fingertips. An ache to bring her closer. Even then, he chose to respect her modesty, taking pride in his self-restraint.

“After your… Claims, I thought that Elizabeth would find you distasteful,” Victor started after moments of walking in silence.

She nodded carefully. “Believe it to be true, she does loathe me. Yet, kinship may be discovered in the most unlikely circumstances, along with the loneliness that approaches young intelligent women.”

“She feels lonely, you say?” Victor asked; a part of him took cruel pleasure in knowing of Elizabeth’s suffering.

“Why yes, she lacks a friend of similar intelligence and interests. Your brother is a good husband and very supportive, she says; however, he does not understand her fascinations, though he earnestly tries.”

Victor squinted his eyes, listening to his intuition momentarily. “Have you offered her something?”

Briefly, their eyes met. She seemed pleased to hear of his suspicions.

“I did, indeed I did.”

“And? What is it?”

“I offered her to join a society of women that are pious, while also in sciences. I pray she will meet a like-minded lady and form a friendship which she truly longs for.”

“How very generous of you,” Victor chuckled, and he did not notice her eyes scanning him up and down. “Then I am glad to know that she does have a sense of respect for you.”

“Do believe: she does.”

Silence fell over them for a while, and only the quiet clicks of the pair’s heels disrupted the songs of the birds. Yet curiosity itched at Victor’s brain. He could not contain himself from nudging her on a particular question:

“Could you tell me as to why you would assist Henrich Harlander, when both of us are fully aware of his inevitable death?” Victor asked gently.

Their shoulders brushed against one other by accident, making Victor step closer so it might happen again.

“Everything I do is for a reason,” she replied simply.

“Is it so discrete? That not even I may know of it?” Victor’s brows furrowed.

“Well.” She smiled to herself, gazing at the horizon. The dark houses towered over their heads, lit windows appearing like eyes in great stone faces. “The body may be incomplete, destroyed by a disease, and yet, the mind operates until its last breath. The mind completes the body. However, the body is incomplete without the mind. A human is a human not only in physiology, but also in cognitive abilities. I need you to think keenly on your own ‘human’ that you are creating, will his mind complete the large body?”

“There is no question about its cognitive abilities. It will be as intelligent as a grown adult can be.”

“I doubt it, but only time will tell,” she answered dismissively, interfering quickly once again before Victor had the chance to argue. “Returning to Herr Harlander, I sometimes wonder: how exactly does disease affect the mind? What is the relationship between the body and the mind?”

“You will see, it is destructive. The disease may only destroy the mind.”

“Of course, and I am observing the exact changes to the psyche of my patient,” she agreed, but then she gazed at him, hiding her pupils in the shadows of her lashes. “Yet, I will correct you. I refer to the disease not only as the illness at hand, but also as the turmoil within the patient. Tell me, can a person destroy themselves by their internal suffering? Can the mind think that bodily suffering is a way towards healing?”

Credits for the beautiful dividers:

1- @/knightlittle

2- @/strangergraphics

Content (warnings): seance, dark angel, nudity, amab masturbation, nipple play, hair-pulling, consensual choking, Reader doesn't get off, no use of y/n, not beta read (please excuse any typos)

Word count: 3k

🐦‍⬛ ✨ I would be honored to tag you! Please just ask. ✨ 🐦‍⬛

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"Red! Red! All red! Blood red! I am the angel to whom you pray! I am the angel who guides and guards you! Fear me not, lest you fear your maker! For maker and you are one and shall be once more! Rise and receive your call!"

Lady Killigrew's ominous words hung heavily in the seance room.

An otherworldly wind whooshed through you. Its uncanny chill left you shivering beneath your many layers of garments. You and the other guests sat in silence for several minutes. The only noises you heard came from Lady Killigrew, the medium. She panted irregularly. Her fingernails scratched the polished wooden table.

The wind blew through you once more. In the darkness, your eyes slowly adjusted to the vague shapes and outlines of the people and candles. You started to doubt your senses as, beyond all belief, you saw movement inside the largest candle at the center of the table. No, it couldn't be! First, a thin, blue color emerged at the wick. Then, a yellow, an orange, and, finally, a fiery red. A new flame danced within the candle and illuminated the possessed medium and the transfixed man across from her.

Victor stood rigidly staring at the writhing and groaning medium. Palms still on the table, his tented, clawing fingers were a mocking simulacrum of the other guests' hands around the table. He leaned forward and shrugged his shoulders into the back of his worn waistcoat. Mouth slightly agape, he narrowed his eyes and contorted his face, as if to peer more closely at the creature within Lady Killigrew.

You watched him reach one of his hands towards her. Is he trying to beckon the thing?

Just as Victor opened his mouth wider to speak, Lady Killigrew took a sharp, loud inhale. The guests seated around the seance table flinched. Gasps echoed round the gathered crowd. You held your breath.

Lady Killigrew's neck snapped back. Face turned toward the vaulted ceilings, her lips formed a silent scream. Corded veins in her neck popped and protruded. Trembling hands crawled up her chest to her piqued face. She pulled at her skin and covered her eyes with her fingertips. Then, she collapsed onto the table.

Shrieks emanated from the crowd. The seance guests clung to each other and looked away from the crumpled body. Some of your stablemates rose to approach the lifeless medium.

Victor, though, continued staring. You sat by his wide, head whipping between the medium and this strange man (growing stranger by the second, it appeared).

Maurice, your friend and Lady Killigrew's assistant, rushed to her. He checked the pulse in her neck with two frantic fingers. Then, he rose to meet the eyes of the frightened crowd.

"The seance is over, everyone," Maurice projected confidently, yet you noticed the quiet quivering of his words. He, too, was afraid. "Should you like to stay, please move to the sitting room. Lady Killigrew's servants will provide you with refreshment."

The crowd merely stared at Maurice.

"Now!"

Clattering boots and swishing skirts rang across the parlour and receded as the guests disappeared into the sitting room.

Maurice shot Victor a befuddled look. Get him out of here! He mouthed at you.

You tugged at Victor's sleeve. "Come, now, we must go. She needs privacy."

He darted his eyes toward you. His hard, focused expression softened once he met your gaze.

Victor nodded his head and loosened the grip of his hand nearest you off the table. He held it out, palm first. You interlaced your fingers and lead him to the front door.

ᯓ✦ᯓ✦ᯓ✦

The two of you walked silently, hand-in-hand, as you approached your personal carriage. Your chauffeur did a double-take when he saw you: harried, exhausted and dragging beside you a dazed Victor.

"You're back early," he called out to you.

Words escaping you, you shrugged. How do you explain that your new friend/new lover/possibly mad and definitely mysterious un-barron-like Barron conjured a ghost powerful enough to scare away half of Edinburgh?

The chauffeur lowered from his seat to the ground and helped you and your companion into the carriage. Victor, wide-eyed and staring at nothing, kept your hand firmly squeezed in his.

As you travelled on in the direction of your family's estate, the silence served as a comfortable cushion between your fidgety awkwardness and Victor's continued bewilderment.

A few miles in, you spoke. "Would you like to talk about it?"

Victor simply replied with a shake of his head.

How funny, you thought to yourself as the carriage pulled into your private entrance within the estate. We have seen every part of each other, yet this is the first time we ride in a carriage together. It struck you as odd how mundane and utterly normal this moment felt, despite the exceedingly odd circumstances of Lady Killigrew's party.

By this point, Victor had appeared to be enlivened a bit. His eyes, once wide and fixed, had softened round the creases. They resumed their careful, deliberate, searching stare. His hand, though still in yours, loosened into a comfortable position. Exiting the carriage, he gave a brisk nod and brief expression of gratitude to the chauffeur. He no longer shuffled, but rather strode, out of the carriage and down the walkway to the estate.

You realized Victor's ability to change from state to state, mood to mood, within minutes was intriguing, yes, but also unlike anything you had ever known.

He gazed at the estate and took in every detail of the rich, ornamented, delicately-carved architecture. "So, this is where you live, then?" He spoke flatly; for him, your family's estate was merely another piece of data in the construction of you and your life. It was mere observation.

"Indeed."

You tightened your hand around his and tugged him toward the door that led to your quarters.

You heard the slight smile in his voice as he asked, "Is this really very proper or ladylike of you, Madame?"

"I would most certainly hope not," you responded and knocked at the door.

A tight-lipped servant whipped the door open, as if she had been standing there all night awaiting your return.

"Poppy," you greeted her.

"You're back early."

"So I've been told."

Poppy stepped away from the doorframe to let you pass. Victor looked toward her, but she saw straight through him. He frowned in dismay at her rejection, and you stifled a giggle. You had an arrangement with Poppy: pretend as though any and all late-night guests were invisible, and we will get on swimmingly.

"Quite rude, isn't it?" Victor grumbled to you as you climbed the two flights of stairs to your chambers. "Not even a 'good evening' to spare."

"Perhaps she didn't see you, Victor." He groaned. You enjoyed ribbing him.

You and Victor arrived at your chambers. As you paused at the mahogany door to turn the handle, you turned back to peer at Victor. He seemed nervous, almost giddy, in anticipation.

You opened the door. You swept your arms in the direction of your room and allowed Victor to enter first.

He took in the room: the fixtures, the art upon the walls, the prepared fire roaring at the hearth, the soft bed encased snuggly in white linen sheets. He continued standing and staring. This must be how he spends much of his life, you thought. Standing and staring.

"Victor," you called to him. Like an obedient dog, he turned his head. You shut the door with a click.

As if transfixed by the context (you, your room, alone, at night), Victor began unbuttoning his waistcoat.

You inhaled, physically responding to the sight of him shedding his clothes, and forced yourself to find the right words. You approached him and put a tender hand to his chest. He lowered his hands to his waist.

"Victor," you tried again. "I know you said you do not want to discuss what happened--"

He shuddered slightly. Blood rushed to his face and stained his cheeks crimson.

You found his hands once more that evening and held them.

"--But, we really must. I cannot rest here with you, let alone do anything else, until you give me some sort of explanation for what happened. Even one sentence, one word, would do. You needn't tell me everything."

He cast his eyes downward to his shoes. He gave your hands a firm squeeze.

"The dark angel," he began, choking a bit on his words. "The being that spoke through the medium, your friend, tonight.... It is the same entity that has visited me throughout my life."

He cleared his throat and continued. "Since the death of my mother, the dark angel has come to me in my dreams. It begins as the same life-size statue of St. Michael that resides in my bed chambers--"

You blinked forcefully at that last sentence, but you decided to let it go for now.

"But, then it morphs into something...different. It animates and stretches itself before me. It removes its placid face and reveals a ghastly skeleton underneath."

He shuddered again as you listened intently.

"The dark angel always visits me at the time something important, something impactful and life-altering, happens in my life."

He bit his lip and shook his head before turning to meet your gaze.

"You believe me, don't you? I have never told a soul, not a soul, about the dark angel. How the medium could have known that.... I am a man of reason, of logic and science. If those dreams are not only dreams, I.... I don't know who I am, or what I am, anymore."

You sighed and kissed his hands. "I believe you, Victor."

All was silent for a moment. Then, you spoke again, "You know, I never believed that my friend The Great and Mystical Lady Killigrew could commune with the dead or the otherworldly. I thought it was fun--a parlour game, a delightful and indulgent delicacy for the mind and senses. But, now, I am not so sure...."

You met his eyes again. "But, I do know for certain that you are safe here with me. Thank you for telling me."

He shrugged and leaned forward. You accepted his invitation and allowed him to place a kiss upon your forehead. You tugged at his half-unbuttoned waistcoat. "Come, now. Off to bed."

You changed in front of each other shyly, mindful of the vulnerable parts you wished to hide from the other. You both kept your eyes downcast. When they did meet, you giggled with embarrassment. How strange to be so intimate in some ways and yet still not know each other at all!

You wore a floor-length nightgown with a loose opening at the chest. You crawled into bed, your back against the plush pillows. Victor, you realized was still naked. You felt yourself blush. Blush!

"Forgive me that I do not have any nightclothes for you, Victor, unless you wish to borrow my gown." They were all loose shapes, anyways. Nightgowns were akin to potato sacks, and he could easily fit into whatever you had.

For a moment, he looked puzzled. "No, why? I always sleep nude," he explained as he crawled into bed with you.

You watched him as he looked down upon the opening of the nightgown at your chest. You were veritably surprised when he turned to lie on his side, snuggle into you and lay his head upon the soft skin below that opening.

It felt instinctual to raise your hand to his inky curls, made even more disheveled by the humid rainy evening and the bizarre turn of events at Lady Killigrew's place, and massage his scalp.

He sighed contentedly as you moved your hand down to the strong planes of his back. Your fingers worked the irksome knots and muscles below his soft skin.

As you did this, he traced his fingers over the exposed skin of your chest beside his head.

"I don't know much about you, you know," he said wistfully, almost dreamily and almost only to himself.

A surge of defensiveness and dismissiveness overcame you. That's because I don't want you to know about me, you thought.

You took a breath. "If you play your cards right, maybe you will." It was a cheerful turn of phrase that had worked in the past when your lovers started drifting too close to the real you.

He huffed in disapproval. "No, I don't think that will work for me. The next time I see you, I demand you tell me one thing about yourself. Something important. Something vulnerable. Not your favorite colour or whatever."

You scoffed. He looked up at you expectedly. "Yes, alright, Victor. One thing."

He harrumphed. "Good. And, we really should be getting back to the figure study project. We have become quite lax, indeed."

You playfully smacked his arm. "You drew me just last week!"

He sighed in mock despair. "It is simply not enough. Ouch!"

You had smacked him again.

Moments passed in slow, languid silence. Victor rested on your chest as you traced the smoothness of his back. Absent-mindedly, you reached up to play with his hair once more.

Unaware of the strength of your hand and the pressure applied, you tugged firmly on his curls. A low moan escaped Victor's lips. At first, you thought you had unintentionally hurt him. A growing firmness below Victor's belly told you otherwise. You bit your lip. His cheeks grew red and he looked up at you sheepishly.

You looked down at him and tugged at his hair again. He moaned once more and squeezed the side of your body with desire.

"You like that, don't you?"

He nodded in affirmation.

You felt your nipples hardening under your linen nightgown. Victor noticed them, too. He licked his lips.

You adjusted the looseness of the dress's opening. Victor let out a shaky breath as you uncovered your chest. You grabbed at your breast and squeezed it. You pinched your nipple until you began to moan. Victor had grown fully hard against your thigh. Unawares, he started to rut against you.

Your hand still in his hair, you brought his head to your chest. He groaned and sucked eagerly, greedily. The vibrations from his throat brought forth cascading ripples of pleasure against your sensitive skin. He hollowed his cheeks to take as much of you as he could, and he beat his sharp, quick tongue against your hard bud.

You rolled your head back and ushered Victor to your other side. Blood rushed to your most delicate parts. A low throbbing occupied the space between your legs.

"Victor, I want you to do something for me."

He nodded vigorously.

"Give me your hand."

He raised his palm to you. Taking it in your free hand, you licked across his palm and spit into it.

"I want you to touch yourself as I play with your hair."

Victor groaned as lowered his hand and grasped his length. His breathing quickened as he entered a pleasurable rhythm. Your breathing quickened, too, as watched him. You were enraptured by the movement of his body and, as you tugged on his hair, how quickly you could turn him on.

Victor turned to lie on his back. You leaned over him. His cheeks were flushed, and his face looked both relaxed and concentrated. You released your hand from his hair, and the relaxation faltered for a moment. He whined impatiently.

You shushed him and brought your thumb to the softness of his full lips. He opened up for you and eased in your thumb with his tongue. He sucked hard on you, and his eyes fluttered in delight.

An idea came to you. You wrapped the curve of your palm to Victor's neck. You pressed your fingers down gently, and he shivered under your touch.

"Do you like it when I touch your neck like this?"

Again, he nodded vigorously.

You dragged your thumb out of his mouth, leaving him slack-jawed. Then, you covered your hand over his throat and gave him a light squeeze.

Victor moaned and raised his hips. You smiled coyly to yourself.

"Can I do that again, but a little harder this time, Victor?"

"Please, yes, please."

You squeezed harder this time. His eyes rolled to the back of his head.

You gasped. Power and pleasure seized your body. You acted almost involuntarily, as if your body knew exactly what to do next.

You modulated the pressure around Victor's neck. Tighter, softer, faster, slower. As you choked him, he continued playing with himself.

His breathing became more labored. His hips moved faster on the bed.

Then, his voice, low with desire and aching with lust, said, "Your sheets.... I don't want to--"

"I want you to. I want to keep you on my bed. Please, Victor. Please."

With that, the promise of his permanence on your bed, he moved his hand faster and harder against himself. You wished to lower yourself onto his aching cock, but you could not will yourself to let go of control over his perfect, smooth neck.

Victor let out a cry and released himself on your white sheets. He collapsed, panting and glowing, on the bed. Completely out of breath, he closed his eyes and grasped for you. He held you tightly and burrowed into the nape of your neck.

You reached for his hair again. This time, you did not tug or pull. You simply caressed his curls gently and tenderly as the two of you languidly drifted off to sleep.

ᯓ✦ᯓ✦ᯓ✦

. ܁₊ ⊹ . ܁ ⟡ ܁ . ⊹ ₊ ܁.

The Aether was never meant to feel like a prison. When you first signed the contract for the year-long Xenobiological Survey Mission to Kepler-186f’s third moon—designated Elysara by the United Terran Exploration Initiative—you had imagined adventure, discovery, and a chance to rebuild your relationship with Marcus. The posting was exclusive: only twenty carefully selected crew members, a sleek orbital-to-surface research vessel, state-of-the-art sampling drones, and habitats designed to withstand the moon’s volatile climate. Lightyears from Earth, the isolation was sold as a feature. “A chance to truly focus,” the recruiters had said with polished smiles.

You had believed them. You had believed him.

Marcus had been charming back on Earth—attentive, ambitious, the kind of man who made grand promises about building a future together among the stars. “We’ll explore alien worlds side by side,” he’d whispered, kissing your knuckles. So you left your family, your friends, your budding career in botanical xenobiology, and followed him into the void.

Reality had curdled almost immediately after departure.

The verbal barbs started small. A muttered “You’re slowing us down” during equipment checks. A public eye-roll when you asked a question in the daily briefings. By month three, the crew had grown accustomed to his casual cruelty, treating it like background noise. “That’s just Marcus,” they’d say with awkward shrugs. “He’s under a lot of pressure as lead field biologist.” No one wanted to rock the boat on a mission this far from home.

By month six, the pressure had turned physical.

A shove here. A bruising grip on your arm there. Last month he had backhanded you hard enough to split your lip when you dared suggest he was spending too much time alone with Dr. Lena Voss, the team’s molecular ecologist. You had gone to Captain Reyes immediately after, voice shaking, bruises blooming under your uniform sleeve. The captain had listened with a tired expression, then sighed.

“Relationships are complicated out here, Specialist. We’re months from any relief vessel. Work it out privately. We can’t afford to lose manpower over domestic squabbles.”

Domestic squabbles. As if your broken ribs and fractured trust were mere inconvenience.

Three weeks ago you had walked into the auxiliary lab and found Marcus and Lena tangled together on a workbench, her legs wrapped around his waist, his lab coat discarded on the floor. The sounds they made still haunted your nightmares. You hadn’t screamed. You hadn’t cried in front of them. You simply turned and left, the image burned into your retinas like an afterimage from a plasma torch.

Since then, you had spoken to neither of them. You existed in silence, performing your duties with mechanical precision, avoiding eye contact, volunteering for every solo shift available. But today there was no escape.

The surface mission briefing had been clinical. Three teams to collect flora, fauna, and soil samples from the dense equatorial jungles. You, Marcus, and Lena had been assigned together. Of course you had.

“Try not to embarrass me out there,” Marcus had hissed as you boarded the drop shuttle, loud enough for the others to hear. A few crew members chuckled nervously. Lena smirked behind her hand.

Now the three of you trudged through the alien undergrowth, the humid air thick with the scent of bioluminescent moss and something metallic, like ozone after rain. Towering trees with iridescent bark stretched hundreds of meters into a violet-tinged sky. Vines thicker than your arm pulsed faintly with inner light. Strange, six-legged creatures skittered through the canopy, their calls a haunting mix of bird song and insect drone. Elysara was beautiful in the way only dangerous places could be—alive, watchful, unforgiving.

You walked in front, scanner in one gloved hand, sample kit slung across your back. The weight grounded you. Focus on the work. Catalog the Helixferns. Measure soil acidity. Ignore the laughter trailing behind you.

“Remember that time in the mess hall when she spilled nutrient broth all over her notes?” Lena’s voice carried easily through the still air. “Clumsy as ever.”

Marcus’s low chuckle followed. “Yeah, well, some people just aren’t cut out for field work. Or relationships. Right, babe?”

The mocking nickname stung worse than any slap. You kept your eyes on the scanner, jaw clenched so tight your teeth ached.

Hours passed. The jungle grew denser, the ship’s landing site now kilometers behind. Your comms crackled occasionally with status reports from other teams, but reception was patchy this deep in the canopy. The air felt heavier, charged somehow. You paused, tilting your head. A faint clicking sound—almost like chitinous mandibles or distant knuckles cracking—echoed from the trees above. You scanned the branches slowly, heart picking up speed.

“Nothing there,” Marcus called, voice dripping disdain. “You hearing ghosts now? Or just trying to waste more time?”

Lena laughed, bright and cruel.

You ignored them, crouching beside a cluster of glowing fungi to collect a core sample. The scanner beeped softly as it analyzed composition. Fascinating. High silicate content, possible symbiotic relationship with local arthropods—

A boot connected with the side of your sampling rig, sending it tumbling into the moss. The delicate instruments inside clattered.

“Oops,” Marcus said flatly. “My bad.”

Lena’s laughter rang out again, sharp and delighted.

You stared at the overturned device for a long second, then reached for it without a word. Before your fingers could close around the handle, Marcus’s boot came down hard on the back of your hand. Pain exploded up your arm—crushing, grinding pressure against bone.

You bit back a cry, but a strangled gasp escaped anyway.

“Still ignoring me?” Marcus growled, leaning his weight. “After everything I’ve done for you? Dragging your dead weight out here, covering for your mistakes in reports—”

“Marcus, stop—” you hissed, voice tight with pain. You tried to pull your hand free, but he twisted his heel.

Lena stepped closer, arms crossed, watching with open amusement. “She’s always been dramatic. Remember when she cried to the captain? Pathetic.”

The rage you had bottled for weeks surged upward like magma. You wrenched your hand free with a burst of adrenaline, cradling it against your chest as you scrambled to your knees. The scanner lay forgotten.

“You cheated on me!” The words tore out raw and furious. “In front of—with her—and now you’re kicking me while I’m working? What the hell is wrong with you? I asked for help. I begged them to send me home. And every single one of them ignored it!”

Marcus’s face twisted with anger. “You think you’re better than us? You’re nothing without me. Just a whiny little—”

He backhanded you across the face.

The impact snapped your head sideways. You tasted blood, felt the familiar bloom of pain along your cheekbone. The world tilted as you fell onto your side in the damp moss, ears ringing.

A deafening, guttural scream tore through the jungle—inhuman, primal, vibrating with raw fury. The canopy above shook violently.

Marcus and Lena whipped around. You pushed yourself up on one elbow, dazed, blood trickling from the corner of your mouth.

Something massive dropped from the trees with a thunderous thud that vibrated through the ground. Eight feet of corded muscle and armored plating straightened slowly, deliberately. Dreadlock-like appendages swayed from its head, draped over broad shoulders. A polished, biomechanical mask gleamed where a face should be, etched with alien symbols that pulsed faintly with inner light. Plasma casters and strange blades adorned its wrists and back. The creature’s breathing was a low, rhythmic hiss through the mask as it rose to its full, imposing height.

The jungle itself seemed to hold its breath.

Marcus stumbled backward, eyes wide with terror. “What the— what the fuck is that?!”

Lena’s face drained of color. She grabbed Marcus’s arm, frozen in place.

You stared up at the being, heart hammering against your ribs. Pain, fear, and a strange, inexplicable sense of recognition warred inside you. This was no native Elysaran creature. This was something ancient. Something that hunted.

The Yautja tilted its head slightly, mandibles clicking beneath the mask as it regarded the three humans. Its gaze—unseen but unmistakably focused—lingered longest on you, still on the ground with a bleeding lip and trembling hands.

Marcus scrambled backward, his face a mask of raw terror. His hand fumbled at the utility belt of his field uniform, fingers closing around the compact plasma sidearm issued to all surface teams for “hostile wildlife encounters.” The weapon was sleek, Terran-engineered, capable of punching through armored hides with focused energy bursts. He yanked it free, hands shaking as he pointed it squarely at the eight-foot giant.

“Stay back!” Marcus screamed, voice cracking. “I’ll blow your fucking head off!”

Lena shrieked behind him, pressing herself against his back, her fingers clawing into his shoulders. “Marcus, what is that thing?! Oh God, shoot it! Shoot it now!”

You remained on the ground, propped on one elbow, blood still trickling from your split lip where Marcus had backhanded you. Your heart hammered against your ribs like a caged animal desperate to escape. The pain in your bruised cheek and crushed hand throbbed in time with your pulse, but it was nothing compared to the sheer overwhelming presence before you.

The Yautja stood motionless for a heartbeat, then took a slow, deliberate step forward. Its head tilted slightly to one side, the dreadlock-like appendages swaying with the motion. Beneath the intricate biomechanical mask, a low clicking sound emerged—almost like amused chittering. The alien’s shoulders shifted, broad and powerful beneath layered armor plates etched with trophies and symbols from hunts long past. To this young hunter, barely blooded by the standards of his kind, these soft-skinned humans were curious prey. Fragile. Loud. And one of them was daring to threaten him with a toy.

Marcus’s finger tightened on the trigger. “I said stay back, you freak!”

The plasma pistol whined as it charged. A bright blue bolt lanced out with a sharp crack.

The Yautja moved faster than anything that large had any right to. One massive hand snapped up, catching the energy bolt on a bracer that flared with shimmering energy. The shot dissipated harmlessly into sparks. In the same fluid motion, the hunter closed the distance in two bounding strides. Marcus barely had time to scream again before the Yautja’s clawed hand closed around the wrist holding the weapon.

A sickening crunch echoed through the clearing as bones shattered. The pistol clattered to the mossy ground. Marcus howled in agony, but the beating had only begun.

The Yautja’s other fist drove into Marcus’s midsection with brutal precision. Air exploded from his lungs in a wet gasp. Another blow to the ribs—cracking sounds followed. The alien moved with the efficiency of a born hunter, each strike calculated to inflict maximum pain without immediate death. Marcus crumpled, but the Yautja hauled him up by the front of his torn uniform, slamming him against the trunk of a massive iridescent tree.

“You dare raise a weapon?” The Yautja’s voice was a deep, guttural growl layered with clicks and rumbling tones.

Lena had detached herself and was frantically digging through her pack. “Marcus! Fight it!”

The Yautja’s arm whipped around in a vicious arc, smashing into Marcus’s right arm with terrifying force. The bone didn’t just break—it exploded through the skin in a spray of blood and jagged white shards. Marcus’s scream was inhuman, high-pitched and endless, as he collapsed to his knees, clutching the ruined limb.

The Yautja tilted its head again and let out a sound that could only be described as laughter—a harsh, rattling chortle that vibrated through the jungle floor. It found the human’s suffering genuinely amusing.

Your breath caught. Part of you was horrified. Another part—the part that had endured months of degradation, bruises hidden under uniforms, and a crew that looked the other way—felt a dark, shameful flicker of satisfaction.

Lena finally pulled a small stun pistol from her pack, hands trembling so badly she nearly dropped it. “Get away from him!” she shrieked, firing wildly. The stun bolt grazed the Yautja’s shoulder armor, sparking harmlessly.

The alien backhanded her almost casually. The impact sent Lena flying several meters through the air. She crashed into a thicket of glowing ferns, blood streaming from her broken nose, gasping and sobbing.

The Yautja turned its attention fully to you.

It approached slowly, each footfall sending vibrations through the ground. You stared up at the towering figure, terror icing your veins. This was it. The end. After everything—after the mission, the betrayal, the isolation—you were going to die at the hands of some alien monster on a nameless moon. You squeezed your eyes shut, waiting for the killing blow.

Instead, a large, clawed hand descended with shocking gentleness. The pads of its fingers, warm and textured like living leather, brushed across your injured cheek. The touch was feather-light, careful not to aggravate the swelling. You flinched at first, then held still, eyes fluttering open in disbelief.

A voice rumbled from the mask, modulated yet unmistakably concerned. The words rumbled clearly through the mask. “Are you okay, little human?”

Your eyes widened. The creature that had just dismantled your abusers like insects was asking after your well-being? The absurdity of it nearly made you laugh—or cry. You managed a shaky nod.

The Yautja did not seem satisfied. It straightened to its full height, turning its masked gaze toward Marcus, who was writhing on the ground, still cradling his mangled arm and staring in wide-eyed horror.

“He hurt you,” the Yautja stated, the words carrying the weight of judgment. It stepped toward Marcus, who tried to crawl away, leaving a trail of blood on the moss.

“No! Please—stay away!” Marcus begged, voice hoarse from screaming. “We didn’t do anything! She’s lying—she’s always lying!”

The Yautja loomed over him. “You should never harm a female,” it growled, the clicking undertones sharp with disapproval. “Females are life-bringers. The heart of the clan. The ultimate prize in any hunt. To strike one who is smaller, weaker, and under your protection is without honor. You are h’kesh—prey without worth.”

Marcus’s pleas grew frantic. “I’m sorry! I’ll never touch her again! Take Lena—take whatever you want! Just don’t kill me! Please, God, don’t—”

For a fleeting moment, as you watched from the ground, a twisted sense of contentment washed over you. After all the times he had made you feel small, worthless, after the cheating and the gaslighting and the crew’s indifference—this alien, this monster, was seeing him for what he truly was. You didn’t stop it. You couldn’t.

The Yautja moved with ritualistic precision. One clawed hand pinned Marcus down. The other extended wrist blades with a metallic shing. The kill was swift but brutal, in the traditional Yautja fashion. A deep thrust, a twist, and then the spine was torn free in a fountain of gore. Marcus’s final scream cut off abruptly. The Yautja held the bloody trophy aloft for a moment, a low victorious growl rumbling from its chest, before discarding the corpse with disdain. It landed in a heap near a cluster of pulsing fungi, eyes staring sightlessly at the canopy.

Lena, who had pushed herself up on her elbows, witnessed the entire thing. Her scream was guttural, filled with pure animal terror. Blood poured down her face as she scrambled back.

The Yautja approached her slowly. She cowered, covering her head.

“I do not kill females,” the hunter declared, voice steady and authoritative. “You will live. Return to your ship. Tell the other humans what happened here. Tell them this one is mine now.” It gestured toward you with a clawed hand. “Interfere, and the next hunt will claim all of you.”

Lena didn’t need to be told twice. Sobbing and stumbling, she climbed to her feet and bolted into the dense jungle undergrowth, crashing through vines and ferns until her panicked sounds faded into the distance. The bioluminescent flora continued to glow indifferently, as if the violence had never occurred.

Silence fell once more, broken only by the distant calls of Elysaran wildlife slowly resuming. The Yautja turned back to you.

You were still on the ground, trembling, mind reeling from the whirlwind of violence and the impossible gentleness that followed. The hunter knelt slowly, careful not to startle you further. Its massive frame cast a long shadow, but the posture was no longer threatening. One large hand reached out, cupping your face with the same careful reverence as before. The warmth of its palm seeped into your skin, grounding you.

“Be calm, little human,” it rumbled softly. The clicking undertones softened, almost soothing. “You are safe now. No one will harm you again. You are mine.”

The declaration sent a shiver down your spine—not entirely from fear. In the depths of your exhaustion, betrayal, and relief, something stirred. This alien had seen your suffering and acted where your own people had not. It had protected you in the only way it knew how: through blood and honor.

The jungle around you seemed to breathe again. Towering trees swayed gently in the breeze, their iridescent bark shimmering. Strange flowers unfurled nearby, releasing spores that danced in the filtered light. Far above, the Yautja’s cloaking device hummed faintly as it partially reactivated, shimmering the edges of its form. This world was ancient, dangerous, and now it held a new guardian for you.

You didn’t pull away from the touch. For the first time in months, the crushing weight of isolation lifted, replaced by the terrifying, exhilarating unknown of belonging to a predator.

The Yautja’s masked face tilted closer, studying you with unseen eyes. “My name is K’arnath,” it offered, as if sensing your need for something solid to hold onto. “Young Blood of the Yautja. I came for a hunt… but found something far more worthy.”

Its thumb brushed lightly over your uninjured cheek, wiping away a stray tear you hadn’t realized had fallen. The gesture was clumsy in its gentleness, like a warrior unused to tenderness but determined to learn.

Hours seemed to pass in that clearing, though it was likely only minutes. K’arnath remained kneeling, a silent sentinel, as you processed the carnage around you. Marcus’s body lay cooling, a stark reminder of the hunter’s code. The air smelled of blood and crushed vegetation. Your hand throbbed, your face ached, but the pain felt distant now, overshadowed by the presence of the being who had claimed you.

Eventually, K’arnath rose, scooping you up into its powerful arms as if you weighed nothing. “We go,” it said simply. “My ship is hidden nearby. Your people will come searching soon. I will keep you safe.”

You didn’t protest. Part of you wondered if this was shock, or madness, or some fever dream brought on by Elysara’s alien atmosphere. But as the Yautja carried you deeper into the jungle, leaping effortlessly onto low branches and activating its cloaking to blend with the environment, you felt something you hadn’t in a long time: protected.

The research mission, the crew of twenty, the year-long contract—all of it felt like a distant nightmare now. The real world was here, in the arms of an eight-foot alien hunter who viewed you as precious.

K’arnath’s voice rumbled against your side as it navigated the canopy. “Rest, little one. The hunt continues… but you are no longer prey.”

You closed your eyes, leaning into the armored chest despite yourself. The clicking sounds it made were almost like a lullaby now—strange, alien, but strangely comforting.

Far behind you, Lena’s distant screams and frantic running would eventually reach the landing site. She would tell the others of the monster in the jungle. Of Marcus’s brutal end. And of the human woman claimed by the predator.

The Yautja’s cloaked ship was a marvel of alien engineering, hidden beneath a dense canopy of Elysara’s iridescent trees. What appeared to the naked eye as nothing more than a rocky outcrop or shadowed thicket revealed itself as K’arnath approached. A low hum filled the air, and a section of the “rock” shimmered, dissolving into a ramp that extended silently. The hunter carried you effortlessly in his powerful arms, your body nestled against the cool plates of his armor. The jungle sounds faded behind you as the ship sealed itself, cloaking once more and lifting off with barely a vibration.

Inside, the vessel was dimly lit by glowing crimson and emerald runes etched into the walls. The air smelled of ozone, polished metal, and something earthy—like smoked herbs and distant rain. Advanced holographic displays flickered with data from the planet below: atmospheric readings, thermal scans of the research landing site, and alerts for approaching human shuttles. K’arnath moved through the corridors with predatory grace, his heavy footfalls echoing softly on the grated floors. He had claimed you, and now he was taking you to safety among the stars.

Hours passed in a blur. The ship broke orbit smoothly, the violet skies of Elysara giving way to the endless black of space dotted with unfamiliar constellations. Artificial gravity kept you stable as K’arnath brought you deeper into the vessel, past weapon racks holding plasma casters and trophy mounts displaying bones and skulls from previous hunts—some recognizably alien, others more exotic. The sleeping chamber was surprisingly spacious for a hunter’s craft: a large, recessed nest dominated the center, piled high with soft furs from various worlds, thermal blankets woven from adaptive fibers, and what looked like cured hides that shimmered with faint bioluminescence. It was warm, secure, and smelled faintly of him—musky, metallic, alive.

He set you down gently in the nest, as if handling fragile glass. “Rest here, little human,” he rumbled, the translated words vibrating through the chamber via his mask’s systems. From a nearby compartment he retrieved a medical kit unlike anything from the Aether. Glowing salves and regenerative sprays were applied to your bruised cheek, split lip, and crushed hand. The pain eased almost immediately, swelling reducing as the tech worked its magic. He brought water in a sleek metallic container and nutrient-dense food—strips of dried meat from unknown prey and dense, sweet fruit analogs that tasted like berries and honey. He fed you small portions by hand, patient and watchful, treating you with the careful reverence one might show a prized but delicate pet.

You sat there in the nest, wrapped in one of the furs, mind reeling. This can’t be real. Lightyears from the research crew, aboard an alien ship in deep space, cared for by a being who had just torn your abuser apart. Fear still lingered in your chest, cold and sharp, but logic tempered it. If K’arnath wanted you dead, you would have joined Marcus on the jungle floor. Instead, he had been nothing but gentle since the claim. Exhausted, you eventually drifted into a deep, dreamless nap.

When you stirred, the chamber lights had dimmed to a soft glow. K’arnath entered quietly, his massive frame filling the doorway. He had begun removing his armor. Piece by piece, the layered plates and mesh were set aside on a rack: shoulder guards etched with kill tallies, bracers humming with energy, the chest plate revealing corded, mottled skin beneath—tough, patterned like ancient camouflage, scarred from past battles. Finally, he reached for the mask.

Your breath caught as it came off.

His face was unmistakably Yautja: mandibles framing a powerful jaw, tusks protruding, skin a deep, mottled green-gold with darker striations. Four mandibles clicked softly, expressive and alien. Bright, predatory eyes—yellow with slit pupils—locked onto yours with intelligence and something softer. Dreadlock-like appendages hung around his head, some adorned with small metal clasps. He was terrifyingly beautiful in his otherness, a living embodiment of the hunt.

He approached slowly and lowered himself into the nest beside you, the furs dipping under his weight. The nest felt even larger with him in it, yet intimate. “You slept long,” he observed, voice deeper without the mask’s modulation—guttural clicks interwoven with translated speech. “How are your wounds?”

You nodded, still staring. “They… they feel much better. Thank you.” Your voice was hoarse but steady. “For everything. I don’t even know where to start.”

K’arnath tilted his head, mandibles flexing. “I am K’arnath, Young Blood of Clan K’rith. What is your name, little one?”

“Y/N,” you replied softly.

He repeated your name with a clicking rumble, tasting it. “You are welcome, Y/N. I did not wish to see a female harmed. In Yautja culture, females are sacred. They bring life—the greatest hunt of all. To strike one so is without honor. That male was h’kesh. Worthless prey. I could not stand idle.”

You swallowed, emotions swirling. “Why help me, though? I’m just a human. Weak. Nothing like your kind.”

His large hand rested near your leg, claws retracted. “All females deserve protection. You were in pain. I saw it in your eyes, in how they treated you. I offer you choice now. I will take you anywhere. Back to your Earth, if that is your wish. Or any world you desire. My ship is swift.”

Tears pricked your eyes. You shook your head. “I have no one on Earth anymore. When I signed up for the expedition, they put us in hypersleep for the journey. By the time I woke up out here, years had passed back home. My family… they’d be gone. Friends moved on. Marcus was the only reason I came. And he…”

K’arnath’s mandibles clicked in what seemed like sympathy. A low, regretful rumble escaped him. “This pains me to hear. No mate should harm his female. You are strong to have endured, little Y/N.” He shifted closer, the heat of his body radiating. “Perhaps… you need not be alone. I have never taken a mate. Not even among my own kind. Hunts consumed me. But seeing you… claiming you… something stirs. You could be mine. I would protect you. Cherish you. Teach you the ways of the hunt if you wish. Or simply keep you safe among the stars.”

The confession hung heavy. You hesitated, heart pounding. This was insane—an alien who had slaughtered your abuser now offering himself. But the gentleness in his eyes, the safety he represented after months of hell… it called to the lonely, broken part of you. “I… I don’t know if I can be what you want. But I feel safe with you. More than I have in a long time.”

The air thickened with tension. K’arnath cupped your face in one massive hand, claws carefully sheathed. He leaned in, his long, textured tongue extending to lick slowly along your cheek, then your jaw, tasting the salt of dried tears and the faint tang of healing salve. “I am sorry that male hurt you,” he growled softly between licks. “I will make the pain go away. You are safe now. Mine to protect. Mine to please.”

You trembled but reached up, holding onto his thick wrist, grounding yourself in his solidity. His tongue was warm, slightly rough, sending shivers across your skin. “Open your mouth for me,” he commanded gently.

You obeyed, parting your lips. K’arnath’s mandibles framed your face delicately as he pressed forward. The kiss was unlike anything human—his tongue invaded with confident hunger, exploring, tasting, while his mandibles clicked and caressed your cheeks. It was passionate, overwhelming, alien. You kissed him back, hands sliding up his scarred chest, unable to believe you were making out with the predator who had saved your life, aboard a ship hurtling through space.

He pulled back after long minutes, eyes glowing with desire. His hands—large, powerful—tugged at the edges of your torn field uniform, silently asking. You helped him, shrugging out of the fabric until you were bare before him, skin flushed under his intense gaze.

“You are pretty,” he murmured, voice thick. “Soft. Strong in spirit.” He began licking your body everywhere—collarbone, breasts, stomach—slow, reverent strokes. “You taste good, my female.”

He laid you down fully in the furs, positioning himself above you. Embarrassment heated your cheeks, but his words soothed it. “Do not hide. You are beautiful to me.” With surprising care, he spread your legs, lowering his head. He inhaled deeply at your pussy, mandibles flaring. Then his tongue dipped in, long and thick, stretching you as it explored. The sensation was intense—rough texture dragging against sensitive walls, curling and thrusting. You cried out, hands fisting in the furs as pleasure built rapidly. He devoured you eagerly, tasting every inch until you shattered, cumming hard on his face with a broken moan.

K’arnath rose, his massive cock freed—huge, ridged, alien in shape, already slick. “I am going to enter you now. Do you want this?”

“Yes,” you gasped, still trembling.

“I will be big. I go slow.” He warned again, “Do you want it?”

“Yes, K’arnath. Please.”

He positioned himself, pressing the broad head against your entrance. The stretch was immense—painful at first, burning as he sank in inch by inch with agonizing patience. You moaned loudly, nails digging into his arms. When he bottomed out, fully sheathed, he leaned over you, forehead nearly touching yours, mandibles brushing your skin. “Are you okay?”

You nodded, breathing through it. “Yes… just… big. Give me a moment.”

He stayed buried deep, licking your neck and breasts soothingly while your body adjusted. After several minutes, he noticed the thin trail of blood when he pulled back slightly. “You bleed.”

“It’s been a long time,” you whispered. “And you’re so big. It’ll be okay. The pain is fading.”

“The pain will go away,” he promised, voice husky. “I will make you feel good.”

He began thrusting—slow at first, then building. His hands gripped your waist, claws pricking lightly but never breaking skin. The sex was rough yet passionate: deep, powerful strokes that hit every sensitive spot, his size making you feel impossibly full. You ground against him, meeting his thrusts, moaning without shame. He could crush you easily, yet he was attentive—watching your face, adjusting pace when you gasped. All the months of hurt melted into waves of pleasure.

Hours blurred. He took you in multiple positions—on your back with legs over his shoulders, then from behind as you knelt in the furs, his chest against your back, one hand rubbing your clit. He was relentless but caring, growling praises in clicks and translated words. You came multiple times, each more intense. When he finally climaxed, it was with a roar, flooding you with hot, thick cum.

Not done, he pulled out and dove between your legs again, his tongue lapping up the mix of your juices and his seed from your pussy. The overstimulation sent you over the edge once more, cumming with a scream as he cleaned you thoroughly.

Exhausted and sated, you collapsed into the nest together. K’arnath pulled you against his chest, one arm draped protectively over you. The ship hummed softly around you, stars streaking past distant viewports. In his arms, lightyears from betrayal and pain, you felt truly claimed—and strangely, truly free.

The frenzy of passion gradually ebbed, leaving only the soft, rhythmic sounds of breathing and the low, constant hum of the ship’s life-support systems. In the spacious sleeping chamber aboard K’arnath’s hunter vessel, the nest of furs and adaptive thermal blankets was a tangled testament to hours of intense connection. The air recyclers whispered gently through hidden vents, a steady, soothing white noise that filled the space like a lullaby from the void itself. Distant stars streaked past the massive reinforced viewport that dominated one curved wall—a panoramic window engineered from transparent alloys stronger than any human material, offering an unobstructed view of the cosmos. The ship drifted now in the quiet expanse between systems, far from Elysara’s violet jungles and the frantic searches of the Aether crew.

You lay nestled against K’arnath’s broad, scarred chest, your body spent and glowing with aftershocks of pleasure. His massive arm encircled you possessively, claws retracted fully so the textured pads of his fingers rested warmly against your bare skin. He refused to let you move even an inch, a low, rumbling purr vibrating from deep within his thorax—a sound you had never heard from him before, rich and contented, like a great feline satisfied after a successful hunt. The vibration traveled through your body, soothing every overworked muscle and nerve.

His other hand moved with deliberate tenderness, tracing the fading bruises along your ribs and the nearly healed mark on your cheek where Marcus had struck you. Occasionally, he dipped his head, his long, rough-textured tongue extending to lick slowly over the spots—warm saliva carrying natural regenerative properties that Yautja physiology used for self-healing and, now, for caring for his mate. The sensation was intimate, slightly ticklish, and profoundly caring.

“You are healing well, my Y/N,” he murmured, the translated words intertwined with soft clicks and guttural tones. His mandibles brushed lightly against your hair as he spoke. “These marks will fade completely soon. I will ensure no scar remains to remind you of unworthy prey.”

You sighed contentedly, pressing closer into his heat. The chamber smelled of him—of musk, faint ozone from the ship’s systems, and the mingled evidence of your union. The furs beneath you were soft yet resilient, some sourced from distant hunting worlds where bioluminescent creatures left faint, glowing traces that pulsed in time with the ship’s ambient lighting. Dim emerald runes along the walls provided just enough illumination to highlight the trophies mounted discreetly in alcoves: polished skulls of worthy adversaries, etched weapons from past victories, and holographic etchings depicting Yautja clan symbols. This was no cold warship; it was K’arnath’s personal sanctuary, a mobile den for a young hunter exploring the galaxy.

K’arnath’s purr deepened, and he tightened his hold fractionally—not enough to restrict, but enough to affirm his claim. He would not allow you to rise, content to keep you draped across him like the most precious trophy. His yellow eyes, slit-pupiled and glowing softly in the low light, shifted toward the viewport. “Look, little one. The universe unfolds for us.”

Together, you gazed out at the endless tapestry of stars. Nebulae swirled in distant hues of sapphire and crimson, clusters of ancient suns burned steadily, and the occasional streak of cosmic dust glittered like fireflies. The ship’s artificial gravity kept everything stable, but the view conveyed the vastness of space—the same void that had once felt isolating during your long hypersleep journey to Elysara. Now, it felt liberating. Infinite possibilities stretched before you, unburdened by human bureaucracy or cruel relationships.

His hand continued its ministrations, rubbing slow circles over your lower back where lingering aches from the rough passion remained. Another lick followed on a faint bruise on your thigh, his tongue warm and attentive. “Does this pain you still?” he asked, voice a gentle rumble.

“A little,” you admitted honestly. “But it’s good pain. The kind that reminds me I’m alive. That I’m… wanted.”

He clicked approvingly, mandibles flexing. “You are more than wanted. You are claimed. Treasured. In my culture, a mate is the ultimate honor. Stronger than any skull on my wall. I have hunted alone for many cycles, young in the eyes of my clan elders. But finding you on that world… it changed the hunt forever.”

Silence stretched comfortably for a time, broken only by the vents’ whisper and his steady purring. You traced one of the smaller scars near his shoulder, imagining the battles it represented. The ship’s systems hummed faintly in the background—environmental controls maintaining perfect temperature, holographic interfaces dormant unless summoned, weapon arrays secured in adjacent bays. K’arnath’s vessel was a masterpiece of Yautja ingenuity: cloaking fields that could fool advanced sensors, faster-than-light drives powered by captured stellar energies, and self-repairing hulls that drew from ambient cosmic radiation. It was a home built for solitude and survival, now shared.

After a while, K’arnath shifted slightly, turning you in his arms so you faced him fully. His massive frame loomed protectively, yet his touch remained feather-light as he cupped your chin. “I offered before, and I offer again with clear mind. I can take you anywhere, my female. Back toward your Earth’s systems, though many cycles have passed. Or to neutral outposts where humans trade with other species. Even a quiet world where we could build a den away from all clans and crews. Tell me your desire, and it shall be so. But know this—I do not make this offer lightly. Once you choose to stay, my claim is eternal.”

You met his intense gaze, heart swelling with a certainty you hadn’t felt in years. The months of abuse, the betrayal on Elysara, the indifferent crew of twenty who had dismissed your pleas—all of it felt like echoes from another life. Here, in this nest, under the watch of alien stars, you were seen. Protected. Desired for who you were, not what you could provide.

“I want to stay with you, K’arnath,” you said softly but firmly, reaching up to touch the side of his mandibled face. “I’m sure. There’s nothing for me back there. No family waiting, no home that feels like mine anymore. You… you saw me when no one else did. You protected me when my own kind wouldn’t. I want this. Exploring the stars together, learning your ways, being your mate. I choose you.”

His eyes searched yours for any flicker of doubt. The purring intensified, vibrating through both your bodies like a warm engine of contentment. “You are certain? This life is not soft. Hunts call me. Dangers lurk in every shadow of the galaxy. My clan may one day seek me for rites and trials. You would leave behind all familiarity.”

“I’m certain,” you repeated, smiling up at him. You leaned in, pressing a kiss to the tough skin near his jaw.

K’arnath let out a deep, satisfied chuff, his mandibles clicking in a pattern that conveyed joy. He rolled you gently beneath him once more, careful not to crush you, and licked a lingering path along your collarbone and up to your cheek. “Then it is decided. You are mine, and I am yours. No more pain from unworthy hands. Only the stars, the hunt, and our den among them.”

He settled back, pulling you atop his chest so you could both resume watching the viewport. The stars continued their eternal dance, galaxies wheeling in slow majesty. His large hands roamed soothingly over your back and sides, rubbing away any final tension while his tongue occasionally darted out to tend a spot. The purr never ceased, a constant reassurance.

Time lost meaning in the chamber. Hours might have passed as you talked—sharing fragments of your life on Earth, the lonely years of study, the betrayal that led you to this moment. K’arnath recounted his own youth: first hunts under clan elders, the strict code of honor that forbade harming females, the thrill of solo expeditions that had led him to Elysara purely by chance. The conversation flowed easily, punctuated by gentle touches and his unwavering hold.

Eventually, exhaustion crept in again. K’arnath adjusted the thermal blankets around you both, cocooning you in warmth. “Sleep now,” he urged, nuzzling the top of your head with his dreadlock appendages. “I will watch over you. Tomorrow, we set course for the nearest neutral beacon. From there… the galaxy awaits.”

You nestled deeper into his embrace, ear pressed to his chest where the purr resonated strongest. The only sounds remained the vents’ gentle airflow and the occasional soft click of his mandibles as he drifted toward rest. Outside, the stars shone on—a vast, indifferent universe that had somehow delivered you into the arms of a protector who saw your worth.

In that moment, wrapped in fur, muscle, and alien affection, you felt whole. No longer the ignored researcher or the abused partner, but a chosen mate sailing the stars with a Yautja who purred for you alone.

K’arnath’s final words before sleep claimed you both were a tender promise: “Rest easy, my Y/N. You are home.”

And as the ship glided silently onward, the two of you entwined beneath the eternal stars, the future stretched bright and boundless—wholesome, passionate, and undeniably yours.

The cold breeze of the summer night hit your skin the moment you set foot outside, reminding you that you should have taken a coat. While the days tended to be hot this time of year, once the sun set over the horizon a cool breeze embraced the entire kingdom, courtesy of the ocean forces that surrounded the borders of the land. It was quite peaceful. On a quiet night you loved to sit in the courtyard listening to the waves crashing against the rocks and smelling the scent of the salty water that was carried by the winds and mingled with the sweet perfume of the garden flowers. It seemed to always bring peace to your troubled mind, and that was exactly what you needed right now.

You could still hear the noise coming from inside the castle, though it was slowly getting lost in the sound of the sea. The laughter, the chatter, the joyful music, it all faded into the background as you plopped down on one of the seats in the courtyard, allowing yourself a moment to take a deep breath and let the beauty of your kingdom impart some of the wisdom you so desperately needed. All the guests were there for you —to talk and dance with you, to make unattainable but romantic promises in exchange for your hand in marriage— and yet all you wanted to do was disappear. You were tired of the politics, the diplomacy, tired of feeling the pressure of having to decide the future of your life and your kingdom in one night. The choice of a husband was very important to your parents, to your people and it should be to you too, but all you wanted was for the day to be over.

"I'm glad to see I'm not the only one feeling overwhelmed in there." A deep voice startled you. 

Looking up you were met with a tall man leaning against one of the stone pillars supporting the roof of the covered section of the courtyard. His arms were crossed over his chest, muscles showing through the fabric of his clothes. His white hair hid part of his face, though you could still make out his hard expression and defined jaw. But what caught your attention the most was not the size of his muscles or the fact that the clothes he was wearing seemed too elegant for someone like him. No, what caught your attention the most were the amber eyes that watched you, admiring you from a distance, hiding behind a few rebellious strands of hair. You had never seen such beautiful eyes before. They were piercing, and yet there was a softness in them. Like the sun on a summer afternoon, they shone with an intensity that would have blinded anyone. But you were mesmerized by them, unable to look away. 

"Though I must admit I did not expect to find you here, your highness, given that you are the center of the party."

"I needed some fresh air." You managed to say, forcing yourself to look away from his eyes. "I lost count of the number of men I danced with tonight...I just needed a break."

"That bad, huh?" His lips curved upward slightly, giving his hard expression a softer look. "I suppose if any of them had made a good impression at least you would remember their name."

"It wouldn't matter anyways. My parents have a very strong opinion about the one I should choose." You let out a bitter chuckle. "This banquet is just a formality, a contingency plan.... Give everyone a false sense of hope so they won't attack us for feeling left out."

"I'm sure you still have some sort of control over the whole thing. You're the one getting married after all."

"Since when does a woman's opinion matter when there's wealth and power involved? I'm just a pawn in their political game." Your gaze dropped, focusing on the embroidered details of your dress to avoid facing the intense gaze of the man in front of you. "When I was a girl I used to dream of growing up, meeting a brave and honorable prince and falling in love with him... now I know that feelings come after marriage, if they come at all."

Geralt watched you walk arround the courtyard, your fingers tracing the petals of the flowers that decorated the place without paying much attention to your movements. You had a blank stare and a sad expression adorned your delicate face. He was not a big lover of royalty —he didn't care about politics and didn't like the arrogant tone with which most of them used to speak—, but you were different. When he looked at you he didn't see a spoiled, arrogant princess or a manipulative political figure capable of anything to get their way. He only saw a sad and disillusioned young woman, confused about her future and the responsibility that fell on her shoulders. 

Geralt felt bad for you and had an inexplicable urge to hug you, though he restrained himself. He opted to move closer to you, just took a couple of steps forward and he was already able to breathe in the scent of your perfume. His nostrils were pleasantly assaulted by the sweet scent emanating from your skin and hair. It was special, a blend of jasmine, vanilla and a hint of sea water. It was like nothing he had ever smelled before and he was sure that your scent would linger in his memory for a long time.

"It is still your life." He spoke behind your back and you turned to look at him. He seemed much bigger now that he was closer to you. His figure towered over you imposingly, yet his eyes were soft. "You can always take back your control over it." Your lips curved upward slightly and Geralt thought the smile suited you much better than the grimace of sadness. 

You appreciated his effort to improve your mood. He was a complete stranger who had no reason to listen to your complaints about a life that many considered privileged. And though his words were simple, they accomplished their purpose. You felt so helpless and trapped that you were unable to see that things didn't end there. Yes, you were forced to marry someone you did not love for the sake of your kingdom, but that was not the same as giving up your life, your control and power over it. There was still hope.

"Thank you..." you trailed off, realizing at that moment that you had opened yourself so sincerely to a man whose name you didn't even know. 

But before he could introduce himself, a voice in the distance interrupted you, answering for him.

"Geralt! There you are! I have been looking everywhere for you. You are supposed to protect me, you know."

Geralt let out an irritated sigh as the man you recognized as one of the many musicians hired by your parents to play at the banquet approached you. You had to stifle a chuckle as you realized that rather than escaping the noise of the party, he had come there to get a break from his friend's vibrant and cheerful personality. They were an odd pair, but you had no doubt that there had to be trust between them from the way the bard addresses him.

“I’ve been doing the impossible to hide from Lord Kaius for ages! What the hell were you doing out her–” The artist's complaints were cut short when his eyes finally rested on your figure. "Your highness." He gave a subtle bow, the tone of his voice changing to a lower, more subtle one from one second to the next.

"I'm afraid it's my fault. I was preoccupying your friend with the problems that afflict my mind on this fine evening and he was too kind to interrupt me. He was a great help, but you can take him back now. You clearly need him more than I do."

"Won't you come inside, your highness? You wouldn't want to miss your own party." The bard asked and you smiled at him. 

"In a moment. I'd like to enjoy the peace and fresh air for a while longer."

Geralt didn't know why, but his eyes kept searching for you in the crowd of people dancing and eating like there was no tomorrow. After Jaskier dragged him back to the banquet hall —and after saving him from the fury of the man whose daughter had lost her innocence in the hands of the bard—, he kept his eyes on the big dark wooden doors, waiting to see you enter. But the minutes passed and there was no sign of you anywhere. He hadn't seen you come through the door and he couldn't find you in the crowd of people or see you at the royal table sitting next to your parents. You had disappeared and some people were beginning to notice.

For a moment, Geralt wondered if perhaps his words had encouraged certain behaviors in you. Maybe your way of taking control of your life was to run away from there, leaving your parents, your suitors and your responsibilities behind and start from scratch. He was wondering if perhaps he should go out to look for you, when his thoughts were interrupted by the sudden entrance of a man running towards the king and queen waving a paper in his raised right hand.

"The princess has been kidnapped." He announced loudly, causing the entire room to fall into a deep silence. 

The musicians stopped playing, the people dancing stood motionless in the middle of the room and the queen almost fainted at that very moment. There was a collective sigh and then nothing. Pure silence while the king read the note that had been left behind by the bandits, establishing a payment for the recovery of the princess.

However, the silence did not last long. It was a room full of princes, knights and lords who were there to win the heart of the princess —or at least, the political interest of her parents— so chaos was bound to break out at a time like that. Lord Einar, the one who had found the note in the courtyard, was the first to offer his services to save the princess. His bravery set off a chain reaction of man after man appearing before the king to justify why they were the best suited for the task and not their competitors. And as they fought among themselves, Geralt decided to take matters into his own hands. 

He finally felt comfortable as he inspected the courtyard and its surroundings for some sort of clue as to your whereabouts. For the first time since he had arrived at the castle he felt as if he actually had something to do there. Banquets and politics weren't his thing, but tracking down and hunting evil was. And while his area of expertise was monsters, he was willing to make an exception —anything to find an excuse to get him out of the political mess unfolding in the banquet hall.

His senses enhanced by the mutation allowed Geralt to follow the path that your scent had left in the air. He only had to take a couple of deep breaths and he immediately caught the fragrance of jasmine and vanilla that he had smelled on your skin. It stood out above any other scent near him, almost as if he had you in front of him once again. All he had to do was follow it to the outskirts of the castle, where his tracking skills allowed him to form a clearer picture of the situation.

They were heading north, away from the ocean and into the forest. The four pairs of footprints in the dirt indicated the presence of three heavy men who were accompanied by a fourth subject that was not so pleased to be there. The footprints were more shallow and imperfect. They belonged to a person of smaller build who was being dragged by those men. Geralt found no blood on the path, so he felt optimistic. You were conscious and had no serious wounds that would leave traces of your blood on the road, so there was a high chance that he would arrive in time to save you.

Following the path became a little more complicated the deeper he went into the woods, but fortunately for him the vegetation was not so lush and the bandits had not hidden very far away. Soon he was able to hear their angry mutterings in the distance. The night wind carried your sobs with it and Geralt followed them as if it were a map straight to your whereabouts. 

You were being held captive in what appeared to be abandoned land. There was a dirty old shack and behind it, in the distance, Geralt could make out a barn that he had no doubt was in the same condition. A dim light was escaping through the half-open wooden door, so he knew that was where he had to go. 

Two of the bandits scattered around the property to control the perimeter while one remained inside with you. Geralt was able to slip past them unseen with ease. Clearly, they were not men of great intellect and wisdom. Only a fool would kidnap a princess on the one night she was surrounded by strong and capable noble knights looking to prove themselves to her. Although glancing around, he was the only one there, so perhaps the bandits had a point.

Geralt was very careful with his movements, seeking to stay in the shadows as long as possible to assess the situation. He knew he could take out those men without breaking a sweat, even if they attacked him all three at once. But he had to consider that you were in the middle and any mistake he made could end badly for you. So he took his time, stealing a glimpse of the barn through the cracked door. His vision was limited by the odd angle from which he was forced to observe the scene, as well as the dim light that illuminated the room. Geralt was considering going in with his sword held high and end it all, when a sudden movement forced him to retreat so as not to be found.

Still, he got to see the way the man was mistreating you, pushing you violently against a pile of hay while you cried and begged for your life. And he got to hear the string of degenerate words he spat at you, enjoying the fear in your voice as you struggled to keep your distance from him. It made Geralt angry. Very angry.

The next sequence of actions happened so quickly that it was hard for you to process it. Although, to be honest, your mind wasn't quite there either. A part of you was completely missing, preparing to face the worst. When your captor lunged at you, effectively imprisoning you against the hay and almost completely restricting your movements, your mind transported you to another place. You could still hear his voice in the distance, smell his unpleasant odor and feel his weight on your body, but it all felt distant, muffled by the sounds of the ocean waves crashing against the rocks and the smell of salt water. Your body was still struggling to break free and tears were still streaming down your cheeks, but your mind was preparing to face the horror you knew was coming.

"You can cry all you want, no one is coming to save you." The man clicked his tongue, an evil smile forming on his lips. "A castle full of people and not a single man in sight, what a shame! But don't worry, princess, the time has come for you to know what a real man is." He moved his hands to the buttons of his pants, his leering gaze roaming over your body. You felt like screaming, crying and vomiting all at the same time, but you remained immobile, not knowing how to react. You simply closed your eyes, concentrating on the images of the sea you loved so much, waiting for the moment to pass.

But instead of feeling the weight of your captor's body on you again, you felt the splatter of warm liquid on your skin. Droplets rolled down your cheeks, mixing with your tears, and streams fell on your clothes. When you opened your eyes you found the sharp point of a sword poking out of your captor's pierced stomach. It was his blood that drenched your body, his blood that stained your clothes. It poured down on you from the wound in his stomach and from the cut in his throat that prevented him from producing more than broken cries as he drowned in his own blood.

It took you a few seconds to understand what was happening. Your confused mind, on high alert for new dangers, was not able to comprehend that the death of your captor was something positive for you. You only saw blood in quantities you had never seen before and could not help but scream as you watched in horror as the sword disappeared inside the bandit's body —splashing a few more drops of blood on its way out.

In the blink of an eye, the dying body of your captor was removed from above you and was replaced by a hand that pressed over your mouth to silence you. You struggled against it, your own hands snapping out of their state of shock to clutch at the arm of the new danger in an attempt to separate it from you. But then your eyes focused on the man leaning over you, the one who had saved you and who was desperately asking you to keep quiet.

A surge of calm ran through your body as you made contact with those golden eyes that intrigued you so much. You knew then that you were no longer in danger for Geralt had come to your rescue. Your heart was still beating almost inhumanly fast, pumping adrenaline throughout your body, and your breathing was still rapid, but you were able to calm your whimpers of protest under his hand. You stopped fighting him, trusting that you would be safe under his care.

"There are more-" You tried to warn him as he removed his hand from your mouth, but Geralt shushed you.

"I know, they're outside. That's why I need you to stay quiet and hide while I deal with them. Can you do that, your highness?" You nodded slowly, letting Geralt lead you to the back of the barn. He settled you behind a pile of hay that was large enough to hide your crouched figure, asking you to stay there until he came back for you, no matter what you heard outside.

"Wait! Don't leave me!" you panicked as he took a step away from you. Your hand flew to his arm, clinging to his clothes in an attempt to keep him from leaving. You knew what he had to do, but the thought of being alone again terrified you.

"Everything will be fine." Geralt tried to calm you, his voice a soft whisper. "I promise I will come back for you." 

He gave you a moment before trying to leave once again, waiting for you to let go of his arm willingly rather than forcibly push you away. Geralt knew you were terrified and needed support, and he was more than willing to give it, but first he had to take care of the bandits that were still on the loose. And it would not be wise to fight them while you were present. It would only distress you further and put you in unnecessary danger. So, with a slight nod, he left you in the barn once more, disappearing into the night to finish what he had started.

You curled up in your place, listening to the distant sounds of the fight as you let another wave of tears roll down your cheeks. The smell of blood and dirt surrounded you. You were covered in it —in dirt, from being pushed back and forth around the place; in your captor's sweat, after he threw his body over yours; and in his blood, thanks to Geralt's fierce but effective attack. It made you want to vomit. The reality of the situation was starting to sink in, and your mind was slowly beginning to understand the great danger you were in and how lucky you were that Geralt showed up when he did.

“Princess?” 

His voice brought you back to reality. He was kneeling beside you, looking at you with concern in those beautiful yellow eyes. The skin on his face was stained with a few drops of blood, as you imagined yours to be, but that did not lessen the softness of his expression. You threw yourself into his arms without a second thought, hiding your face in his neck as you sobbed in relief to know that the danger was over.

"It's okay, you're safe. I'm here, it's going to be okay." Geralt muttered against your hair, pulling you into his arms hoping that would be enough to help ease your nerves. 

He held you against his body for as long as you needed him to, stroking your back with his hand in a slow, delicate way to inspire some sense of calm in you. He didn't move for a moment, not even when your sobs began to fade and your breathing became regular. No, Geralt waited for you to make the first move, breaking away from him when you were ready to do so. 

"It's all right. You're fine. Just breathe with me. In...and out...in...and out. All right." 

You let the soft but deep tone of his voice slowly wash away the paralyzing fear and nerves that plagued you. You focused on the warmth of his body and the way his arms wrapped around you, making you feel safe. You mimicked the rhythm of his breathing, letting him slowly guide you back to normal. 

When you opened your eyes again the world around you was no longer spinning. Your vision was still a little blurry from the tears, but you could make out perfectly the yellow eyes, bright as the summer sun, watching you carefully.

"There you are!" Geralt gave you a small smile. "Did they hurt you?" You shook your head. Most of the blood on you at that moment wasn't yours, thankfully. Beyond a couple of bruises on your wrists from the bindings, and a split lip from a slap, you weren't injured. Your head hurt and you had twisted your ankle in an attempt to escape but it was nothing you couldn't handle.

"Who were they?" You asked in a shaky voice as you tried to stand up. You winced in pain as you put weight on your injured foot, but Geralt caught you in his arms before you lost your balance.

"Trust me, you're not going to like the answer to that."

A collective sigh was heard as you and Geralt entered the war room, where the king and queen were coordinating a rescue party with some soldiers and half of the suitors present at the banquet. It was a sigh of surprise rather than relief. It was clear that no one expected to see you there, much less with the disheveled appearance you had. 

Your mother was the first to react, running up to you with tears in her eyes. Although she couldn't bring herself to hug you, the blood that stained your ball gown was still fresh, so she settled for holding your cheeks in her hands while repeating over and over again how happy she was that you were safe. Your father reacted by sending the guards to arrest Geralt as his worried mind believed that the witcher somehow had something to do with your kidnapping. You had to stand between them, taking your savior's hand in yours to make your position clear. 

"What you imply is ridiculous! He saved me, father. I wouldn't be here if it weren't for him." you stated firmly, keeping your head held high and holding back tears in your eyes. 

"He very well could still be behind all this. He's a witcher who wasn't officially invited to the festivities and conveniently vanished in the middle of the night without a word. No one can attest to him but that bard..."

"No offense, your majesty, but I just felt as though the situation was not being treated with the necessary urgency." Geralt interjected, speaking in a calm and slightly defiant tone. "I knew for a fact that she couldn't be far away and that time was of the essence, but everyone at that feast seemed more interested in proving themselves worthy of glory and respect than saving your daughter's life. I just did what had to be done."

"How dare you speak that way about these noble men, witcher! Any one of them would be more than willing to give his life for my daughter!"

"He is right, father. If you want to find a culprit, you should direct your gaze to Lord Einar."

The room fell silent as all eyes turned to him. But his gaze was focused on you, staring at you with a fury you didn't know if the others were able to detect. He took a step forward and you tightened your grip on Geralt's hand, instinctively seeking his support. He stuck to your side, silently letting you know that he was ready to come between him and you if necessary —though he seriously doubted that Einar would be stupid enough to try to hurt you in front of the king.

"This is absurd!" Lord Einar complained with exaggerated outrage. "I will not allow myself to be disrespected in this way! I was invited to this feast to formalize my interest in the princess, which is greater than that of anyone in this room, if I may add. Have you forgotten that it was I who noticed the princess's strange disappearance? If I had not gone out to look for her, perhaps the news of her disappearance would have come too late. And may I remind you, your majesty, that it was I who first offered my services to bring her back safe and sound."

"That was the plan, wasn't it?" Geralt spoke through gritted teeth. "To pay some coins to a bunch of desperate bastards to take her so that you could rescue her and thus win her and the king's heart."

"I will not allow this... thing to disrespect me like this!"

"Your scent was on their clothes. Your name was the last thing they uttered before I slit their throats. You knew you didn't stand a chance with her, so you found a way to force your name to the top of the list."

Intimidated by Geralt's cold, hard stare, Lord Einar turned to look at the king. "These are nothing more than baseless accusations made by someone who clearly wants to distract us from his own guilt and involvement." he said, keeping his head held high as he lied through his teeth. "I beg you, my king, to consider punishment for this insolent witcher."

"Is this proof enough for you?" you snapped, tossing an object on the table. 

After the bandits were dead, Geralt had searched their bodies for some kind of proof that their words were true. That's how he had found a ring in the pocket of one of them that clearly didn't belong to them. It was made of a fine metal and in the center, engraved in gold, was the seal of a noble family: the Blakesley family.

The ring rolled against the dark wood, exposing Lord Einar's lies with each flick of the ring before the gaze of all present. There was nothing he could say to avoid the punishment that was coming, so when your father gave the order and the guards took him by force, he decided to take his rage out on you. His voice echoed through the corridors as he was escorted to the dungeon, shouting a string of insults at you. He questioned your honor and your ability as a ruler, claiming that he only wanted to marry you to ensure that the kingdom would not perish when your father died. 

Those were nothing more than the words of an unstable man who was filled with spite, angered by your rejection. You knew it meant nothing, but you still couldn't help but feel humiliated as he shouted all those things in front of so many people. Your eyes filled with tears and you clung to Geralt almost instinctively, hiding your face in his neck so no one would see you cry. He wrapped his arms around you, ignoring the very unfriendly looks that several of the men in the room gave him. 

Your mother ordered the room to be emptied, realizing that the crowd was doing nothing to help your condition. The last thing you needed at that moment was to feel watched and judged by a bunch of people, so she personally closed the doors behind the last guard to leave the room.

"You should take a long bath, my love. I'll send someone to prepare the tub and clean clothes for you. That will certainly make you feel better." Your mother spoke in a soft voice, placing a hand on your back. "And you, witcher, are more than welcome to stay tonight. I'll have a room prepared for you and bring you some clean clothes. We can talk more in the morning."

You gave your mother a smile as you wiped your tears with the back of your hand, trying to convince her that you were fine. She knew you weren't, but she also knew you well enough not to push you at that moment. So she left the room without adding anything else, leaving you alone with Geralt once again.

"Thank you... for everything." Your voice broke the silence, your eyes traveling from the door to Geralt's face. "I just realized I didn't thank you yet." 

"You don't have to." He didn't need to hear it from your mouth, he could see in your eyes how grateful you were. Your expression hadn't changed much since he had found you, even though you tried hard to hide it, there were still traces of fear and distress in your eyes.

"Of course I have to! You have saved me from a terrible fate, not only at the hands of those bandits, but also at the hands of that... man." There were other words with which you would have liked to describe him, but you decided it was not appropriate for you to utter them. He didn't even deserve that from you. "I'm glad you were dragged here... I don't know what would have become of me without you tonight, Geralt."

The room fell silent as you looked into each other's eyes. You lost yourself in the amber that surrounded his pupils —which seemed to be more dilated, although it could well be an effect of the light, you thought—, trying to discover the secrets hidden in his eyes. Geralt was not easy to read, no matter how hard you tried, you had no idea of the things that could be going through his head at that moment. And yet, there was something in his eyes that calmed you. When he looked back at you, there was a softness in them that invited you to continue to admire them forever. It was a connection unlike anything you had ever felt before. It piqued your curiosity and some other things you didn't quite know how to explain. 

Your hand was still intertwined with Geralt's and you weren't entirely sure for how long. Although you weren't complaining, you found the warmth of his skin against yours extremely comforting. It made you feel less alone, less vulnerable. You trusted him with your life, you knew that as long as he was around nothing bad could happen to you. And boy did you need that at that moment. You were still quite affected by everything that had happened and the idea of being alone terrified you. You needed company, but not just anyone. You needed his company.

"Would you mind escorting me to my chambers?" you broke the silence, clearing your throat to make sure your voice sounded firm. "My foot still hurts a little and I wouldn't want to fall down the stairs."

It was a foolish excuse. You knew it. Geralt knew it. The twisted foot you got while struggling with your captors was not a cause for concern. It hurt a little, yes, but you could still walk normally. All you wanted was an excuse not to be separated from Geralt and luckily for you, he played along. He allowed you to take his arm for stability and walked with you to your quarters. You appreciated his proximity, enjoying the feel of his body pressed against yours as his warmth enveloped you. But unfortunately it only seemed to aggravate his absence when he pulled away from you, willing to leave you alone so you could rest.

Your hand closed around his arm almost as an unwilling reflex. Your body craved his closeness. Your mind needed his company to be at ease. As much as you wanted to, you couldn't let Geralt leave. Not tonight at least. His eyes lingered on your hand, admiring how small it appeared when compared to his arm, before he looked up into your eyes, searching your expression for an explanation.

"Stay, please." Your voice was almost a whisper. Your eyes had trouble making eye contact with him for the first time since you had met. Geralt knew then that you were embarrassed of uttering those words. "I need you. I... I don't want to be alone tonight."

"Are you sure?" He said after a few seconds of silence, his expression firm but gentle. You nodded, looking at him with pleading eyes as you released his arm from your grip. Geralt sighed and finally crossed the threshold of the door, closing it behind him. 

Geralt allowed you to guide him across the room to a door that hid a large private bathtub on the other side. It was already filled with water and salts, ready for you to use it. Everything smelled of you, of that delicious combination of jasmine and vanilla that Geralt found so special. It was intoxicating, like he was breathing in your scent straight from the source. 

"Would you mind helping me with the lace?" Your voice brought him back to reality. Geralt watched as you turned around, gathering your hair over one of your shoulders to expose your back to him so he could unfasten your dress. He knew it was inappropriate and that he was probably breaking some rule —not to mention, taking advantage of the king's hospitality—, but he couldn't bring himself to stop. Not when you were offering yourself to him like that.

Geralt's hands caressed your back first, his fingers slowly tracing a path from your shoulders to where the lacing of your dress ended. You closed your eyes, holding your breath as you felt him slowly loosen your dress. You could feel his imposing figure towering over you. He was so close that you could hear his breathing and feel the heat radiating from his body. You liked the proximity, probably more than you should.

When Geralt finished his work and your dress began to slide down your shoulders, you knew you should have been embarrassed. You were used to being naked in front of servants, but they were always women you trusted, handmaidens who had taken care of you since you were little and helped you dress or bathe. You had never been so exposed in front of a man before and you should definitely feel ashamed, but you were not. You simply let the dress fall to your feet and stepped into the tub as if there was no man present.

The water was warm and the tub was deep enough to hide your modesty if you sat in the right position. The dim candlelight also helped, though ultimately you really didn't mind feeling Geralt's gaze on your body.

"Join me, please. The water's nice and there's room enough for both of us."

Your curious eyes unashamedly traced the muscles of his arms and torso as he revealed himself to you. You noticed the scars that marked his skin, some smaller and some larger, and you couldn't help but wonder what the stories behind them were. Geralt was an exceptional man, unlike anyone you had ever met in your life. He was so rigid and reserved, and yet he had shown nothing but kindness and gentleness in your presence. He was a mystery and you wanted nothing more than to discover what he hid behind those beautiful amber eyes.

Out of respect —and some embarrassment—, you looked away as his hands undid the buttons of his pants. You focused your attention on the jasmine petals floating in the water, feeling your cheeks grow warm as a small voice in your head encouraged you to look up. 

Geralt settled next to you in the tub, avoiding being too close or sitting in front of you so that you wouldn't feel uncomfortable or self-conscious in his presence. However, you needed his closeness, so you shortened the distance as much as you could, pressing your arm against his. When he didn't complain, you went a step further and rested your head on his shoulder. Geralt stood still for a moment, debating once again whether his actions were appropriate, but in the end he relaxed. 

He put his arm around your shoulders, effectively pulling you closer to him. A smile formed on your lips as you adjusted yourself in the new position, hiding your face in his neck. Geralt's fingers traced soft lines on the skin of your arm, a caress that both relaxed and excited you. That kind of intimacy was something new to you. Feeling his naked skin against yours, inhaling that musky scent mixed with something you couldn't describe as anything but his own essence, feeling the soft caresses of his calloused fingers, everything made you feel a certain way inside. You didn't have the exact words to describe it. It was like a flame, a warmth spreading through you that was both comforting and exciting. Ultimately, you didn't care about being able to put a name to what you felt. You just wanted to stay close to Geralt for as long as you were allowed.

Without even realizing it, your hand traveled up to his chest, your curious fingers tracing the jagged lines that marked his skin. You used the scars as a map to his body, letting them guide your path as you explored his chest with your touch. And as your fingers moved, you imagined the heroic stories behind each one, wondering what kind of monsters had inflicted them and if there were any that were human-made.

"I wonder how many princesses you've saved to end up like this." You broke the silence, your voice soft as you got lost in thought. It was mostly a joke, but there was some genuine curiosity hidden in it. 

"Surprisingly, less than you're probably imagining."

You didn't quite know why, but hearing Geralt say that put a smile on your lips. It made you feel special, in a way. He hadn't been hired to save you —technically he hadn't even been invited to the party—, he had no obligation to you or your family, and yet he had risked his life to help you. There was something in you that awakened in him his noblest instincts.

"I'm sure that's what you tell everyone." You laughed, looking up at him from your position on his shoulder. You could admire his profile, his sharp jawline and the way his lips curved upward slightly as he let out a huff.

"Often delicate young women like you find my methods to be too... grotesque. They don't see me as being much different from the monsters I kill." Geralt spoke honestly, remembering the horrified expressions on the faces of the maidens he had sought to save from danger in his past, when he had little experience as a witcher. He was young and naive at the time and believed he could use his skills for more than just hunting monsters. After all, evil came in all shapes and sizes, even in humans. It didn't take him long to understand that humans didn't see a knight of noble spirit when he intervened in such situations, only a mutant designed to kill.

You noticed his thoughtful expression, his eyes looking straight ahead as if his mind was transporting him to another place. You wondered what kind of memories he might have swirling around in his head at that moment, outraged to think that someone could treat him badly after he saved their life. You admitted that he had quite an imposing figure and that his expression wasn't very friendly most of the time, but you still couldn't understand how anyone could be afraid of him. Even before he saved you —when he was just a stranger who took the time to listen to your problems— you saw nothing threatening in him. His beautiful yellow eyes inspired nothing but trust in you from the first moment you made contact with them.

“Then they were all fools." You sat up straight, one hand resting on Geralt's cheek to force him to look at you. "I don't understand how anyone could look at you and see danger in you. Even covered in blood, all I see is... safety and comfort." You gave him a small smile as your finger carefully wiped a small spot of blood from his cheek.

"Or maybe you're being naively nice."

Geralt took a cloth that rested on the edge of the tub and dipped it in the warm water. Then one of his hands cupped your chin, tilting your face slightly so he could get a better look at you in the candlelight. The flames danced in the air, creating shadows on your delicate skin. But even in the dim light he could still see the splashes of blood that stained your beautiful face. They made such a contrast that it was impossible to ignore them. The implication of such a violent act had no place on the delicate face of a princess like you. He hated to see the scratch on your lip, the dirt on your cheeks, the dried blood on your skin. You should not have been subjected to such horrors and he wanted to do everything in his power to erase the evidence from your body. So Geralt took the trouble to wipe the blood away, carefully running the wet cloth over your skin until it was all gone.

You remained silent as he worked on you, completely immobile while you watched him closely. His eyebrows were slightly furrowed, but his expression was gentle. His hands moved delicately over your skin, as if he was afraid of breaking you if he wasn't careful. You could barely feel the cloth brushing against your cheek from how slow and gentle Geralt was being. But his fingers... his fingers were another story.

They were warm against your skin, caressing every little spot the cloth passed through to soothe any possible irritation the fabric might arouse. They awakened a tingling sensation as they traveled down your face. When they reached your neck, you knew that Geralt could feel the accelerated pulsing of your heart against his fingertips. It was impossible that he couldn't when you could hear the beating in your ears yourself. His hands felt so big against your neck. If he wanted to hurt you, he could probably do it with just one hand. That should have scared you, considering he was a man you barely knew, but it didn't. You knew he wasn't going to hurt you, not when he caressed the sensitive skin of your neck and collarbones with such gentleness.

"Maybe I'm naive," you broke the silence, your voice barely more audible than a whisper. "But I honestly don't think a mutant designed to kill, as you say, would go to the trouble of caring for me the way you are doing."

Geralt's eyes looked up at you, that intriguing yellow you loved so much capturing you in a transe. They were calling you, daring you to dive into the ocean of honey and mystery that was his gaze. And you obeyed without the slightest resistance, letting your heart take the reins of your body. You leaned towards him, slowly. His hands were still on your neck, but he didn't use them to stop you. On the contrary, he leaned towards you too and when your lips finally collided, he used his grip on your jaw to deepen the kiss.

The kiss started slow, a quick brush of your lips as you finally let yourselves indulge in your deepest desires. But as you became more comfortable in each other's arms, the kiss intensified. You let Geralt guide you, knowing that he would undoubtedly have more experience than you. You surrendered to his lips and the caresses of his tongue, giving yourself to him completely as you struggled to keep up with him. 

That wasn't your first kiss, however, it was the first kiss that felt like this, so... intense, passionate. You barely remembered the boy who had given you your first kiss, but you knew you would remember Geralt for the rest of your life. You didn't know how he did it, but the simple touch of his lips and the strokes of his fingers on your skin turned you to mush between his hands. You had never felt anything like it before and you didn't want to stop. But despite your protests, Geralt suddenly pulled away from you.

"What are you doing?" He didn't sound annoyed or confused, more concerned. 

"I'm taking control of my life." You leaned into him once more and Geralt accepted your kiss, his desperate lips demonstrating his true intentions. He let his desires consume him for a moment before regaining control over his body and pulling away from you again.

"Are you sure?" It wasn't that he wanted to stop, but the voice of morality in the back of his mind compelled him to make sure you wanted the same. He needed to know that he wasn't taking advantage of you, that you weren't throwing yourself into his arms as a result of your vulnerable state after the attack.

"For as long as I can remember, I have always dreamed of meeting a noble prince who would protect me from danger. We would fall in love and live a long and happy life together after our marriage. Now I know that is impossible. I cannot choose who I marry. I cannot choose to marry for love. There's nothing I can do to change it, that's just the way things work." You paused, your hands reaching for Geralt's to entwine your fingers. "But I can still choose who to give myself to, body and soul, for the first time... and you're the closest thing I have to that fantasy."

There was a sadness in your eyes that made Geralt feel bad for you. He didn't know you very well, but he knew you deserved better than a future you didn't want. The inability to choose your own path in life was something that seemed to affect you greatly, and if he was able to bring you some peace he was willing to do so. But the tub full of dirty water was not the place for it, much less considering it would be your first experience of something like that. 

"Speak freely." You said after a few seconds of unbearable silence. "If you don't want to be with me because you don't like me I'll understand. But please don't turn me down just because you think you're guarding my honor or something. I want this... I want you."

Those last words seemed to do the trick, because Geralt's lips joined yours once again. Only this time the kiss was different, much slower and more sensual, though just as desperate. His lips moved in time with yours, tongues intertwined in a sinful dance as Geralt allowed his hands to slowly explore your body. His fingers ignited flames on your skin in their path, pleasure and anticipation building inside you. 

The water in the tub swirled violently as Geralt lifted you into his arms, moving you to sit on his lap as if you weighed nothing. You clung to his shoulders for support, feeling his fingers dig into the sensitive skin of your hips. But it didn't hurt, at least not in a bad way. It was a pleasant ache that made you feel alive. Just like his kisses, which trailed down your jaw to your neck, sucking and nibbling on the sensitive skin. 

Geralt's kisses continued their way down and you couldn't help but buck your hips against his when his lips closed over your nipple. You pushed your chest into him instinctively, giving yourself to him as one of your hands got lost in his hair. Pure pleasure traveled through your veins as his tongue played with your breasts, giving attention to one before moving on to the other. He held you tightly against his body, one strong arm stretched across your back while the other wrapped around your waist, pulling you against his growing erection. 

You both moaned as your cunt made contact with his cock. The sensation you felt when the tip brushed against your little bundle of nerves was unlike anything you had ever felt before. The pleasure was much more intense, much more raw. You could feel it spreading through your body and into your bones. So, naturally, you sought it again, creating a rhythm that had you panting in no time. 

You were forced to stop when Geralt suddenly stood up, carrying you in his arms. Your moan of pleasure turned into a cry of surprise, the water in the tub moving violently, flooding the room as he moved towards the exit. You clung to his shoulders, afraid of falling, as you asked him what he was doing.

"We can't do it here. It has to be done properly, in a bed where you’ll be comfortable, and not in a bathtub full of filthy water."

You couldn't help but smile to yourself as you understood the meaning of his words. Once again, Geralt was looking after you, worrying about you and your well-being more than any other man in your life had ever done. He wanted to make things right, to make sure that your first sexual encounter was a positive experience. And while he wasn't exactly the man you had imagined doing it with, he was quite close to it. Every thing he said, every gesture he made to you, made you feel more confident in your decision.

Geralt carefully laid you down on the bed, making sure you were comfortable before continuing his assault on your body. He kissed you again and, as you let his tongue explore your mouth, you couldn't help but think how much bigger he felt now that he was leaning over you. He had one arm on either side of your head, holding himself up so he wouldn't crush you with his weight. One of his toned legs rested in between yours, keeping you open and exposed to him. You were essentially trapped under his body, completely at his mercy, and you liked it.

The pleasure building up inside you was starting to feel too overwhelming. As much as you enjoyed Geralt's wet kisses, you needed more. You needed relief. So you pushed your hips into him once more, seeking that intoxicating pleasure you'd felt in the bathtub. Your wet pussy slid easily up his thigh and a wave of pleasure coursed through your body. 

"Fuck!" Geralt moaned as he felt your wetness trickling down his leg. You looked so sensual moving your hips against him with adoring desperation, struggling to find some relief. The little moans that fell from your lips in between ragged breaths drove him crazy, making it difficult for him to control his instincts. He had to be gentle with you, it was your first time and no matter how much he wanted to, he couldn't pin you down and fuck you until your legs shook.

"Tell me, princess, have you ever touched yourself?" Geralt spoke against your skin as his lips continued their path of wet kisses down your body. "Perhaps when you were alone at night, hidden in the darkness of your chambers."

It took you a few seconds to process Geralt's words, your mind distracted with the way his kisses slowly trailed down your chest, barely pausing on your breasts before continuing to travel down. It made your body tremble with anticipation, wondering what he was up to. He was watching you from his position on your abdomen, lips barely pulling away from your skin so he could observe your face more comfortably, waiting for an answer. The color of his eyes had darkened, the yellow glowing like the flames of the candles that lit the room. There was hunger in them. Geralt was looking at you like a wolf at its prey. You couldn't help but feel a little self-conscious, managing to answer him with a simple negative shake of your head. 

"So you don't know what real pleasure feels like, huh?" You weren't sure if it was a question for you, but you shook your head again anyway. You felt Geralt's lips curving into a smile against the sensitive skin of your lower belly and a shiver ran down your spine when you heard his next words. "I'm going to change that."

Despite the firmness in his voice, Geralt was slow and gentle with each movement he made next. He was careful to position himself between your legs, pushing them open and revealing your most secret part to his hungry gaze. He noticed almost immediately the way you tensed with embarrassment, feeling vulnerable, so he was quick to spread sweet kisses on your right thigh, while gently caressing the skin of your left. He could smell the scent of your arousal with every breath he took. It was intoxicating, the sweet nectar he had been waiting to taste all this time. But first he had to make sure you were comfortable. He was there to pleasure you, nothing mattered if you didn't enjoy it.

"It's okay, my sweet. You don't have to be ashamed, you're beautiful." He spoke against your skin, his voice a raspy, sensual, whisper. "I have to get you ready for my cock, all right? This will feel so good, I promise. But if it doesn't, I want you to tell me, can you do that?" You nodded, but that wasn't enough for him. "I need you to use your words."

"Yes, Geralt, I will."

"Good."

Geralt gave you a few seconds to relax before diving into your cunt, spreading wet kisses down your inner thighs as he got closer and closer to the place where you needed him most. When his tongue finally made contact with the sweet nectar trickling down your folds, he let out a sound that vibrated in his chest with force. All hint of self-control disappeared then, buried under the primal desire that the taste of your arousal awakened in him.

He ate you like a starving man, his tongue exploring your most intimate place with expert skill. Your hips jolted as his lips closed over your small bundle of nerves, your whole body convulsing as you felt pleasure like you had never felt before. It was so intense it was almost too much. It scared you in a way, as it felt like your own body didn't respond to you —like it didn't belong to you. It belonged to Geralt now, and only responded to the stimulation he gave your body.  You were torn between the need to pull away from his entrancing lips —which were no doubt uttering some spell to claim ownership of your innocence— and your body's carnal desire to surrender to his clever tricks in order to continue to feel such pure pleasure.

"Does it feel good, princess?" Geralt spoke between your legs, his warm breath crashing against your pussy and sending shivers down your spine. 

"Yes! So good... please don't stop." You didn't recognize your own voice as you spoke. It sounded raspy from all the moaning, and there was a hint of desperation you'd never heard in yourself before. It wasn't the first time you had begged someone for something you wanted, but it was the first time you actually meant it.

"I won't, I promise. I'm here to make you feel good." Geralt assured between slow, long licks, focusing his attention on your clit before continuing. "But if you're going to take my cock, I'll need to stretch your tight hole." You tensed again and once more he used his strategy of stroking and kissing your thighs to calm you down. You knew that penetration was an important part of the whole thing and you were ready to face it, but still, the unknown scared you a little. "I'm going to insert a finger inside you, is that all right my sweet? It might feel a little uncomfortable at first, but I promise it will feel great afterwards. But first I have to know that you still want this."

"Yes, Geralt, I want this. I trust you, please." You gave him a shy smile, looking at him with complete admiration. He saw the desire in your eyes, mixed with anticipation and a hint of fear. But you were confident in your decision, so he continued.

"Relax, I'm going to take care of you." He murmured against your skin, his kisses slowly moving closer to your wet cunt. "Just focus on the pleasure."

Geralt's voice echoed in your mind, your body obeying his commands as if he had cast a spell over you that left you with no other choice. You focused on the fire burning inside you, on the skillful way he flicked his tongue against your abused bundle of nerves and on the knot in your stomach that tightened with each passing second. You tried not to tense up as you felt Geralt's finger press against your entrance, biting your lip and taking deep breaths to calm your nerves. His tongue was doing a good job of distracting you, but you could still feel the slightly painful drag of his finger inside you. 

"You're doing so well for me." Geralt complimented you, keeping his finger still inside you to give you time to get used to the new sensation. You couldn't hide how much it pleased you to hear those words, because your walls clenched around his finger, revealing your deepest desires. Geralt grunted against your pussy, fantasizing about how good your tight hole would feel around his cock. 

It took you a moment to get used to the strange sensation of his intrusion. It wasn't painful exactly, mostly uncomfortable since your walls weren't used to stretching like that. But eventually the discomfort faded into pleasure, bringing new sensations as he slowly began to move his finger inside you. 

Your moans became uncontrollable, increasing in volume with each of Geralt's caresses. If you weren't so wrapped up in your own pleasure, you would have worried about the possibility of being overheard by some servant or guard walking down the corridor. You knew it might potentially ruin your reputation, but you couldn't focus on anything other than the way Geralt's long, thick finger stretched you, making you feel full in the most pleasurable way possible. 

"Geralt I-" You tried to speak, but the air caught in your throat as you felt the knot in your stomach becoming incredibly tight, threatening to snap.

"I know, my sweet, I know." Geralt interrupted you as he noticed your trouble forming coherent sentences. He could sense you were getting close to relief in the way your walls tightened around his finger, your juices dripping down your legs and soaking his hand. "Just let yourself go. I've got you."

Geralt added another finger inside you, stretching your walls even further. He was careful, his movements slow and precise as he both prepared you for his cock and brought you closer to the edge. His mouth focused on your clit, his lips closing around your sensitive pearl as his fingers explored your insides, reaching that spongy place deep inside you and rubbing it until your whole body shuddered with your orgasm.

It felt like your insides exploded, the tension that had been building in your core suddenly snapping as wave after wave of pleasure coursed through your body. Your mind went blank, eyes rolling back as Geralt did his best to hold back the violent spasms of your muscles. 

And then your body fell limp on the sheets. You could barely hear the world around you over your racing heartbeat that throbbed in your ears. You knew Geralt was muttering things against your skin as he kissed his way back up, but your mind was too lost in the pleasure to make sense of his words. Your chest was rising and falling rapidly, your body desperate for oxygen as it struggled to regain control.

"There you are!" Geralt gave you a soft smile as you opened your eyes, his face slowly coming into focus on your clouded vision. "How are you feeling?"

"Fine! That was..." you paused, searching for the words to describe it. Although explaining your feelings proved to be more difficult than you expected. You were convinced that there were no words in any language you knew to describe what he had made you feel. So you let out an airy laugh, hiding your face in his neck and spreading small kisses over his skin.

"Do you still want to go through with this?" Geralt asked you, pulling away from you a little so he could look into your eyes. You kissed him back, tasting the sweet flavor of your arousal on his tongue. It was strangely erotic for you to feel your own essence on him, like a mark that, though temporary, showed to whom his lips belonged. It sent a rush of desire and confidence through your body, igniting the fire inside you once more.

The pressure of his cock was nothing like his fingers. While the stretching sensation was not completely foreign to you, Geralt's cock was much longer and thicker than his fingers so it hurt a lot more when he began to push it into you. The mixture of your arousal and his saliva helped his member slide more easily through your walls, but you still couldn't hold back the whine of pain, which vibrated against Geralt's lips. 

"It's all right... you're all right. Just a little more." He crooned as he rested his forehead against yours. His fingers caressed the skin of your hip, giving you comfort as you clung to his shoulders. "You're doing so good for me, my sweet." His voice was soft, but erratic, laced with the clear pleasure that sliding so torturously slow inside your tight walls brought him. 

Geralt remained immobile once he bottomed out, spreading kisses all over your face and neck as he gave you time to adjust to his size. It was the hardest task he had ever had to do in his life. Facing any monster was easier than staying still when your warm, wet walls wrapped around him so well. He was desperate to move, pull out of you almost completely only to slam back in, thrusting his hips against yours as he pinned you against the bed. But it was your first time, so he had to be gentle with you. You weren't ready for that kind of rough loving, so Geralt pushed his dark desires aside and waited for you to give him the signal to move. 

After a while, your moans of discomfort turned into whimpers of protest, not from pain, but from the growing fire inside you that wasn't being tended to. You experimentally moved your hips against Geralt's, just to see what it would feel like. It was a small movement, but it was enough to push his cock deeper inside you, sparking a pleasurable tingling sensation that spread throughout your body. So you did it again, moving with more confidence this time. And again, only this time, Geralt met you halfway, grinding his hips against yours.

Your walls tightened around his cock and the growl that escaped his lips was so deep and primal that it almost pushed you over the edge once more. Something about knowing that you were the cause of those moans, that your body, your pussy, your caresses, were responsible for such reactions was so arousing. Knowing that even though you were inexperienced you were able to elicit such pleasure in him made you feel more comfortable and confident. You were turning his world upside down as much as he was turning yours.

"You look so beautiful like this." Geralt said as he slightly increased the rhythm of his hips. "So small and fragile underneath me, eyes filled with lust as you try your best to take me in your tight hole." 

You moaned into his mouth, desperately searching his lips for something to keep you grounded as pleasure took over your body and mind. Your cunt clenched at his words, finding the mix of softness and roughness in his action incredibly arousing. His hips moved against yours in a consistent and deep, yet slow and sensual rhythm. His calloused fingers roamed over your body, caressing you in such a subtle way that it gave you goosebumps. His filthy words perfectly balanced flattery and roughness, awakening feelings you didn't know you had. It was all a dangerous, overwhelming mix, slowly getting to you close to the edge.

"Does it feel good? Do you like feeling me deep inside you?" You could only moan incoherently in response, hiding your face in the crook of Geralt's neck as your nails dug into his back. "I like it too. You feel so good wrapped around me, my perfect princess."

"Yes, I'm yours! I'm all yours, please..." You begged, for what, you weren't sure. But that didn't really matter, you just wanted Geralt to do whatever he wanted with you. You knew there was no future in your relationship, but this was no time to think about tomorrow. At that moment you were giving yourself body and soul to him, allowing him permission to use and explore your body as he wished.

"Yes you are, but not just for tonight." Geralt moaned in your ear, his voice a deep hoarse whisper. He sucked a mark just below your earlobe, nibbling the sensitive area playfully before continuing to speak. "You will always remember this night and think of me when your future husband takes you to bed on your wedding night. He's not going to compare to me... to how good I'm making you feel. But that's fine, because at least you had a chance to know what it feels like to be adored like you truly deserve, my princess."

"Fuck, Geralt! I'm-" Your warning was interrupted by a moan as you felt him sink his teeth into the sensitive skin of your neck at the same time he pushed his member incredibly deep inside you.

"I know, I can feel you squeezing me so tight. It's alright, just let go for me, my sweet. I want to feel you as you come undone on my cock." 

His hand traveled south, calloused fingers pressing against your abused bundle of nerves, drawing circles over it. The way your pussy clenched around his cock made it hard to focus, his own orgasm approaching with alarming speed. But he kept a steady rhythm, his hips moving in a slow, sensual way to make sure his cock brushed that special place inside you without causing you any pain.

"That's it, keep making those pretty notices for me. You're doing so good for me, my beautiful, perfect, princess. Just let go, I've got you. You're safe with me, just let go."

It was the softness in his husky voice that finally pushed you over the edge, your whole body shaking with the intensity of your orgasm. Geralt's name was the last thing you uttered before the world around you disappeared behind the waves of pleasure. It was a pathetic whimper, a plea for mercy as you felt frightened by the sheer intensity of your orgasm. Geralt was sure he had never heard a more sensual melody. The way you had uttered his name just before the pleasure exploded inside you was something he was never going to forget.

"That's it, my sweet. You did such a good job for me." He complimented you, slowing down the rhythm of his hips to give you time to recover. "You're alright. I'm here, I've got you. Just breathe... that's it." 

Geralt's voice helped you refocus on the real world, his sweet kisses slowly lifting the fog that clouded your mind. You could still feel him inside you, his cock throbbing desperate for relief. The shallow thrusts weren't enough and you needed to feel him falling apart inside you. You needed to know what it felt like to have a man —and especially him— come inside you. And you knew it was safe with him since witchers were incapable of fathering children as a result of their mutations.

"Geralt, please... I want to feel you." You managed to say between gasps, locking your legs around his hips to keep him in place, pressed inside you. He let out a deep growl as he understood the meaning behind your words, his eyes darkening with lust. You were definitely going to be the death of him.

"Of course, my sweet, how could I deny you anything?" He murmurs against your lips, slowly increasing the rhythm of his hips. "You want to feel my seed deep inside you, is that it? You want me to fill you up, leave a part of me inside you so you won't miss me so much when I'm gone?"

His words alone were enough to ignite that flame inside you again. Your body was tired, but still screamed for more. Geralt's thrusts became erratic with each passing second, desperate to reach his own relief. And in the search for his pleasure he was taking you with him to a new limit. 

"I will give it to you, my princess. I will give you all of me. I could never deny you anything, my sweet, beautiful girl."

His sweet words contrasted with the harshness of his movements, hips crashing against yours in desperate thrusts. He was getting closer to his relief and he could feel in the way your cunt clenched around his cock that you were too. His thumb focused on your clit once more, one, two, three strokes accompanied by his thrusts and you were crying his name again. But he didn't get to enjoy much of the way you tightened around him, because he came seconds later, shooting his load deep inside you.

Geralt collapsed on top of you, his body crushing you against the bed as you both tried to catch your breath. But even though he was much bigger than you, it wasn't an uncomfortable position. The weight of his body felt comforting against yours. You liked the way he hid his face in your neck, breathing heavily against your sweaty skin. It gave you the opportunity to stroke his back and run your fingers through his hair. It felt intimate, in a completely different way than the sex you'd just had. 

You whined in protest as he rolled to the side, feeling the mixture of your arousal and his sliding down your legs now that his cock had left you. It was a strange sensation to feel empty without him inside you. You didn't know such a feeling was possible, for you that used to be normal, the only way to feel. But now that you had had Geralt buried deep inside you, that you had felt his seed filling you to the brim, you would always be aware of that strange emptiness between your legs.

"How are you feeling?" you heard him say and you struggled to open your eyes, your eyelids heavy with exhaustion. He was standing at the foot of the bed, a cloth in his hand, and you wondered when he had moved from your side without you noticing.

"Great! That was... great." You mumbled, still unable to find an adequate word to describe how good he had made you feel.

Geralt gave you a small smile before lowering his face to your legs, placing small kisses on your skin as he moved closer and closer to your center. "Open up for me, my princess. I need to clean you." 

You reluctantly complied, feeling much more exposed and vulnerable now that the deed was done. However, he was gentle with you, moving carefully as he cleaned you so as not to irritate your sensitive, abused cunt. And when he was done, he kissed his way down your face, caressing your skin with his lips, culminating his journey in your mouth.

"What about you?" you tried to sound casual as you spoke, though you failed miserably. "Was it... good for you too?" You immediately regretted your choice of words, worrying that you had ruined the moment.

"I thought I had been quite clear if not with my words, with my actions at least." Geralt let out an airy laugh and you followed suit, feeling a little more relieved. 

Then the room fell into silence. It wasn't an awkward or uncomfortable one, but a peaceful one. You got lost in Geralt's eyes, admiring the yellow glow that was much softer now, though just as captivating. The candlelight reflected in them in a special way, highlighting their unique beauty. You could stare at them for hours if it weren't for the tiredness that was slowly beginning to take hold of you. 

You didn't realize you had closed your eyes until you felt Geralt move beside you. You stopped feeling the weight of his body on the bed, so you opened your eyes immediately. Your hand flew to his arm, fingers closing around his wrist. "Please don't go," you begged as you saw that he had sat up in bed. "I want you to stay with me tonight."

Geralt smiled, the corners of his lip curving slightly upward as he reached out with his free arm to grab the blanket that had been left forgotten at the foot of the bed. His eyes lowered to your hand and his expression turned hard as he noticed the ligature marks on your skin. He hated to know the horrible treatment that someone as delicate and beautiful as you had to go through at the hands of those bandits. Even though he had rescued you before something even worse happened to you, as he looked at the marks on your wrists he feared he had not been quick enough.

Noticing the change in his expression, your eyes followed Geralt's gaze with curiosity. You felt embarrassed when you realized what he was looking at with such intensity and released his grip on his arm, seeking to hide your injured wrist. But he didn't let you. Geralt intertwined his fingers with yours and brought your hand to his lips. His eyes didn't break contact with you as he scattered delicate kisses over the irritated area of your wrist, showing you that you had nothing to be ashamed of with him.

"I'm not going anywhere if you don't want me to, my princess. I'm here to serve you tonight." Geralt said as he lay down next to you once again, covering you both with the blanket.

You took advantage of his words and his desire to please you by curling up against him, resting your head on his chest. Geralt wrapped his strong arms around you, pulling you even tighter against his body as he let his fingers trace invisible patterns on your skin. It was extremely relaxing, his gentle touch and the warmth of his body enveloping you was exactly what your tired mind needed to rest. All the fear, the terrifying memories of your attackers and the feeling of danger completely disappeared as he held you in his arms. 

"Good, because I feel safer when I'm in your arms." You mumbled as you closed your eyes, feeling sleep slowly overcome you.

It was hard to say goodbye to Geralt when the time came for him to leave. He had only stayed at the castle for a couple of days at your father's insistence, but that had been more than enough for you to grow fond of him. He was not a very talkative person, but that only made your conversations more interesting. He was intriguing, a closed book that only opened with the pronunciation of the right words. You had fun unraveling some of his history, hearing about his adventures and the monsters he had faced. He was definitely the most interesting man you had ever met - far more interesting and noble than most of the men who were competing for your hand in marriage. And now you had to see him go.

You always knew that your days were numbered, that Geralt would eventually leave and you would have to go back to reality. You thought you could do it, enjoy his company and the illusion of freedom you had created with him and then say goodbye as if nothing happened, but you would be lying if you said you weren't a little sad about his departure. Especially because you didn't know if you would ever see him again. Maybe on your wedding day, if you invited Jaskier to play at the festivities he would bring him as security again. Or perhaps, if the kingdom was haunted by some evil creature he would find his way back to you. But nothing was certain and that made you feel quite sad.

"I guess this is our goodbye." You watched Geralt settle his horse's saddle, tucking away his swords and clutching his bag as he prepared to leave. You tried to hide the grimace of sadness that wanted to form on your face, but the disappointment in your voice betrayed you. "I'll never see you again, will I?"

Geralt stopped what he was doing to look you in the eyes. You could have sworn you saw a glint of sadness in the golden fire of his irises, though it disappeared as he blinked. "It'll probably be a while, yeah." He sighed. "But nothing is set in stone. Maybe the search for a job will bring me back down these roads."

You smiled. Even moments before he left, he was still making an effort to make you feel good. "I'd like that." You took a couple of steps closer to him, taking his hand in yours to feel his skin against yours one last time. "The gates of this castle will always be open to you, Geralt of Rivia. And as long as I am alive, you will always find safe passage through these lands."

"Thank you, your highness. It is an honor." He bowed slightly even though he knew it was not necessary. Formalities had been forgotten between you since your night together. Then, he took your hand and brought it to his mouth. His lips caressed your skin gently, planting a soft kiss of farewell. "Until we meet again."

Geralt of Rivia was not known for working for free. Like all witchers, he made a living using the skills that had been instilled in him, killing monsters for a price and ridding the continent of evil beings. It was a noble cause, a tough job that someone had to do to ensure the welfare of the population. But that was all it was, just a job. He had learned the hard way that he was no hero or knight in shining armor. People didn't see him that way anyway, so it was stupid of him to try to be something he was not. His skills were not to be wasted on saving helpless women on the side of the road or on charity work, that much was clear to him. The people he saved were not going to give him recognition. They were not going to shower him with gifts and sing songs about his heroic deeds as they did with knights returning from battle because he was not a hero. People tended to see witchers as mutated freaks, but they recognized that, from time to time, they had a use for them. So he —and all of his kind— had to make sure to charge well for his services since that was the only thing people were willing to give him in return for his efforts. So Geralt did not work for free.

That's why when the residents of a small town he was passing through approached him for help he had to turn them down. They were troubled by disappearances and strange, brutal deaths that they could not explain. Some swore they saw a creature prowling in the night, growling and howling as it searched for its next victim, but no one knew what it was. However, the small town of farmers and craftsmen was not going through a good time financially speaking. A combination of bad weather and a plague had ruined the crops, so they didn't have much money to spend.

“If you want gold you should go talk to Lord Veldren, he's taking from us what little we have,” was the answer Geralt was usually given when the subject of payment came up in conversation. It was nothing he had not heard before, nobles who did not tighten the pockets of their people were few. But there was a pain in the eyes of the villagers, an anger in their voices as they spoke, that caught Geralt's attention. He wondered what kind of things this Lord Veldren would do to evoke such a reaction in the people.

There was one particular family of farmers that caught his attention. A weeping woman begged for the life of her eldest son who had been taken by the beast. According to her tales, the people, tired of being harassed and intimidated by the creature, organized to do the work that their Lord refused to do. The bravest and most skilled men of all the families went out to hunt it under the light of the full moon and that was the last time they were seen alive. Parts of the remains were still turning up around the village and discovered lost among the crops, although damaged beyond recognition. Many of the families did not have a body to bury and that was part of the reason they were all so shaken. They had lost husbands, sons, friends and protectors that night and it had all been for nothing.

The woman wept in the arms of her husband who did his best to contain her, but even he was unable to hide the sadness that overwhelmed him. There was something in her grief that struck a chord deep inside Geralt. He couldn't explain why, but he didn't feel right going through town and leaving them behind with their suffering. So, as they had no money to pay for his services, he took the villagers' concerns directly to Lord Veldren. They had told him that he was aware of the problem, but had no desire to do anything about it. But maybe things would be different now that Geralt was there. Maybe the Lord's whole problem was that he didn't want to get his hands dirty and would rather let his people die than risk his own skin. But now that the witcher was there to do his dirty work for him maybe his predisposition would be different.

No one in the village had much faith that it would work, but they showed Geralt how to get to him. Some even walked with him, taking advantage of the moment to tell him as much detail as they could about the danger they were in. Some of their stories the witcher could attribute to the collective panic that had taken hold of the town since some of them were things that he, in all his years of experience, had never heard of. But others helped him compile a list of possible responsible creatures, which grew smaller and smaller with each story he heard.

When he reached his destination, Geralt wished he had listened to the villagers' warnings. He knew his share of rude and unwise nobles, but none compared to Lord Veldren. He barely looked at him for the entirety of their meeting —which was not long— as if to lay eyes on him was a privilege the witcher did not deserve. Nor did he let him speak for long, barely getting as far as presenting the problem before Lord Veldren was shooing him away with an expression of disinterest on his face.

“It's interesting that you're the one presenting the problem,” he said in an accusatory tone when Geralt insisted on the danger to the villagers. “You're a witcher who kills beasts for a living. All you want is to fill your pockets with MY riches.”

“You, my Lord, surely must know that this problem has existed long before I passed through your lands.” Geralt spat through gritted teeth, clinging to what little thread of patience he had left. “You must have noticed that your people are dying at an alarmingly rapid rate.”

“There have been pests affecting the crops, probably bringing disease. It's being taken care of, not that I owe you any kind of explanation.” The disdain in Veldren's voice was evident which made Geralt's blood boil.

“It's a werewolf. And it's not going to stop until someone makes it stop. If you don't do something, your people will keep dying.”

“Why don't you let me worry about my people, witcher. You go find some other fool to steal their riches from. My people are fine.”

“That's not what the corpses piling up next to the dead crops say.”

“There are always more people. Nothing is lost that can't be replaced. Now you get out of here and don't come back or you'll regret the consequences.”

Geralt didn't stay to argue with Lord Veldren for another second, he knew it was a waste of time. He was not going to change his mind and was willing to let his people die just so he wouldn't have to back down. However, Geralt had changed his mind after their short conversation. The moment he turned around he knew he would return to the village to help the farmers free of charge. Not only because it was the right thing to do, but also because he knew that it would piss Veldren off more than anything. Geralt was not afraid of retaliation. He had no issue with avoiding that town in the future should he be banished.  He liked to take the long way around anyway.

Geralt stumbled into the modest hut of the family of the farmer whose eldest son had died trying to protect his people. They had offered to give him food and shelter while he prepared for the fight with the beast, and a place to rest after the task was complete. So once he was sure the monster was dead, he set out on his way back to their farm.

The older woman ran to him when she saw his condition. He was bloody and beaten. The beast had put up a good fight, but had ultimately failed to withstand the courage of the witcher and his silver sword. However, it had left Geralt with a fair amount of wounds, nothing that wouldn't heal with some rest, but serious enough to scare the poor woman as she saw him come through the door. She and one of her sons helped him sit up, while her husband, at her request, went to get some water —both for him to drink and to clean his wounds.

“It's done.” Geralt said as he finally allowed himself to relax.

The woman let out an exclamation of relief, passing him a glass of water as she mumbled something to herself. He couldn't catch it all, but from what he could make out she was speaking to her son's spirit, asking him to be at peace now that his family was safe. It was then that Geralt remembered the discovery he had made in his search for the beast. With some pain he brought his hand to his neck and tugged at one of the two chains around his neck. He took the woman's hand before she could move away from him and placed the object he knew belonged to her son in her palm. The woman looked at him in confusion until her eyes lowered to her hand and met the medallion resting in it.

“I believe this belongs to you.” Geralt spoke in a soft tone as he saw the tears beginning to roll down the woman's cheeks. He had found the medallion among bloody and rotting remains and knew immediately that he was in front of what was left of the son of the couple because his father wore the same necklace around his neck.

In tears the woman thanked him, repeating the words over and over again as she clutched the chain in her hand and held it to her chest at the level of her heart. She hugged her husband, who held her close and repeated the same praises to the witcher. Since they had no body to bury, retrieving such a significant object from their son was the next best thing to finding some sort of closure. It was something of his to remember him by and honor him for his bravery. It put an end to any doubt fueled by hope and allowed them to move on with their lives.

“I don't know how we can ever repay you.” The man spoke with tears in his eyes.

“I don't need anything. The shelter and food you provided me so far is payment enough.”

“You have given us too much, more than we could ask for. I cannot let this debt go unpaid.” The man insisted, his prideful side coming out. “We are not a family of great wealth, but we have honor. Integrity and the value of our word is all we have. I cannot offer you gold, but I can give you the hand of my only daughter in marriage.”

Geralt's eyes shot upward, momentarily forgetting the leg wound he was studying to look the farmer in the eye. “I didn't do this to get something in return. You don't have to offer me anything.”

“Please, witcher, I'm afraid I must insist. I could not go through life knowing that I owe such a great debt. You have not only saved my family, you have avenged my son's death and brought him home. I cannot allow you to leave this house empty-handed.”

“I assure you that our daughter is well educated in the arts of being a homemaker.” The woman interjected, wiping away tears with the back of her hand. “She has a perfect understanding of how to build and care for a home and a husband. She's been helping me since I was a little girl in preparation for this moment.”

Geralt didn't know how to explain to the sweet couple that he wasn't looking for a wife. Witchers were destined to live solitary lives. Their life mission was not compatible with a family. They had been strategically designed not to be able to leave offspring and no woman would want to be with such a man. The only family they had were the fellow witchers, with whom they met every winter to rest, replenish elixirs and exchange stories of the road. They led dangerous and transient lives, plagued by monsters and uncertainty. There was no place for love or relationships, much less with human women that were not trained in the combat of evil.

“I'm sure that's the case,” Geralt cleared his throat as he searched for the right words to explain the reason for his rejection. “But I'm afraid my life is not compatible with married life.”

“Please, if you won't take her it's only a matter of time until Lord Veldren does.” The woman insisted, desperation evident in her voice. “I know that may sound like a good thing to many people, but not to us. He is an evil man and I would rather my family perish than have to give my daughter to him.”

“I–”

“I can be of service to you.” The sound of a soft, sweet voice echoed in the distance. Geralt followed it, and it was then that his eyes collided with the figure of a young woman emerging from the stairs.

The first thing Geralt noticed, besides your beauty, was the resemblance you bore to your mother. Seeing the two of you side by side was like holding a mirror up to the past. Your features, although modified by the passage of time in the case of your mother, were almost the same. You had the same cheekbones and the same smile, although you differed in one aspect: your eyes. Although they were sweet like your mother's, they were charged with a bravery and ferocity that the older woman did not have. You held his gaze at all times, holding your head high in a proud manner. Your attitude caught Geralt's attention immediately since you were not at all what he expected. He had heard the family speak of you from time to time, but the image he had created in his mind about you from such tales was nothing like the person who was staring back at him at that very moment.

“I have spent most of my days accompanying the village healer, so I can heal your wounds after your battles.” You spoke once again. The politeness in your voice and the smoothness of your movements contradicted the fire in your eyes, which only added to Geralt's curiosity. “If you don't mind, I could show you my skills right now so you can see that I'm not lying.”

Geralt remained silent, but motioned for you to proceed. You walked towards him with a firm step, clutching in your hands the leather bag where you kept ointments, herbs and other medicinal items. You settled on a chair in front of him and after receiving his consent once again, you very carefully  examined some of the cuts he had on his arms and face. It was nothing too serious, they just needed a cleaning and perhaps the help of some ointments to treat the irritated skin. Only one cut on his shoulder seemed to need stitches and maybe one on his leg as well. It was nothing you hadn't already dealt with, so you would have no problem treating it and demonstrating your skills.

You asked your family for some space to work and they kindly left you the room to be alone with Geralt. Only then you began to clean his wounds, carefully wiping his skin with a wet cloth to remove the blood and dirt from the irritated areas. He watched you work in silence, admiring you with a puzzled expression. You intrigued him in a way that no human had done for a long time. He was waiting patiently for the moment when you decided to talk to him and slowly reveal a little more about yourself so he could understand what it was about you that he found so intriguing.

“You don't have to do this.” Geralt broke the silence after a few minutes of waiting to hear your voice. “It'll probably be healed by morning.”

“The witcher genes, I know... but a little help can't hurt, right?” You gave him a smile and when you looked up to meet his gaze, he noticed that the fire in your eyes had softened, mixed with a hint of sweetness.

“You don't have to prove anything to me. I don't need any payment for my work.”

“My father is a very proud man, Geralt. He will not be comfortable letting you go without payment for your services.”

“And I will not be comfortable dragging a young woman like you into the life of a witcher.” He placed his hand over yours to force you to stop your actions and draw your attention to his face. Your hand was trapped between his leg and the touch of his calloused fingers. “Life on the road is not one for a beautiful lady such as you. And I am not a man worthy of marriage.”

Geralt's voice was soft as he spoke, he wanted to make sure he didn't hurt you with his rejection. There was nothing wrong with you and he was sure that someday you would find a good man worthy of your hand. But he was not that man. He was not husband material and his life was not compatible with marriage. Perhaps if things had been different and Vesemir had not found him he could have had a taste of that life. But the mission to eradicate the monsters on the continent had been entrusted to him and he couldn't turn it down for a woman, no matter how much he wanted to.

“You must forgive me,” you muttered, feeling small under the witcher's intense gaze. You released your hand from his grip and hurried to grab the items needed to close the wound on his leg. “I was the one who put that idea in my father's mind. I figured it was an easy way out...not many men would refuse such a payment, but I guess I was wrong.” You gave him a shy smile before lowering your gaze to his leg once more to begin stitching the skin together with thread and needle. He didn't even flinch as the metal pierced him and you wondered how high was the level of pain tolerance of people like him.

“Lord Veldren, huh?” You knew from the tone he used when he spoke that Geralt understood the predicament you were in.

“He's quite a character, isn't he?” you let out a frustrated sigh. “He's made his interest in me pretty clear, but he knows it's not reciprocated, so he's been harassing my family to make sure he gets what he wants. Times are tough and he's not making it any easier. He's been creating ridiculous rules to raise taxes, chasing my brothers around town, sending me letters and gifts in hopes of winning me over... He's trying to back us into a corner. It is only a matter of time until we are forced to leave our lands or... I am forced to accept his proposal.”

After securing the last stitch, you spread some of the antibacterial ointment the village healer had taught you to prepare on the skin of his thigh. Your movements were slow and gentle even though you were pretty sure that Geralt wouldn't feel much pain if it were different. And once that wound was healed, you then moved over to the cut on his shoulder. You drew your chair a little closer to him so that you could reach the area more comfortably, and asked his permission to pull his shirt up. You felt your face heat up as you watched his fingers work on the buttons to expose his chest and allow you to work more comfortably. You tried to focus your gaze on his wound and only his wound, although you were a little distracted by counting the scars that adorned the skin of his chest.

“Why do you think he's so interested in you?” The question escaped Geralt's lips before he could stop himself. It was in no way a comment on you as a person. Your beauty alone was reason enough to justify any man's interest in taking your hand. But he had to admit that it was unusual for a man of nobility to seek to court a farm girl, much less someone like Lord Veldren. He was someone who craved power and wealth, so it would make much more sense for him to seek to marry someone of his own social standing.

“Because he is insecure and he loves nothing more than making people feel small to aggrandize his figure.” You said as if it were obvious, letting out a dry chuckle as your fingers delicately traced the irritated skin of the witcher's shoulder.

Geralt couldn't help but agree with you. The few minutes he shared with Lord Veldren were enough to recognize that his ego was probably bigger than his riches.

“He inherited the title unexpectedly.” You continued to explain as you carefully secured the first stitch over the wound. Geralt did not utter a single complaint, but you still treated him with the tenderness you would treat any normal person. Just because he was used to blood and pain didn't mean he didn't deserve a soft, tender touch now and then. Especially after he had risked his life to save yours and that of your entire village. And as you worked you explained to him what you knew about Lord Veldren's history.

He had only come to the village after a long search for extended family members of Lord Eldrake, who perished with his son in a tragic hunting accident. He was a distant cousin who lived far away not only physically, but also metaphorically. Veldren had grown up far removed from the riches and customs of the nobility, which showed in the way he imposed his power. He was not wise or cultured, he did not have good manners or a proper grasp of protocols. He only cared about himself, his new found power, and increasing his wealth with no regard for who he hurt along the way. Since he had arrived he had done nothing but squeeze every coin he could from the people, leaving them with just enough to survive. And his hand did not tremble when it came to punishing those who voiced their complaints.

Lord Veldren was a horrible man who was not prepared to fill the role that had fallen into his hands in a stroke of luck. And for you there laid the reason for his interest in you. Marrying into a noble family would mean exposing his incompetence. For now, as things stood, he was completely on his own to do and dispose as he wished, but marrying a noblewoman would mean being challenged. And his ego would not be able to tolerate such a thing. You, on the other hand, were someone he could easily manipulate to please. He held your family's future in his hands and he knew very well that you knew it. He was using them to get to you and it was clear that he would continue to do so to keep you under his control. Lord Veldren was obsessed with you not because of your beauty or your ability to maintain a home —as he often said in his letters— but because you did not present a threat to his ego.

“I know marrying a nobleman coming from a peasant family sounds like a dream come true, but it's not for me.” You muttered sadly as you finished bandaging the witcher's wound. “I always dreamed of marrying for love... but now I don't think that's possible. That's why I thought you were a good candidate. You are honorable and protective, he wouldn't come after you. You could take me away from here or be enough of a threat to force Lord Veldren to leave me alone.”

Geralt could feel your sadness just by looking into your eyes. A light shone in your eyes at the mention of love, the hope of having the life you wanted still alive somewhere in you. However, he had to watch it die quickly, crushed by the devastating reality in which you lived. It was a sad thing to see, but there was nothing he could do to help you. With a bit of luck on your side maybe he could get Lord Veldren to forget about you, but that was far from being the solution to the problem. You would still be trapped in a life you didn't want, married to someone you didn't love. Accepting your hand in marriage as payment for his services would only change the face of your misfortune. He could save your family, but he would become the executioner condemning you to a future of unhappiness. And he was not willing to be such a thing. It was none of his business whether or not to save the lives of maidens who were being threatened by monsters not born of magic. It never ended well and Geralt had no doubt that this would be no exception. Married or unmarried, happy or unhappy, it shouldn't matter to him because he had no reason to interfere.

“Marrying me wouldn't change things. You would only be tying yourself to a different kind of miserable future with a man you don't love. There is still time, you can still find love.”

The last thing Geralt wanted was to hurt you with his rejection. You and your family had been through a lot and he didn't want you to worry thinking that there was something wrong with you that led him to refuse such payment for his services. He knew that you would make an excellent wife someday and that was exactly why he could not take your hand. You deserved to marry for love, as you so desperately wanted, and live a good life with a man who deserved you. And unfortunately he was not that man.

“I'd rather it be you than him.” You looked at him with wide eyes full of despair. “My time is up. You are my last chance to escape him.”

“You must understand that my life is no life for a married man.” Geralt reached for your hand. He took it between his own, his thumb caressing your smooth skin with small circular motions in the hope that it would help soften the blow of his rejection. Your eyes focused on his grip for a moment, admiring the way his hands completely enveloped yours making you feel small and insignificant next to him. Looking up you met a pair of amber eyes that looked at you full of softness in them. “I live on the road, traveling from place to place in search of dangerous beasts. That's no place for a sweet woman like you.”

“I am not a porcelain doll that must be carefully cared for to keep from shattering. I can travel with you. I have traveled many times in my life, even accompanied my brothers on hunting trips. I know how to handle myself in the wilderness.”

“Being a witcher is not like hunting a deer. It's dangerous, especially for untrained humans. You can get seriously hurt if you travel with me.”

“Then you can marry me and go on with your journey!” you raised your voice, feeling frustrated with Geralt's excuses. You pulled your hand away from his suddenly, putting distance between the two of you.

He didn't understand. How could he? He had nothing to fear. He was a fierce witcher who had faced who knows how many beasts in his life and emerged victorious. He would never understand the guilt that ate at you as you watched your family struggling to make ends meet knowing it was your fault. He would never understand the fear of being trapped in a future without love or hope, forced to be the object of desire of a cruel and evil man. Geralt was strong and powerful to the point that you doubted he had ever felt small and helpless, so of course he would not be able to understand your despair.

“You would not have to see me again if you so desired. You could leave right after the ceremony and never come back if that's what you wanted, I don't care. All I need is a ring on my finger that will keep Veldren away from me and my family.”

“And you'll be condemned to live married to a ghost?”

“If that's what it takes! I'm willing to live a life of solitude if it means my family is safe... it beats being the object of desire of the most disgusting man I've ever met.”

From the look Geralt gave you, you know that he feels sorry for you. You can read in his eyes how bad he feels for you, how sad he finds your words and even the relief he feels knowing that he will never be subjected to a similar situation. And you hated it almost as much as you hated having to cry and beg him to agree to marry you. It was embarrassing and humiliating, but it was your last resort. Marrying Geralt was the best possible way out of your predicament. If he didn't want to share his life with you he could easily leave and not come back and it still wouldn't be suspicious given what he did for a living. You would have to stage things from time to time to keep up appearances over time, but even so you doubted that Veldren would dare to challenge someone with Geralt's reputation. You'd be doomed to a life without love, but at least you'd be free.

“I know I'm asking a lot.” Your voice broke the silence that fell over the room. It was softer this time, a reflection of the effort you were making to quiet your frustrations. After all, it wasn't Geralt's fault that you were trapped in this situation and he had every right to refuse to accept your hand as payment. You hoped you could appeal to his kindness. “I just want you to think about it. You don't have to decide anything now. You can stay here for as long as you need to get back on your feet, we'll provide shelter and food no matter what you decide. It's the least we can do after all you've done for us. I just... You are my last hope to escape from him, so please think about it. Please know that I am willing to be a good wife and serve you in any way you see fit, or give you the freedom to move on with your life if you wish. Nothing would change for you as I understand from your words that you do not intend to marry in the near future, but you would be improving my life.”

Geralt remained silent watching you disappear up the stairs as he seriously considered your last words.

The more time Geralt spent with you and your family, the less confident he became in his decision. He initially intended to spend only a couple of days with you, just enough time for him and Roach to rest after the long and tumultuous journey they had made to get there. But the more time he spent at your home, the more difficult it became for him to leave you.

It was one thing to hear them talk about the hardships they were going through because of Lord Veldren, but it was very different to see it happen with his own eyes. In the short time that Geralt had been living with you the tax collector had passed by your home multiple times, always with a new complaint and a threat to go with it. There was no doubt that Veldren was the one behind it. They were, for the most part, empty threats designed to pressure them, but they were no less effective for that. They knew he wasn't really going to evict or imprison them because if he did it was game over. Ultimately, what Veldren wanted was not to make an example of your family, but to force you to give in to his demands. However, they were all well aware that it was only a matter of time before he got tired and decided to deliver on his threats. So they woke up every morning fearing that this was the day he would finally decide he had had enough and leave them in ruins over a mere whim.

Geralt tried to help them in any way he could. He had offered to help with the harvest and had even gone hunting a couple of times to save them from having to go to the market for food. However, they were a very proud family who were treating him as an honored guest so he was not allowed to do much. He found that the best way to contribute to them was to collect some favors from the people in town. Everyone talked about him as if he was a hero. They would greet him in the street and thank him for his work. They sought him out to hear his stories and composed songs about what he had done that night. Being the town hero, many people found that the best way to thank him for his bravery —since they had no coin to pay him— was to give him some of what he produced. In this way he was able to provide your family with a varied catalog of things ranging from fur coats to cattle for slaughter.

Geralt knew that what he was doing was wrong. He was getting too attached to your family, making things personal. He would be lying if he said his hatred for Veldren hadn't grown in the last few days. More than once he had thought of sneaking into his home to end his life and finish the suffering of your family and the whole town. But that was wrong. He was not supposed to intervene in mundane matters between humans. His mission was very simple: to eradicate evil beings born of magic. Human affairs —politics, war, even love— were not his concern.

He knew he had to leave before things got worse, but he didn't want to face what would come with his departure. He didn't want to face you and say goodbye forever because he was no longer completely sure that was the best option. In the last few days he had spent quite a bit of time with you. He noticed that you didn't leave the house much so he took advantage of the time to get to know you better. He thought it would help him stand firm in his decision, but it had done nothing but show him what a sweet and brave woman you were. A woman who didn't deserve to spend the rest of her life next to that disgusting man Veldren.

The words you had said to him that night always echoed in his mind before he fell asleep. The voice of reason told him that it was ridiculous to even consider the idea of taking your hand in marriage. Witchers were not meant to settle down and marry. Besides, accepting your proposal would, at best, condemn you to a life of misery —or an early death at worst. And yet, there was always this voice in the back of his mind. It wasn't powerful, but it would present itself just as he was about to fall asleep. It was the last thing he thought about at night and the first thing he remembered in the morning. That voice that said, “What if you tried? And one day, as he admired the way you groomed and cared for Roach in the barn, he seriously considered listening to that voice in his mind. And that's when he knew it was time to leave.

He decided to do it at night, after the family had gone to bed. It was not the honorable thing to do, but it was the only option that would allow him to get out of there without altering his life forever. Geralt was afraid to face you. He was afraid to look you in the eye and not be able to reject you. He was afraid to say goodbye and feel the weight of guilt increase with every step he took. Guilt for sealing your fate. Guilt for leaving you no choice but to surrender yourself to Lord Veldren's arms for the rest of your life. He kept telling himself that he was not to blame for any of it, that it was not his duty to intervene to fix anyone's life, but he believed it less and less with each passing day. So he gathered his things, took Roach from the stable and set off on his way out of town with the darkness of the night as his ally.

However, fate seemed to have other plans for him.

Geralt walked at a slow pace alongside Roach. The road leading out of town, which normally had people coming and going, was quiet. All that could be heard were Roach's footsteps in the dirt and the sound of the river flowing peacefully. It was a beautiful sight, the moonlight, the trees and flowers painted in the crystal reflection of the water creating a composition worthy of admiration. However, his eyes lost interest in such a beautiful sight when they came across the figure of a woman dipping her feet in the riverbank. She was humming under her breath, the sound traveling to his ears on the night breeze. He knew then that it was not just any young woman there, but the one he was trying to avoid.

He found it strange that you were there alone. It was late and the last he had heard you say was that you were retiring to rest. He hadn't heard you sneaking out of the house and neither did he understand why you were doing it. In the time Geralt had spent there, he noticed that you didn't get out of the house much, not even to stroll through the market like most of the women seemed to do in this town. You spent your time tending the crops and caring for the few animals they had. He had assumed that it was because you enjoyed the warmth of your home, but now he was beginning to doubt it. You looked so free and happy as you walked along the riverbank, the ruffles on your dress blowing in the wind, the fabric clinging to your body. Amused laughter escaped your lips every time the water made contact with your skin, splashing with joy and wetting the hem of your dress.

The woman who stood before him was totally different from the one Geralt knew. He had never seen you like this, so... free and full of life. You looked almost ethereal dancing in the moonlight, accompanied by the chirping of crickets and the splashing of water beneath your feet. A peak of glowing light that pulled him to you like flames to moths. Roach protested when he went out of his way to approach you, but Geralt ignored her. He pulled on the reins lightly to force the horse to move and knotted them in a tree to make sure she didn't escape.

“What are you doing out here alone?”

Geralt's voice startled you. You turned your head to look at him, feeling embarrassed at being caught acting foolish thinking you were alone. There was no mockery in his expression, but your cheeks warmed anyway. What you did notice in his gaze was a hint of guilt that you only understood when you saw Roach waiting for him a couple of feet away.

“You're leaving...” You muttered with a bit of sadness in your voice. He was sneaking away, under the darkness of the night and without saying goodbye to anyone. And that could only mean one thing: he was rejecting your father's offer.

“You shouldn't be here alone so late.” Geralt decided to ignore you since it was the easiest thing to do. He wasn't proud of what he was doing, but he knew it was for the best.

“This is honestly safer than going out in the daytime.” You shrugged, moving away from the water to sit on the shore. You buried your wet feet in the dirt, feeling the small grains slipping through your toes as you wiggled them. “I used to love visiting the market with my mother and playing with the children in the town square... but I can't do that anymore without being watched by Veldren's men... sometimes even he shows up himself... So I stopped going. I focused on my home, on helping my family as much as I could... And I slowly stopped going out, stopped socializing with people other than my immediate neighbors. I thought that maybe if he stopped seeing me so often he would get bored of me and focus his attention on another young girl... but now I'm not so sure that's going to happen.”

You wrapped your arms around your knees, making yourself small as you thought of all you had lost because of that man. And you wondered how much more you had to lose. Your freedom and happiness didn't seem to be enough. Your family and your land were still on the line, and if you ended up accepting his proposal, so was your ability to decide about your own future. It wasn't fair.

Geralt looked down at you for a moment, admiring the way the moonlight reflected on your face. It added a layer of sadness to your expression, a vulnerability he hadn't seen in you before. You looked like a doll made of porcelain, fragile and beautiful, in need of care and protection. He felt the need to hold you, but restrained himself. Instead, he sat by your side offering you a friendly ear to listen to your misfortunes.

“Night is the only time I can be free. The moon is my only friend, the faithful confidant of all my secrets.” You went on, your eyes lost in the movement of the water. “I can escape the four-walled prison and wander around the village, enjoy the scenery and the fresh air without being watched and having every step I take reported back to him.” There was poison in your voice at the mention of Lord Veldren and you hadn't even said his name. “I suppose I have you to thank for that too... The night was no longer safe, but you gave me back my freedom by slaying that beast.”

You turned to look at him and Geralt noticed the tears pooling in your eyes. They glistened under the moonlight just like the water of the lake reflected it, highlighting the beautiful color of your eyes. They threatened to escape, but out of sheer determination you were able to hold them in place. You were not going to let the last image he had of you be of your crying face. You didn't want to cause him to feel sorry for you. You didn't want him to think it was a trick to get him to stay. He had done enough for you and your family, you couldn't ask him for anything more.

“I wish you the best of luck in your life, Geralt, and I apologize for any inconvenience I may have caused you... You must leave this place knowing that you helped a lot of people, myself included.” You gave him a smile, a subtle way of letting him know you agreed with his decision. “Although I'm not going to lie to you, I would like to see you again...only perhaps under less tragic circumstances.”

“I'm afraid tragic circumstances are my specialty.” The corner of his lips curved slightly into a sad smile, his gaze momentarily lost, and you wondered what thoughts might be going through his head. “But I'd like to make my way back here someday.”

“You will always be welcome in this town...and you will always have a place to stay. My family and I aren't going anywhere.”

You reached out a hand toward Geralt, daring to brush back a lock of hair that had fallen over his face and obstructed your view of his eyes. You had always found the yellowish hue in them mesmerizing, but somehow they looked even more beautiful under the moonlight. Perhaps it was the lack of light, but you felt they shone with a different intensity. It was like looking directly into the sun, beautiful but painful.

You let your fingers run down his temple until they reached his cheek, gently caressing one of the cuts you had helped him heal. It was nothing more than a line, just a shade lighter than the color of his skin, almost imperceptible to anyone who didn't know it was there, but you still felt it under your fingertips. You were going to miss him. You had grown accustomed to his presence in your home and you would be lying if you said you didn't like what you had learned about him. He was nothing like what people used to say about witchers, maybe a little quiet and grumpy, yes, but he was a noble and kind hearted man. He deserved to have a good life and you hoped he would find it beyond the borders of your town.

In that simple exchange of glances Geralt was able to read in your eyes the true meaning of your words. He saw the resignation and sadness hidden behind them, the courage and strength that he had noticed the first time he saw you. He understood then that you were willing to do anything to protect your family and that you were not going to let anyone or anything break you. It was inspiring, but tragic. The need to protect you grew stronger inside him, every fiber of his being asking him to stop you.

When you removed your hand from his face, Geralt met it halfway, holding it back so you couldn't move it too far away. Your gaze lowered, eyebrows slightly furrowed as you admired his fingers intertwined with yours. When your eyes met the shine of his again, you noticed that he had leaned toward you. There was something in his eyes that you couldn't quite decipher, but that captivated you nevertheless. And suddenly, without even realizing what you were doing, you began to lean towards him as well.

It felt like you were in a trance, being pulled towards Geralt by some kind of magic hidden in his eyes. The air caught in your throat as you felt his nose brush against yours. Your heart raced as his gaze lowered to your mouth, lips parting instinctively, responding to his proximity. Geralt's half-open eyes met yours once again, looking at you with a clear question written in them. And you answered it the only way you could while trapped under that mesmerizing amber glow, pressing your lips against his.

It was a soft but quick kiss. Your lips barely pressed against Geralt's, moving with both hesitation and curiosity to explore the taste of his mouth. You were being cautious, like when you tested the temperature of the water in the lake with your fingers before diving in. You were dipping your toes into the turbulent ocean of uncertainty that was Geralt to see how far you could go.

You pulled away from him after a few seconds, feeling embarrassed by your boldness and how much you were enjoying feeling the caress of his lips on yours. However, Geralt didn't let you pull away too far. His hand came up to your jaw, gripping the side of your face gently to hold you in place. His calloused fingers awakened a warm tingling under your skin, managing to slightly accelerate your heartbeat. His breath mingled with yours and his eyes looked at you with a softness you hadn't noticed in them before.

Geralt could feel the change in your breathing and sense the quickening of your heart in the veins of your neck filled with anticipation. He tried to resist your charms, but you looked at him with pleading eyes. Your tongue peeked between your parted lips, wetting your lower lip in an act of clear temptation. And he understood then that he was not as strong as he thought he was. He gave in to your silent pleas, joining his lips with yours again, though this time in a kiss charged with trust and desperation.

And in that moment, joined only by the moonlight and the chirping of crickets in the night, you both felt a spark. A connection with each other that you had never experienced before with another person. Your lips moved desperately, your hands clung to any part of exposed skin you could touch without crossing a line. You tangled your fingers in Geralt's long white hair, losing yourself in the warmth of his body. His right hand found its place on your cheek, using the advantage to move your head in the direction required to deepen the kiss. His other hand clung to your back, pressing you against his body until there was no more space separating the two of you.

You moaned as he sucked on your lower lip and the sound, though music to Geralt's ears, alerted him to what you were doing. He carefully pulled away from you, making a great effort to ignore your protests.

“We can't do this,” he whispered between gasps. “Not this way.”

“Yes we can...there's no one around to judge us. No one has to know.” You pushed your lips against Geralt's once more and he gave in for a moment before pulling away again. This time instead of whining you simply turned your attention to his neck, planting soft kisses down the column of his throat. If he wasn't going to make you his wife, he could at least treat you to a night of intimacy. That way at least you could choose the first man to give your body to.

“We should wait... for the wedding night.”

You stopped your actions as soon as you managed to process his words. Your head jumped up to look into his eyes, searching his expression for confirmation that you had heard correctly.

“That means...?”

“Yes,” he nodded. “And we're going to do this right.”

Your eyes lit up with joy and hope, looking at Geralt with the admiration with which one looks at a knight returning after winning a great battle. You jumped into his arms, hugging him tightly. You didn't know if he realized it, but he had just saved your life. And no matter how things turned out after your wedding, you would always be grateful to him for that.

The news was announced to your parents first thing in the morning and from that point on, preparations for the wedding didn't stop. It wasn't going to be a big event, just a ceremony with the close family to formalize the union. And you wanted it to be as quick as possible, not only to avoid delaying Geralt's departure for longer, but also because rumors of his heroic deeds had reached Lord Veldren's ears and you knew that couldn't be a good thing. The sooner you were married, the better it would be for everyone.

Your mother took on the responsibility of arranging everything, sending your father and brothers to get food and fabrics and the paperwork as well as the clergy's approval to perform the ceremony. And when she wasn't tidying the house or preparing floral arrangements, she took time to talk to you about marriage and what you could expect after the papers were signed. She spoke from her own experience and it was beautiful to see her eyes sparkle as she recalled her past, the happiness of the first moments of her marriage with your father and the arrival of her children into her life. But, as nice as it sounded, you weren't sure that was your destiny.

“You shouldn't get your hopes up so high, mother.” You sighed, watching her brush and fix your hair through the reflection of the mirror you were sitting in front of. In addition to arranging the ceremony, your mother had taken on the responsibility of helping you get ready for your big day. “I don't think that's the future that awaits me when I marry Geralt. He's just doing it as a favor.”

“You don't know that, honey. True love may still be in your destiny... You wouldn't be the first woman to find it long after the wedding day.” She smiled at you in the mirror before returning her attention to your hair, carefully braiding a strand.

“I don't even know if he'll stay after the deed is done... But that's okay, the whole point of this was to get Lord Veldren off our backs and marrying Geralt can do that, so I'm happy.”

“He can't leave after the ceremony, the marriage must be consummated.”

“Mother!” you let out a high-pitched whine, feeling blood pooling in your cheeks.

“I'm sorry, darling, but you are hours away from becoming a married woman, these are things I need to talk to you about.”

“I'd rather you didn't.”

“Your father and I made arrangements to visit your aunt across town for a few days. We'll leave after the ceremony so you two will have time to be alone and... figure out how to move forward. It's important, honey, that you take some time to think about the kind of woman you want to be, the kind of wife you want to be... and show him that he can find support in you, someone to grow together with. That's what a wife should be...what a marriage should be, a safe place you build as a couple. Your safe place.”

Your mother's eyes filled with tears and you immediately rose from your seat to hug her. You cherished every word, every piece of advice and word of encouragement she gave you and had given you in the last few days. Seeing her so emotional brought tears to your eyes as well, and you wanted nothing more than to be able to show her that she had taught you well. You wanted to make her proud of you, to build a marriage that would show everyone who knew you how well she had raised you, but you weren't sure you could do it.

Maybe under normal circumstances it wouldn't seem so far away. But there was nothing normal about the way you had arrived at this moment. You had thrown yourself into the arms of a kind stranger to escape the advances of a powerful but evil man. There was no love or deep connection between you and Geralt, only incompatible lives and mutual respect. There was a spark, the one you felt in your core when his lips touched yours, but you weren't sure it was enough to build a life with him. You supposed time would show you eventually.

“Thank you for everything, mother.” You mumbled through tears as you broke away from her embrace. “I don't know how the future will turn out, but I promise I will try my best every day to make you proud of me.”

“Oh, honey! I'm already proud of you.”

You hugged through sobs one more time until your mother called the moment over, pulling away from you as she wiped away your tears and scolded you for distracting her when you had so much to do. She proceeded to finish fixing your hair, braiding it into a nice half up half down hairstyle. You admired your reflection in the mirror, unable to believe that the woman looking back at you was you. You had never paid so much attention to how you looked so you didn't even know you had the ability to look so well presented.

You were so distracted by your appearance that you didn't notice that your mother had left your quarters until you felt the door close behind her upon her return. She was carrying in her hands a neatly folded piece of green fabric, which you soon discovered was a dress. But not just any dress, but the one she had worn the day she married your father. She handed it to you with tears in her eyes and helped you put it on while she told you how much she had waited for the moment to see you wearing it.

The dress was beautiful and fit you perfectly. The green fabric clung to your body, caressing your natural curves, all the way down to your hips where the skirt became full and flowy. Similarly, the sleeves flared out towards the lower half of your arm and the edges were adorned with golden thread embroidery that your grandmother had made herself for your parents' wedding. Your mother took it upon herself to add detail to the bodice, embroidering delicate flowers with the same thread.

“I always envisioned it this way,” your mother commented as you both admired your reflection in the mirror. “At the time we couldn't afford to add more detail. Your grandmother sewed everything herself to save us some money, but I always imagined something more. When you were born I knew I had to finish it, so that one day I could see it on your wedding day.”

“Mother, thank you! It's... it's beautiful!” And you really believed that. The dress was beautiful and the story and sentiment behind it made it even more special.

Looking in the mirror you noticed that you felt beautiful for the first time in your life. Not that you thought you were ugly before that moment, you just never paid much attention to such things. You admired the beauty of noble women when you were lucky enough to come across one in the market, but it was always like someone admiring a painting or a statue. You admired their elegance and the detail of their dresses. You were puzzled by the perfection of their skins and the strong but delicate scent of their perfumes. You appreciated the intricate beauty of their hairstyles and the grace of their walk. It was a beauty that almost didn't seem real. You thought that you were not capable of it, that such delicacy and femininity was unattainable for someone like you. But looking in the mirror at that moment, you felt for the first time like one of those women, beautiful and elegant.

“I know it's not as pretty as the dress you would be wearing if you were about to marry Lord Veldren, but I'm happy to be able to carry on the tradition. He probably would have given you a much more detailed and expensive gown, made of the finest fabrics to enhance your beauty... but then I could never have seen this finished beauty.” Your mother smiled, smoothing the fabric of the skirt to fit your body properly.

“I'm not so sure about that. Although I do think he wouldn't have let me wear it, I don't think it would be because he wanted to give me something better, but rather to use it as a tool of control and take away the power of making my own decisions on yet another thing in my life.”

“Maybe so, but you shouldn't think about that now. What matters is that you managed to get rid of him and we will be able to keep the tradition going. Hopefully someday you will be able to add something else to the dress and pass it on to your daughter on her wedding day.”

You smiled at your mother, but said nothing. You really doubted that would be possible given the person —and the circumstances— you were marrying, but you didn't have the heart to break it to your mother at that moment. There would be time for that, but right now you wanted to focus on the positive.

Your mother excused herself again, running downstairs to make sure everything was going according to plan. You were left alone with your thoughts once more, your mind full of questions about what the future held for you. You would be lying if you said you weren't nervous. Even though you and Geralt didn't share the love you imagined every time you fantasized about your wedding day, it was still quite a nerve-wracking situation. Maybe even more so.

Marrying for love meant getting to know the other person, knowing what they wanted for the future and being certain that you would both work together to make that shared desire come true. But you had none of that with Geralt. You were extremely grateful to him for the decision he had made, but you couldn't help but think that you had no idea what would happen after the ceremony was over. Everything had happened so quickly that you hadn't had time to talk about it. Yes, you had shared a meaningful kiss, but that didn't automatically negate the many reasons he had presented as an argument for not marrying you. At the end of the day, he was still a witcher with a bigger mission and purpose than you and you weren't sure how that was going to affect your marriage.

Would he stay with you and build a life together? Would he leave the next morning, never to return? Would he let you into his life or would he run off into the night without even saying goodbye as he had already tried to do? You were fine with any of those options, after all, they all fulfilled your true goal of getting Lord Veldren out of your life. But you would still like to know beforehand what his choice was going to be so you would know what to expect.

The ceremony was quick. There were no special guests or grand entertainments. It was an intimate event, witnessed only by your family and the officiating clergy. There were no special vows either, you and Geralt didn't know each other well enough to write down your feelings for each other and pronounce your vows of love in front of the witnesses present. But that didn't stop it from being emotional, both for you and your family. Your mother had gone to great lengths to decorate the garden for the ceremony, with colorful flowers and candles surrounding the area where it took place. The pinkish orange tones of the sunset sky added a magical touch to the moment, and while the circumstances of the wedding were not perfect, it was very close to what you had always imagined.

The ceremony was quick, more of a formality than a celebration of love, but you were still happy. The moment the union was official you and your family were free from Lord Veldren and his extortions. You were now married to a man very well trained in the art of combat, if he was smart —and you appealed to his cowardice and his need to feel superior— he would focus his attention on another young girl and finally stop tormenting you. And that was reason enough for you to rejoice and celebrate.

You were contemplating going out for a stroll around town hand in hand with your now husband so that rumors would slowly begin to circulate, when a knock at the door interrupted your thoughts. Your father went to answer it while you instinctively hid behind Geralt's imposing figure, peeking over his shoulder to decipher if there was danger on the other side of the wood.

You didn't quite hear the conversation that the stranger and your father seemed to be having, only mumbles. But that was enough to make out that it was one of Lord Veldren's men making demands. Only this time they didn't seem to be directed at your family.

“Where is the witcher? We know you are sheltering him here. Have him present himself immediately!” The man demanded in a firm, threatening tone, causing your gaze to rise to meet Geralt's.

“What is this about?” you heard your father say, clearing his throat to try to sound more intimidating.

“He is not welcome here. We have strict orders from Lord Veldren to escort him to the outskirts of town. If you hide him, we will take you as well.”

Geralt took a step forward, ready to face the men calling his name, but stopped when he felt your fingers close around his arm. He looked down at you and saw concern in your eyes. You were afraid of them, of those men, of their threats, of what Lord Veldren might do to you and your family. He had heard you say it on several occasions, but he had never seen it so explicitly on your face. He knew then that he had to act. His job as your husband was to watch over you and protect you from danger, to show you that you no longer had reason to fear these men. So he took your hand in his and brought it to his lips to place a soft kiss on the back of it as a way of reassuring you that everything would be all right. Then he approached the door and patted your father on the back to signal that he could leave. He was going to handle what was next.

Geralt took a couple of steps out of the threshold of the door to make sure that if things got out of control you and your family could be locked inside the house while he dealt with the problem. The two men Veldren had brought to capture him backed up with every step he took, trying to put as much distance as possible between them and the witcher. Geralt knew then that it was not going to be difficult to get rid of them. He towered over them intimidatingly, his muscular figure large enough to accommodate both men under his shadow. He saw the fear in their eyes and the regret of having left the horses behind to approach the gate.

Despite everything, the men tried to hold their place, and Geralt respected them a bit more for it. However, he did not give in to their demands and when they wanted to force him, he showed them without any trouble or effort the mistake they had made.

“Geralt!” you exclaimed from the doorway, alarmed to see the fight break out. But he quickly proved to you that your concern was in vain. Between blows he even had time to give you a calming look, silently reassuring you that everything was fine and you had nothing to worry about.

“Go inside!” he instructed before turning around and delivering a punch to the guard closest to him.

You didn't listen to him. You stood in place admiring from a distance the skill with which Geralt moved, the precision of his body position and how lethal his attacks were, even as you could tell he was holding back. It was an art, a complex dance that he had mastered to perfection. Those guards never stood a chance.

It wasn't long before the men were on the ground, panting and bloody, wondering what would become of them. But Geralt didn't want to kill them, he understood they were just following orders. His fight was not with them, but with the one who held their leashes. He was the reason they had come looking for him and the one to blame for the fear in your eyes every time you heard the knock on the door. He was the one he really had to fight. So Geralt made sure they heard his next words well.

“Tell Lord Veldren that I'm not going anywhere. If he wants to cast me out, he'll have to come himself to do it in person. If he is not willing to face me then he should leave me and my wife alone or next time it will be me knocking on his door.”

Hearing the protectiveness in his voice as he called you his wife made your heart pound. You weren't used to that, to belonging to someone in that way, but it was definitely something you could get used to. It felt nice having someone caring about you in that way, having someone willing to fight to protect you. You knew it wasn't much of an effort for someone like Geralt, but you also knew he didn't have to do any of it, which made you appreciate it even more.

You ran into Geralt's arms as the men scurried off to their horses, riding away from your home as fast as they could. “Thank you,” you whispered against his chest, wrapping your arms tightly around him.

It took Geralt a couple of seconds to reciprocate, slightly surprised by your show of affection. He wasn't used to humans —much less young ladies such as yourself— reacting positively when he demonstrated his combat skills. People usually had no problem paying him to solve their problems, but they were rarely able to accept the methods he employed to do so. Of course the fight there had not been brutal, but in the past he had earned negative looks for similar things, so your acceptance of his violence took him by surprise. But eventually Geralt relaxed and pulled you close against his body, placing a soft kiss on top of your head.

It wasn't long before you found yourself alone at home. Your family had left for your aunt's place just as your mother had told you and Geralt had disappeared. You were just finishing tidying up, washing glasses and dishes so it wouldn't pile up, when you saw him through the window. He had taken his horse out of the stable and was walking with the reins in his hand at a slow pace in the direction of the exit. And you watched him walk away with sadness in your heart, certain that you would never see him again.

You contemplated running after him, trying to stop him or asking him if he was planning to stop by again. But you regretted it at the last minute. You didn't want to push him any harder than you already had. He had married you because you asked him to and that was more than enough. You couldn't demand that he keep to the guidelines of a normal marriage when you knew very well that there was nothing normal about your arrangement. Geralt had kept his word, he had married you and he had made sure that Lord Veldren knew that you were already taken and that your family was under his protection. You could not ask more of him than that. You now had the freedom you wanted so badly, it was only fair that he could return to his normal life.

You wished he had at least said goodbye, or that he had waited for the sun to rise before disappearing. You'd be lying if you said you weren't sad to have to spend your wedding night alone, but maybe that was for the best. Maybe it was better to not force something that wasn't there. The marital bed your brothers and father had built for you would definitely feel too big and empty without someone next to it, but that would probably be that way with or without Geralt there. You didn't share the love necessary to make the bed a warm and safe place, so the night would be long and cold, alone or together.

When you finished tidying up the house you went upstairs to your quarters and took the time to undo your hair and take off your wedding dress. It felt wrong to walk around the house looking like that when there was no one else around. Without your husband there it felt like you had gone back in time to when you were little and played dress up with your mother's dresses, imagining what your life would be like when you got to be her age. You felt silly, so you put the dress away and covered your chemise dress with a robe since you weren't ready to go to sleep yet.

To avoid being consumed by your thoughts, you decided to grab a book. You settled yourself on one side of the bed, your eyes glancing only for a moment at the empty side before you opened the book with the intention of losing yourself in its pages. It was not an easy task. It took you much longer than usual to read just ten pages, your attention always wandering to the swirl of questions that was your mind, forcing you to reread the same pages over and over again to understand what was going on in the story. But eventually you were able to lose yourself in the words to such an extent that you didn't hear the sound of the front door opening or the footsteps coming up the stairs.

Seeing the imposing figure of Geralt peering through the door of your chambers really surprised you. You put your book down for a moment, watching as he took a few hesitant steps inside. “I didn't know if you were coming back.” You broke the silence. Your gaze returned to the book in your hands to avoid the awkwardness of looking him in the eye.

“Honestly I didn't either.” Geralt spoke in a soft tone and you could almost hear the doubt in his voice. “But I threatened Veldren so I can't just disappear and leave you to deal with the consequences.”

Geralt made his way to the empty side of the bed and you watched him sit with his back turned to you. He remained still and silent for a moment, as if lost in his own thoughts, and you wondered if he was regretting the decision he had made. A lump formed in your throat, making it difficult to breathe. Your heart was heavy with sadness, feeling guilty that you had trapped him into this.

“You don't need to spend the night here.” You muttered under your breath. If he didn't want to be there you weren't going to force him to sleep next to you. There was no one in the house to judge you, so he could sleep wherever he felt most comfortable, far away from you. “You can go back to your quarters, no one has to know.” You looked down at the book once more, trying to find an escape from the shame you felt in the words written on the weathered pages.

“I want to be here.” Geralt turned, looking at you with softness in his eyes. “It's where I belong.”

And he wasn't lying. He had to admit he wasn't sure if things were going to work out, but he was your husband now and it was his duty to be there for you. It was the one thing he was sure of in all of this, it had become clear to him on his walk through town with Roach. He had left with the intention of clearing his thoughts, to contemplate his options and decide how to proceed accordingly. And he found that the further he got away from you, the worse he felt. He didn't like the idea of you spending your wedding night alone, in an empty house without your family or husband. It was wrong. So he came back to hold you in his arms at night as he should and keep you safe in case Lord Veldren decided to pay you a visit. He did not know how long he could keep up the charade —how much longer he could hide from his destiny and responsibilities—, but that was not a concern he had to consider at the moment. Tonight he was supposed to be by your side.

You smiled at him as you heard him say that, feeling relieved. You didn't notice anything in his expression that made you think he was lying to you so you allowed yourself to relax a little. You were still a little tense as you didn't know how to proceed or what he expected from tonight. You knew it was tradition for newlywed couples to consummate the marriage on their wedding night, and you'd be lying if you said you weren't curious about it, but you wondered if it made any kind of sense. You weren't going to build a family together. There was no love between you to express in a physical way. And yet you couldn't help but wonder if Geralt wanted you.

“How long do you plan to stay?” you asked after a moment of silence, shifting your gaze away from Geralt's in embarrassment. You hoped you didn't sound controlling or needy.

“I haven't decided yet... I do have to go back, I have a home and people waiting for me, but we have some time. Besides, I realized it would not be wise to leave so soon after threatening Lord Veldren. I promised you that I would keep you safe from him and I intend to keep my word. It is best that I stay for a while to make sure he does not retaliate.”

You felt that comforting warmth in your belly again as you heard the protective tone in his voice. You tried to focus on that to get rid of all your worries, repeating over and over in your mind that he wanted to be there and that it had been his decision to help you.

Geralt turned his back to you once again and the air caught in your throat when you noticed that he was taking off his shirt, probably getting comfortable to sleep. Heat flooded your cheeks and you couldn't stop your eyes from trailing over his figure exposed to your curious gaze. He was like a work of art, the most beautiful and detailed sculpture you had ever seen. You admired with marvelous awe the way his muscles marked on his skin with every movement, as if they were sculpted by the hand of the most talented artist. His pale skin was the perfect canvas on which the tales of his adventures were told in the form of scratches and scars. Some were larger and flushed, others smaller and faded, but all equally intriguing. There was a large one on his left shoulder blade and another near his lower back that caught your attention. You couldn't help but wonder about the stories behind them. How did they end up on his skin? Who or what was responsible? Had it been saving someone?

You had to occupy your hands with the book, flipping through the pages to distract yourself and resist the urge to reach out to touch every bit of exposed skin your fingers could reach. You didn't know what had gotten into you, but with each passing second it became harder to stay away from Geralt. You were grateful that he had turned his back on you, that way he wasn't able to see the hunger and curiosity in your eyes, which allowed you to keep your dignity.

But even though he couldn't see you, he could still feel your gaze on him. He could feel the way you shifted uncomfortably on the bed and hear the change in your breathing that now escaped your lips in shallow gasps. He knew exactly what was going through your mind and thought it was adorable that you thought you could hide it from him.

“You can ask about them. I know what you want to.” Geralt broke the silence.

He still had his back to you, working on taking off his boots, but you still felt your whole face light up with embarrassment at having been caught. Could witchers read minds? You were pretty sure they couldn't, but the way he knew with such certainty that your eyes were examining his scars scared you a little.

“I guess everyone's curious about that, huh.”

Geralt shrugged. “You wouldn't be the first to ask about them.”

The implication behind his words put a strange feeling in your stomach. The idea that other people had had the opportunity to share such an intimate moment with him didn't sit well with you in the slightest, though you didn't quite understand why. You ignored that strange feeling for the moment, choosing to focus your attention on the moment unfolding before your eyes. Geralt's past or future should not concern you since you were not part of either. But you were part of his present and that was all that mattered.

You moved closer to him on the bed, letting one hand timidly make contact with his back. Geralt said nothing when he felt your fingers on his skin, which gave you the confidence to explore his body with a little more freedom. You were careful with your touch, slowly tracing the lines marked on his skin as you memorized their shape and color, reading them as if they were the story of his life. You tried to guess which had come first, imagining the causes behind each rough line on his skin. Your fingers lingered a little longer on his shoulder as you discovered that beneath your fingertips there was a mark that was almost imperceptible to your eyes. It was almost the same color as his skin, but you could feel the difference in texture when you touched the area. It reminded you very much of the mark that had been left on your shoulder after a hunting accident when you were a child, and you couldn't help but wonder if perhaps he was the same age as you when that wound was made.

“Were they all done by the monsters you hunt?” you asked, your voice barely a whisper.

Geralt closed his eyes as he felt your warm breath tickle the skin of his back. He focused on your touch, letting your fingers guide his memory and transport him back to the moments when those marks had been inflicted on his skin. The Striga, the Bruxa, the fight in that bar that one time, the Kikimora in the lake by the side of the road and, finally, the dislocated arm he earned on one of his first days of training when he was much smaller and skittish than he was now.

“Some were made by human swords as well... that's what I meant when I warned you of the danger I bring with me. It's not just the monsters.”

Geralt turned to look at you and met your confused expression. You were lost in thought for a moment and then, without a word, you removed the robe you were wearing, exposing the linen chemise dress that covered your body. The white fabric was loose but thin, exposing probably more than you wanted to before his eyes. He almost felt bad for looking at you until your hands grabbed his and pulled them to your shoulder, right where the short sleeve that held the chemise dress in place had slipped down.

You pressed Geralt's hand against you, feeling a warm tingle under your skin as his fingers finally made contact with the scar you were trying to show him. His eyes moved up from your collarbone to your face, looking at you curiously.

“I got this one when I was about 10 years old. My older brother was just starting to learn to hunt so my dad was going to take him on a hunting trip just the two of them. I begged him for days to let me go with them, I even promised him that I wouldn't leave his sight and I would do whatever he told me to do... He agreed, just to shut me up. And he was very careful all the time, they both were. But still things went wrong and I was shot with an arrow. The wound got infected and I almost died... my father had to carry me two villages away for a healer to cure me.”

Geralt listened to you attentively, his eyes never leaving yours as his fingers slid gently down your shoulder. He wondered what point you were trying to make, though he had to admit he found it a bit difficult to focus having you so close. Your hand never let go of his. It remained lightly clinging to his wrist, giving him enough freedom to move across your skin but keeping it in place. He couldn't help but notice how small it looked in contrast to his, your slender but short fingers had trouble closing around his wrist while his hand could wrap around your entire shoulder.

He allowed you to move his hand once more, guiding it further south this time. You stretched one leg out on the bed, lifting your chemise dress up to thigh height. It was a slow, tortuous movement that Geralt followed closely with his eyes, silently admiring how you shyly exposed part of your body to him. Then you allowed his calloused fingers to make contact with the skin of your knee where he quickly found another mark.

“This one I got when I was even younger. I think I was about 8 years old or so. I fell off a horse and broke my leg. The bone was showing and everything! I fainted from the shock and I don't remember much of what happened. It took a long time to heal and even on rainy days it still hurts and I have a little trouble walking... My point is, we all have scars.”

You offered a warm smile to Geralt, but he looked away. His fingers ran over the faded lines on your knee a couple of times before he spoke.

“It's not the same.” He muttered, lost in thought.

Your smile widened slightly looking at Geralt with compassion. You reached out your free hand towards him, gripping his chin between your thumb and forefinger to force him to look at you. “Yes it is. They may not be equally heroic, but they represent the same thing... danger, risk of death, pain... Any one of those wounds could have ended my life because danger can come from anywhere, even in the comfort of this very house. Life is not a competition about who lives longer, but about who lives it better... if having you in my life shortens my lifespan 10 years I will take it without complaint because it is infinitely better than living 100 years under Lord Veldren's control.” You meant every word and sealed it by pressing your lips against Geralt's in a soft, gentle kiss.

The moment your lips connected you felt that spark again. A warm sensation spread through your body and you found it impossible to separate from Geralt. But this kiss was different from the one you had shared on the lakeside that night. It felt much more intimate and special. He let you set the pace, adapting to the movement of your lips and keeping his hands still. It was clear he was doing it for you, to make you feel comfortable and to allow you to set your own boundaries. And you found that incredibly sweet. His movements were slow and tender, caressing your lips with his as if he knew exactly what to do to sweep you off your feet.

But it wasn't long before you began to feel like you needed something more. As sweet as his lips felt against yours, it wasn't enough. You wanted to feel his warmth enveloping you completely, to explore his body and leave your mark on his skin. You moved closer to him, deepening the kiss in an attempt to satiate the need that was growing rapidly deep inside you. Your hand clung properly to his chin and you sucked on his lower lip with fervor, your tongue timidly caressing his mouth as an invitation for more. Geralt's grip on your leg tightened, his fingers pressed against the sensitive skin of your thigh in warning. He was trying to slow you down, warning you that you were headed down a dangerous path. But all he got from you was a moan. The sweetest, most addictive sound, that vibrated against your lips and awakened a fire inside him.

Geralt's fingers tightened around your leg instinctively, a natural reaction to what your beautiful sounds were provoking in him. He was trying so hard to hold back and you were making it increasingly difficult for him. A moan escaped your lips again, feeling a pressure in your stomach and a pulse between your legs as his calloused fingers marked your skin. This time the sound was much louder and clearer, echoing in the witcher's ears as if it were a beautiful song. One that awakened his most primal desires.

When you fell silent he felt empty. An urgent need to know all the sounds of pleasure that he was able to get from you took over him. Suddenly he lost the little control he had left over his desires, but he gained control of the situation, guiding your body down onto the mattress without separating his lips from yours. He had only one goal in mind: to engrave forever in his memory the sound of your voice calling his name as you unraveled in his arms.

The moment Geralt took control, it was over for you. His body trapped you against the mattress, his much larger and imposing figure hovering over yours like a wolf over its prey. One of his hands rested beside your head, helping to keep his balance, the other ran up your thigh until it reached your hip, lifting your chemise dress in its path. His fingers left a trail of fire over your skin, increasing the pressure in your stomach and the wetness in your most intimate area. Geralt's lips moved down from your mouth to your neck, sucking and playfully nibbling at the sensitive skin with enough fervor to leave marks.

You caught your lower lip between your teeth, struggling to keep the moans from escaping your throat. You were embarrassed by the ease with which he could arouse such improper sounds in you. You sounded so pathetic —your voice so whiny and desperate— that it was hard to recognize your own voice. You didn't want to make a fool of yourself any more than you already were, so you fought against every instinct to keep those sounds inside you.

But Geralt didn't share the same thought. When he noticed what you were doing his hand traveled from your hip to your chin. He used his thumb to free your lower lip, pushing it away from your teeth in a delicate movement. His eyes admired your slightly swollen lips glistening with saliva. He resisted the temptation to kiss them once more, settling for gently caressing them with his thumb.

“Don't do that,” Geralt murmured in your ear, his warm breath tickling the sensitive skin of your ear lobe. “I want to listen to you.”

He showed you no compassion as he placed his mouth on your neck again. He started soft, leaving a trail of wet kisses over the sensitive area just below your ear, a way to lure you into a false sense of security. Then he sucked and nibbled on the skin and didn't stop until he heard you moan under his touch. Only then he ran his tongue over the area, a gentle caress that sought to soothe the slightly irritated skin. And then he started the whole process all over again, working his way downward toward your collarbones.

“That's it, I want to hear you... I need to know that I'm making you feel good.” he whispered against your heated skin.

You wanted to answer him, to assure him that you had never felt anything like this before. But when you opened your mouth no sound came out, only an airy sigh as you felt his fingers brush your nipples through the thin fabric of your shirt dress. Geralt took note of that and soon wrapped his hand around your breast, covering it completely. You arched your back towards him instinctively as he began to play with your nipple between his fingers. It was slightly painful when he pinched them, but it sent a shiver down your spine.

You instinctively tried to push your legs together, hoping that the pressure of your thighs together would be enough to relieve the throbbing need in your most sensitive area. But you were unable to do so because Geralt's leg rested between yours, keeping you open and in place for him. You moaned and squirmed under Geralt's body, frustrated and desperate for some relief. And his solution to your predicament was to push his thick thigh directly against your crotch.

You both moaned as you rubbed against his leg. Your eyes opened wide, surprised by the wave of pleasure that coursed through your body as it made contact with the fabric of Geralt's pants. You had never felt anything like it before, but it did wonders to soothe the pulsing heat inside you. So you moved your hips against him again and again until you established a slow, sensual rhythm that made your whole body feel on fire.

Geralt took a moment to admire you in the dim candlelight, noticing every little detail about you. You looked beautiful with your hair spread out on the bed and your soft, delicate skin covered in a thin layer of sweat. Your swollen, parted lips let out the sweetest sounds, inviting him to devour them once more. Your breasts moved slightly with each sway of your hips, tempting him to release them from their white linen confinement. He couldn't help but notice that you looked very different from the way you did the first time he saw you. The purity and innocence was still present in your eyes, but hidden behind the lust and desire that had taken over your body. He found it increasingly difficult to keep himself under control, especially when you looked at him with half-closed eyes in pleasure, mumbling incoherently as you soaked his thigh with your arousal.

He was amazed at how easy it was to bring you to that euphoric state. Your naivety on the subject made you more receptive to his caresses, all he had to do was touch you on the right place and say the right words and you would whimper for more. Geralt found it incredibly attractive. Knowing that he was the first man to see you in that state awakened something deep inside him. He was the one who was introducing you to the world of pleasure, he would become your standard, your only reference for judging another man's ability to perform, and he wanted to make sure that no one could ever compare to him.

“You look so pretty like this.” Geralt whispered against your lips, his hand clinging to your chin to make sure you didn't move your head back in pleasure. “Such a perfect little dove, feeling good to me.” The nickname escaped his lips without too much thought, but it was fitting. You were his little dove, white and innocent, but with a free spirit that longed to fly and explore the world.

Warmth poured into your cheeks, feeling nervous under the witcher's intense gaze. “Geralt...” you trailed off, not quite sure where you were going with the sentence. You wanted to ask him to stop, but at the same time you were sure you would cry if he pulled away from you. The friction was no longer enough, but you weren't sure you could take any more.

“What is it, my dove? Use your words.” The tone of his voice was gentle, but his lips curved upward in a devilish smile. It was such a distinct contrast that it startled you, it made you wonder if you were capable of enduring what he was dying to give you.

“I need more... I need you.”

“You already have me.” Geralt scattered little kisses down your chin and neck, and pressed his thigh a little harder against your crotch, giving you a better angle to move your hips.

You let out a pathetic moan, closing your eyes in embarrassment and frustration. “You know what I mean.” You mumbled, hoping he wouldn't make you say it out loud.

“I know, I know... but I need to get you ready first... I need to make sure you're ready to take me.”

Geralt pulled away from you and you let out a groan at the loss of the only amount of friction that was giving you some relief. However, he didn't stay away from you for long. His hands caressed their way down your body, making you gasp as you felt his fingers on your exposed thighs. You remained still, expectant. Your eyes didn't leave his figure for a second, waiting to see what his next move was.

“Have you ever done anything like this?” he asked you in a husky voice as his hands slowly moved up your thighs, getting dangerously close to your most intimate area. “Have you ever let another man kiss you and touch you like this? It's okay if you did, you don't have to feel ashamed of that with me.”

You shook your head, having trouble forming a coherent sentence as his fingers drew circles over the sensitive skin of your thighs. “No... I-I was waiting for the right person.” You managed to blurt out between gasps.

“Have you ever given yourself pleasure?”

You felt your cheeks heat up at that intimate and strange question. Were you supposed to? Was that a part of all this that you hadn't been told about? When you were old enough your mother had taken it upon herself to tell you certain things, but not even in the days leading up to the wedding had she talked about something like that. You had been raised under the belief that sex was something special only meant to be shared with a spouse. You had felt things in the past, but never acted on it, no more than squeezing your legs together to make the throbbing in your core stop.

“Was I supposed to?” You asked in a whisper, afraid you were doing something wrong.

You didn't have to be too bright to know that Geralt was experienced in the subject —it was clear in the way he moved, in how he kissed you, and in the confidence of his caresses— which only made you feel more aware of your inexperience. You were afraid that he expected something different, that your inexperience would be a problem and that he would reject you for it. You needed him and wanted him to have a good time too, you just weren't sure you could give it to him.

But Geralt smiled warmly at your response, his eyes looking at you with a softness in them that awakened butterflies in your stomach. He didn't seem angry or disappointed, which gave you some reassurance.

“Do you trust me to make you feel good?” His voice was a raspy whisper that made your heart flutter in your chest. You nodded your head, but that wasn't enough for him. “I need to hear you say it, dove.”

“I trust you, Geralt.” You said confidently.

Maybe it was the way you looked at each other as if there was nothing else in the world but the two of you, or maybe it was the slow, passionate kiss you shared afterwards, but the moment felt much more intimate and authentic than you expected. It was no longer just about carnal desire and feeling good, there was something much deeper behind your words and the softness in Geralt's eyes. It was about your connection, how comfortable and safe you felt in each other's arms. It wasn't love, at least not yet, but it was a spark.

Geralt's hands continued to travel up your body as he kissed you, lifting your chemise dress in his wake. The cool air of the room hit your exposed skin, a harsh contrast to the fiery trail his fingers awakened in their path. The higher they traveled, the more your heart pounded in your chest, racing with a mixture of nerves and anticipation.

Geralt pulled away from your lips as his exploring fingers reached the underside of your breasts. He looked into your eyes, searching them for consent before fully revealing your body to his hungry eyes. He didn't have to say anything and neither did you. You simply shifted your position and raised your arms so that he could remove the article of clothing with more ease.

You felt the need to cover yourself as you were finally exposed to him, feeling small and vulnerable under his intense gaze. Your hands instinctively went to cover your breasts, but Geralt stopped you before you could do so.

“Don't hide from me. You are beautiful and I want to take the time to admire and appreciate every part of you to show you how beautiful you are.”

This time it was you who sought his lips since you didn't have the words to express what his tender words and desire filled eyes made you feel. You gave yourself completely to him, body and soul, so that he could do with you whatever he wanted. You let his fingers explore every inch of your body and his lips mark your skin as if he were claiming ownership over your being. And you allowed yourself the same freedom, caressing his arms and back, burying your fingers in his long white hair as he lost himself in the crook of your neck.

When he buried his hand between your legs, your grip on his hair tightened, tugging lightly on the strands as waves of pleasure flooded through your body. It was a pleasure you had never felt before, intense and exhilarating. It set your whole body on fire and made it hard to breathe, but you were sure you would burst into tears if Geralt pulled away from you at that moment. It was all too much —Geralt's caresses, the feel of his body pressed against yours, the wetness of his lips attacking your most sensitive areas— the pleasure was overwhelming and with each passing second you felt more and more as if something inside you was going to snap.

“That's right, my beautiful wife, feeling good for me.” Geralt muttered against your lips, his forehead pressed against yours as he looked deep into your eyes. You let out a pathetic moan in response, feeling your heart pound at hearing him call you his wife. You liked the sound of that, probably more than you should.

You closed your eyes, letting yourself get lost in the moment. The pleasure and possessiveness of his words brought you to a high that had you completely enraptured. Your body no longer felt like yours, it no longer responded to you, but to Geralt's touch, his words and his kisses. You couldn't say that it bothered you. On the contrary, it felt good, right. You trusted him with your body, mind and soul, you knew he would take good care of you.

You were brought back to the moment when you felt a pressure in your core. You opened your eyes, alarmed, as you felt one of Geralt's long, thick fingers slowly slide inside you. Your hand flew to his forearm, gripping it to stop him. It hurt. It wasn't unbearable, but it was uncomfortable. You could feel your velvety walls stretching open, struggling to accommodate his finger.

“Sshh, I know, I know,” Geralt's reassuring voice echoed in your ears. “It hurts, I know. But it'll be just for a moment until you get used to it. Then it will feel good, I promise... Do you trust me?”

Your grip on his arm lightened at his question, a silent answer that you reaffirmed with an affirming nod of your head. “Yes, I trust you.”

“Then let me show you how good it can feel.”

You did not remove your hand from his arm, but allowed him to continue. Geralt's movements became extremely slow and careful. He distracted you from the pain with pleasure, spreading kisses over every inch of skin his lips could reach, and resuming the gentle caresses of his thumb over your little bundle of nerves. Soon the pressure dissipated, your walls opening up to him, inviting him to get lost deep inside with the slipperiness of your arousal. And so he did, pushing his finger deep inside you in search of that special place that would make your toes curl and your back arch in pleasure.

He knew he found it when the volume of your moans increased and you rolled your eyes back. Your grip on his arm tightened, only this time not as a signal to stop, but as a desperate search for some support, something to help you stay grounded while the pleasure consumed you. It hurt a little when he added a second finger to his intrusion, but not as much as the first time. You were more relaxed and more comfortable. You knew you could take it and that the reward for doing so was pleasure like you had never felt before, so you bit your lower lip and took it.

It didn't take long for you to feel yourself on the edge of explosion, the tension in your belly getting tighter to the point of being unbearable. Your moans became more whiny and incoherent, your body moving without your control to the tune of Geralt's touch. You felt you could take no more, but at the same time you needed to know what lay beyond the limit.

“Geralt, I can't... it's too much.” You managed to blurt out between incessant panting. Your vision was getting slightly blurry and you could hear your heartbeat pounding in your ears. You tried to pull away from Geralt's arms, but he wouldn't let you. He trapped you under his towering figure to make sure you couldn't escape his touch.

“Yes you can. I know you can... You just have to let go, all right? It's okay, I'm here. I've got you. I've got you. You're alright. Just let go, you're safe with me.”

The softness of his words contrasted with the firmness of his touch, his fingers attacking your most sensitive area without any mercy. And the combined effort of both of them was enough to push you over the edge. Your body tensed and white lights exploded behind your eyelids as waves of pleasure washed over you. The world around you ceased to exist. You could hear Geralt's voice whispering sweet nothings in your ear and feel his soft caresses on your skin, guiding you through your climax, but it all felt distant, like a dream. The only thing you could focus on was the pleasure that shook your body.

Geralt's golden gaze was the first thing you saw when you opened your eyes. He was silently admiring you, one finger stroking your cheek in a circular pattern while his eyes watched every little detail of your face. There was something in his gaze, a sparkle in his eyes that captivated you. It was more than lust, more than the lasciviousness you were used to seeing in Lord Veldren's eyes. You couldn't quite name it, but you knew it made you feel good, comfortable and safe. Geralt desired you, but not in the possessive, objectifying way that your previous suitor did. When he looked at you as he did at that moment you knew he didn't see an object he wanted to possess, he saw you as the woman you were. You felt seen by Geralt in a way you had never experienced before. He gave you confidence and self-assurance and you loved the way that felt.

“How do you feel?” his raspy voice whispered close to your ear.

The corners of your lips curved upward slightly, demonstrating the state of complete bliss you were in. “Good... I'm fine.”

“You did so well...” Geralt trailed off, his thumb following the line of your lips as his mind was lost in the image of your eyes closed and your mouth parted open letting out moans and gasps as you came undone in his arms.

It was a beautiful image that he wanted to engrave forever in his memory. Giving you pleasure was his new addiction, the way your body trembled beneath him, the sounds you made, the scent of your arousal, it was all too intoxicating. He was dying to see you in such a state again. And again. And again and again, until his scent was so impregnated into your skin that everyone knew you were his wife when they came near you.

“Do you think you're ready for more?”

You nodded eagerly, regaining the strength to lift your arms and cling to Geralt's neck, pulling him to you to melt into a kiss. “I am, I want everything from you... I want to make you feel good too, even if I don't know how.” You admitted with some embarrassment.

“You don't have to worry about that, my beloved. It makes me feel good to see you enjoy yourself. Tonight is about you and I will take it upon myself to show you all the pleasure you don't know.”

Your heart pounded as you heard the affectionate nickname he used for you. His beloved... You liked the sound of it, even when it wasn't real. You let yourself get lost in the moment, drifting into a reality where he really loved you enough for those words to mean something.

The softness in his voice and the tenderness of his touch made you feel good, safe. It was soothing to know that he had no great expectations for you and was willing to take the time to teach you what you didn't know. However, your newfound confidence suffered a blow the moment his naked body was completely exposed to your curious eyes. He was beautiful and big, almost too big. As you looked at him you remembered the discomfort you felt when his fingers pushed inside you and felt your stomach twist with nerves, thinking there was no way the experience could be pleasurable for both of you.

Geralt noticed the concern on your face immediately and rushed to comfort you. His body was on top of yours in no time, his fingers gently caressing your cheek as he looked at you with softness in his eyes. “You need to relax,” he muttered against your lips.

“B-but, it's going to hurt...it won't fit.” You closed your eyes as he spoke, feeling embarrassment taking hold of you. You wanted nothing more than to make him feel good and let him guide you through the pleasure, but you had to admit you were a little nervous.

You feared that your comment had ruined the moment, that Geralt had grown tired of your hesitation and decided to leave you and go to sleep. But instead of scoffing, he planted a soft kiss on your cheek, making you open your eyes again.

“It will fit. We'll make it fit. That's why I spent all this time getting you ready for me...so you'd be wet and ready to take me.” Geralt spread little wet kisses down your jaw to your neck as he spoke. If it was a strategy to distract you it was working wonders, because you could start to feel your body relax again. “It's going to hurt a little at first, just like before. But then it will feel good... We'll go slow and if at any point you feel it's too much we'll stop completely, alright? You are in control here.”

His words relaxed you more than you expected and with a simple kiss and a slight nod you gave Geralt permission to continue his assault on your body.

You winced as he began to thrust inside you. It felt a lot more uncomfortable than his fingers, though not so strange anymore. Your walls were struggling to accommodate his size and that resulted in a sharp burning pain between your legs that led you to consider stopping everything. And honestly you would have if Geralt hadn't let out the most beautiful sound you'd heard all night. It was a moan like no other so far, a primal growl that came from deep inside him, vibrating in his chest and filling you with confidence. You were making him feel good. Even if it hurt a little, even if you didn't quite know what to do, you were making him feel good. It filled your chest with pride and confidence to know that you were capable of such a thing and that was what you focused on to overcome the pain.

Your hands clung to him, nails digging into his back as you closed your eyes and focused all your attention on him, on his gasps and the way his body pressed down closer into yours.

“That's it, you're doing so well for me, dove” Geralt encouraged you between ragged breaths and a warm feeling filled your insides at the praise. “Just a little more, you can do it.”

“Geralt” you sighed, a mix of pain and pleasure clear in your voice. It was a plea for him to stop and for him to continue all at the same time, the expression of the conflicting sensations you felt inside you.

Geralt felt as if he could die at that very moment. The high-pitched whine in your voice, the glimmer in your eyes from tears and the hunger in your gaze was all too much. Your arousal helped him slide in with ease and he had to control himself from slipping inside you in one quick thrust. You felt so good, so wet and tight that he was going crazy. Slowly thrusting inside you was torture, but it was one he was willing to endure to make you feel comfortable and safe.

He stood still for a moment when he finally pushed all the way into you, giving you time to adjust to him as he enjoyed your warmth. “Can you feel me deep inside you, filling you more than you've ever been?” Geralt whispered in your ear, his warm breath tickling your sensitive skin. “You know what that means, huh? It means you're mine now.”

Your walls tightened around him, causing you both to let out a moan of pleasure. The pain slowly dissipated as your body molded to his almost as if to honor his words. You were his, body and soul. The burning pain turned to pulsing desire and it wasn't long before you were squirming beneath Geralt's body, struggling to find some friction to relieve the pressure between your legs.

“I'm yours... I'm yours...” you repeated between wet kisses, giving him the power to do whatever he wanted with you. “Please...”

Geralt loved hearing the plea escape your lips, a whiny whisper that let him know you were ready for more. He enjoyed the way you looked up at him waiting expectantly for every move, every word, knowing that only he could bring you to that sweet relief once again. He almost wanted to hear you beg more for it, to watch you squirm under his body and whimper in frustration until he decided to give you what you so desperately needed. But he wasn't sure he could hold on that long to feel you fall apart in his arms one more time. He needed to feel you and he needed it now.

“I know, I know... I got you” Geralt breathed as he slowly slid his member almost all the way out of you. You threw your head back on the pillow, closing your eyes as you felt the delicious drag along your walls. He held still for a moment and then thrust inside you again, only with a little more force this time.

The moan that escaped your lips was both obscene and pathetic in equal parts. And Geralt loved every second of it.

“Does that feel good? Was that what you wanted?” You knew Geralt was making sure you were okay with those questions, they weren't necessarily meant for you to have a particular reaction to them, just to communicate your state to him. But there was something in the tone of his voice that sent a wave of pleasure throughout your body.

“Yes, yes! More, please, more!” was all you could blurt out between gasps, but Geralt didn't hesitate to indulge you.

He set a slow, sensual pace at first, dragging his member torturously slow along your walls before thrusting back inside you, using a little more force with each time. His lips never left your body, kissing every bit of exposed skin they could reach. His hands closed over your hips, holding you in place to make sure each thrust of his cock reached that special place inside you that made you scream.

Once you got used to his rhythm, you began to move your hips at the same pace, seeking to meet him halfway and forcing him inside you when he took too long. One of your hands got lost in his hair, grabbing and pulling the strands between your fingers when pleasure overwhelmed you or you wanted to feel his lips in a specific place. Your other hand clung to his broad back, nails digging into the skin until they left marks that would not fade the next morning. And Geralt loved every second of it.

He loved knowing you were feeling good. He loved being the one guiding you, teaching you things about your own body that you didn't even know yourself. But most of all, he loved the idea of you leaving your mark on his skin just as he was marking yours. Being inside you —feeling the warmth of your walls clenching around his cock, hearing your incessant moans and smelling the scent of your arousal in the air— had awakened something primal inside him, a possessiveness he didn't know he was capable of feeling. You were his after tonight and he wanted everyone to know it just by looking at you. No other man would ever dare to get close to you because his scent would be forever present on your skin, warning everyone not to lay a finger on you because you were already his.

“That's it, mark me as yours... I am yours and you are mine... mine to protect. Mine to please and to take care of. Mine to fuck and guide through the most intense carnal pleasures... Mine... My woman.” Geralt emphasized each sentence with a thrust bringing you closer and closer to that sweet relief. His movements were becoming more and more rough and sloppy, signaling that he was close to losing control as well.

You were slowly losing your grip on reality, your mind spiraling with pleasure. It was hard to concentrate on anything but the heat coursing through your body, but Geralt's words managed to bring you back to reality. The roughness in his voice and the possessiveness of his affirmations were a lethal mix designed to push you to the limit of what you could bear.

“Yes, yes! I'm yours, forever... I need... please.” You weren't being very coherent, but Geralt understood perfectly well what you wanted. He could feel the way your walls tightened around him, swallowing his cock deep inside you. You were close to exploding and he was more than willing to take you there.

“I know, I know... I got you, it's okay. You can let go, just relax. Take a deep breath... that's it. Let go, I've got you. I want to feel you come apart around me, please.”

Geralt's fingers pressed against your little bundle of nerves, drawing small circles on the swollen, sensitive skin. His thrusts became more precise, hitting that special place inside you with each thrust. His words were interpreted by your body as a command and in a matter of seconds the pleasure exploded inside you, spreading throughout your body.

You fell limp in Geralt's arms, overwhelmed and ecstatic. He only slowed his assault on your body for a moment, his hips almost ceasing to move to give you time to catch your breath.

“That's it, my good dove” he praised you as his thumb drew circles over the skin of your hip. “I wish you could see yourself right now... so beautiful, so fragile... Do you think you can take a little more? I need to fill you, to mark you as mine in the deepest, most intimate way possible, do you think you can take it?”

You moaned in response, already feeling his hips begin to pick up the pace ever so slowly. There was nothing you wanted more than that. You wanted to be his forever, even outside these four walls. You wanted to feel his warmth always with you and the weight of his body against yours. You longed to feel his scent on your skin and see the marks of his kisses on your body. You wanted everything he had to give you and you were willing to do anything to get it.

“Yes, I can take it! Please give it to me! I need it... I need it all from you, please.” you pleaded eagerly and in response Geralt thrust his hips against yours, setting a fast and lethal rhythm.

It was clear he was using you for his pleasure now, but even then your body responded to his touches, the tension building again in your belly. It was as if you were no longer in control of your own body, as if it had stopped recognizing you as the one in charge and instead waited for Geralt's orders to react. And you didn't fight against it one bit, you simply let yourself be carried away by passion, feeling the pleasure through him.

His movements became more and more erratic and his moans louder and more frequent. He was losing control and you loved knowing that you were capable of causing something like that in him. You liked that he was using you for his own pleasure, that he was focusing on himself and using your body as a tool to achieve that sweet relief. He wasn't actively working on it, but with every thrust and moan he let out he brought you closer to that same edge. It was sweet and overwhelming. You felt the urge to escape from his arms so you could catch your breath, but your body could only press harder into Geralt's, moving your hips to help him find the pleasure he had shown you.

And it wasn't long before you both exploded in a sea of moans and pleasure.

“That's it, take it all in... take my seed deep inside you. Feel me inside you filling you up, claiming what belongs to me.” Geralt growled as he painted your walls with his essence, which mingled with the remnants of your release. “No one else is ever going to get the chance to feel this ever. You are mine... mine.”

You could do nothing but respond in whimpers of pleasure as your body shook with the intensity of your own orgasm, amplified by Geralt's words and the sensation of being filled with his seed.

You lost consciousness after that, reality slipping through your fingers like sand. You could hear Geralt mumbling sweet words in your ear and feel his fingers gently caressing your skin, but you didn't have the strength or ability to move or respond to him. You just laid there in his arms, full and in a state of complete bliss for who knows how long. The passage of time was a concept that had ceased to exist for you. The world around you seemed to have slowed down, but inside you felt your body working at an accelerated pace. Your heart pounded hard against your chest, the sound of pumping blood echoing in your ears. Your lungs struggled to get enough air so that your body could relax, your short, quickened breaths slowly finding a calmer rhythm as time passed.

Geralt took care of you every step of the way as you came down from your high, spreading soft kisses over your skin and whispering praise in your ear. He even went to the trouble of tucking you into bed and covering you with the sheets so that you wouldn't get cold once your body returned to normal temperature. And when you regained consciousness, his gentle smile was the first thing your eyes saw.

“There you are!” He said, reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear so he could admire your sweet face in all its glory. He would be lying if he said he wasn't proud of the expression of pure pleasure and satisfaction that graced your face. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine... tired, but fine.” You let out an airy chuckle, still feeling somewhat disconnected from everything.

You both remained silent for a moment, looking into each other's eyes. You couldn't help but think that there was something different about the way Geralt was looking at you. It was something you had noticed before, but you thought it was due to the intensity of the moment. Although now that everything was calmer you began to think it was something else. You didn't quite know how to explain what you saw in his eyes, but you knew you liked the way he made you feel. The only way you could describe it was a soft, comforting warmth, like a sunny spring morning. It felt like a caress to the soul, a tender gesture that awakened a tingle inside you. You felt safe under his gaze, seen in a way you had never experienced with a man.

“Thank you...” your voice broke the silence, ”for everything, I guess... for protecting me, for being such a gentleman, for treating me so well...” You were interrupted by the yawn that escaped involuntarily from your lips, reminding you once again how tired you were. “You gave me a perfect night... If you decide to leave tomorrow and I never see you again, you still leave me with the memory of a beautiful wedding night.”

Geralt was surprised by how much he disliked the idea of walking away from you. He knew he had to do it and a couple of hours ago he was more than ready to do it, but now things had changed. Separating from you was not as easy now that he had you naked in his arms, looking at him with narrowed eyes full of pleasure. It wasn't easy after having heard you beg for his name or having inhaled the scent of your essence. It wasn't easy at all now that he had claimed you as his own, marking you in the most intimate way he could, leaving his mark forever on your skin. He no longer wanted to be away from you and was willing to fight anyone who wanted to come between you. And, to be honest, that scared him a little.

“It's okay... rest.” He murmured gently as he noticed the way you were struggling to keep your eyes open. “We'll have plenty of time to talk in the morning. You need to rest now, my dove.”

The last thing you felt before you surrendered to sleep was Geralt's arms pressing you against his body, letting you rest your head on his chest as he traced sweet caresses on the skin of your back.

The month you shared with Geralt alone in your home was beautiful. You loved waking up tangled in the sheets and his arms, and his honey colored eyes being the first thing you saw in the morning. You loved chatting with him over breakfast and taking long walks around town hand in hand. You especially liked the way he would put his arm around you when a man dared to even look at you for too long, and how he would show you off when his walks through the marketplace ran into one of Lord Veldren's men. At first it was in a provocative way, as if he was looking to generate a reaction in the man, but after days passed and he did not show up at his door to challenge him and fight for your hand, Geralt knew he had won. Then the gentle kisses and soft caresses in front of his men —and in front of Lord Veldren himself on one occasion— went from being a provocation to a brag, a constant display of the weakness the Lord sought so hard to hide.

You learned a lot about Geralt in this time, about his life, his profession and the important people in his life —although perhaps not as much as you would like, as it was hard to get him to talk. Your favorite thing was listening to the tales of his adventures at night when you were both lying in bed. He didn't seem to find them as fascinating as you did, since you sensed a slight annoyance in his eyes whenever you insisted on the subject, but he never refused to indulge you. You loved listening to him talk, especially at night when the warmth of his chest and the deep sound of his voice lulled you to sleep. But besides being a cure for your restless nights, you quickly discovered that his stories were a good way to get to know him better. Geralt wasn't good at talking about himself or his life when you asked him a direct question, but through the way he recounted his travels you were able to gather little bits and pieces of his persona —the way he thought, his moral compass, details of his work and the reality of witchers that you didn't know. You found his world fascinating, frightening and dangerous at times, but fascinating nonetheless.

However, all good things always come to an end, in your experience, sooner rather than later. And this was yours. The day had finally come for Geralt to leave and you woke up that morning terrified that you would never see him again.

You hadn't talked much about it, since you were both secretly dreading the mere thought of being apart. And this morning was no different. You went about your routine as if it were any ordinary day, though with the heavy tension in the air that came from knowing it wasn't. You tried your best to ignore it as much as possible, looking for every excuse to spend more time together, making the most of what you had left. The morning chores were a bit delayed, as getting out of bed proved to be a particularly difficult task when all you wanted to do was melt into each other's bodies until you were one. But beyond the desperation to be with each other, there was not a single mention of the countdown you both had in the back of your mind.

When Geralt had marked this date as the day of his departure he had assured you that it would not be permanent and in the blissful happiness of the moment you had believed him. But now that the time had come, you couldn't help but be saddened not only by having to part from him, but also by not knowing for how long. You had spent a beautiful time together and you wanted to believe that it would be enough for Geralt to want to come back to your arms, but the reality was that you didn't know. You couldn't help but think that he had been almost forced into this marriage and you feared that going back to his old routines would put things in perspective. After all, there was a reason he had refused your proposal so much the first time. He had only agreed to marry you after spending time living with your family, losing himself in a reality far different from his own, and you were afraid that getting back on the road would show him what a big mistake he had made.

You couldn't stop thinking about it as you watched him from the kitchen window, gathering his things and slowly loading them onto Roach. You wanted to run over there and ask him the thousands of questions that were running through your mind. You wanted more than anything to hear him reassure you that everything would be okay and that he would come back for you, but you knew you couldn't completely trust his words. That may well be what he was thinking and feeling now, but there was no way of knowing how time alone on the road, accompanied only by his old habits, could possibly change him. There was no point in exchanging words, so you focused your attention on preparing and packing some supplies for his journey, so that at least he would have fresh food and water until he reached the next town.

You dared to step outside when you noticed that Geralt was almost finished settling his saddle, signaling that you didn't have much time left to keep lamenting about the future. You approached him with a slow step, as if you were looking for any way to drag out every second, taking advantage of the moment to memorize every detail you could find in his sideways profile.

“So you're leaving, huh?” you finally broke the silence, causing Geralt to raise his head to look at you. He was so lost in his own thoughts that he hadn't heard you approach, though it was a pleasant surprise.

At least until he noticed the doubt in your eyes.

“For a while, yes. I have business to take care of, people that are waiting for me... but I'll be back.”

You weren't able to hold his gaze, your eyes focusing on the grass beneath your feet as you tried to keep your emotions at bay. The last thing you wanted to do at that moment was cry, but you could start to feel the tears building up in your eyes.

Geralt noticed your concern and disbelief, and knew he couldn't leave until you knew he was being honest. He needed to make sure you understood that he wasn't playing games and that he intended to keep the promise he had made to you that evening in front of your family.

He hooked his fingers under your chin, using them as leverage to tilt your face up and force you to look at him. “I will come back for you.” Geralt assured you. “I promise.”

“You don't have to, that was the arrangement. Lord Veldren has already found another girl to focus his attention on so he no longer presents a danger to me or my family. You are free to go on with your life as it was before our paths crossed.”

“That's where you're wrong.” The corners of Geralt's lips curved upward slightly at your gesture of confusion. “Our paths did cross and I can't go back now. I can't go on with my life pretending you don't exist, that this time we shared didn't happen... I don't want to. I want to come back for you... and next time I will be the one to share some of his life with you. Perhaps I'll take you on the road with me, how about that?”

Even though nothing had changed, his words managed to bring a smile to your face and soothe your aching heart. There was something in his beautiful honey eyes that invited you to trust him, and the promise to take you on a trip with him made everything more real. It wasn't just words spoken into the wind, it was an idea, a plan for the future, something on which to build your relationship and, why not, a home over time. It was a first step, one of many you had to take if you wanted your relationship to continue, and Geralt was assuring you that he was willing to take it together, as it should be. So, while you were still saddened by his departure, you chose to give your mind and heart a break by believing his words.

“I would like that very much.” You muttered before pressing your lips together in a kiss, sealing your promise.

Watching Geralt leave was not easy, but his promise left you with some comfort. Tears escaped your eyes as you watched his white hair disappear into the horizon, and an aching emptiness built in your chest as you stepped back into a silent house that felt so much bigger now that you were alone. You realized then that you were going to miss him more than you thought and that the time apart would be much harder to endure than you had imagined. Only minutes had passed and you were already contemplating leaving everything behind, grabbing a horse and running to catch up with him. And you knew that feeling would only get worse as the days went by, growing and growing until it became unbearable. And it wouldn't go away until you saw his figure on the horizon again, coming back into your arms where he belonged.

Still, in the midst of your sad contemplation a smile formed on your lips. A gust of wind had blown in through the open kitchen window, and it brought dancing up to your nose the distinctive smell of leather, earth and wood of Geralt. And you realized then that he was still there with you, his scent lingering in the air, on your clothes, on the sheets on the bed and even on your own skin. And there he would remain with you forever, because you were his and he was yours.

Geralt of Rivia tag list: @steviebbboi @feel-my-psycho-love

. ܁₊ ⊹ . ܁ ⟡ ܁ . ⊹ ₊ ܁.

The humid air of Epsilon-9 clung to everything like a second skin. The planet was a lush, unforgiving wilderness designated for xenobiological research by the United Terran Exploratory Division. Towering trees with bioluminescent veins snaked through the canopy, their leaves broad enough to shelter entire teams from the frequent downpours. Vines thick as arms twisted around ancient trunks, and the underbrush hid creatures that chirped, screeched, and sometimes screamed in ways that made even seasoned researchers check their plasma rifles twice. The air smelled of wet earth, exotic flowers, and something faintly metallic—perhaps the trace minerals in the soil that made this world so rich in undiscovered flora and fauna.

You had been here for seven months. What started as the opportunity of a lifetime—lead botanist on a small but well-funded team—had become a nightmare. The base was a prefab cluster of reinforced domes and labs on the edge of a massive river system. At first, the work was exhilarating: cataloging new plant species with potential medicinal properties, mapping symbiotic relationships between megafauna and the jungle ecosystem, and sending glowing reports back to Earth. But isolation, pressure, and the endless humidity had worn everyone down. Especially Mark.

Mark had been your boyfriend for two years before the mission. Charismatic back on Earth, a skilled field technician with a charming smile. Here, the mask slipped. The verbal jabs started three months in—little comments about your “sloppy” data logs or how you “slowed everyone down.” Then came the shoves, the bruises hidden under long sleeves. Now it was worse. Much worse. The last beating had left you with a split lip and cracked ribs that still ached when you breathed too deeply. You’d tried telling the others—Dr. Lena Voss, the entomologist; Raj Patel, the geologist; and the rest of the eight-person team. They brushed it off. “He’s under a lot of stress,” Lena had said with an awkward pat on your shoulder. “We all are. Don’t exaggerate.” Raj had just looked away. No one wanted to rock the boat on a remote posting where rescue was months away.

You kept your head down, did your work, and counted the days until extraction.

Today was another routine sampling expedition. The team split into pairs and trios to cover more ground in Sector 7, a dense stretch of jungle rumored to hold a new genus of nitrogen-fixing orchids. You were paired with Mark and two others who had never taken your concerns seriously: Lena and a quiet tech named Connor. The four of you moved along a game trail, boots sinking into the mud, insect repellent and sweat mixing on your skin. Your scanner hummed softly as you logged samples, keeping your voice professional and detached.

Mark walked too close, his breath hot on your neck. “You’re doing it wrong again,” he muttered, loud enough for the others to hear. “That reading’s off by at least two percent. Typical.”

You didn’t look at him. “The calibration is within acceptable margins. Focus on your own quadrant, Mark.”

Lena glanced back but said nothing, pretending fascination with a cluster of iridescent beetles. Connor kept his eyes on the trail. The dismissal stung worse than the words themselves. Mark’s jaw clenched, but he fell silent for a few minutes.

The group eventually split further to maximize coverage. Lena and Connor veered toward a rocky outcrop, leaving you alone with Mark. The jungle seemed to press in closer, the sounds of distant animal calls echoing strangely. You walked ahead, scanner raised, noting the way certain vines pulsed faintly with internal light. Mark’s footsteps were heavy behind you.

“You think ignoring me makes you smart?” he said, voice low and venomous. “You’re nothing without me out here. Just a scared little girl playing scientist.”

You kept your tone even, eyes on a promising flower cluster. “We need samples from the upper canopy strata. The data packet said—”

“Shut up about the fucking data!” He grabbed a low branch and snapped it. “Look at me when I’m talking to you.”

You didn’t. Your heart hammered, but you maintained the professional facade that always seemed to enrage him more. Another sound reached your ears—something like a low, metallic click from the trees above, followed by rustling that didn’t match the wind. You paused, scanning the canopy. Nothing visible. Probably just local wildlife.

Unknown to you, a hunter watched.

A Yautja had come to this world seeking worthy prey. His kind called themselves hunters of legend, traveling the stars in cloaked ships to test their mettle against the galaxy’s most dangerous species. This planet’s megafauna had provided sport at first—massive reptilian beasts with armored hides and venomous spines. But humans… humans offered a different thrill. Cunning, tool-using, occasionally brave. He had already culled the rest of your team one by one in the last hour, moving like a ghost through the undergrowth. Their blood now streaked his broad, muscled chest beneath the cloaking field. The hunt had been good. Their screams had echoed satisfyingly.

Now only two remained. He perched high in the interlocking branches, invisible, plasma caster armed but lowered. His mandibles clicked softly beneath his biomask as he observed.

The female—small by Yautja standards but clearly resilient—moved with purpose despite the fear radiating from her posture. Shoulders tense, steps careful. The male was larger, but weak. His voice dripped with contempt, his body language aggressive. The Yautja’s thermal vision picked up the heat signatures of old bruises on the female’s arms and torso. Fresh fear-sweat on her skin.

How strange these ooman are, he thought in the guttural clicks and growls of his native tongue. Among his people, females were the pinnacle. Stronger, fiercer, the life-givers and often the deadliest hunters. Males protected and proved themselves worthy; no honorable Yautja would ever raise a claw to a female in anger. To harm one who carried potential for the next generation was an abomination. This male’s behavior disgusted him. It stirred something primal—an urge to intervene that went beyond the simple thrill of the hunt.

He continued to stalk them silently, leaping from branch to branch with effortless grace, his dreadlock-like appendages swaying. The male’s taunts grew uglier.

“You’re worthless,” Mark snarled, closing the distance. “I should have left you back at base. Maybe then I wouldn’t have to deal with your constant bitching.”

You kept walking, jaw tight. “The orchid density here is higher than projected. We should mark this spot for follow-up.”

That was the breaking point. Mark lunged forward and grabbed your shoulder, yanking you around violently. Your scanner clattered to the ground. “Stop fucking ignoring me!”

You tried to de-escalate, hands up. “Mark, please. Stop! The team—”

“The team doesn’t give a shit!” He shoved you hard. You stumbled back against a tree trunk, bark scraping your back. His fist connected with your stomach, driving the air from your lungs. Pain exploded. You doubled over, gasping. Another blow landed across your face, splitting your lip again. Blood filled your mouth. You cried out, sliding down the trunk as he loomed over you, fists clenched, face twisted with rage.

“Pathetic,” he spat. “Cry all you want. No one’s coming.”

You curled instinctively, arms over your head, tears mixing with blood. A scream tore from your throat as his boot connected with your side.

High above, the Yautja’s mandibles flared wide. Enough.

With a decisive click, he deactivated his cloaking device. The air shimmered, and a massive figure materialized on a thick branch before dropping silently to the jungle floor a few meters away. The impact was heavy but controlled—seven and a half feet of corded muscle, armored plating, and technology far beyond human understanding. His biomask gleamed dully in the filtered light, mandibles partially visible beneath it. Dried human blood streaked his body, and trophies from previous kills dangled from his belt and shoulders. He carried himself with the absolute confidence of an apex predator.

Both you and Mark froze.

Mark’s face went pale. “What the fu—”

The Yautja reached to his belt with deliberate slowness and withdrew a small cylindrical device. He hurled it in a smooth arc. It landed between you and Mark and hissed open, releasing a cloud of fast-acting sedative gas. The world tilted almost instantly. Your vision blurred, limbs growing heavy. Mark collapsed first, hitting the ground with a thud. You fought it, eyes wide as the colossal alien strode toward you, each step shaking the earth slightly.

The last thing you saw before darkness claimed you was the Yautja’s masked face looming close, his clawed hand reaching down.

The world returned in fragments—first the throbbing ache in your ribs, then the damp, sweet scent of crushed flowers filling your nose. Your eyelids felt heavy, glued shut by exhaustion and whatever sedative had knocked you out. Groggy, you tried to piece together the chaos. The jungle expedition. Mark’s escalating rage. The blows. Your screams. And then… the monster. A towering silhouette of muscle and armor dropping from the trees, the hiss of gas, and those clawed hands reaching for you.

Your eyes snapped open. You bolted upright with a sharp gasp, heart slamming against your bruised ribs. Pain flared, but it was muted—bandaged. You looked down at yourself. Your torn field shirt had been partially stripped away, the fabric cut neatly at the shoulders and midriff to expose injuries. Clean white bandages—clearly not from your team’s standard medkit—wrapped your torso, your left arm, and a gash on your forehead. The blood that had coated your face and neck was gone, your skin wiped clean. Someone had tended to you with surprising care.

The bed beneath you wasn’t a bed at all. A thick layer of broad, soft petals and fragrant moss had been arranged on the jungle floor like a makeshift nest, forming a shallow depression perfectly contoured to your body. Bioluminescent veins in the surrounding flowers pulsed softly in the fading light. The sun had dipped lower, painting the canopy in deep golds and oranges. Dusk was only a couple of hours away; long shadows stretched between the massive trees, and the jungle’s nocturnal chorus was already beginning to stir—distant hoots, rustling leaves, and the low buzz of insects preparing for night.

You scanned your surroundings. This wasn’t the base. Not even close to the sampling sector. Dense undergrowth formed natural walls around a small clearing, vines draping like curtains. Ancient trees with trunks wider than vehicles towered overhead, their roots twisting into natural benches and alcoves. A small stream trickled nearby, its water crystal clear over smooth stones. The air felt heavier here, charged with an alien presence.

A painful moan cut through the silence.

You whipped your head toward the sound. There, strung up between two sturdy trees about ten meters away, was Mark. His arms were stretched wide and bound high with thick, fibrous vines that dug cruelly into his wrists, drawing thin lines of blood. His legs were similarly secured at the ankles. He looked wrecked—face swollen almost beyond recognition, one eye blackened shut, lips split, fresh cuts across his cheeks and torso. His clothes hung in tatters, stained with blood and dirt. He was just beginning to stir, head lolling as consciousness returned.

Terror rooted you in place. You stared, frozen, as Mark’s good eye fluttered open. He blinked, then registered his situation. Panic hit him like a wave.

“What the—? Fuck! Where the hell am I?!” His voice cracked, hoarse and raw. He thrashed against the vines, which only tightened. “Help! Someone— Y/N! Get over here!” His gaze locked on you, wild with fear and fury. “Get me down from this shit! Make yourself useful for once and cut these fucking vines! Move, damn it!”

You didn’t move. Couldn’t. Your body refused, caught between years of conditioned response and the fresh horror of everything that had happened. You simply stared at him, silent.

Mark’s face twisted. “Are you deaf? Y/N! I said help me, you stupid bitch! This is your fault somehow, isn’t it? Always causing problems—”

A deep, raspy voice echoed from the shadows, cutting him off like a blade.

“Finally. You are both now awake.”

The voice was guttural, layered with clicks and a vibrating rumble that didn’t belong to any human throat. It resonated through the clearing, ancient and predatory. You and Mark both jerked your heads toward the source.

He sat on a fallen log at the edge of the clearing, partially obscured by dappled sunlight and hanging vines until that moment. The Yautja was enormous—well over seven feet tall even seated, legs spread wide in a dominant, relaxed posture. Broad shoulders armored in segmented plates, muscular arms resting on his knees. One clawed hand casually held a wicked, curved blade that gleamed with a faint iridescent edge. His biomask reflected the dying light, mandibles shifting subtly beneath it. Dried blood—human blood—still streaked parts of his body, and trophies (bones, skulls, and metallic trinkets) hung from his belt and pauldrons.

He rose slowly, unfolding to his full, imposing height. The ground seemed to tremble faintly under his weight as he stepped forward, blade still in hand.

Mark started screaming. “What the fuck is that thing?! Stay back! Don’t come near us!”

You remained frozen, breath shallow, eyes wide with terror. Your mind raced—this is real, this is happening—but your limbs wouldn’t obey.

The Yautja stopped a few paces from Mark, head tilting as he studied the bound man with clinical disdain. Then his masked gaze shifted to you, lingering. When he spoke again, the words were halting but intelligible, filtered through some translation tech or sheer linguistic capability honed across hunts.

“I watched you. Both of you. Prey in my jungle. The others fell easily—weak, noisy. But you two… I followed. Listened.” His mandibles clicked. “This male struck you. Beat you like worthless meat. I saw the old marks on your skin. The way you flinched. The fear in your scent.”

Mark’s face paled further, but anger flared. “Shut up, you freak! She’s mine! This has nothing to do with you!”

The Yautja ignored him, focusing on you. “Among my people, females are sacred. Strong. They hunt. They lead. They give life. No male raises a hand to a female in anger. It is shame. Dishonor. This… ooman does not deserve breath.”

Realization crashed over you. This creature had slaughtered the rest of the team. He had beaten Mark savagely, dragged you both here, tended your wounds with unexpected gentleness while leaving your abuser broken and displayed. A confusing swirl of gratitude and bone-deep fear twisted in your chest. He had treated you better in hours than Mark had in months.

Mark, despite his terror, snarled back. “You don’t know shit about us! She’s my girlfriend. She needs discipline. You alien piece of—”

In a blur too fast to track, the Yautja crossed the distance and backhanded Mark across the face. The impact echoed wetly. Blood sprayed from Mark’s mouth as his head snapped sideways. He groaned, spitting teeth.

The Yautja turned fully toward you now, stepping closer. His massive frame cast a long shadow. Slowly, almost reverently, he reached out. You flinched at first, but his touch was shockingly gentle. Clawed fingers brushed a strand of hair from your face, tucking it behind your ear. He traced the line of your jaw with the back of a knuckle, then rested a warm, calloused palm lightly on your bandaged shoulder. The contrast was dizzying: this predator, covered in the evidence of violence, handling you like fragile glass.

“Are you… alright, female?” The raspy voice softened. “Pain? Speak.”

You managed a shaky nod, voice barely above a whisper. “I… I think so. Who… who are you?”

He rumbled, a sound almost like approval. “I am a Yautja. A Hunter. I smelled him on you. Is this male your mate?”

Mark answered before you could, voice slurred and furious. “Yes! She’s mine. Mine! Now, Back off!”

The Yautja’s mandibles flared wide in clear irritation. He crossed back to Mark in one stride and delivered another punishing blow to the gut. Mark doubled as much as the vines allowed, coughing violently.

“Do not speak for her,” the Yautja growled. He returned to you, closer this time. With deliberate care, he reached up and unsealed his biomask. There was a soft hiss of releasing pressure. He lifted it away, revealing his true face for the first time.

It was undeniably alien—broad, mandibled jaws lined with sharp teeth, deep-set amber eyes that glowed with intelligence and intensity, mottled reptilian skin textured like ancient leather, dreadlock-like appendages draped over his shoulders. Scars crisscrossed his features, badges of countless hunts. Yet there was a strange, primal beauty to it. Majestic. Terrifying. Captivating.

He crouched slightly to be closer to your level, still towering. “I can treat you better than this weakling ever could. I will show him. Teach him what it means to honor a female. You are strong, little ooman. Resilient. Worthy of more than bruises and fear.”

His clawed hand returned to your hair, stroking slowly, then trailed down to cup your cheek. The touch sent conflicting shivers through you—fear, confusion, and something warmer you didn’t want to name. Mark watched, bound and helpless, fury and terror warring on his battered face.

The Yautja’s mandibles clicked softly, almost a purr. “Watch closely, male. This is how a true hunter claims what he protects.”

He leaned in closer to you, his massive frame filling your vision, the heat of his body cutting through the cooling jungle air. His free hand moved to your waist, gentle but possessive, drawing you slightly toward him as the last rays of sunlight faded and true dusk began to settle over the clearing.

The Yautja’s massive hand cupped your cheek, his amber eyes burning with possessive hunger. Mark hung between the two trees, vines digging into his bloodied wrists, his swollen face twisted in impotent fury as he prepared to shout again.

Before the human could utter another word, the Yautja moved with predatory speed. He snatched a thick, fibrous vine from a nearby cluster, twisting it into a makeshift gag. In one fluid motion, he crossed to Mark and forced the material between his teeth, tying it brutally tight behind his head. Mark’s eyes bulged in panic as the gag muffled his curses into incoherent, angry moans. He thrashed wildly, but the vines held firm. Only garbled, frustrated sounds escaped him now—no more words, no more protests. Just helpless, muffled moans.

“Better,” the Yautja rumbled, mandibles clicking in satisfaction. “Watch silently, weakling. This is how a true hunter claims and honors a female.”

You stood trembling, naked after he had gently but efficiently ripped away the last of your clothes. The cool night breeze caressed your skin, raising goosebumps over your bandaged bruises. The Yautja returned to you, towering and powerful. His clawed hands—retracting the sharp tips for your safety—began to explore with deliberate hunger. He groped your breasts, squeezing the soft flesh and rolling your nipples between thick fingers until they pebbled. His palms slid down your waist, over your hips, and cupped your ass, kneading possessively. One hand ventured between your thighs, stroking your folds.

“Please…” you whispered, voice shaking with fear and unwanted heat. “Stop… this isn’t right.”

He ignored the plea but remained gentle in his dominance. Dropping to one knee, he dragged his long, warm, rough-textured tongue over every inch of you. He licked up your thighs, tasting the salt of your skin, then across your stomach and over the bandages with surprising care. His tongue circled your breasts, lapping at your nipples until they ached. You gasped, arousal building despite yourself as his hands continued groping—spreading your ass cheeks, squeezing your hips, teasing your entrance.

“Open your mouth, little ooman,” he commanded, voice raspy and deep.

You hesitated, but his glowing eyes held yours. You parted your lips. His thick tongue slid inside, filling your mouth in a deep, dominating kiss. It explored every corner while one massive hand rubbed your pussy. Thick fingers parted your slick folds, stroking your clit in slow, firm circles before dipping inside. You moaned into his mouth, hips twitching as wetness coated his digits.

He pulled back with a wet click, mandibles flaring. Turning toward the gagged Mark, he growled, “Look. See how her body welcomes me. This is how you treat a female.”

Mark could only moan angrily through the vine gag, eyes wide with horror and humiliation as he watched helplessly.

The Yautja lifted you effortlessly, pressing your back to his broad, armored chest. He spread your legs wide over his thighs, facing Mark directly. “Watch closely, male. See what you failed to do.”

His alien cock emerged—enormous, ridged with textured plates, veined, and throbbing. The tapered head was already slick with precum. He rubbed it against your dripping pussy, coating himself in your arousal. “You are small. I will stretch you properly first.”

Two thick fingers pushed into your cunt, scissoring and curling, stretching your walls with patient skill. You whimpered, “Please… stop… I can’t take it…” But your hips rolled against his hand, betraying your growing need. The knowledge that Mark was forced to witness every moment—gagged and silent except for those broken moans—ignited a dark, exhibitionist thrill deep inside you.

He added a third finger, pumping steadily while groping your breasts and pinching your nipples. “You beg to stop, yet your cunt drips for my cock. Feel how ready you are, my strong female.”

After several long, torturous minutes of fingering, he withdrew and aligned his massive girth. The head pressed against your entrance and slowly pushed in, stretching your pussy lips obscenely around his thickness. You cried out at the intense burn and fullness, but he held you securely, easing inch after heavy inch inside until he was buried to the hilt. The bulge in your lower belly was unmistakable.

“See that?” he taunted Mark, pressing a hand over the visible outline. “My cock reshapes her. She belongs to me now.”

He began fucking you standing up, powerful thrusts lifting your body with each stroke. Your breasts bounced heavily, the glowing jungle light playing across your sweat-slicked skin. Each ridge dragged deliciously against your inner walls, hitting every sensitive spot. “Who do you belong to?” he growled hotly against your ear, mandibles brushing your neck.

“Stop… please…” you moaned, even as your pussy clenched greedily around his huge alien cock. Your secret pleasure in being taken so thoroughly in front of your abuser only heightened everything.

The Yautja chuckled, a deep vibrating rumble. He shifted you to the petal-strewn ground, placing you on all fours—ass up, face down—directly in Mark’s line of sight. The soft flowers and moss cushioned your knees as he mounted you from behind. Gripping your hips, he slammed in deep, the wet sounds of your stretched pussy echoing through the clearing. He fucked you harder, balls slapping your clit, one hand reaching around to rub it furiously while Mark moaned helplessly through his gag.

“Such a perfect, tight cunt. Made for Yautja cock. You take me so well, resilient little mate.”

Next, he lifted you and pressed your back against a massive tree trunk. Your legs wrapped around his waist as he drove upward into you with raw power. Bark lightly scraped your shoulders, but his strong arms shielded and supported you. Each thrust was deep and claiming. “Such a strong female. Wasted on that weakling. Feel how I fill you completely.”

You sobbed in overwhelming pleasure, whispering broken pleas of “stop” that only made him thrust harder. Your walls fluttered and clenched, another orgasm building rapidly. The exhibitionism burned through you—Mark’s gagged, defeated moans only fueled the fire.

Finally, the Yautja moved into a full nelson position. Standing tall, he hooked his massive arms under your knees, folding you nearly in half and exposing everything. Your body was completely on display, pussy stretched obscenely wide around his pistoning cock, the thick bulge in your belly rising and falling visibly with every brutal thrust. He bounced you on his length mere feet from Mark, ensuring the human had an unobstructed view of how deeply he claimed you.

“Look, male,” the Yautja snarled. “See how my cock stretches her. This is proper treatment. Honor. Strength. This is how a female should be fucked.”

The position left you utterly helpless, taking every inch of his massive alien cock. It battered your cervix, ridges milking your g-spot mercilessly. You came hard, screaming in ecstasy as your pussy squirted around him, juices dripping down his thighs and onto the glowing flowers. Still, you gasped out “stop… please stop…” even as your body milked him desperately, lost in the raw pleasure.

His pace grew savage. “You are mine. Say it.”

“I’m… I'm yours…” you cried, voice breaking with another climax.

With a primal roar that shook the canopy, he buried himself to the hilt. Torrents of hot, thick alien cum flooded your pussy in powerful jets—so much that it overflowed instantly, gushing out around his cock and splattering your thighs, mound, and the jungle floor. He kept thrusting through his orgasm, pumping every drop deep inside you, marking you thoroughly. The excess painted your belly and dripped in heavy strands.

He held you suspended in full nelson for long moments afterward, cock still twitching inside your overflowing cunt, as the bioluminescent jungle pulsed around you. Your naked, trembling body remained impaled and claimed, cum leaking steadily. Mark could only moan brokenly through his gag, eyes glazed with defeat.

The Yautja nuzzled your neck affectionately, mandibles gentle against your skin. “Good female. Do you see how he watches? This is how a true hunter claims what he protects.”

His massive arms held you securely against his broad chest, his ridged alien cock still buried deep inside your stretched pussy. He had been gentle even in his strength—claws carefully sheathed, movements controlled so as not to bruise your already healing body. You were exhausted, overwhelmed, but something had shifted. The constant rough pleasure, the way every ridge dragged perfectly against your inner walls, the sheer dominance mixed with surprising care… it broke through your resistance.

You moaned softly, hips rolling back against him. “Don’t… stop,” you whispered, voice hoarse. The words surprised even you. The exhibitionist thrill of Mark’s gagged, helpless moans had ignited something deep and dark within you, and now you craved more.

The Yautja rumbled in approval, mandibles brushing your neck tenderly. “Good female. Let me give you everything.”

He fucked you for what felt like hours. Strong but gentle, he moved you through position after position with effortless power. On your back on the petal nest, legs wrapped around his waist as he thrust deep and slow, grinding the bulge in your belly with each stroke. Then bent over a thick root, ass up as he pounded into you from behind, one hand rubbing your clit until you screamed in release. He lifted you against the tree again, your smaller body pinned between bark and unyielding muscle, cock spearing upward while his tongue invaded your mouth.

You let him do whatever he wanted. When he wanted your mouth, you opened eagerly, taking as much of his thick length as you could. When he flipped you into full nelson once more, displaying your cum-stuffed pussy to the gagged Mark, you came harder than ever, squirting around the massive intrusion. Your pleas of “stop” had long since melted into desperate moans of “more… please… harder.”

He praised you constantly in his raspy, clicking voice. “Such a perfect mate. So tight. So strong. Taking my cock like you were born for it.” His hands groped and caressed—never harming, always worshiping—squeezing your breasts, stroking your hair, holding your hips with reverent strength.

By the time he finally reached his second climax of the night, flooding your womb with another massive load of hot alien cum, you were limp and blissed out in his arms. He held you close, still buried inside you, as your pussy continued to flutter around him.

“You have pleased me greatly,” he murmured, nuzzling the top of your head. His voice dropped lower. “Now, watch. I want you to see what I do for you.”

He gently pulled out, a gush of cum spilling down your legs as he set you carefully on the soft moss bed. Naked and towering, his muscled body glistening with sweat and your combined fluids, he turned toward the bound Mark.

Mark’s eyes widened in pure terror. Muffled, frantic moans escaped around the vine gag as he thrashed uselessly against the vines.

The Yautja approached slowly, deliberately. In traditional Yautja fashion, he activated a wrist gauntlet, extending a pair of gleaming ceremonial blades. He spoke in a low, ritualistic growl—words you didn’t understand but which carried the weight of ancient hunting rites. With brutal efficiency and primal strength, he began the kill.

He slashed the vines holding Mark’s legs first, letting the man collapse partially. Then, gripping Mark’s head with one massive hand, he drove the blades into his back with precise, practiced movements. Mark’s muffled screams intensified as the Yautja carved upward along the spine in a horrific but ritualistic motion. Blood sprayed across the glowing flowers. With a final, powerful yank, the Yautja ripped the entire spine and skull free in one clean, gruesome trophy pull—vertebrae gleaming wetly in the bioluminescent light.

The Yautja threw his head back and screamed—a deafening, victorious roar that shook the trees and silenced the jungle chorus for miles around. He held the bloody spine high, turning to face you, amber eyes seeking approval. Steam rose from the trophy in the cool night air.

You watched from the moss bed, naked and exhausted, cum still leaking from your well-fucked pussy. You felt no horror, no guilt—only a distant numbness and strange sense of justice. This predator had protected you in ways no human ever had. He had tended your wounds, given you pleasure, and now removed the source of your pain forever. You met his gaze and gave a small, weary nod.

The Yautja’s mandibles clicked in satisfaction. He discarded the trophy to the side for later collection and returned to you, scooping your small, naked body into his powerful arms as if you weighed nothing.

The transition from the jungle planet happened in a haze. The Yautja’s cloaked ship had been hidden nearby. He carried you aboard, cleaned you gently in a strange, steaming chamber, then piloted you far from Epsilon-9. His secret home was a hidden asteroid outpost deep in uncharted space—a cavernous nest carved into metallic rock and reinforced with Yautja technology. Bioluminescent plants from countless worlds grew along the walls, mimicking the jungle’s glow. Trophies from legendary hunts lined alcoves, while a massive central nest of furs, soft alien fabrics, and heated stones dominated the sleeping chamber. The air was warm, dry, and filled with his musky scent.

There, in his domain, he claimed you again for hours.

He laid you down in the nest and worshipped your body with strong but infinitely gentle hands and tongue. You rode him, impaled on his massive ridged cock as he guided your hips. He took you from behind while you gripped the furs, then face-to-face so he could watch every expression of pleasure cross your features. Multiple orgasms blurred together until you were sobbing with overstimulation and bliss, letting him do anything—everything—he desired. He filled you repeatedly, huge loads of cum overflowing each time.

Finally, spent and sated, he pulled you into his arms, spooning your much smaller naked body against his massive frame. His cock, still impressive even softened, rested hot and slick against your lower back, nestled between your ass cheeks. Thick cum continued to leak slowly from your thoroughly used pussy, coating your thighs and the nest beneath you.

He began to purr—a deep, vibrating rumble that resonated through his chest and into your back. The sound was soothing, primal, content.

“You are mine now,” he declared, voice raspy and warm against your ear. One clawed hand stroked your hair, the other resting possessively over your cum-filled belly. “No male—human or otherwise—will ever hurt you again. I will hunt for you. Protect you. Pleasure you. You are my mate.”

You reached back tentatively, fingers tracing the textured, scarred skin of his arm and shoulder. It was surprisingly warm, leathery yet flexible, pulsing with life. You felt the ridges of old battle wounds, the power coiled beneath. More cum trickled out of you as you shifted, a constant reminder of his claim.

The Yautja purred louder, the vibrations intensifying as he snuggled closer, curling his larger body protectively around yours. His mandibles brushed gently against your neck in an almost-kiss.

You didn’t know what the future held. Would you stay here forever? Would he take you on hunts? Introduce you to his kind? The uncertainty lingered, but for now, in the safety of his nest, wrapped in his strength and gentle possession, you felt something you hadn’t in years—peace.

Exhaustion finally claimed you. Your eyes drifted shut as his purring deepened into a steady, rhythmic lullaby. The Yautja held you tighter, his own breathing slowing as sleep took him too.

You and K'uk'ulkan have been together for 12 years. It feels surreal and your love for eachother is stronger than it was when you first got together. He had planned to be there for you for the anniversery because it's your anniversery.

---

K'uk'ulkan returns: it's nightime and usually you would sleep but your mind is far from that. The empty glass of alcohol sits in front of you: the plate of empty food long gone.

It's your anniversery that day. He had planned to do something nice for you starting with the dinner he promised to make. That was hours ago though and you have been waiting for him for hours to return only for him to return when you're usually asleep. For him to seem to have no recollection that it's even your anniversery.

"In Yakunaj."- my love.

Namor pauses for a moment, his deep brown eyes meeting yours. Sadness and frustration, that's what he seems to pick up on at the moment.

"...Ts'o'ok in suut."- I’m back.

Unable to fight back the tears from falling, you scoff.

"Oh he returns, finally."

You want to just yell at him, but you can't.

"...I never thought you would."

It's...different to hear you be this harsh.

"...I told you I would..."

Namor begins to approach you, but you take a step back. With your right hand you hold it up signalling 'stop'.

"I get that you had to leave to do what you had to do K'uk'u'lkan, but..."

Hands run over your face- and more tears fall.

"...what about us? What about me?"

The sting that follows the last words strikes Namor in the heart, and he sighs, the words not properly forming. He has wanted to return to you sooner but couldn't. You have every right to be angry at him though, he gets that.

“Lamento ma' yantalto'on yaax yaantal waye', ba'ale' necesitaba bin- I’m sorry I was not here, but I needed to go.

You get that, of course you do. but this is your anniversary. Something he should have remembered. Maybe he had his mind on something else, and he had just forgotten, but he had promised you he would be there, and it hurts that only now he's returned.

"Ba'ale' ta chi'taj yaantal waye' yéetel ma' ka'ach.” - but you promised to be here and you weren’t.

You glance a way for a moment.

"I love you, more than anything." emphasizing the 'anything'.

"...but i'm upset..." and you’re angry too, but you’re more upset. He never meant to make you upset or angry, either. Truly he didn’t .

Namor mean's 'the boy without love' and he had laughed about that many times. He has many enemies, but no one seemed to care enough [besides his people] to understand him. They just feared him without giving him a chance.

Then you came along. The kindness radiating off of you is what he picked up on, and that welcoming smile he remembers so much. "my name is (y/n)." and as time went on he had found himself feeling something for you he had never felt towards anyone in that way. He had never given his heart to anyone, until you.

The love you have for him is more than you can put into words. Right now, though, right now you're sad and you want to just be away from him.

"Do you even remember what day it is?"

You wait...nothing. He seriously doesn't know, which hurts more. The tears fall quicker this time, but you don't wipe them away. All you do is fight back the urge from breaking how could he forget. You're willing to give him the benefit of the doubt because he is a ruler but he had told you days before he wouold be there for your anniversery. He promised.

He tilts his head, at first. K'uk'ulkan is confused. So he thinks back...then it clicks, and Namor's eyes widen.

"(y/n)."

Namor begins approaching you again but you shake your head, making it clear that you're extremely pissed and you don't want him around you.

"In yakunaj-"

"No..."

You take a step back, making him stop. Then you just shake your head...but it's what you say next that catches him off guard.

"Just leave me alone Namor."

The sharp venom in your tone cutting him. Namor? The only time you call him this is if you're extremely angry with him. You never call him by this name, only 'K'uk'ulkan'...but now? Now you don't care, you just want to be away from Namor.

You turn away from him, a sigh escaping.

"I need to be alone right now…”

K'uk'ulkan has never seen you this angry and upset at him, and he's angry at himself for forgetting your anniversary. He never forgets things, so he hates that he forgot this. Namor wants nothing more than to just hold you and tell you how sorry he is...but you need space, and he wants to give that to you.

So he simply nods "okay."

Before he leaves, though, he says:

"Lamento Ma'atech yantalto'on lelo'oba' ts'o'ok u intención u lastimar teech. In yaakunech."- I’m sorry, I never meant to hurt you. I love you.