ziz

His weight pins you into the mattress, thick fingers already buried deep, deep inside your soaked, velvety cunt, stretching you around them in a firm constant motion.

His forearm flexes as he pumps and pumps them in and out with a wet, filthy rhythm, thumb pressing into your little nub and knuckles brushing onto that sweet, sensitive spot that makes your thighs jerk over and over again.

"Shhh, babygirl," Joel murmurs, voice low. "Daddy's got you. Daddy's got his baby. Just let it happen, honey."

You're already crying—soft, small hiccuping sobs that shake in your chest—because it's too much, too fast, too overstimulating for your poor little cunt, and you've never ever felt anything like this. 

Oh and Joel knows you've never felt this way before. 

Your hands can only push weakly at his shoulders, and he won't move. Solid, immovable, pinning you completely under him, every ounce of his strength focused on squeezing another orgasm out of you.

"Daddy—please, I-I think I'm gonna—" Your voice cracks as fresh tears slip down your temples. The pressure in your belly is so unbearable, a hot, insistent throb that presses and presses. "I'm gonna pee, I can't—"

Joel's free hand slides up, palm broad and calloused, and presses firmly right below your belly button. The heel of it sinks into the soft flesh of your tummy, and the sensation makes your whole body jolt against him. 

"S'okey, baby. You ain't gonna pee. That's not what's happenin'." He places a kiss on your forehead. "You're gonna squirt for Daddy, that's all. My messy girl just needs a little help."

His fingers curl again, scissoring them inside you, and the wet sound is obscene—slick, squelching, constant. Your thighs tremble around his wrist, trying to close, but he's wedged between them, hips braced wide so you can't escape the relentless drag of his knuckles. 

Every thrust and rub makes your clit throb oversensitive, swollen and aching, you can feel how puffy your folds are, how they cling to his fingers on every pull.

"T-too much," you whimper, voice breaking. Fresh tears spill, hot, salty, melting into your hair. "Daddy, please, I can't—"

He hushes you again, leaning down so his beard brushes your cheek, breath warm against your ear. 

"You can, honey. You're doin' so good for me." He murmurs, his free hand going behind your head and making you look at his fingers disappearing in your hole. "Pretty cunt takin' my fingers like it was made for 'em. So tight, so wet—fuck, listen to you." 

He punctuates the words with a particularly deep, hard thrust, and a gush of slick spills out around his knuckles, soaking the sheet beneath you.

"Oh—" you gasp, your hands fist into his flannel shirt, tugging, but it's useless. 

He's too damn heavy, too solid, and he knows it.

The knowledge sits in his pretty brown eyes when he pulls back just enough to watch your face; dark, patient, maybe a little amused.

"Push all you want, babygirl. Ain't movin' till you give it to me."

The pressure crests then again, sharper this time, and your back arches hard off of the bed. 

Joel's hand on your tummy presses down firmer and firmer, pinning you, making the overstimulation worse. The combination—his fingers stroking that spongy spot inside you, the weight of his palm, his body lying on top of you—snaps something loose.

"There she goes."

You sob his name as it hits, a sudden, violent rush that sprays out around his fingers in a hot, messy arc. It soaks the sheets, splashes up his wrist, wets his pants and keeps coming and coming in pulsing, squelching waves while your cunt clenches desperately around him. 

Joel groans low in his chest, the sound filthy and approving. "There it is. That's my girl. Look how much you had in ya, so messy." 

But he doesn't stop. 

His fingers keep moving, slower now but still deep, working you through every aftershock until you're a twitching and whimpering mess. 

The overstimulation burns, sharp and electric, every nerve raw and singing. You try to twist away but his body  keeps you caged, your hips shifting just enough to grind the heel of his palm against your clit on every stroke.

"Shhh, I know," he soothes. "Daddy's too strong for you, ain't he? Can't get away even if you wanted to. And you don't really want to, do you? Feels too good, havin' your old man ruin that pretty pussy."

Your answer is a broken moan, hips jerking helplessly as another smaller gush leaks out around his fingers. 

Joel chuckles, low and warm, finally easing his hand free. 

Your cunt flutters around nothing, empty, aching,  slick dripping down the cleft of your ass to join the wet patch beneath you.

He shifts his weight then, one knee nudging your thigh wider, and the blunt head of his cock nudges against your entrance suddenly. 

He's thick, hot, the ridge catching on your swollen folds as he rocks forwards just enough to tease. 

You shake your head immediately, a whine of protest leaving your lips. "S'too much, daddy..."

"S'okey, honey. You're okay. We're gonna do that again," he murmurs, and your stomach flips. "But this time, i'm gonna fuck it out of you. Fill you up all nice and slow, and make you squirt on my cock, over and over till you can't think straight. Ya hear me, sweet girl?"

You can't do anything but nod, tears still clinging to your lashes, body trembling under him. 

This overstimulation in your body has you floaty, every sensation now amplified: the drag of his cockhead through your slick, the way his chest hair rasps against your nipples when he leans down, the steady press of his hand still splayed across your tummy because he owns it.

Joel pushes in slow, the stretch burning sweet  and so, so deep, making your walls flutter around him, still so sensitive from the earlier release. 

He groans when he bottoms out, hips flush to yours, and stays there for a moment, rubbing your little clit, letting you feel every inch. 

"Theere we go, just take me. You're so tight, honey." he breathes. "Even after all that, still squeezin' me like you don't wanna let go."

When he starts to move—it's long, deliberate strokes that grind against every oversensitive spot inside you. 

Each thrust punches little gasps and pitiful whimpers from your throat, and the wet sound of your cunt taking him is louder now, slick and messy from everything he's already pulled out of you. 

His hand stays on your belly, thumb stroking soothing circles even as his hips snap harder, driving you up the bed.

"Gonna make you squirt again," he promises, voice rough with effort. "Gonna feel you gush around my cock, soak the both of us. And you're gonna take it, 'cause Daddy knows what you need better than you do."

Your hands clutch at his shoulders, nails digging in, but there's no fight left—just the overwhelming rush of sensation as he fucks you through the overstimulation, each thrust pushing you closer to that same unbearable edge. 

Joel's voice stays in your ear the whole time, sweet and condescending, praising and guiding you through every wave until you're sobbing his name again and again while the sheets are ruined completely beneath you.

This makes me kinda want to write a piss kink fic but...I already got so much hate for writing fauxcest im a LITTLE traumatised😭😭

He’s tall, broad, graying, and stern. His dark brown eyes apprise every counselor in front of him as the group gathers on the camp’s front lawn two weeks before opening day. He goes over the rules and expectations of all staff members. You pay attention even though it’s the same old drill: no fucking around during working hours, make sure the campers are safe at all times, please report injuries and have them sent to the nurses station, et cetera. You could recite the rules by heart.

Only one thing has you concerned.

You raise your hand to speak. Joel glances over at you but continues talking, stressing the importance of keeping away from drugs and alcohol during the next two weeks, especially once the campers come on opening day. You know all that. Still, you wait with your hand raised until Joel sighs, giving you time to speak.

“What happened to Frankie?”

Joel tries really hard not to roll his eyes. “Francisco Morales won’t be here to help us set up. He’ll be here on the camp’s opening day.” He snorts, arms crossed as he eyes you up and down. “What, is he your boyfriend or somethin’?”

“No..” you reply, unable to stop the embarrassment from creeping up your spine. Of course you and Frankie hadn’t set any firm definitions about what you are, but the past two years you’ve spent here have also been spent by fucking him in the woods during early morning hikes, blowing him in the storage shed, and sneaking him into your cabin to have him go down on you all night.

You have his number, but there’s been no answer when you’ve called before driving up to the campsite. You wonder what’s keeping him from being here.

Piper, the girl you’ve hated since you’ve been counselors together these past few years, shoots a smug look your way as the meeting is adjourned, and she walks off with Joel’s arm around her waist. She glances over her shoulder at you, giving you the finger.

She’s just jealous because Frankie chose you over her two years ago. She hasn’t let you alone in peace since.

Joel is a hard task master. At dawn he has the counselors up and jogging through the trail in the woods and chopping firewood before breakfast. Swim safety is in the afternoon when the heat is at its worst, the air humid with the scent of sunblock and stagnant lake water. At the very least you’re given some time to lay out in the sun afterward, drying off on the warm boards of the dock.

Back at the cabins only two people are unaccounted for – Piper and Joel. The other counselors make crude guesses as to where they are and what they’re doing. You’re elected to go and find them before it gets dark. Piper has dinner duty and Maya refuses to do all the cooking alone.

Slipping on your jean shorts, your towel slung over your shoulders to catch the water droplets from your still-damp hair, you set out in search of Joel and Piper.

The sun is just starting to set when you find them in a thick copse of trees near the edge of the forest, Piper pressed against a tree as Joel’s fingering her, his hand down the front of her red bikini bottom as he plunges inside her, head bent close to her ear, muttering dirty things. You stop, half-hidden by the trees as you watch them, your own pussy growing wet just bearing witness. You know you should turn and leave, forget you ever saw this, just tell the others that Piper and Joel are coming back soon.

But you’re frozen to the spot, watching them in the secrecy of the woods, your own hand ghosting over your clothed clit, imagining what Joel’s thick, rough fingers must feel like.

There’s a sharp snap of a twig that echoes in the air, causing Piper and Joel to quickly part. You’re already hurrying down the path, shame and lust heating your cheeks.

Everyone is split up in pairs, the counselor bunks only small enough to house two comfortably, and unfortunately Joel assigns you and Piper together. You tell yourself it’ll just be a couple months and most days will be too busy for you to have to deal with her very much.

Piper grabs the top bunk before you have a chance to claim it. But once you’re settled in the bottom, she makes you switch back after she finds a spiderweb too close to the ceiling.

But even your nights can’t be peaceful. Joel sneaks in after lights out, and you have to endure the soft giggles and moans coming from the bunk below you. The entire bed frame rocks with Joel’s thrusts as he fucks your bunkmate.

Great, just great.

They make no effort to hide whatever’s going on between them. His hand is permanently on her ass, barely clothed in the camp counselor uniform shorts, his entire paw covering her ass cheek. The others don’t notice or don’t care, too caught up in their own romantic entanglements.

It only makes you miss Frankie more. Out here in the woods you have no way of contacting him except through the main office line, but Joel stands right in front of anyone who wants to call home, dials the number on the rotary phone, and waits with arms crossed as the call is made. Nobody does personal calls while he’s in charge.

You try to keep yourself busy with helping get the camp ready. The grass near the cabins is maintained, repairs are made to the buildings themselves (which Joel oversees, and you can’t help but to check him out a little while he’s fixing the sign above the infirmary – he looks too good with a hammer), checking that the generators are working properly, and that the electrical system and water pressure are good.

There’s so much to do that by the time you climb up into your bunk you fall asleep as soon as your head hits the pillow.

The only thing that could possibly wake you is Joel fucking Piper in the bunk below yours.

Joel’s grunts and groans, paired with Piper’s moaning and gasping, keep you awake. You lose count of how many rounds they go, the entire bed bunk frame shaking with their movements. And at one point you can’t help it as your fingers travel beneath your sleep shorts, finding your wet pussy and tracing your slit. Two fingers fit inside you easily as you lift your legs to get comfortable. Closing your eyes you start fucking yourself on your hand, imagining Joel’s fingers inside of you instead of yours.

You’re trying desperately to keep your whimpering to a minimum but you doubt they’ll hear you over their own sounds. Your fingers match the pace of Joel’s thrusts, though you imagine his cock is a lot bigger than your two fingers combined. And the way he’s been fucking Piper for almost an hour solidifies the fact that his stamina is good.

Your fingers glide over your clit, circling and swiping, your hips arching up as you chase the friction you so desperately need for your release as you listen to Piper’s moans and Joel’s increasing grunts. Eyes squeezed tight you plunge your fingers as deep as you can, timing it just right with Piper’s final, momentous scream. You try to keep as quiet as possible as your release coats your hand, clit throbbing, legs quaking.

Joel corners you after breakfast the next morning, barring you from following the others to the field where a soccer match was planned. Instead he drags you to the boat shed. You hate it there. It’s dusty and cramped and there are cobwebs in the corners.

“What’s wrong?” you ask, your heart in your throat as Joel peers down at you, something unreadable in his deep brown eyes.

“What’s wrong?” he mimics you. “You think I don’t know you were gettin’ yourself off to me and Piper last night?”

The blood drains from your face, leaving you cold. “Wh-what?”

“Stop actin’ innocent. You weren’t exactly quiet. Piper was laughin’ at you, sayin’ you’re a lonely little virgin.”

“I’m not a virgin,” you tell him tersely.

“Really?” Joel’s voice is full of derision. “Prove it.”

The blood drains from your face. “H-how?”

“You’re a smart girl. You know how.” But just to be mean he explains it in detail. “How about you bend over–” he slaps the hull of a nearby canoe and puts his hand on your lower back, pressuring you towards it. “--pull those pretty little short-shorts down and let me check for myself.”

“You’re not serious,” you sputter.

“You afraid or somethin’?” he smirks.

You’re not afraid per se. But you’re definitely wet enough so that he’ll tease you if he finds out. “Of course not,” you stand up to him boldly.

He looks amused by this, and the way he cups his bulge in his own shorts shows he’s more than a little turned on. Your eyes drop down to where his thick cock is hardening under the skin-tight fabric.

With determination in your eyes, you’re certain of yourself when you reach up and grab Joel by the nape of his neck, kissing him. His eyes go wide at the initial shock of surprise, but then they close, a deep and satisfied growl in his chest as he kisses you back, his tongue slipping past your lips. Your gasp turns into a soft moan as his large paw on your lower back presses you closer to him, rubbing his hard-on against you.

“I bet this pussy’s already soaked,” he mutters, finally breaking from the kiss to nip at your neck. “But first..” he pulls away, a devilish look in his eye. “Lift up that shirt, honey, and lemme see those pretty titties.”

You scoff despite the fact that you are indeed soaked, but you’re already this far in. You might as well go all the way. You lift up your shirt, your white lacy bra on full display. Joel’s big meaty hands pull down the cups, palming your tits with his rough bare hands, bouncing them in his palms. “Look at these.. you gonna lemme suck ‘em?”

Fuck. This isn’t going how you expected but you can’t complain. You nod and he immediately pulls you close, picking you up and pinning you against the canoe as he takes your nipple in his mouth, groaning, using his free hand to pinch your other nipple. “So sweet,” he groans, releasing off you with a wet pop before sucking on the other.

“Joel!” you gasp, a fresh wave of wetness seeping through your underwear.

“Don’t worry, I’m gettin’ there,” he mumbles, helping you shimmy out of your shorts and pressing you forward against the boat. He lands a quick spank across your ass cheek, chuckling at the way your flesh jiggles and the sound of your yelp. Then he spreads your cheeks wide. “Look at that.. pretty as the mornin’ dew..” He kneels down and laps at your honey, making you moan. Almost too late you catch yourself, muffling your own sounds with your palm.

His large, rough hand trails down your spine, keeping you in place as the thick head of his cock slides through your folds, collecting your wetness and teasing you as he slides between your cheeks. You mewl in protest as he chuckles. “Maybe you’re right, maybe you’re not a virgin. Not the way you’re actin’ so greedy for my cock. Well darlin’, take it..”

He eases into you, using shallow thrusts and you can’t help but exhale, the rush of breath leaving you in surprise before he angles you down, sliding in to the hilt. “You’re full of me now,” he grunts out, holding steady to your hips. “God damn, tighter than a nun’s asshole.”

Your walls flutter around him with each stroke, your hands bracing you against the smooth wood of the upturned canoe. You whimper in time with each smooth thrust. Each time Joel bottoms out you feel it deep in your belly, probably deeper than anyone’s ever gone.

“Wish you could see how you’re soakin’ me,” Joel grunts, giving a few quick thrusts to let you hear the sound of your sloppy pussy. “How do you like it, darlin’? You want me to make a mess of you inside, or do you need me to pull out and shove this cock down your throat so you can swallow my load?”

“I-inside,” you pant. “I have an IUD.”

“That’s a relief,” Joel mutters, speeding up, one big hand wrapping around your front to tickle your clit. “C’mon, baby, need you to come on my cock before I bust inside you..”

He slows down just enough for you to work your way up to it, the heat building in your belly and your core, moaning at the way he lifts your hips to meet each thrust, sweat gathering at your temples. “Joel,” you whine, thinking of nothing but the way he’s fucking and filling and stretching your cunt. With an expertly angled thrust home you fall apart, moaning his name as you squeeze around him, and he picks up the pace, slamming into you until he swells inside you, his hot cum painting your walls. His cock is still twitching in the aftershocks when he finally releases his grip on your hips and pulls out of you. You quickly shove your underwear and shorts back on to catch his leavings already starting to leak out.

“Smart girl, bein’ on birth control,” Joel mutters, stuffing himself back into his own shorts. “I wish Piper was responsible like that.”

You school your features into nonchalance after you pull your shirt back down. There’s a little stab of guilt when you realize you’ve just fucked your bunkmate’s boyfriend.. even if she is a bitch. “What do you mean?” you ask innocently.

He reddens, as if he shouldn’t have spoken. “You’re sworn to secrecy, alright? Piper’s pregnant.”

“What?” Joel immediately clamps his hand over your mouth. He still smells like sex.

“Shut. Up,” he warns. “If I find out you told anyone else you’re packin’ your bags and goin’ home. Understand?”

You nod and whisper “Yes,” when he removes his hand. “It’s yours?”

He scoffs. “She says so. Still– not a peep. Got it?”

Piper becomes grumpy when Joel’s visits make an abrupt stop. But she’s no bitchier than usual, likely trying to get back into Joel’s good graces. Little does she know he’s only stopped coming to her because he’s taken up fucking you instead – in the storage shed, in the empty cots in the infirmary, the walk-in pantry in the kitchen. He maintains the position that he doesn’t like you very much while you’re in front of the others, sometimes giving you tasks you have to complete on your own – with the sole purpose of finding you to hook up.

The last night before the campers are due, everyone lets loose. Couples sneak off into the woods with sleeping bags and sinful intentions, some stay on the pier by the lake, drinking and laughing.

You’re the only one who’s made it to your bunk at an appropriate hour, wanting a full night’s rest before the big day. But your sleep is interrupted when Joel and Piper come in, slamming the door behind them, all over each other, kissing and giggling. With a silent groan you put your pillow over your head, already expecting to drown out the noises they’re about to make, which are going to keep you up all night.

They’re in the bottom bunk, a little quieter now that their mouths are busy. But soon there’s that familiar rocking rhythm and the sound of Piper’s moans and squeals, coming to a crescendo. Once again Joel’s stamina is off the charts. You’re in the middle of pleasuring yourself, two fingers shoved as deep as you can go, when everything stops and you hear Joel murmuring. There’s a creak as he gets out of the bunk, and Piper giggles as he positions her facing away. Now Joel’s eye level with your bunk and you gasp as you come face to face with him. He winks at you.

“What do you think you’re doing?” you whisper as quietly as you can.

“She caught up with me. I couldn’t shake her,” he explains just as softly. “Don’t leave me hangin’, sweetheart. Bring that pretty pussy to my face.”

Without hesitating you lift up your nightdress, scooting to the edge of the bed, thighs spread around Joel’s face as he fucks into Piper – oblivious to everything going on – in the bottom bunk. He’s got his dick buried in her while he’s eating you out. You’ve never experienced anything hotter.

You hear Piper’s staccato cries as Joel pounds into her from behind, his own moans humming through your flesh, heightening your arousal, your clit standing at attention between Joel’s lips, his mustache tickling your soft skin. You already know you’re going to come when your legs start shaking, toes curling at the waves of pressure building up in your very core.

“Joel!” you try to whisper as softly as possible. “Joel!.. I’m gonna come!”

He only smacks harder into Piper, her own cries louder than yours. “Come for me,” he whispers back, the tip of his tongue giving one teasing swirl around your pearl before he dives back in. Your back arches off the bed, lightning shooting through your veins as your cunt pulses, drenching Joel’s mouth as you come. He groans, licking up every drop, watching you through his lashes. “Good girl,” he whispers, backing off when you become too sensitive, his lips warm on your inner thigh, stubble scratching at your soft skin as he pulls off of Piper, turning her around so she’s sucking him off.

You hear her moaning and sighing, gagging on his cock. Meanwhile Joel lazily fingers you, scissoring his digits inside your sloppy pussy, his eyes black and glossy while Piper deep-throats him. Your fingers card through his hair as you ignore the softening of your heart in seeing him so tame and vulnerable.

Your name is on his lips but he moans Piper just in the nick of time, his breaths growing unsteady as he comes close to the end, getting ready to bust in Piper’s mouth. You take his head in your cupped hands. “Come, Joel.. give her what she wants,” you whisper. He groans, his thrusts getting sloppy as he fucks his girlfriend’s throat, stilling at last, his features tensing then relaxing as Piper gasps softly, swallowing his thick load.

The next day Joel treats you the same as he always has. Everyone’s minds are on the Opening Day festivities ahead, even if some of the counselors look like they’ve only had a couple hours’ sleep. You’re bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, not just because of last night, but because you’re genuinely excited for summer camp to officially begin.

The campers hurry out of the stuffy buses and onto the rolling green grass, toting duffel bags, wearing the gold and blue camp tees and ball caps, eager for their summer to begin. Everyone is assigned to a counselor, and as soon as your group is ready you start to lead them to their cabin. You have a full day ahead: a quick icebreaker so everyone can become acquainted, a scavenger hunt that will enable the kids to work as a team, then a game of capture the flag, then lunch. You have your day cut out for you, and in the back of your mind you wonder if you’ll cross paths with Joel again..

Your thoughts are interrupted by someone shouting back at the buses. All the counselors turn to look, surprise written on their faces as they find one more latecomer to Camp Happy Trail.

Frankie Morales, adjusting the Standard Oil cap on his head, dark curls already sticking to the sweat on his neck, hurries off the last bus. His royal blue camp tee clings to his torso like sin, accentuating his broad frame. You’re speechless when he reaches you, putting his arms around you and lifting you off the ground before landing a big kiss on your lips. The campers are grossed out, giggling and making faces.

When he pulls away, cupping your face in his hands, you can feel everyone’s eyes on you, just as shocked as you are to see him finally arrive. “I missed you, babe,” he says, planting one more kiss on your forehead. “So what have I missed?”

if you made it this far, thank you! follow @baronessvonglitter-fics for updates 💚

"We've got a residential fire at 720 River Row," Brett heard the speakers cry out overhead just as he walked onto the open floor of his station. 

Instantly, his body tensed. Residential fires had the potential to spread and grow beyond measure, especially in the middle of dry season. One wrong spark, and half of California would light up brighter than a Christmas tree. 

"Let's get it moving!" he barked, already stepping to his open locker to shuck on the heavy standard fire suspenders and jacket with Ct. Brett Richards patched to the front flap. His helmet went on next, and his hair flattened beneath as he strapped it in place. 

The familiar wail of a fire truck overwhelmed his senses, and he wondered how he hadn't gone deaf yet. Twenty years on the service without significant hearing loss must have been a new record. He was closer to losing the ability to hear due to older age than continually getting his eardrums blasted on a daily basis. 

With a grunt, he pulled himself up into the passenger seat, and his body lurched when the truck screeched out of the station, wheels finding grip and purchase of the concrete road. 

"Show station 42 on route. What's the status?" he spoke into the radio. 

"Caller said the oven caught on fire. She had an extinguisher on hand, but with dry season, it needs to be overlooked." 

"Understood." He set the radio back into the holder and groaned. "It's just some oven fire." 

The driver chuckled. "Probably some old lady that fell asleep baking a casserole or something." 

Brett gave him a quick smirk. "Yeah . . . probably." 

However, when the truck pulled onto the small residential street with cars littering both sides, he couldn't help but note that the house where the fire had been wasn't the usual old-lady type, normally covered in overgrown grass and a scary amount of lawn ornaments. 

Brett fucking hated the gnomes. 

Instead, this house had a more modern look to it with a beautiful forest green front door paired with a porch goose dressed up with a yellow rain jacket. He snorted; rain wasn't coming anytime in the near future, that's for sure. 

With a grunt, he heaved himself out of the truck, knees slightly tingling from the height. The sidewalk was also well kept, he noted. No cracks in the foundation, no weeds. Whoever lived here was obviously well able to keep up with lawn maintenance. 

To his right, a low whistle sounded clearly through the bright day. "I take back the old lady comment, cause hot damn." 

Brett side-eyed him before looking at the police officer talking to the homeowner, and then, his driver's comment made sense because there you were. 

Beautiful is what hit his mind first and followed by young. Too young for him. 

Even from far away, Brett couldn't see a wrinkle in sight. His hazel eyes took you in. Your hair gleamed and perfectly framed your worry-pinched face. You were wearing an oversized, flour-dusted shirt and basketball shorts that hung past your knees. As you stood there in the middle of your walkway, you shifted back and forth, feet probably burning on the hot concrete, and Brett felt the urge to go over there and pick you right up. 

Instead, he continued walking until he stopped a few feet away, and your eyes widened when they caught on him, and your stomach somersaulted down to your toes. 

There he was: the hot firefighter you saw with bulging biceps as he cleaned equipment just in the entrance of his station as you walked by with bags of ingredients since the store was close enough to where you lived. 

You hadn't been able to get him out of your mind and especially your dreams that had you waking with a warm sweat and tingling thighs that led to a hand dipped between them. You tried not to stare and keep your eyes on the police officer while he finished writing down your statement, but every fiber of your being wanted to turn its attention to the silver fox. 

The officer gave you a nod before turning away with a small greeting to the firefighter. Now, it was just him and a few more men from his crew. 

He smiled at you and stuck out his hand. "Heard you had a fire here?" 

"Yeah," you responded, trying not to come off as desperate as you savored the way you hand fit snuggly into his. "Set the oven a little too high and a little too long." 

"Guessing whatever you were making got caught in the . . . cross fire?" 

"My poor brownies were the only casualty," you joked back, insides beaming when he barked out a small laugh. 

Brett conjoined his hands at his front. "Well, seeing as there's no active fire, I just need to take a walk through for protocol during dry season and make sure everything's in order." 

"Perfect," you said before taking small steps in the direction of your house. "Follow me?" 

He nodded in response, and his thick heavy boots clomped the whole way up your small steps. 

"Cute goose," he muttered. "Though, I think he looks a little hot in that jacket." 

The corner of your mouth twitched. "I have a different outfit for him during the summer, but I've been too busy baking." Your wrist twisted to get the front door open. "His name's Richard, but I call him a little dick because after I bought him and put the sand in, he tipped over right on my foot." 

"Oh?" Brett said as he stepped through the threshold and into your house. "What a coincidence that I share a name with your . . . uh . . . dick goose." He tapped a finger against his name patch. "Though my first name fortunately happens to be Brett." 

Your eyes gleamed. "Glad to finally put a name to a handsome face." 

Oh, you were flirting Brett caught on, and deep inside his chest, his heart fluttered a bit. 

He did his best to not look around your house, but his hazel eyes almost felt drawn to all the little bits and pieces of your evident life within the walls. Although a little hazy from the fire, he could feel that this house was home. 

"You have a beautiful house," he mentioned while you walked him deeper towards the kitchen. "Matches the gorgeous owner." 

You didn't turn around, not wanting to show how red your cheeks had gotten. "Thank you," you finally managed to squeak out just as your kitchen came into view. 

Brett stepped around you and tsked as the sight. The extinguisher foam covered your countertops and oven, and he knew that'd be a bitch to clean. He bent at the waist and looked inside at the racks, eyes scanning for anything resembling a left-over ember. 

"Mind if I take a look at your smoke detectors? You'll have to replace them because of the smoke." 

You twirled a piece of hair around your finger. "I was meaning to replace them before this . . ." 

Above his head, you had at least three detectors that he counted on his way in, and when he looked up with a craned neck, his eyes narrowed. 

"You know these have been expired for a year, right?" His low, disappointed tone sent a shiver up your spine. 

You sighed loudly. "Guess I haven't had time for those either. I don't think I even own a ladder anymore after my ex took his." 

Brett tried not to focus on the burning feeling of jealousy that simmered. "Did they even go off when the fire caught?" 

"No. I smelled the smoke from my bedroom. Normally, I bake low and slow, but I needed to get these brownies over to the bake sale asap, so I tried a higher degree but forgot that the time should have decreased to," you rambled from the top of your head even if the bake sale was completely fictional, and you'd been baking brownies since you could walk. 

But a girl had to do what a girl had to do to get the sexy firefighter to her house. Screw your social anxiety, but setting brownies on fire seemed easier than going up to him and asking him out. And the best part? It all worked according to plan. 

Brett crossed his arms when he finally looked back at you. "These need to be replaced as soon as possible." 

"Got it," you said, nodding along. "I'll pick up a ladder and new detectors next time I'm in town." 

"And make sure that your oven is at the right temperature and the timer is set accordingly. I think your bake sale would prefer your safety over you being tardy." 

"Yes, sir. I'll make sure to keep an eye on the oven." 

Brett tried not to show how much the sir sent blood from his head and down lower. 

"Good." He bit back the want to place girl at the end. "Pretty girls like you don't need to go up in a house full of flames when it can be avoided." 

He liked the way you tore your eyes away from his and the flush that rushed into your cheeks. Your chest expanded fully in a deep breath, and Brett swore you weren't wearing a bra. He needed to get out and fast before he popped a boner in his pants like a teenager. 

"Guess that's everything then," he sighed. 

You wanted to pout, wanted to ask him to stay longer, but after seeing the sweat pooling down his cheeks, you knew he probably wanted to leave and get out of his jacket. You silently cursed yourself for not turning the air down any cooler or not even having something for him and his guys to drink. 

You cleared your throat. "Thank you for making sure that everything's fine. I can sleep well knowing Dick and I are safe." 

Brett tipped his head. "That's what we're here for." 

The two of you made your way back to the front, and you stopped at the door. "Um, Mr. Richards—" 

"Please, call me Brett, sweetheart." 

"Brett," you echoed, and Brett never wanted anyone else to say his name but you. "Are people allowed to bring food by the station if possible?" 

"Yeah," he said, running a hand along his stubbled jaw. "Lots of people do it. I know the guys really appreciate it when someone does." 

"Okay." Thoughts about bringing him something to eat made you go a bit fuzzy, but a few rapid blinks kept you straight. "Stay safe and cool out there." 

"Will do. And don't forget those detectors," he warned playfully, "or Dick might become barbecue." He stepped out onto the porch and then down the step just as the door clicked shut behind him. 

Brett sighed loudly into the air as he rejoined his group. “Let’s load up and get back to the station.” He pulled back up into the passenger seat and slumped in his chair. “So much for the old lady. “

What he didn’t know is you did the same to your front door, back pressed against the wood as you formulated what to make to take to the station once you got your kitchen cleaned up. Desperate, you looked through the fridge and pantry, and somehow, you noticed you still had the right amount of everything for brownies. 

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The tin filled with fresh brownies warmed your palms while you carried it in the direction of the firestation. Beneath your sternum, your heart clenched and fluttered wildly like a swarm of butterflies had gotten stuck on the way down to your stomach. In just a few more steps, you’d get to see Brett again. It had only been a few days since your planned oven fire, and you guessed it’d be appropriate to wait until you showed up unannounced, but you couldn’t wait any longer. 

Your ears perked at the sound of boisterous laughter the closer you got. 

Not knowing which way was the entrance, you slowed your steps until you got to the large opening of the station. Inside, you caught two guys standing in a not-quite-there half circle with their backs toward you. Thankfully, your steps didn’t echo in your approach, and you got to take a deep breath to calm your nerves before speaking. 

“Excuse me?” you asked, and tempted like a sirens song, they whirled around with surprised expressions. 

The one in the middle with Donovan plastered to his shirt spoke first. “How can we help you?” 

You slightly raised the tin. “I don’t know if any of you remembered, but my oven caught on fire a few days ago, and I wanted to bring a small thank you gift for responding so quickly.” 

Their eyes widened, and the one with Crawford on his shirt smiled widely. “You were the one with the duck on your porch.”

You went to correct him, but a new voice beat you to it. 

“Goose, Crawford. That thing didn’t even look like a duck,” Brett answered for you. 

Crawford rolled his eyes. “It’s a bird with a beak, Chief. Goose, duck, they’re all the same.” 

Brett raised his eyebrows in a greeting to you. “How can we help you, sweetheart?” 

If the two firefighters looked toward their chief with weird, confused faces, you didn’t notice, too busy locking your eyes with hazel ones that you wanted to drown in. 

“I brought brownies.” You tilted the tin for him to look through the clear, plastic covering. “As a thank you for making sure my house wouldn’t burn down.” You thrust them out for him to take. 

His lips twitched and spread into a smile that made his crows’ feet appear around his eyes. “We will definitely enjoy these.” He took them from your hand, and you tried not to gasp softly when his fingers brushed yours. 

You thought he’d ask you to leave, but Brett Richards was full of surprises. He handed the tin over to Donovan before saying anything else. 

“Why don’t you two take these into the breakroom? I have a few follow up questions to ask . . .” He trailed off, suddenly realizing he didn’t even know your name. 

However, you happily provided it for him, and somehow he smiled even wider. He jerked his head in the direction over his shoulder. 

“You got a second for me?” he asked, and you nodded faster than you should have. “My office is just this way.” 

You kept still when his hand planted in the small of your back to push you along with his long strides you almost failed to keep up with until he stopped right at the door.

“It’s not as pretty as your house,” he warned. 

“I bet it’s not too bad,” you replied after he splayed a hand against the grain while pushing it open for you to slip by. 

The gap wasn’t big enough to give you space when you walked through, your shoulder brushing against his firm chest as you did, and a small flash of him pressed up against your body zapped through you like lightning. 

In the office, he had a small desk and two small chairs in front. You chose the one on the right and sat down, hands nervously brushing over your pants in hopes you hadn’t gotten flour on them. 

“Would you like a cup of coffee?” he asked. 

You shook your head. “A bit too bitter for me, unless you have the most sugary creamer known to man.” 

“Sorry, sweetheart, but I’m all out of that, I fear.” He almost seemed disappointed that he didn’t have what you wanted as he sat in the leather chair behind his desk with a small groan. “Just wanted to ask if you’ve gotten your detectors yet? I know you said something about not having a ladder . . .” 

He watched you visibly brighten, and something told him you’d listened to his words. 

“They just arrived this morning with the rest of my Walmart order. And I even got one of those carbon mo-mono—” 

“Monoxide.” 

“Yeah . . . that! One of those detectors too.” 

He tilted his head slightly. “You didn’t have that one to begin with?” 

Your fingernail found a piece of skin to pick at. How you hated disappointing anyone, especially him. “No. I thought I did, but I guess that just got away from me too.” 

“That’s okay, sugar. As long as you have one now, that’s all that matters. Were you able to find a ladder to get them installed?” 

You looked down at your lap. “I guess that’s why I also came here. I did get a ladder, but I’m worried I won’t be able to get them in correctly. Do you think one of your guys would be willing to come by my house at some point and do it for me?” 

Brett gripped the arm wrests and sank his blunt nails into the leather at the thought of sending someone over to your home, someone getting to spend time with you. It sent jealousy raging through his veins. He blinked slowly to rein in his feelings. 

“Why don’t I just come over,” he settled on. 

“But aren’t you busy? One of those guys called you Chief. I wouldn't want to take any of your time away for something as silly as installing smoke detectors,” you nervously chuckled with a wave of your hand even if you wanted to scream yes. 

He sputtered out a breath. “Nonsense. I’m more than happy to do that for you. Besides, the only ones waiting at home for me are my cats. I think they could wait a little longer for dinner.” 

“You have cats?” you asked, voice high-pitched and excited. “Can I see a picture?” 

Brett dug into his pocket and pulled out his phone. “I have three: two bengals and a tabby that decided my house was its property.” He turned his phone around, thankful that he decided to use a more recent picture as his screen saver. 

You softly took the device and held it to your face. “Brett, they’re so cute!” 

“The bengal on the right is Bagel, then the tabby is Marble, and then the other bengal is Swirl.” He laughed at himself. “Real original, right?” 

Your eyes met his over the top of the phone. “I think they’re absolutely precious. I thought about getting a cat until my friend’s ragdoll had to stay over one time, and he licked frosting right out of the bowl for a wedding cake I was making.” You pouted at the memory. “I had to make a whole other batch and it took forever. So, that’s why it’s just me and Dick.”

“I’m sure Dick is glad that he’s the top bird of the house.” 

“When he’s not falling on my feet that is,” you grumbled before settling into the chair after handing Brett his phone. “Are you sure you’re free to come over? I don’t want to keep you up.” 

Brett leaned forward and clasped his hands on top of his desk. “I wouldn’t have offered to do it if I didn’t mean it. Do you have any plans for tonight? I’d sleep better knowing you’re in a house with proper detectors.” 

You tried to not let that go to your head, along with the idea of Brett possibly sleeping over under those same detectors. So, you did your best to keep calm and smile prettily. “I’m all yours.” 

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

There was one thing you hadn’t thought through in the grand scheme of things. 

The first time Brett had been in your house just a few days ago, he was hidden beneath a few layers of heavy-duty, fire-resistant clothes that completely drenched his figure and hid him out of sight. But now as you watched him install your detectors in plain clothes, saliva pooled around your tongue, eyes trailing his body while he did one of the most mundane things men could do. 

His shirt wasn’t tight at all, but did it ever stretch over his biceps as he used both hands to twist the detector into the ceiling. His hazel eyes tracked his own movements, and his face tilted slightly at the right angles to see where to screw the thing in. You wondered if he was this tentative with other things, face near inches to the circular object. Your eyes trailed lower to where the swell of his stomach sat against the top of the ladder, and a small pudge pushed over the indent. He had one foot settled on a higher rung where his right knee jutted out and his left stayed straight down, but it was his thighs that kept your attention—his sturdy, thick thighs that you wanted to wear as earmuffs. 

“Hey, sugar? Can you hand me the screwdriver I put on your counter?” he asked, not even taking his eyes off the detector. “I just want it to be secured to the ceiling and not fall off in the night.” 

You stood underneath him with wide eyes, not fully comprehending what he asked you. You were way too busy thinking of his bicep wrapped around your neck than the words coming from his mouth. 

When you didn’t answer, Brett finally looked down and met your slightly ditzy expression. 

“Sweetheart?” he questioned again, and the name seemed to finally pull you out of where your brain went. 

“Oh! The screwdriver.” 

“On the—” 

“Counter,” you finished. “Got it.” 

Turning, your hair swished with the movement, and when you disappeared around the corner, Brett sighed and pinched his eyes shut, head resting against his raised arms. Sure, he might have looked as though he were concentrating on getting the damn thing in the ceiling, but installing detectors was something he could do in his fucking sleep. He didn’t need a damn screwdriver; he just needed you out of the room before his cock swelled to the point you could see the print through his pants. He had already been sporting a half-chub since he walked into your home. The ladder could only do so much to hide it. 

Brett didn’t know how much more he could take of your big eyes and need to do everything he asked with a smile and earnestness in your step. 

Fortunately—more like unfortunately—the one he was working on was the last to install, and he was dragging it out more than he should have. 

“Here you go,” you said, tapping the end of the screwdriver on his hip, and Brett nearly jolted at the surprise. 

When had you come back? 

“Thanks, sugar,” he muttered as he wrapped his big hand around the pink tool he got from your small tool kit. 

You pursed your lips. “I know this is the last one, but would you like to stay for a bit? I have pie from yesterday that hasn’t had a taste tester.” 

“Oh, I shouldn’t be here longer than needed.” 

“B-but, you didn’t even get a brownie that I made for you.” 

He smirked slyly. “Thought those were for the whole station.” 

Your foot twisted into your hardwood flooring. “Yeah they were, but you’re the one who came in and checked. I also have coffee . . .” 

“And the most sugary creamer on earth?” 

“You know it,” you giggled. “Whad’ya say, Chief Richards? Stay for pie?” 

He pretended to think for a moment before nodding his head. “Fine. You’re pulling my arm.” He shoved the detector into the holder and placed two hands on the ladder. “Right on time too, because you are now the owner of a sanctioned working smoke detector-ed home.”  

Your hands clapped together. “Thank you so, so, soooo much again. I still can’t believe they had been expired for a full year.” 

Brett jumped down from the top rung on instinct, not bothering to go down one by one. “Most people remember to look closer at the dates when changing the batteries. I wouldn’t go right to saying it’s a good thing your oven caught fire, but who knows what would have happened if your house went up in flames when you weren’t home.” 

“I think a really hot firefighter would have still come to my rescue,” you said with a wink. 

A beautiful flush filled his cheeks, and he tried to clear his throat, but it came out as more of a half-groan. 

“All right, sweetheart, let’s have your pie before you give this old man a heart attack with your sweetness,” he said and started to usher you towards the kitchen. 

“You’re not that old,” you scoffed. Brett sat in one of the chairs at your dining table while you uncovered the pie. “It’s apple; I hope that’s okay?” 

“More than okay,” he responded. “And I’m at least twenty years your senior, sugar, you don’t have to lie.” 

You hummed, dragging a knife through the crust and filling. “What year were you born?” 

“1975.” He caught the wince on your face. “Oh, don’t give me that. Older than twenty years?” 

“Try twenty three,” you said softly. You used a clean finger to swipe the pie off and onto a plate. 

Brett ran a hand down his face. Fuck. You were younger than his daughter. His hands curled into fists. What kind of sick, pervy old man was he acting like? There was no way he was going to give in to his deep desires now, not when you—

“Brett?” you asked, plate filled with pie outstretched. 

He swallowed thickly, Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “Sorry; distracted.” 

“Oh.” 

Now he’s made you upset. Double fuck. How dare he? He’d done all this for you: flirty, coming over to your house, letting his jealousy run his mind. This wasn’t your fault. 

The fork you’d given him scraped against the ceramic, and he put a bite in his mouth. He moaned around the metal and let his eyes flutter shut as the flavor of rich spice, apple, cinnamon, and buttery-flaky crust exploded on his tongue. 

“Fuck, sugar, that’s—” 

“Good?” He swore your eyes got bigger with anticipation. 

“That’s the best damn pie I’ve ever tasted. Probably the best damn thing to get in my mouth,” he groaned, already going in for another bite. “This is all homemade right?” 

You giggled again at the way he shoveled the pie into his mouth between his sentences. “Yep. Crust first, cause it always takes the longest. Then the filling. It’s just apples, cinnamon, and honey.” 

“Just apples, cinnamon, and honey my ass,” he grumbled. “This—you should open a bakery.” 

“Really?” Your eyes gleamed. 

“Fucking really. And do it right across the station so I can come by every day. I’d be your best customer if I got to eat this all the time. Probably get too fat to fit in my uniform, but it’d be worth every bite.” 

Your thighs clenched together at the idea of being the one to feed him, to see him every day just because he loved what your hands made. You did your best to stifle the whimper that followed, but the small noise squeaked out loud enough that he looked up at you through his eyebrows just as he put the last bite into his mouth. 

He said nothing while your eyes locked. Instead, he dragged a finger across the plate, tip picking up any crumbs or sticky filling leftover, and popped the digit into his mouth, cheeks hollowing as he sucked. 

“Brett,” you whimpered, tongue peeking out to wet your dry lips. “Can’t do stuff like that.” 

“Like what, sugar? I’m just being the kind guest and finishing the plate you made for me.” He pushed up from the table and stood at full height. “But something’s telling me I haven’t eaten everything yet.” 

In two steps, he towered over you and placed a hand on your chin. His bicep bulged in his sleeve while he applied upward pressure to stand you up, top of your head barely reaching the middle of his throat. His chin dipped. You looked up and noticed how blown his eyes were; pupils almost covering the deepened hazel of his irises. 

His hands rose and cupped your face. You weren’t too sure who moved first, but in the next sharp inhale, his lips met yours, and you melted right into him like butter in a hot pan, hands coming to grip his forearms that you could barely wrap your fingers around. His lips moved against and enveloped yours in hot, heavy lapping motions. 

He bent his knees to get at you with a better angle, and the movement made your hips knock together, drawing moans from both your chests. His hands moved downward, fingers trailing from your neck and tightening around your waist before finding your ass. He squeezed hard, and the feeling had your mouth opening further for more noises to escape. 

Brett found his opening, and his tongue slipped through your teeth. The hot, wet muscle explored your mouth as he took in your taste. If he focused enough, he found a hint of chocolate and coffee. 

“You taste so fucking sweet, sugar,” he moaned out. You took big gasping breaths against his lips. “Need more,” he muttered, more to himself, before taking your lips back against his, tongue diving right back in to swirl and dance against yours. 

You, on the other hand, tasted the remnants of the pie: apple and spice and something completely notable as Brett Richards. You wanted to bottle him, add him to your next dessert. Your hands wandered across his body as he kissed you. Palms flat against his stomach that tensed under your touch. Fingers gripping onto his pecs and feeling the muscle of them under his shirt. 

He pulled back again when oxygen became much too needed, and he rested his forehead against yours. 

“I shouldn’t be doing this,” he sighed. “I’m too—” 

“If you say old,” you panted, “I’m going to hit you. Age just makes wine finer, and Brett, you’re the finest man I’ve ever seen.” 

He groaned loudly, the noise echoing in through your open kitchen. His knee buckled slightly, and you stepped up, letting your core slightly brush against the top of his thigh. You whimpered at the pressure, and Brett’s eyes snapped open. 

“Oh, you poor thing,” he tutted before placing his hands back at your waist and turning you around in a fluid motion. You arched into him when the edge of your table dug into your lower back. “What type of guest am I? Making you all needy and not doing anything to help.” 

Without any struggle, he lowered his hands to the plush of your thighs and lifted you onto the table’s surface, legs dangling and spread just enough for him to push between, his thighs barely fitting against yours. The size difference sent a wave of dizziness up to your brain as you noticed how much he swallowed you up. 

His palms rested against your knees, and he bent at the waist to meet your lips again with searing heat and tongue. 

“Brett,” you mumbled against his lips and bucked your hips upward. “Need you.” 

He began to trail open-mouthed kisses along your neck, stopping only to suck and nip at your skin. “I’ll help you, baby.” 

He lowered until his knees hit the small bit of the circular carpet you had under the table legs and his face slotted near your core. He didn’t look away as he hooked his fingers into the waistline of the shorts you were wearing and the hem of your underwear. They both slid down your legs with little resistance, and Brett tossed them to the side. Without the constraints of the fabric, your thighs opened a bit wider on instinct. 

Brett’s throat constricted around an inhale as he stared right at your glistening folds. Almost mesmerized, he ran a shaky finger right down the middle from where your clit peeked through its hood and down to the top of your sopping entrance. Above his head, you keened at the lightest touch, body already begging for more. 

“Easy, sugar. Let me savor this dessert,” he whispered. 

He inhaled deeply, taking in your purest scent, before leaning in. He first dragged his flat tongue along your outer folds, adding to the wetness with his thick saliva. You moaned loudly at the feeling. Your fingers curled around the edge of the table just near his cinnamon sugar curls that you desperately wanted to latch onto as he edged his tongue nearer to where you needed him. 

Stars littered your vision when he finally circled your clit with the stiffened tip of his tongue, your bud rolling with pleasure and heat that had your thighs clenching around his head. Your stomach dipped and tightened, hips softly rocking in small motions to egg him on. 

When you looked down your stomach, his hazel eyes were already looking up at you, the lower half of his face covered by your soft mound as he sucked your clit between his lips. He kissed at her like he kissed you with wanting, languid puckers and tongue. But you needed more of him. 

“Breeetttt,” you breathily moaned. “Please, I need—” 

Your words died in your throat and changed into high-pitched mewls as your walls stretched around the finger he slowly thrusted in. Brett groaned into your pussy at the feeling of your muscles sucking the digit in farther, and the vibrations sent rolling hot pleasure straight to your navel. 

“Ohhh!” you gasped as your thighs tensed. “Feels—fuck!—Feels good!” 

“Yeah?” he asked, pulling back enough to wear his lips gingerly moved against your puffy folds. “Feel how deep I’m inside you? You’re so fucking tight around my finger. I’m going to need to stretch you out with at least three before I can get my cock in you, baby girl.” 

Your hips bucked at his words, and your chest tightened. 

Brett felt the way you clenched down, and in the next thrust, he added his middle finger to the mix. Your whimper that followed due to the filling pressure was music to his ears. He slightly parted the two as he ran his fingertips along your walls, prodding and dragging them to add to your building ecstasy. His wrist twisted so he could start curling them upwards, wanting to find the spot that made you squeal. 

He found it in three tries, and your body tensed and spasmed when he pressed into the spongy spot. 

“Does that feel good, sweetheart?” he asked before licking a hot stripe from where his fingers dipped into you and up to your clit. 

You nodded dumbly. “Yes, siiirrr,” you slurred, tongue heavy in your mouth. “Feels good. Shit!” 

With a glance up, Brett smiled widely at your fucked out expression and tears threatening to spill down your cheeks. The sight made his cock somehow swell even more, and he fought the urge to bring a hand down to rut against. If he was going to cum, he wanted it to be deep inside you. 

He withdrew his fingers from your fluttering hole and swirled them around your soaked, spit-slick, throbbing clit, causing more moans and stutters of your hips. 

“One more finger, baby.” 

He dragged all three through your folds as he stood from the kneeling position to take your lips back into a kiss. You leaned back to accommodate the way he still had to lean over you. In one inward motion, he pushed his fingers back into you, and you pulled away from his lips to whine loudly at the intrusion, tears finally spilling down your cheeks. 

Brett thought you looked so pretty with your glossy eyes and flushed cheeks, and without thinking, he licked up the tear trails, the small tang of salt mixing in with the sweet aftertaste of your arousal. He then kissed you deeply. A moan ripped through your throat. 

You could taste yourself on his tongue. Your lips sucked on the muscle, chasing after it when he tried to look down at his fingers and how you clenched around them. You were still tight, and your walls had eased, but Brett knew you’d be like a vise around his cock. 

“You’re going to feel so good around me, sugar,” he groaned, already envisioning the feeling of your tight warmth squeezing his length. “Already feel so good around my fingers.” 

“Yeah?” you panted, head tipped back and eyes squeezed shut as you focused on the in and out and in and out and in and out of his fingers. “You too.” 

“Are words getting hard, baby? Are you close to cumming just from my fingers?” he cooed and pressed small kisses along your jaw. “I can feel you tightening. Sooner you let go, sooner I can fuck you, sweetness.” 

“Brett!” you yelped with a buck of your hips. “Wanna cum!” 

“I know you do.” He curled his fingers and lightly thumbed at your clit. The reaction in your body was almost instant as you tensed, muscles preparing for the pure onslaught of rushing arousal that was about to snap. “And I want you to cum for me.” His fingers pistoned into your walls. “I want to feel your pussy clench around my fingers.

Your shirt was still on, but like he imagined you had the first time he was over, he could tell you weren’t wearing a bra. So, without warning, he leaned in and bit down on your right nipple hard enough to set off your orgasm. 

In a loud moan that dipped and rose into a higher pitch, your walls clenched rhythmically around his fingers, holding him deep against the spot that made your thighs tense. Your body shuddered and leaned into Brett’s sturdy chest as you came. 

“Oh, good girl,” Brett muttered after unlatching from your nipple and leaving a wet spot on your shirt around the nub. “Cumming so beautifully for me; looking so pretty like I knew you’d be.” His thumb never stopped swiping at your clit to draw the effects of your high for as long as possible. “Can’t wait to fuck you, baby girl.” 

“Brett,” you whimpered, chest heaving against him, hands gripping at his shoulders. You knew he’d probably have crescent nail marks deep in his skin after you let go. “Bedroom.” 

He scooped you up without even thinking. Your bare core sidled up across the rough, scratchy fabric of his pants, and you jerked slightly in overstimulation. Brett said a non-verbal thank you to whoever built your one-story house. He was about to fuck you three ways till Sunday, but the idea of his knees giving out up a flight of stairs would have buried him in embarrassment. 

Knowing exactly where your bedroom was after installing yet another detector on your wall, he kicked the door in gently, and in three large strides, he tossed you onto the bed. Your body hadn’t even had the chance to bounce against the plushness of your duvet before Brett tugged you towards him by your ankles, spine dragging across your mattress, shirt riding up to give him a sliver of your bare breasts. 

Once you got the idea to hook your ankles around his waist, he wasted no time in yanking your shirt clean up over your head. Now, you lied naked in contrast to him being fully clothed, and a jolt of pleasure had your pussy clenching around nothing and your lips pushing into a pout. 

Brett leaned down and ran a thumb across your bottom lip. “Don’t give me that look, baby.” He tapped the side of your thigh with his palm and jerked his head. “Move up and get on your hands and knees for me, sugar.” 

Your torso twisted as you rolled over and began to crawl up the bed. However, the sound of clothes ruffling caught your attention, and you stopped to look over your shoulder as Brett pulled his shirt off and unbuckled his belt. He tossed the accessory to the ground with a heavy clunk before pushing his pants and boxers down in one go. Your mouth went dry before instantly watering as your eyes tracked the way his cock bobbed slightly under the sheer weight of it. 

He was definitely the thickest you’ve ever seen, head already on the verge of purple and smeared in a glinting wetness. He had one prominent vein running along the side, and you were sure he seemed to get thicker at the base before the rest disappeared into a thatch of greying, wiry hair. He gripped himself slightly, running a thumb into the spot between the head and the shaft, and another dribble of pre cum trickled over his knuckles. 

Brett groaned at the feeling of finally getting some pressure around his cock. When you let out the smallest, neediest whine he’d heard from you yet, he looked up and met your eyes over your bare shoulder. 

“What’d I tell you, huh?” he asked. 

He took one step before kneeling at the edge of the mattress. His eyes caught the small bit of drool pooling at the edge of your lip. If he had more time, he would have let you suck at his tip, but he needed to be inside you now. His cock jostled as he placed his hands on your hips and tilted them upwards, his knees knocking against yours to widen your thighs. He shuffled forward until your ass flushed against his pubic bone. 

“Hands and knees,” you whimpered, head already lolling downward. 

A hum rumbled through his chest. “Good; you can listen.” He gripped himself again, positioning the head to slip along your folds before notching it against your entrance. “Ready, sweetness?” 

You nodded against the pillow, but that wasn’t enough for Brett. 

“Use your words, or are you already too dumb to find them?” he grunted. “Haven’t even gotten my cock in you yet.” 

“Please,” you warbled, “please fuck me.” 

“Okay, baby, deep breath for me,” he muttered before slowly pushing his hips inward. A grunt ripped from deep in his throat when his tip slipped through your first ring of tense muscles, and he tried not to tip forward onto your back at the feeling. 

Below him, you felt as though you were already being split wide open, his fingers did little to actually prepare for his size. Your body tensed, and your walls clenched tightly, pausing his movements. 

“Fucking hell, relax for me, sweetheart,” Brett grit through his grinding teeth. “Gripping me like a fucking vice.”

He reached over and down across your hip and slowly started circling your clit to ease himself deeper. After a few moments of gentle stimulation, he felt your walls begin to relax. “There we go. Loosening up so well for me.” 

His hips made a shallow thrust, feeding his cock to your pussy inch by inch. He groaned loudly, and the noise echoed in your bedroom and danced with the pathetic noises slipping through your lips. 

“Biiiggggg,” you panted, tongue peeking through your lips and wetting the pillow case with a small circle of drool. 

“Yeah?” Brett asked. Sweat already beaded at his brow. His body trembled. “‘M not even all the way in yet. Don’t think I can push through—” 

“You can!” you sobbed. “Want it, want it, want it all. Please.” 

His hands tightened around your hips, wanting to leave perfect bruises in the shapes of his fingerprints. “All right, baby. I’ll give it to you.” 

Your breath shuddered as he bullied his cock the rest of the way in through your fluttering walls. You could feel him in your throat. He was so fucking big, and it almost hurt to breathe. Your arms shook where they held you up, your belly tightening with pure pleasure from just being stuffed to the brim. 

Brett sighed in relief when he fully sheathed himself inside, and you choked on a moan because his cock brushed right against your soft spot as his tip kissed your cervix. He continued rubbing at your clit while starting off with small thrusts. A loud squelch sounded from between his cock and your pussy, and his eyes caught the small ring of creamy white already sticking to the hairs at his navel. 

“Baby girl,” he moaned and thrust back in, pushing all the air from your lungs. “Fuck!” 

Your head dropped again so you could see down your stomach, and your thighs tensed at the small bulge of your stomach. You tried your best to balance on one hand to touch it, to squeeze at his cock through your skin, but every time your hand lifted, your other arm wobbled too much. Brett felt the few attempts and paused. 

“Is everything okay, sugar?” he asked, voice filled with concern. 

You nodded. “Can see you.” 

His brows pinched. “You can see me?” he echoed. 

“Stomach.” 

His expression dropped when it hit him. “Oh.” 

He slowly splayed a hand across your stomach and did a small thrust. Right there, in the middle of his palm, he could feel himself dragging through your walls. The thought of him being big enough that he was visible sent a shiver down his and your spines. 

“Oh.” He seated himself inside and pressed upward with his hand. “Damn, fucking—” He sputtered out as you squealed, your insides tightening around his length. “Can feel myself right here. I’m so deep—shit!” 

You tried your best to say something, but your mind went blank, mouth only capable of spitting out whimpers mewls with each jolt of his hips against your ass. Your cheek dug into the plush of the pillow. 

He started to speed up in wet plap, plap, plaps, thighs hitting the backs of yours where your arousal was spreading downward toward your knees. With one particular hard thrust upward, your arms gave out, and your chest now flushed with the bed. 

“Oh, you sweet baby. Can’t even hold yourself up for long,” Brett cooed through his cock reaching depths you didn’t even know could be reached. “Can’t stay put, can’t speak, can’t fucking make sure your smoke detectors are working.” He pulled out, letting his cock slip from your clenching walls. 

Your whine of confusion barely hit his ears before he pushed your hips down onto a pillow he quickly slipped below. Through the hazy and numb fuzz of your brain, you moaned when his weight rested on top of your back, his stomach slotting into the dip of your spine, thick thighs pinning you down.  

He was deliciously heavy everywhere. 

His hips tilted to the side so he could slip back into your soaking pussy. “Is this better for your dumb brain, sugar? Need me to do everything for you? That’s right. You need me to make you safe, make you feel good. Used me to get your house up to date, used my fingers and tongue to get yourself off.”

He pushed upward, and you wailed beneath him at the angle change. You tried to lift your head, but your neck quivered at the weight. 

“Even now,” Brett tutted, “you can’t even hold your head up. But don’t worry, sweetheart, this old man can do it for you.” His freckled arm curled around your neck until your chin rested on the hump of his bicep. “Is that better?” 

You nodded, mouth wide open to take in lungfuls of air. He could even feel a small sliver of your drool drip from the corner of your lips. He smirked against the side of your head. 

“Droolin’ all over me in every place.” His hips languidly moved against you, his cock hitting deep with every single roll. “Mouth, pussy, just a drooly little baby who can’t do anything.” 

With his free hand, Brett reached between you and the duvet that was probably soaking up all your spilled slick that he pushed out of you. The tips of his fingers brushed against your throbbing clit, and he used his thrusts to grind yourself against his fingers. The added pleasure and stimulation was growing to be too much. His hips stuttered slightly when your walls started to clench and keep him buried. 

“Oh, your pussy loves when I play with your clit. She just wants to cum, sweetheart. So fucking tight around my cock.” His thrusts changed into rhythmic, punchy motions. 

“G-gonna!” you managed to squeak out right as your body tensed once and long as you came around him. 

“Fucking—” Brett cursed. 

He did his best to continue keeping a pace to draw out your high and fluttering walls that sucked him in, but he was no match. He thrust in once, twice before his body seized through his own orgasm, cock spurting his release deep inside to mix with the frothy arousal dripping out of you. Having felt like you sucked the life right out his cock, Brett put all his weight on top of you. 

The feeling had you melting right into the sheets, lungs compressing in a breathy sigh of content. 

In the gooey waves of endorphins, Brett rolled you both to the side, his dick slipping from your hole in the motion. However, he was quick to drag his fingers through the mix of you and him that seeped out and push the wet glob right back in. You whined through the tinges of overstimulation, but he quietly hushed you. 

His arms never left your middle as the two of you came down from the high, and he nuzzled his face into the crook of your neck while he lightly dragged his fingers up and down the skin of your arm. You gripped onto the arm that was trapped between your body and the bed. 

“Worth it,” you sleepily muttered. 

At the sound of your voice, Brett propped his head up with a bent arm. “What was that, sugar?” 

“I said,” you grumbled as you fought back the urge to sleep, “worth it. Saw you—” Your jaw popped in a yawn. “Saw you at the station; thought you were hot; wanted to say something but I was scared so—” 

His body jerked in a laugh. “Don’t tell me you set your brownies on fire just to get me in your bed.” 

“Stop, drop, and roll, Captain Richards.” You blindly reached for the duvet that had been pushed down to drape it up over both your bodies. “But it worked. Like I said . . . worth it.” 

Brett shook his head before gently kissing your shoulder. “You’re nothing but trouble. Might have to teach you a lesson after you take a nap.” 

“I can take it, old man,” you muttered before letting yourself dip into sleep. 

“We’ll see, sweetheart. We’ll see.”  

you're not entirely sure why he never takes it farther than giving you your first orgasm. he'll use his fingers or his tongue or both, and then roll you over to go to sleep once you've come down from the high of pleasure he wrings out from you. and it's not like he's not turned on, you know that for a fact because he's always rock hard by the time he tells you to get some sleep. sadly enough, he's only let you use your mouth on him twice :(

unfortunately, you're always just a bit too floaty from your release to ever really fight him on it, but tonight you are determined to get to round two.

" 'm so close andy- please d-don't stop-!" is what you're whining against pope's lips as he lays next to you in bed. him only in his boxers and you only in your panties that are pulled to the side, as two of his thick fingers rub deep inside you while his thumb firmly circles your clit. your grip on his curls is probably painful, but he hasn't complained, he even groans a little when you yank them as you hike your leg higher up his waist to spread yourself even further for him.

the shlick shlick sounds of pope's fingers pumping into you paired with his warm, muscular frame that holds you close, has your body lock up tight in anticipation. one more swipe of his tongue against yours and the feeling explodes into white hot tremors that shake through you, from your spinning head to your flexing toes. "andrew andrew andrew", is all that sounds from you as you fall apart for him.

when you settle back into your body, pope gently removes his fingers that sparkle with your release then places a soft kiss to your nose. "so pretty. night sweetheart." his murmured words almost have you complying before you remember the task at hand. you follow when he rolls to lay on his back, crawling on him until you're straddling his tree trunk waist.

you rest your hands on his bare chest and whimper when you feel his hard on beneath you. " 'm not tired andy... lets keep going." pope blinks up at you for a second before his rugged face furrows in what looks like confusion. "but if we kept going… you'd have to— i don't want you to fake it for me."

um- what? your face mirrors his in perplexity now. "why- why would i have to fake it?" rolling your hips against the bulge in his boxers confirms that you definitely wouldn't have to fake any praise regarding how big he is.

pope stares at you as if this is some kind of test you're giving him, his large hands slide up and down your waist as his tone goes slightly cautious. "because you just finished and you need time before… you know. you can do it again." knowing your boyfriend and his inability to take anything lightly, you bite back your giggle at his words. "andy…" you explain slowly, carefully, "that's only true for men, not women."

he looks almost astonished, "what? r-really?" you nod in a gentle confirmation, no point in making him feel bad for not knowing something he clearly was never taught. you lean down to place tender kisses to his face. "you can make me feel good over and over again and i'll be able to finish. as many times as you want." pope's cheeks blush beneath your lips, grinding his hips up into yours enough to have both of you inhale sharply. "so… so i could use my mouth on you now?"

you hum in response, and even though the thought has your thighs squeeze at his waist, you're interested in something else. you both watch as you trace one of your fingers down his panting chest, then across each ridge of abs until you reach his waist band. "or…" you slowly slide your finger back an forth just beneath the fabric as you kiss his neck, "we could have sex."

his breath catches, swallowing once before saying, "you want to?" you're squirming on top of him in anticipation, words coming out all whiney but you don't even care. "so badly andy. need you inside me." instantly, pope is flipping you over until he's pressed on top of you, his lips moving against yours and his hand pulling off your panties is confirmation enough.

after he slides off his boxers, mutters one more, "you sure?", the two of you are moaning in between kisses as he pushes inside you, only starts to slide in and out of you after a minute of letting you adjust to his size.

already sensitive and vulnerable from your first orgasm, it's almost embarrassing how quickly you feel another one start to build when you feel pope's thick cock threaten to split you in half. it's a mess of tangled sweaty limbs, slow sensual strokes, and hushed "you f-feel s'good"'s, "you were made for me"'s that have you hiccuping and clawing at pope's muscular back.

he's intently watching your face as he makes love to you, tracking what angle makes you moan, what speed makes you twitch and what location of his kisses has you clench around him.

with his bottom lip tucked over his teeth in concentration, he hitches your leg higher up your waist to get even deeper inside you, causing his coarse hair at the base of his length to rut against your sensitive clit, and the body tingling pleasure rises uncontrollably.

your hands tighten at the nape of pope's neck and your legs shake around his waist as you whimper "gonna-gonna come andy! feels so- gonna- oh andy-!" he kisses you as you tighten and cry out his name, not changing his pace or the way he holds you at all in order to intensify your release. only when you regain some brain power do you realize he's still moving inside you.

his freckled face is squeezed impossibly tight, abs contracting with restraint, clearly trying not to come yet. "andy..?" you rub your thumb on his cheekbone and his eyes flutter open, hips faltering as he looks down at you. you peck at his lips. "you can come inside me. i wanna feel you."

pope quickly shakes his head as you both groan at a particularly deep thrust. "not yet. want-want you to gimme another one." your eyes widen at his raspy words when you realize what he means.

there's no time to argue as pope abruptly pulls out and flips you over, your yelp at the upwards yank of your hips quickly morphs into a moan as he easily thrusts back into your sopping cunt. "ffuuuucckk" is all he groans before starting to pound into you. a silent scream graces your lips as his cock stretches your soft walls relentlessly, keeping you lightheaded and tingly all over as you're filled by him completely.

his tight grip on your shoulder keeps you compliant for each powerful thrust, and you can barely hear your shaky moans over the slapping of his hips against your ass. pope's huffing and puffing behind you, desperately trying to fend off his own orgasm.

"c'mon. jus want one more sweetheart. p-please. give it ta'me." he grits out above your whines.

pope uses one strong hand at the base of your neck to press you into the mattress, and brings the other to roll your clit in between two chubby fingers. the angle has his his fat mushroomy tip rubbing against the softest part of you over and over and— "oh my fucking god andy im gonna-!"

your eyes roll back and you sob beneath him, not being able comprehend anything in your empty brain past the heat overtaking you and the stars twinkling behind your teary eyes. you're only vaguely aware and half conscious as the warmth of his come fills your fluttering pussy.

pope collapsing on top of you sobers you slightly, but not enough to do anything other than nod with a lopsided smile when he rolls you back over and asks "you okay?" as he gently licks up your tears.

your glazed over eyes flutter shut as he kisses you softly. your lips, then cheek… neck… breasts… stomach then— "think you can gimme another?" he rasps by the time he reaches your spread thighs and settles in between them with a hungry look on his flushed face.

maybe you shouldn't have told pope about the different refractory periods between men and women.

You meet him at your friend’s art show, he’s handsome, funny, and instantly charms you. He at least pays attention to you and even knows your name.

You’re feeling bold, maybe it’s the negronis, your lilac short skirt and crop top, or the fact that you haven’t gotten off in over two weeks. You don’t hesitate to ask Oliver if he’d like to go back to your place.

The car smells like stale lemon, and the Uber driver’s playing some sad, twangy country song you can’t stand, but Oliver’s hand is warm as it rests on your leg. He tells you about his dreams of being a professional comedian. He’s cute, but not too cute, the kind of handsome that if your friends saw him, they’d send you a nod of approval. Good enough for a quick fuck.

As the car turns on your street, Oliver’s hand now rests at the top of your thigh, and you actually feel yourself begin to ache in anticipation. You’re giggly by the time you reach your bungalow, and Oliver’s palm stays on the exposed skin of your lower back as you dig through your purse for your keys.

Your hand stops when you hear the echo of footsteps behind you. Soft and rhythmic. You look up and over, just in time to see a shadow.

Alex. In a black tuxedo, holding his cello case, all debonair and gorgeous. You haven’t seen him since that night, and now he’s here, haloed by the streetlamp. He looks at you, and the only thing that gives him away is the split-second clench of his jaw before he begins to move again.

You turn back to your keys, unlock your door, and pull Oliver inside.

A joint is split between the two of you, kissing in between, sharing smoke and tongues as you try not to think of your tuxedoed neighbor just on the other side of the wall. Oliver’s grunts and groans as your hand runs up his leg tell you he really wants you, so you lead him to your bedroom.

You let him undress you, let him take in your body and call you beautiful. It feels… nice. Fine, really. The heat of his glare is a little warming, but it pales in comparison to the way Alex looked at you from the first time you knocked on his door.

You lie back on your bed, open your legs, and Oliver runs his fingers through your folds, definitely slimmer and clumsier than Alex’s thick, efficient hands. He’s hopeless at finding your clit, but you ooh and ahh him, hoping his cock will be a good enough lay to help you get off.

Oliver eagerly and clumsily undresses. You reach into your drawer and fetch a condom. Oliver rolls it on, and when he guides his dick in, it’s definitely slimmer than you wanted. He grins, like he’s been blessed by your pussy, and gently asks you, “Is this okay?”

You moan a yes for him, and he begins to move. Slow and savoring, not quick, passionate, desperate like the way Alex fucked you. Honestly, it’s so milquetoast and forgettable, your mind wanders off. No matter how much you want to be present, want to be here in your bedroom under cute Oliver, your thoughts are on Alex. He’s probably still in that tux, maybe he’s undone his bow tie, popped open the first few buttons of his crisp, white shirt.

It’s then that you hear the soft, muffled whine of cello through the thin drywall. The notes rise and fall on the other side of the wall. You close your eyes and open your thighs wider, as if you can let the notes slip in, past Oliver and fuck you. You moan, way louder than usual. Oliver believes your moan, and fucks you faster, desperate to be the one who’s making those noises escape you. But it’s not him. Of course it’s not. It’s Alex’s, keeping a tempo that makes each note drag you closer and closer to the edge of bliss.

Your moans duet with the music, and though your body lies in your bed, your mind and heart might as well have drifted past the thin drywall and into Alex’s home. It’s not the way Oliver moves in and out of you, or the sound of his slight whimpers and groans, but the faint music played by your handsome neighbor that nears your orgasm. You’re close, your eyes clenching shut, only picturing the ethereal glimpse of Alex you saw earlier. The memory of how full he made you, the rasp of his grunts, the warmth of his cum as it splashed across your skin. Alex, Alex, Alex.

Oliver feels you getting close, tries to seal his mouth over yours, but you tilt your head and move. Moaning loudly into the air as you orgasm.

The cello stops as soon as you let out the first, long moan.

Oliver finishes inside you, with a long gasp, then rolls away. You get up, clean yourself, and tell him there’s a trash can by your dresser, almost feeling bad about how clinical you make it, but you just want your guest gone now. You’re already resigning yourself to the fact that nobody’s going to beat your hot neighbor.

When you return, now covered in the silk of your robe, he’s at the edge of your bed, still naked. Before your new neighbor, you probably would’ve invited him to stay the night, let him hold you all night, then wake up and get breakfast. Maybe you’d see how it all plays out and date him for a while. But that’s just not going to work now.

You smile, touch his arm, and say, “This was really fun.” His grin is full of pride, and he looks at you like he’s almost in awe of you. “So, I’ve got such an early morning tomorrow,” you say.

You see a hint of disappointment before he smiles at you. “I totally get it. You’re busy. I’m busy.”

He gets dressed quickly, like a good one-night stand.

Maybe you’ll text him; maybe you won’t. Either way, when you walk him toward the door, you kiss him on the cheek and thank him for coming. The door clicks shut, and there’s a moment of quiet.

Until your siren song starts to play again.

The cello.

It summons you.

You open your door, cross the small strip of grass, barefoot and only in your robe, hair still mussed and sex still on your skin. There’s barely enough time for you to ask yourself what the fuck you’re doing here before you knock on the dark wood with 2B in gold letters. It’s like he was expecting you, it takes Alex no time to answer the door.

You were right. He’s still in his tux… and the top buttons are undone. That cocky grin is there again, but there’s a hint of ferality and maybe… possessiveness as his deep brown eyes assess your barely clothed body.

“Play for me?” you ask.

He nods and lets you in.

You float to the couch on the waves of lust and need, skin burning hot as you feel him watch you. The couch dips, the buttery leather forming around your heated skin when you settle atop it. Alex picks up his drink from the table, a scotch on the rocks, big clear ice cubes tinking against the glass when he takes a drink.

He sits in his chair across the room from you, pulling the cello into his hold. He almost looks out of place, bare feet planting against the oak floor, tuxedo pants riding high. He’s the confusing mix of cocksure and casual as he plays the first note.

It’s lush, full of longing, and you bite your lip because he’s not looking at the cello. He’s looking at you.

You can’t even pretend you’re here for the music, and Alex knows that. You untie your robe, silk parting to reveal your collarbone, your breasts, and the way your thighs are already pressed together. He watches intently, playing his instrument flawlessly. So you keep going, letting your robe fall to the couch, spreading your legs to let him get a good look at you.

The cello keeps time with you, your fingers dragging over your soft mound, through your folds, brushing against your clit. You move with the music, let it overtake you as your hips grind against your palm and you dip your finger lower. Every whimper you breathe is for him to play against, and for his greedy, predatory gaze.

God, you’re so fucking wet, leftover from your orgasm from just fifteen minutes ago and the searing heat of your neighbor’s attention. You slide two fingers into your cunt, flutter them inside, and drag them along the gushy walls in time to the tremolo of his bow. The music pulls you, spreads your legs wide, cants your hips in the air as the cello player soundtracks your desire.

He plays fast now, the loose curl on his forehead springs up and down as his eyes stay planted between your legs. Every note is perfect, but you can see the way you’re affecting him… the unsteady breaths he’s breathing, the tremorous rise and fall of his chest. You’re so fucking close, one hand petting yourself, middle finger circling your clit, the other hand, two fingers deep in your pussy. You start to chase and chase, your orgasm floating with the notes just above your reach. You’re a trembling, wet, and loud mess, stretched out on your new neighbor’s couch.

It’s obscene how bad you want this, how bad you want to put on this show for him. You’re panting, lungs singing “close, close, close” when Alex stops the song suddenly, and you freeze, holding yourself right on the brink.

“Don’t stop,” he growls.

You listen, but go slower now, and rebuild your bliss. He stands, cello set aside, and takes his scotch with him. His bare feet move across the room to you, lowball glass hanging from one hand. He comes to the couch, looms over you, and you have to tilt your head back to look all the way up at him, all domineering in the low, golden light. He watches, sipping, as casual as ever in his only slightly off-kilter tuxedo.

You whimper, and he catches your jaw, tilts your face towards him. He presses the glass to your lips, and you taste the smoke and warmth when he pours it into your mouth. You swallow every drop, even if it burns, because the afterglow is so smooth.

He takes one last gulp, taking an ice cube into his mouth. He spits it into his palm, then traces it over your burning skin, a delicious shock of cold against it. The trail of wet and cold runs down your chest, circling each nipple until droplets fall down your breasts. A cold path is left down your ribcage, down your belly, past your mound until he runs the melting edge between your spread lips and right over your clit.

You gasp and laugh and moan all at once, breath catching when you see the wild devotion in his eyes. The ice falls to the floor, and Alex parts your knees wider, fitting his thumb against your clit. You’re nothing but heavy breaths, ache, and want. You feel like you’re going to melt just like the discarded chunk of ice when he brings his face low, flicking his tongue over your nipple, teeth scraping against it. You try to speak, try to tell him you’re close, but you’re so fucking powerless, especially when his long, thick finger joins yours. You almost sob, a perplexing gratitude for the pressure of his hand guiding your own further. He presses the tip of your chin with his other hand and makes you look at him, as if he wants your eyes wide open for this, wants you to remember just how fucking humiliatingly desperate you are for him.

“Go on and take it,” he gruffs in that frustratingly still velvety smooth voice.

You do, bucking into his hand, soaking his palm as the pressure builds and sends sparks up your spine. Your whole body seizes up in one long, almost-endless orgasm. He doesn’t even let you recover before he pulls your fingers out and raises your hand to his lips, tasting you, licking the sweet, sticky webs of your soaked desire off your fingers.

You reach for him, finding the outline of his cock, thick and hard through the expensive black pants. You slide your palm along the impressive length, squeezing him, savoring the way he grunts into the air.

He’s already ragged and wrecked sounding when he tells you, “Take it out, if you want it.” Your clumsy hands are at his belt, fumbling and trembling so hard you nearly snap the black, pearl button off. He stands, towering over you, yanking his pants open, and pulls his cock out. Jesus Christ, he’s gorgeous, all golden brown and huge, a fat vein latticed down the shaft, leaking crown so fat your pussy clenches at the promise of being stretched again by it. His hand wraps around his base, stroking it once, you fight your eyes from rolling into the back of your head at the sight of the drop of precum that he squeezes out.

“Fuck me,” you beg. “Fuck me.” You’re a broken record of need and desperation, wanting to be played by this beautiful, broad man and his big cock.

He hmphs, cockily getting off at the way you plead for his dick. You’re shoved back against the couch, and Alex splits your legs open, lining himself up with a hand on each of your knees. He presses his cock against your soaked, dripping core, running the thick head of it against your swollen clit. You’re so restless, yearning for the stretch and ache of him that you’re keening, almost crying out prayers of his name as he teases your cunt with his cock. And then, when his cock finally bestows heaven into your needy hole as he enters you in one thrust, filling your glossy pussy, you scream. He holds you there, splitting you open as he’s buried in you to the hilt. You’re locked at cliff, just breathing hard, as if savoring the impossibility of feeling this way again. You hook your ankles behind his waist, and he begins to move, slow at first, then faster, fucking you with the same furious, controlled tempo as he played the cello.

You don’t know if you’ve ever felt more alive, vibrating like a string as he plays you, every nerve screaming loud. His pace is brutal, his balls slapping against your ass as he curls you even more into him, his weight pressing against you. A curl falls onto his sweaty brow, and it springs just like before, up and down, up and down, keeping tempo with the way Alex slams himself in and out of you. He grabs your head with both hands, his fingers tight at the nape of your neck. His eyes are locked to yours, pinning you down, narrowing your world down to just him. There’s something in the way he’s cradling your head, rough and careful at the same time, that makes you burn even hotter for him. There’s an almost exposed tenderness in his eyes as he holds you and grips you, giving you no choice but to meet his black-coffee gaze.

You can barely breathe. But why would you ever need to? Not when you want this man to inhale you, consume you, and destroy you.

“You let that boy fuck you earlier?” he growls.

“Y-yes,” you shudder.

He slips his cock out and freezes, heavy breaths puffing against your face.

“You like it?” he asks, eyebrow arching slightly.

“N-no.”

It’s borderline uncomfortable the way your pussy is aching for him as he teases you with the heft of his tip against your eager hole.

He hmphs, trusty cocky grin showing up again. “He get to cum inside you?”

“N-no. C-condom.”

“Can I cum inside you?”

You nod, eagerly. “I have an implant.”

That’s what Alex wants to hear. He slams into you so hard it almost hurts, but fuck, the pain is exquisite, it’s exactly what you needed. Tears are leaking from your eyes as Alex owns your pussy. He reaches around, splays his hand across your throat. The grip isn’t tight, but just enough to make you utterly surrender to him.

You orgasm again, not because he tells you to, but because you can’t not. Every part of you twists and detonates, your pussy clenching and spasming around him. The sight and feel of you shattering makes Alex join your euphoria. He thrusts once, twice, then lurches and his cock erupts inside you. You swear you can feel every pulse and drop of him paint your walls. He stills, tremors wracking his arms as he balances above you, then nuzzles his face into your neck, sucking greedy mouthfuls of your skin.

Time stops. You unwrap your still-shaking legs from around Alex, as he settles over you, his weight pressing you deeper into the soft cushions. You don’t know how long you stay like that, both gasping, stunned by the hedonistic display shared between the two of you. He presses a kiss to your jaw, and you try to ignore the way it makes your heart race. He stands, tucks his cock away, and excuses himself, blinking a look of awe away before he turns.

You’re already back in your robe when he comes back out, holding a dark gray towel. He offers it to you, eyes moving down to your exposed, sticky thighs, but you wave it off and tell him you’ll just shower at home.

There’s a slight tilt of his head, as if nobody ever tells him no, or maybe it’s just an awkward bobbling of a nod. Either way, you tighten your robe and head for the door. “See you around, Alex.”

“Wait.”

You turn, and almost get mad at how frustratingly gorgeous he is standing in the middle of his living room with his sex tousled hair and furrowed eyebrows.

“I have a question for you," he says.

“Yeah?”

“What’s your name?”

—-

Huffing, you arch your back and stretch in the uncomfortable chair, then cross your arms and spread out across your desk, forehead nestled in your elbow. You blindly search and tap your datapad with a finger, turning off your work session. The holographic screen floating in front of you disappears, letting the golden glow of the library take over. 

Sunlight filters through the small rectangular windows on each side of the front door. It shines over the stony center pathway, lined by rows and rows of tall shelves. But the mid-afternoon rays aren’t long enough to reach your work station at the end of the main aisle, leaving you in the dim twinkle of the ceiling pot lights. Occasionally, the spines of the holobooks flicker, a brilliant electric blue.

Silence. You could count how many visitors you’ve had in the last week on your two hands. Hunters, soldiers, pilots, even plain old civilians… they don’t have the time or interest for research. No time for pleasure reading either—but does anyone? 

At least you have a job. One that revolves around archiving military reports, for the most part. 

Stationed in the heart of Nevarro City, the library was ordered and built in collaboration with the New Republic. In exchange for funding the collection of holobooks, you’re tasked with creating an archive on the New Republic’s business in the Outer Rim. 

Your datapad pings several times a day with messages from colonels and commanders at ranger outposts, passing along reports on missions, prisoners, and Imperial remnants. You store the information on a data stick in a private back office, away from public access. Once in a while, you also aid the closest neighbouring base on Adelphi by researching planets of interest and crime syndicates. 

There’s a handful of other repositories like yours; the New Republic established one in each galactic region, creating an expansive network of information. You share the filing duties remotely with other librarians, each constructing an archive on the Core Worlds, Inner Rim, Mid Rim, so on. The arrangement allows inactive records to be stored separately from ranger outposts, while providing a few lucky cities like yours with social development.

Still. The contract doesn’t make much of a difference with in-library patronage. The people who do come in are nine-times-out-of-ten looking for help with configuring their holoprojector so they can talk to their friends on some backwater planet you’ve never heard of. The other time, it’s someone convincing you the Death Star was a hoax and that Alderaan is going strong. 

Eyelids fluttering, fingers drumming, breathing slowing–

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

“Librarian.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then– “Yes,” he repeats, “I’m looking for information about my apprentice.”

He maneuvers the green and beige bundle to the front of his body, then holds him there against his stomach. His helmet tilts up by the chin in a proud manner, and you let yourself just stare at the baby, all swaddled in a too-large sack of a coat.

“Well,” you finally respond, eyes drifting back to the Mandalorian’s visor, “what is it that you’d like to know?”

The baby reaches its claws out for you, which are immediately restrained by the Mandalorian’s gloved thumbs and tucked back into his hold.

Faintly, you can hear him mutter something to the child.

“I want to learn about his species. I… do not know what he is. I’d like to know how to train him better.”

It makes you feel small; this unconventional request is likely too big for your little library, and never in your life have you seen a creature like this one. 

The last time someone needed research help, you had but to refer them to an almanac. Identifying a mysterious alien species? You pause, calculating your response.

“I want to be honest with you,” you start, trying to make your voice confident, “the repository is newer. We’re still rebuilding after the whole, you know… Although I’m working on acquisitions, there’s a slim chance I have information on your little friend here.”

The helmet tilts again, this time to the side. And he doesn’t say anything. Just stands there, shining at you, as big as a Bantha.

You take a deep breath, noticing how much of his body is covered with weapons. In fact, right now, he’s holding the baby against a bandolier of ammo. There’s a red splotch on his right glove that you’re certain is blood. Your exhale ends with a shiver. More silence. A challenge to see who will speak first.

Would it be worse if you could see his face, in all this quiet nothingness, and stare at each other blankly? Probably.

“I can try.” You cut through the stillness, just above a mumble. Your shoulders relax a little when the Mandalorian makes a quiet hum of approval.

“Good.”

Good. Twist my arm, you think, not missing the continued raspiness of his modulated voice.

“But I’m not a scientist,” you add, attempting to make your face into something severe, but since he won’t take no for an answer, you doubt he’ll hear out your concerns.

After a beat, “Excellent sleeper, though.” 

Your breath catches in your throat.

You shoot him a weak glare, unsure if that was humour or contempt in his voice. Was he judging you? Of course, he picked the one time you decided to take a five-second snooze to barge in with this baby and demand help. An impeccable first impression on your part.

“You just caught me at a bad time.” You grumble, then curse yourself for taking the bait. Why would this clearly seasoned Mandalorian still want a dozing librarian’s help? The desire to prove yourself creeps along your shoulders, pools in the bottom of your stomach.

He takes another step toward the desk.

“Yeah?”

Fuck, why is it so stuffy in here?

After gaping at him for a few more seconds, not knowing what to say, you shift. He inhales, like he’s about to rag on you further. “Or are you always—”

You cut in.

“So, what can you tell me about him already? I’ll need some time to find proper resour–” Your gaze flits back to the creature, who is currently making your cup of caf float in mid air.

His little hand stretches out, eyes closed in a deep focus as the mug moseys towards him, a full foot above the desk. 

“Hey, kid–” Mando reaches to wrap his fingers around the mug at the same time that you do. His hand gracelessly closes around yours, and out sloshes the caf, dripping onto the counter. He withdraws his hand lightning quick, as you, stupefied, set the mug back on the surface.

What the fuck?

“Suppose we can start there,” a nervous laugh bubbles out of you, and Mando heaves a sigh, humbled.

He reprimands the baby by shaking a finger, but it’s a half-assed attempt. Those big, shiny eyes crease with laughter.

“Sorry, he’s… still learning his manners. But I don’t need to learn more about his powers. I want to know what he is. What planet he came from.”

“I see,” you nod, reaching for a tissue, but the Mandalorian is already wiping away the liquid with the edge of his cape. 

***

Turns out, the baby’s name is Grogu. He’s fifty, and an absolute pain to research. But, as it also turns out, you’re able to import certain holofiles from repositories on other planets. It grants you a welcome respite from tinkering with the new search function and lets you work on some much needed acquisitions. The repository will ideally grow into a grand hub of knowledge for the New Republic, so, if that means importing several hundred files to the database to help figure out what species the green baby is, then… fine.

A few days after your initial encounter, the Mandalorian brought the baby back in with him to check for an update. Graciously, he’d let you take Grogu to test with the new search function, in which you’d taken a scanner and held it over the baby for a good five minutes before the system spat out some results. The Mandalorian leaned against a tall shelf and crossed his arms, somehow managing to look like a concerned father even with his casual stance and lack of a visible face.

“Careful,” he murmured, as you held the baby still under the scanner’s undulating blue light.

“He’s okay. I’m a librarian, not a Wampa.”

“I see that,” came his flat reply. 

His discomfort permeated through the armour, though he remained unmoving. 

“Would you prefer I stop scanning him?” You glanced up from your control panel, ceasing to press any more buttons.

A grumble. “Keep going.” 

The scan worked, to a certain degree.

It pulled up all creatures with big ears and anything to do with the colour green. Nowhere near as specific as you’d hoped, which meant the scan-search function was going to need a lot of refining. 

To your surprise, the Mandalorian didn’t show any signs of disappointment. His brief combativeness died once the baby was back on his shoulder. Instead, he told you he could pay handsomely for your continued efforts, to which you replied that it was simply part of your job to connect people with information. Besides, you didn’t need the New Republic on your back for accepting money under the table.

It’s the first proper query someone has brought to you in an age, and it’s effectively made you question both your sanity and choice of career. Even with all your determination, you find nothing. Nothing, nothing. Not in the holobooks, not in the research databases, not even in the searchable catalogues of other repositories on the holonet. You curse the authors of the galaxy for not writing a guide on identifying green, floppy eared babies with bottomless pits for stomachs. 

You try not to let it eat away at you. Finding answers is what you do, and you want to give an answer to the mysterious hunk of beskar. 

***

Two weeks later, you have zero leads on the species, but a good deal of information on the Jedi.

After another day of adding New Republic documents to the data stick in the back room – and getting nowhere on the Grogu case – you switch the library lights off and make your way to the entrance. 

Unsurprisingly, one of the few patrons you welcomed today was a grumpy Quarren who wanted a holobook on how to fix a speeder. He then proceeded to ask you to read it so you could fix it after your shift.

You reminded him that you could help to locate information, but you were not a teacher, nor a mechanic, which resulted in you being yelled at for refusing service and the Quarren storming out. You whispered curses under your breath as he bellowed his own.

Now, you slip out the door and into a purple, dying sunset. Once the bolt clicks in place and you key in the secondary lock’s passcode, you swivel on your heel, turning smack into another wall.

Gasping, your key — a silver rod — clatters to the ground.

“Anything yet?” The Mandalorian questions you, visor tilted low. Even though he hadn’t trapped you in a corner, the sheer size and proximity of him gives the same effect. Hiding his face must have an impact on his idea of personal space.

Heat blazes across your cheeks in embarrassment; you’d been hoping for a breakthrough before the next time he decided to check in. Now he’s (somewhat) cornered you, demanding answers after giving you a perfectly reasonable amount of time to have found something. Anything. 

Your mouth opens to say hello first, then you remember he hadn’t the mind to greet you properly either. Why he insists on stealthily materializing behind you instead of saying hello like a normal person is beyond you. If he means to scare you, it’s quite effective.

“Still no…” you draw the last syllable out as you try and think of how to explain it. Well, why would he care if you were the best keeper of knowledge in Nevarro if you can’t find anything on where his sorcerer baby came from?

He sighs, and the sound slices your ego in half. The plaza behind him is nearly empty, street vendors packing away their tents and wares, a few people headed for a drink at the cantina.

“There’s nothing, not even in the remains of the Coruscant archives.” You scrape the toe of your boot along the thin layer of dirt covering the step, avoiding him.

His eyeless stare bores into you, your skin. Had you angered him? What was he expecting, for you to find a birth certificate?

Steeling yourself, you cross your arms, waiting for him to lash out the way other patrons do at the tiniest, inconsequential things. 

The silence stretches for long enough that the flagstone street outside the repository has now fully emptied, leaving you alone with the Mandalorian, who is once again swimming in weapons. It only occurs to you now that you should probably start begging for your life. Sure, he had been rather well-mannered during your two previous meetings, apart from making a jab at you sleeping, and not knowing how to make his presence known without giving you a heart attack. Your soft heart reminds you he’s just a father trying to understand his son. Ward. Apprentice — whatever it is. Then again. There is a warrior standing not two feet away from you, in a vacant street, while you tell him you failed at his one, simple request. Another glance at the blaster on his hip gets your mouth running.

“I’m serious, I spent hours looking everywhere— believe me, I wanted to, I appreciated the challenge, but there was just—”

“Thank you.” 

“I–”

What?

“Thank you,” he repeats himself, and all the rising fear inside you fizzles out.

“I’m not sure I follow.” Your arms fall from their crossed position to rest at your sides. Looking down, you notice the baby is here too, wrapped around the Mandalorian’s boot. He wags his fingers to make a tinkling sound with your key that he’d picked up off the ground.

The Mandalorian’s voice comes soft and steady as he kneels down to take the key from Grogu. “You’re the only one who’s agreed to even try.”

His helmet comes rather close to your face as he rises back up, his palm open.

You pluck the rod from his hand, fingertips grazing the smooth leather glove. You had almost refused him; you knew it was a shot in the dark as soon as he asked you for help. But who else had he tried talking to anyway?

“Did you try a xenobiologist?”

“Five.”

“Nothing?”

“Nothing. Another librarian almost tried but it fell through when Grogu… made a mess of their repository.”

You snort. Apparently, stealing your caf was nothing compared to what this baby is capable of. It makes you feel a little better, knowing you weren’t the only one stumped by it.

Your meek voice mumbles, “Your friend is just…”

“Rare.” Mando visor tips down to Grogu, who has now detached himself from his father’s boot, and is gazing up at you. Lovingly, almost.

You reach into your pocket, recalling your unfinished snack from this afternoon.

“May I?”

Mando nods, hands on his hips. You toss the remainder of your cookie to the grabby hands at your feet. Grogu swallows it whole, gulping.

It’s probably nothing, but you offer it anyway: “I did find a lot of information about the Jedi, though I guess you probably know a thing or two already.”

He stills. “Tell me.”

***

Ten minutes later, a server droid thrusts a Bloody Rancor into your right hand.

Grogu slurps a bowl of soup, caged in between you and Mando, who eats nothing, drinks nothing.

You’d been stunned by his suggestion to come here. He shrugged, said it was just a comfortable place to talk about your research. You stifled a laugh, doubting he knows much about comfort based off of his everyday attire – but you said yes, despite your nerves.

You hadn’t visited the cantina since its relocation after the magistrate fashioned the old one into a school. To be fair, there was a lot of the city you hadn’t explored since its makeover, always skittering between your home and the library. Now, there’s yellow fabric streamers, multicoloured mood lighting, more server droids, and considerably less scowly faces going around. Along the walls are small booths nestled in private alcoves, each glowing a different colour. 

There’s even softer music, you noticed, washing over your ears when you stepped foot into the cantina. Heads turned, conversation halted. Your cheeks burned so hot with the attention you thought they might catch fire. Then, lightning zipped up your spine as the ghost of a hand brushed your back, leading you to a booth. You wanted to think it was gentlemanly, but considering the stares, it was just protective. A shield. Hardly a touch. It hit you again just how intimidating he was when he wasn’t asking for help with his baby in your quaint community library. Even then, he had you cowering a little.

The chatter and drinking resumed as the Mandalorian took a seat across from you.

And it’s weird. It’s really, properly weird to sit across from this giant, metal stranger. His presence fills the room with talk, with whispers of awe and fear and you — you are so unlike him. Your soft edges and flowy clothing are a stark contrast to his gleaming suit of armour, the bandolier, the holster. Oddly, his fearsomeness is the same thing that gives you a sense of security. He could take on anyone in this cantina without breaking a sweat, but no one is brave enough to approach your table in the first place, leaving you in utter peace.  

Perhaps he is more like a giant, metal… acquaintance, now that you’re settled in together.

The alcove you share glows a deep pink. Beskar reflects the warm colour as you quietly relay your findings on the Jedi. Some of it he claims to know, some of it is new. Some of it he plans to incorporate into training his apprentice. He watches you intently, one hand resting on the table. Occasionally, he uses his cloak to dry Grogu’s chin. 

Multipurpose, you think, wondering how many mysterious liquids are trapped in the fibers.

“How did you two…” You trail off, unsure whether to take the conversation from business to personal. You then consider the hours and hours of work you put into this. “...Meet?”

They look at each other. It’s sweet, how the tiny creature leans closer to the Mandalorian, watching him with adoring, crinkled eyes and a wide smile full of soup cracker crumbs.

An answer doesn’t come. You shift awkwardly on the cushioned leather seat. What, was that the wrong thing to say?

“Well, I highly doubt you’re his biological father, so. You must have met at some point.”

An exhale. Whether amusement or annoyance, you don’t know. You’re hoping it’s the former, and that hope is satisfied when he finally replies.

“Grogu was a target of the Empire.”

Frowning, you turn to Grogu, who could be mistaken for a pillow in that coat. “Him?”

Crumbs line his collar. You study him for another moment; his big flappy ears, his fuzzy white baby hairs. His claws – you remember your mug, floating above your desk. “Oh. Of course.”

“They wanted to… extract his powers. I spared him.” A beat. “It was messy.”

With a little more convincing, he tells you how he shot up the Guild to save Grogu, then how he’d lost him to the Jedi. How upon reuniting, he’d formally adopted him as an apprentice.

You lose focus halfway through the story, the mention of the Guild perking you up.

“That was you?” You ask, an incredulous smile spreading on your face.

There was hardly a repository at that point; there was simply a credit-operated kiosk where citizens could access information on the holonet. You’d been scavenging to make ends meet, trading for money at the junk dealer. There was the shootout between the Guild members, then a full-fledged Imperial siege of the town, explosions and all. You should honestly thank him. Once it had all blown over, the town was made anew. New paint jobs, new amenities, resources – and the construction on the repository was finally finished. “Messy indeed.”

“I thought we were talking about the kid.”

“Yeah, okay,” you laugh on the rim of your glass, citrus zest wafting up your nose. “The kid.”

He wipes Grogu’s messy chin again, managing to look resigned even under the helmet. “I’m not going to get anywhere with this, am I.”

It’s not a question. Just a tired remark.

“In my honest opinion, no. Especially not if you’ve already tried five xenobiologists.” 

He goes quiet again. He’s pretty and shiny to look at, if a little stunted at conversation, so you turn to the side, watching the rest of the cantina bustle about. Under the low lights, a few pairs of eyes are still trained on your companion — the bounty hunter, you presume. Unless parenting has become his full time job.

The buzz of your drink encourages you to turn back to him and change the subject.

“Do you get tired of the staring? From, like, everyone?”

The helmet tilts, barely. “Like you?”

You hiccup.

Stars, he makes this booth look tiny. He fills his seat and then some, miles between his pauldrons. Your face burns for the third time today as you look down into your lap.

“Sometimes. But not from librarians.”

His voice is so low you’re certain you imagined the last part. Whatever it was you thought about him being poor at conversation vanishes in an instant. Is he flirting with you?

You snap your gaze back up to find him leaning ever so slightly over the table. The look you share is charged, electric, even though his eyes are invisible. You swallow thickly, throat dry. 

Mando relaxes back against the cushion of the booth, slinging an arm across the top edge, thighs spreading. The hand that was resting on the table finds purchase on his knee. His position taunts you, invites you to say something. It takes you a moment to remember how to form words into a sentence.

“My point is, you must be used to getting what you want,” you muse, “considering how spooked everyone is when you walk in a room. How they stare.” 

It’s all too true. You gave him exactly what he wanted once he walked into the library, and all he had to do was stare at you until you agreed. But you don’t find him as frightening now as you did the first time you met, or even earlier when he appeared outside the library door. You’re glad to admit that the Mandalorian has a decent sense of manners, for the most part. He says his pleases and thank yous, but you get the sense he’s likely as violent as he is courteous.

“Or I take it by force,” he replies. At your vaguely horrified expression, he continues, “I’m a bounty hunter. No one is happily running into my arms.”

You wiggle your finger at the baby, who’s already finished his second bowl of soup. “Except you. You’re always running into his arms, isn’t that right?” Claws gently close around your finger as you turn back to Mando. “Who do you work for now, with the Guild gone?”

“The New Republic, occasionally.” His fingers tap on the counter.

You brighten. “Oh, so I’ve probably filed some old reports about you.”

“Yeah? What do they say?” The lilt in his voice is rousing, a teasing kind of curiosity. 

You bite the inside of your lip, emboldened by it.

“That you need to stop tormenting poor librarians with difficult questions.”

Glinting in the magenta haze, Mando leans back in, fixed on you. The baby watches him with wide, puzzled eyes.

“Am I tormenting you by buying you drinks?”

The Mandalorian did pay for you earlier, slapping credits onto the table as the server droid handed you the beverage. 

You take a swig. The alcohol is fire on your tongue, his unyielding, black gaze fire in your belly.

“No.”

He hums, satisfied. “Good.”

The Mandalorian escorts you home after a second Bloody Rancor slips down your throat. He waits in the darkness until you’re inside with the door locked, then saunters away with the sleeping baby in his arms.

You’re not certain just how long you sat there with him, explaining away your life while he gave little snippets of his. He told you little else of himself, other than that he occasionally takes breaks from hunting and settles in his small home on the Nevarro plains.

You’d also discovered that no, the helmet does not come off.

It’s funny, how much more human he seems after sitting with him in that booth. How surprisingly gentle, you think, watching him through the window, cradling the bundled baby.

***

The Mandalorian is unpredictable. Human, yes. Gentle, somewhat. But unpredictable. And it’s definitely on purpose, you think, that he can’t help himself from startling you, whether in the street or in the repository. You’d think he was stalking you, but it’s just infrequent enough that your meetings are plausibly accidental.

Over the months, he flickers in and out of your life. Hunting, then not hunting. Creeping up on you once in a while, seemingly just to watch you quiver.

Two months ago, as you shopped at the market, he appeared from behind a stall’s red draping. 

“Hungry?” 

“Fuck, Mando!”

Four weeks ago, as you dropped off holofiles containing textbooks for the school, he was there, dropping off Grogu. 

“Your kid goes to school?” 

“Just when I need daycare.”

When you finally decided to give the cantina another visit, he happened to be leaning outside the entrance, his back on the wall and his hands clasped in front, a heel resting on the toe of his opposite boot. A smear of blood ran down his chestplate, dried to the colour of rust. He beckoned you toward him with two fingers. 

“Buy you a drink?”

It’s annoying, how big and fast and debilitating your crush grows, despite not knowing his name or what he looks like. Despite not really knowing who he is, other than the fact that he loves his child and hunts Imperial remnants for the New Republic.

Despite not knowing whether you’ve graduated from acquaintances to friends. 

You want to say you have a friendship together, because you’d finally gotten over the remaining dregs of fear in your belly when he’s around. The absence of that fear had made room for something else, something like admiration. Excitement. 

***

As another morning turns to afternoon, you wander through the aisles on a hunt to locate a particular book on droid mechanics for a technician. You slide your fingers along the edge of the shelf, the holobooks glimmering with light. Some of them are out of order, you notice, until you spot the one you’re searching for. You pull the tablet out and carry it to the waiting technician at your desk. The device comprises of two screens folded together, the outside cover reinforced by sturdy metal. The spine, where the screens hinge, emits the bright blue light of electronic data within. 

“Page seventy-eight is all about fuses,” you call, approaching the Twi’lek. You work the holobook open. The two screens sputter to life, text forming in flickers, until settling down to a steady glow. You slide a finger across the right-hand screen, scrolling through digital pages until you land on the fusing section. “Try starting with this, and good luck repairing your droid.”

The purple Twi’lek wordlessly takes the tablet and hurries out of the repository. Even without an expression of gratitude, it was still the most decent interaction you’ve had this month. She didn’t even ask you to read the book and fix the droid.

You return to the disordered section to start re-filing the holobooks. By no surprise, Old Republic history books have somehow weaseled their way into mechanics. You gather a stack of misfiles in your arms and take them around the corner. The first book in your pile, on the Seventh Battle of Ruusan, belongs on the top shelf. You huff. You can still see a gap on the ledge where it was taken from.

Your calves pull tight as you rise to your toes. Your wrist strains, and the top edge of the holobook barely scrapes the underside of the shelf. A frustrated groan rumbles in your chest before you catch sight of someone in the corner of your eye.

As you turn, you find the Mandalorian standing at the end of the aisle, perfectly centered between the two rows of shelves.

Heat pools in your belly at the familiar sight of him; tall, shiny, decorated in weapons. You slowly lower back to your heels, the history book still in your hand and the rest of the misfiles tucked in your other arm.

He walks to you, lowering his visor the closer he gets, keeping his gaze trained on your face. A hand, with fingers wrapped in orangey leather, plucks the holobook from your grasp. 

Mando briefly studies the book. Then he reaches the top shelf, effortlessly slotting it in with the others. His visor tilts down in your direction before he’s finished tucking it all the way back.

“I need to brush up on my Rodian.”

He leaves his hand up on the ledge, the other resting on his hip. 

Your heartbeat picks up. A coy smile separates your lips. “Say hello first and then I’ll help you.”

When he doesn’t say anything, you raise your brows.

“Bright… suns, librarian.” It sounds like it pains him, obeying your frivolous demand. His flat tone coaxes a giggle out of you.

“That’s a bit dramatic, but thank you.”

He sighs. You attempt to peer behind him, but fail to see past the silvery breadth of his shoulders. “Where is the kid?”

“He’s with his friends.”

He leans just an inch closer, hand still braced somewhere above your head.

It’s been two weeks since you’ve seen him — you’ve gone a lot longer before — but it’s hard to hide your excitement. Stars, are you always this shaky around him?

“Why do you need to practice your, uh, Rodian?”

He exhales, retreating slightly from your personal bubble, miffed by the reminder of his duties. “I have some New Republic business with a group of Rodians. They don’t speak Basic.”

You could almost whine at the way he straightens away from you, then — you realize he’s just granted you an opportunity to prove you are capable at your job, seeing as his last request went south almost as soon as he’d asked. For a split second, you reason that it shouldn’t matter what he thinks of you and your abilities. His kid is a flat out enigma, and he understood that. Then again… you look up at him, shining in his armour. 

“Follow me.” You step forward. Mando drops his hand and turns his body to let you pass, then trails closely as you lead him to the language section.

You crouch down, sliding a finger across the spines until you land on a Rodian instructional book.

“Will this do?” You pass the tablet to him. He opens the device, screens sputtering to life, then scans through some pages.

“Good enough.”

It might as well be praise.

While Mando settles down in the corner at a carrel that is two sizes too small for his body, you check the communications log at your desk for messages from the ranger outposts or the Head of Repositories on Chandrila.

Nothing.

You could go back and finish putting away the misfiles, but you can’t conceive of focusing while the Mandalorian studies nearby.

Instead, to your complete and utter dismay, the Quarren returns.

He stomps up the central aisle, fuming, sandy-toned tentacles whipping around the bottom of his grim face.

“You are going to fix my speeder.” His seething voice scrapes your ears, and you’re already shrinking into yourself.

“Sir…” Your nails dig crescents into your palm. “Surely you have some time to read the instructional—?”

You cut yourself off when the Quarren’s eyes darken even more, his laboured breathing growing faster and faster. In your defence, it had been a good few months since the first time he yelled at you, yet he still hasn’t solved his problem. What has he been doing this whole time?

“It’s broken again, and I do not have the patience for any scalper mechanics this time.” His words burst with venom. You might feel sorry for him if he wasn’t spitting in your face. 

Desperate, you glance to your left in search of Mando, who is no longer sitting at the carrel.

Fuck. 

You probably shouldn’t, but… “Again, just so we’re clear. You expect me, a librarian, to read a manual for you and fix your speeder?”

A bitter laugh. His hands fly up in exasperation. “You got something more important to do?” He squints at your tidy desk, then he gestures to the aisles, the carrels, void of other people. He regards you with an air of contempt, pinning you as some sort of imbecile for not doing him a favour well outside your jurisdiction. “Thought you were here to help the community.”

You power through the overwhelming urge to roll your eyes.

“Sir,” you try again, “You misunderstand. I have told you already, I can show you how to find the information you need, but I am not—”

You stop yourself. Exhausting as it is, you try to form an understanding with each of your patrons, even when they’re exploding in front of your face. You wonder, maybe he can’t read? Perhaps his anger is just insecurity—

Your seedling of sympathy is squashed when the Quarren stomps one foot closer, his arm raising as if he’s going to smack the holobooks out of your arms. The first syllable of a derogatory name forms on his lips, but he fails to get the whole word out before a calmer, raspier voice overpowers him.

“Quit.” The Mandalorian emerges behind him. Bigger, taller, scarier. The Quarren chokes on his unspoken wrath, then slowly turns, revealing his palms in a placating fashion. You like it a little too much, how fast he crumbles at the sight of the towering Mandalorian. “Leave. Take your speeder to the Anzellan shop down the road.”

Mando tosses credits at the squid-like agitator, who barely manages to catch them all.

“Now.”

A gloved hand hovers near the blaster on his hip.

The Quarren scrambles, crashing a shoulder into the side of the automatic door on his frenzied way out.

You stare at the door for a few seconds, gathering yourself, then cross your arms. “That is not how we deal with angry people in a library.”

Paying the man for being a nuisance? It was effective, you can admit that much. You could also admit that the display of sheer power made your knees weak. But you won’t tell him either of those things.

“It didn’t look like he was leaving anytime soon.”

True.

“I took care of him last time. I could have done it again.” Another truth – but were you secretly hoping the Mandalorian would save you from the trifling Quarren? Yes. Were you going to pretend like you wanted to handle it all by yourself? Absolutely.

“Yeah?”

“Yes!” You guffaw, incredulous, trying to ignore the effortlessly sultry tone of his voice.

His helmet and shoulders start to shake as if he’s chuckling, but the vocoder doesn’t pick anything up.

“I believe you,” he says, not without a trace of humour. “Let’s just say I sped up the process.”

You frown at him, although it’s becoming harder and harder to conceal your smile. “You’re not a security guard.”

Mando tilts his helmet in a lazy shrug.

Your semi-feigned frustration morphs into gratitude, but you manage to maintain your displeased expression as you tell him, “Thank you.”

You’d learned how to de-escalate situations like this in the library — namely, patrons who want to get in a yelling match and call you names — but it nags at you that you probably wouldn’t know where to start if someone like Mando was that displeased.

You must be wearing the thought on your face, because he slices through the silence with a blunt, “What.”

“Nothing, I’m just… imagining how to get rid of you.”

He slants his head in such a way that you can feel the exasperation coursing through him. “I just helped you.”

“No, I mean… if someone like you came in here, all angry and ready to pick a fight.”

“You get a lot of people like him? In here?” He gestures around the emptiness, just like the Quarren had.

It’s borderline serene right now. But you don’t feel like explaining the woes of librarianship and all its intricacies – the fact that it’s not always this quiet and you’re most often acting as a community therapist for patrons with emotional issues. Holobooks are seldom your concern.

“More than you could imagine,” you mumble.

Mando shifts his weight to the other foot. “You said you’ve handled him before. And I believe you.”

Your brows lift. Before you can speak, remind him that he handled it this time with credits, he adds, “He was berating you.”

A spark flies from the top of your head, down to your toes at his protective lilt. Your knees wobble. He’d intercepted not because he didn’t trust you, but because he didn’t like it. As if he couldn’t help himself from shutting the Quarren up. 

When the spark fizzles down to a dull zap and you regain a sense of composure, you huff, arms crossing over your chest. “But the Quarren, he’s not like you.” 

He steps closer. 

It’s the same as when he’d appeared outside the door to check if you’d found anything out about Grogu’s kind. He’s not cornering you, but it feels like he is, the spread of his shoulders crowding your view of the library behind him.

Your eyes widen.

“Not like me?” He’s toying with you now – just wants to hear you stutter out the obvious: that he's big, he’s strong, whatever else. You start to squirm, shifting your feet and rolling your shoulders.

“I think you know what I mean.” You turn your gaze from him, finding the fold of your arms very, very interesting.

“Librarian.” 

He says it carefully, like a prompt; he won’t let you avoid him. You want to shake your head at him, but you bask in it – how he sometimes uses your title instead of your name. It makes you feel like you’re equals, makes you forget that you still don’t know his name. Mandalorian. Librarian. 

You take a while to croak out a shy response, cringing at each word that exits your mouth. “You’re… big. And sort of scary.”

“Sort of.” Fuck, you can tell he’s smirking with that tone.

“Well, very.”

He must be enjoying this, under all that metal.

You clarify, “Because you’re covered in weapons.”

“They’re part of my religion.” He speaks plainly, a thumb tucking under his utility belt.

“I’m aware. But they’re still there.”

“Uhuh.” 

You tear your eyes from your own body to find his visor slowly shifting down, then back up. Studying you. Almost… admiring you. 

“Guess you have a point.”

You drop your arms. “What?”

Mando stalks across the floor, retrieving the holobook from his carrel. He offers it to you.

“I don’t think you could handle me either.”

***

Another month passes, each morning the same.

Except this one. 

The eerily vacant streets draw tension in your shoulders as you walk to the repository. It’s not just the lack of people, but the fact that the merchant tents flap in the wind, wares laid out on shelves, with no one staffing them.

Slowing your step, you make your way past the empty stalls, past the silent school, past the lifeless cantina. A hanging flower basket lies crumpled in its own dirt, petals strewn across the street. Not even the leaves on the trees are rustling. The alley is still in the absence of any life form but you.

Unease fills your lungs. You crane your neck, finding the spires and stony white roofs stark against an ordinarily sunny sky.

When the repository comes into view across the main plaza, your jaw slackens. Your hand claps to your mouth.

What used to be the door is now a yawning, jagged hole, sizzling with the embers of a blast. Your legs turn to jelly, but you force them to take you wobbling to the crumpled mess of rubble that used to be the entrance.

Heart in your throat, you step through and peek inside. To your relief, all the shelves and carrels – even your desk – appear to be untouched, except for a few holobooks scattered on the floor that must have been knocked from the blast.

Creeping further into the dark building, you ignore the voice in your head, clawing and screaming at you to leave, to get help first. You tip toe towards the back room where the data stick is kept, holding the New Republic archives. You bite the inside of your cheek when you find its door slightly ajar. You bite down even harder, stomach going hollow, as you spy into the room. No data stick.

“Wha–” 

A red, searing bolt of plasma erupts from somewhere in the corner of the back room, whizzes past your shoulder, then explodes on the wall behind you.

Your hand slaps to your chest, clammy fingers clutching and pulling the fabric of your shirt. You hold your breath, paralyzed.

“Who’s there?” Comes the muffled, crazed voice of an anonymous man hidden behind the door. From your position, you see only the toe of a white boot on the stone floor. Another voice responds, equally as muffled as the first. At the sound of them shuffling, you bolt away from the back room with tears forming in your eyes and your heart beating so hard it dizzies you. The stomp of boots follows somewhere behind you as you careen through the bays of shelves.

Just as you reach what is left of the front door, another shot from the blaster rips through the air, a hair’s breadth from grazing your calf. It crashes and fizzles into the debris at the entrance, pebbles skittering to the ground. 

You scrape through the hole and stumble across a heap of jagged rubble from the wall. A sharp, rocky edge slices across your palm as you grasp it for balance. Rivulets of blood swim through the creases of your hand, mimicking the tears rapidly slipping down your face. 

Your thigh muscles strain in protest as you sprint back through the ghostly, abandoned street. Parts of your vision blur, the buildings and alleys turning black and distorted, but you don’t look back. The only sound in your ears is that of your ragged breaths and heavy foot falls as you lose speed.

You fight against the adrenaline pounding through your veins, threatening to make you vomit, and compel your legs to keep moving until you find someone. Anyone. 

Soon, a jog is all you can manage. Sobs break out of your throat. You wipe at your face with a forearm, trying not to collapse there in the middle of the road at the feeling of failure weighing you down. Trying not to think of what they’ll do with the information on the data stick that you’d so easily let them get away with.

You trudge through the arch at the edge of the city, sleeves wet. The solid grey plains of Nevarro spread out wide in front of you. With a shuddering breath, you shield your eyes from the sun and scan for any signs of life. Nothing, nothing, and…

There.

A land speeder coming your direction. Before long, you make out the Mandalorian’s helmet and his cape, whipping behind him. You trade your sobbing for a sigh of relief. He brakes. The speeder screeches and swerves to the right as he comes crashing out of it. He lands on his feet, steady, Grogu clutching his shoulder. You stumble toward him while he closes the distance with a determined sprint, his armoured body clanking.

Gloved hands stabilize you with a firm grip beneath your elbows.

“Are you alright?” Mando asks, hoarse and intense. The visor raises and lowers rapidly as he looks you over.

You stutter, mind fuzzy. “There was– the library. Tw–two men. The data stick–”

“I know. Adelphi base received a breach signal. Colonel Ward paged me. Are you alright?”

Adelphi, breach signal? How does he–?

Your thoughts slog through mud.

Bounty hunter. New Republic. Adelphi – the closest outpost.

“I’m… yes, I’m just– scared.” Your bottom lip quivers and your teeth chatter as you try to get the words out. “They missed.”

He stiffens under your tight grip on his forearms. You don’t have to say anything more for him to understand. 

Pathetic. You feel pathetic and embarrassed and… what were you supposed to do? It’s not as if you show up to work everyday with a blaster, ready to defend the building from Imperials. 

Mando’s voice softens as he says your name, bringing your focus back to him. His sudden tenderness lets loose another well of tears. “Can you get yourself home?”

“What about–”

You must be bleeding on his vambrace.

“Go home. Stay inside. I will take care of it.”

The finality sobers you a smidge. You blink away some of the saltiness in your eyes. The teasing, the laughter, the natural ease from your previous encounters – none of it is here. There’s a methodicalness to him. He’s rigid and focused – like he’s flipped a switch, like he needs to hunt down the cause of your tears. 

“You’re taking a break, aren’t you? It’s not safe, a–anyways. But the data stick, I need to get–”

He shakes his head, bright morning sunlight dancing across the silver helmet. He loosens his grip on your elbows, ensuring your stability before letting go completely. Then his palms rest heavy on your shoulders, squeezing and grounding you.

With bold conviction, “It will be done.”

***

Puffs of steam curl out of the kettle’s spout as the water boils. The room is dark, the only light a golden glow from the lantern on your tiny kitchen table. Your bleary eyes sting, your palm now haphazardly bandaged in gauzy white strips. A patch of dried blood marks the center.

It’s been hours since the Mandalorian caught you at the edge of town. Hours since you watched a yellow and silver gunship chase a pair of TIE-fighters out of the atmosphere.

Hours since Kallu, the head of the New Republic repositories, contacted you through hologram from Chandrila, her miniscule blue figure alight in your palm. You were expecting one of three things; to be severely reprimanded, suspended, or fired for not protecting the data stick. But she had no end of employment notice to relay. Instead, she confirmed your safety and informed you that it would be a few days before you could return to work. A group of New Republic builders would soon arrive to repair the site and install improved security equipment.

She would not take your apologies nor your shame for the situation, but her reassurance did little to calm your nerves; Imperial remnants now had access to loads of New Republic intelligence on the Outer Rim.

She passed on Colonel Ward’s statement that an independent contractor was working on retrieving the data stick before ending the call. This, you already knew.

Your thoughts drift to the Mandalorian as the wireless kettle sings. The way he carefully held you up as you sobbed, how he told you with such confidence that he would take care of it all for you. Amidst the storm raging through your head, the memory of his heavy, warm hands on your shoulders provides a faint relief.

You pad across the cramped kitchen and grab a sachet of tea from the cabinet.

If anyone were to ask, you could not describe this feeling. To say that your insides feel hollow and black, that your limbs weigh sluggishly, that your heart beats only to pump more shame through you, is an understatement.

You pour the boiling water into a mug and drop the teabag in. The water darkens with the herbs, swirling and rippling, reminiscent of your palm, wet with blood. Every muscle in your body draws tight in discomfort.

You trudge from the kitchen, through the tiny living space, and sweep away the jewel-toned curtain and beads separating your bed from the rest of your home. You set the mug beside your mattress then plop onto the covers with a groan.

Eyes on the ceiling, your mind bursts with worry. What could you have done? What was going to happen now that Imperials had captured tons of New Republic information? Or could the Mandalorian intercept them before they accessed the data? 

You sit up, reaching for the tea. The minty water burns your tongue, but you hardly notice as the questions dance tauntingly, around and around. You close your eyes. 

***

It’s humiliating. With your job on hold and the rest of the villagers shaken from the intrusion, all you can think about is him. For the week that New Republic contractors work on repairing the entrance door and the surrounding wall, the Mandalorian is wrapped around your every waking thought.

It’s been months since you’ve had the time to read a holonovel. A stack of them perches lonely and untouched on your bedside table, the teacup from the other night next to them, half drunk. Yet you find yourself incapable of slogging through even just a paragraph without the beskar-clad man interrupting your focus.

A trashy holodrama should work. You curl up on the mismatched mound of cushions on your living room floor and flick one on. A terrible mistake, really. Watching two people kiss dramatically makes your stomach constrict and your heart swell with longing.

Sure, you’d been harbouring a crush on the Mandalorian for the past several months. You’re not going to pretend like this is the first time he’s been stuck on your mind. You’d spent afternoons wondering about his face, picturing what features went along with his short but strangely caring nature. You’d guessed at his eyes – brown, you decided. Not blue. They had to be warmer than his silver exterior. Deep and vast. And his nose would be prominent, his lips contrastingly pillowy, but you could never figure out how they all would come together and make his face. 

It was all a fanciful daydream. Now, with him gone fighting Imperials Maker-knows-where, no indication of when or if he’ll return – it’s a worry-stricken frenzy.

“I’m being ridiculous.” You blurt out loud, frustratedly shutting off the holodrama with a thwack. He’s dealt with much worse if the tales he’s spun at the cantina are all true. This should be a piece of cake. 

So why does it feel like you can’t breathe, won’t be able to breathe until he makes it back safe?

You still don’t even know his name. It’s a fact that hurts you more than you thought it could, and right now it stings particularly strong in your eyes. This was New Republic business. He wasn’t just doing it for you.

You like to think that you could have prevented the Imperials from snatching the data stick had you been there. That you could have stealthily plucked it from the back and snuck out a hero. In reality, you probably wouldn’t be breathing, blinking, thinking about Mando right now if you were.

They might have destroyed more than just the door. And perhaps, that’s the only thing keeping you sane right now – that they didn’t take away your library, not entirely. They didn’t trash everything. Just blew down the door and took the data stick, which, with any luck, will be returned along with Mando.

***

The day Kallu calls and gives you permission to go back to work is the same day that you find a green baby in your chair.

Just as she’d said, a New Republic officer is waiting for you just outside the building to pass along your new key, which is twice the size of your old one. 

After admiring the refinished doors – now double layered, fashioned in a stronger metal with more locks and alarm systems — you hurry down the center aisle to get the library prepped and open for the day. Even with the new security measures, you arrive at your workspace with a sprinkle of dread. The memory of your last time here flashes in your mind, makes you feel like you’re not alone.

Which… is technically true. Grogu is in your chair, using his powers to spin it around and around, a silver rod in his hand. 

“Oh, thank the Maker, you’re alright.”

Your heart swells at the sight of him, and you scan through the building in search of Mando. You don’t find anything. You peek around the corner towards the archival office in the back, still nothing.

“What are you doing here by yourself?” You crouch down to his level, bracing your hands on the seat to stop it from spinning.

Grogu has a big, fat… frown on his face. Not what you were expecting from a baby in a spinny chair. Your expression mirrors his own. 

“What’s wrong? Where’s your buddy?”

You check him over, patting his fuzzy head, rubbing his back. You notice the rod in his hands is in fact the data stick.

You yelp. Then you squeeze Grogu in the gentle grip of your palms, raising him up and down, up and down. “Thank you, little guy. Thank you so much.”

You fit him in the crook of your elbow as you take the data stick to the back room. You punch in the passcode, walk through the sliding door, and insert the stick back into its proper home. You press a few buttons on the control panel, and the contents of the data stick light up the room with a blue holographic interface.

You swipe through some folders, some files, images, all intact. Nothing corrupted. Everything, just as it was. Relief crashes through you like a wave in a storm, so strong it threatens your balance.

With a heavy exhale, you exit back to your desk and flop into the chair, the baby in your lap. The sensation of relief leaves you as quick as it came.

Grogu’s face is still scrunched up, in the worst of ways. He trembles in your hands, looking left, right, skittishly.

“Grogu?”

He throws a little arm up, pointing to the entrance.

You point, too. “Go?”

He nods twice.

“Where?” You ask, panic fluttering up your spine, down your limbs. “Is it your dad?”

His bottom lip juts out, his eyes even bigger than you thought possible. Fuck. Where is he?

You tuck the baby back into the crook of your elbow and race out the front door, locking everything back up. Outside, it takes less than ten seconds for the sun to start weakening your body with its oppressive heat.

“Now where?” 

Grogu gazes up at you, then turns his head downward. You follow his eyes to the ground, where a tiny speeder seats four greyish-blue critters about the same size as Grogu. Their wrinkly faces are half covered by goggles, chins sprouting fuzzy little beards. Taupe stomachs peek out of their utility belts. They each throw their arms up in unison, chanting, “Baby! Baby!”

You crouch down, bringing Grogu to their height. “Um, hello?”

Grogu skitters out of your arms and climbs onto the mini speeder. He rolls over the outer ledge and plops in without a sound.

The creatures greet you with a series of “Heys” and other noises you can’t pick out.

“You know where the Mandalorian is?” You interrupt the chatter, bracing your palm on the ledge where Grogu had just flopped over.

They bellow affirmative sounds, their voices gurgly. You make out the word “house” amongst the four of them.

“Well,” you say, rising up from your crouched position. “I can’t come with you on that thing.”

“No, no! That one!” The creature in the driver’s seat points further down the road to a red, regular-sized speeder bike, parked beside the cantina.

“I’m not going to steal a speeder.” You shield your eyes from the sun, studying your surroundings. Yellow banners stretch across the street, attached from one roof to another. They billow in the wind, their shade traversing back and forth across the ground. The creatures jump up and down in the vehicle, their tiny bodies flitting between sunlight and shadows.

“Not steal! From our shop. You bring it back.”

You eye them, unsure whether to grant your trust. But then you think of the Mandalorian.

“Fuck,” you whisper under your breath, jogging toward the speeder bike. With another brief scan around the street – rather empty, you suppose – you straddle it, toggle a few buttons, and engage the repulsorlift.

“Okay, guys,” you call back, and the baby-sized speeder takes off in front of you. You follow them close, through a cramped alleyway and out to a wide backroad, the wind drying the perspiration on your forehead. The cool breeze calms your nerves only slightly – your heart is still hammering away, dread shrouding over you like a billowing cloak.

Grogu and his companions continue past the docking bay at the edge of town, traversing the rocky plains. The horizon ripples with heat, breaking the ground into wavy ribbons. You ride long enough to cross a small cropping of lava streams, and then the rough terrain starts sprouting with spiky green leaves and other widely dispersed shrubs.

They slow to a stop once they reach an enclosure with two rotund beasts. Beyond it lies a quaint, white cabin with a wooden chair at the front. You recognize the ship resting on the rocks behind it– the one that chased the TIE-fighters away when the data stick was stolen.

You screech to a stop behind the creatures and bolt off of the bike, gravelly rocks crunching under your boots. Grogu follows, but his friends stay behind.

Nausea churns in your stomach when you notice a body – a dead one – laying in the distance between the house and the ship. It’s a man in a cheap suit of white armour. The handle of a blade juts out of his abdomen, the sliver of space where the armour couldn’t protect him. But you can’t bring yourself to study him any further. The Mandalorian clouds your thoughts as you barrel through the open doorway and into a singular room. 

In the center, there’s a small counter with a pack of turquoise cookies on top. In one corner, a dwarfish kitchen, in the next, the fresher. You spot a twin bed, a baby pram, some propagating plants. You circle the counter and come upon the Mandalorian, sprawled out on the floor, unmoving. Puddles of almost-dried blood accompany him, staining his clothes and the tile beneath his body. His blaster is a few feet from his outstretched arm.

Grogu climbs on top of his chest and pats the beskar plate. You watch, frozen, while he turns his head to look up at you. His eyes are pleading, expectant. He points at his father again. Claws tinkle against silver. The sound spurs you to action.

You lurch to your knees and ease your fingers under his cowl, wishing you were touching him under any other circumstance. It takes a moment to find bare skin. When you do, it sears you. Your fingers glide over his neck, searching, until you find a weak pulse.

You groan in relief, slipping your hand away. “Grogu, what happened?”

You know it’s futile. If you could communicate with the baby, Mando wouldn’t still be splayed on the floor.

Your fingers tremble as you brace them on Mando’s bicep, steadying your nerves. You squeeze. Calculate. You’re not going to remove his helmet. Out of the question.

Instead, you study his torso. There’s a gash– or there was one. His flightsuit gapes, blood crusting down the curve of his body. So much of it, in fact, there’s a gummy, congealed layer of blood on top of what’s already dried. But whatever wound he had is already closed up and healing into a fresh scar.

Brows furrowed, you rise to your feet and call out to the little creatures. They amble into the cabin, distracted by the body out front.

“Do you know where they just came from?” You gesture vaguely behind you at the pile of the Mandalorian and the baby on the floor.

When they notice Mando, they give sad, knowing sighs, like they’d already seen this earlier. Then they shake their heads in unison, all speaking at once. You parse through the jumble of words, stringing together something along the lines of “Baby no speak, know nothing.”

You didn’t expect much, but your heart still drops. It beats too hard, as if sinking and settling against your diaphragm.

You kneel by the Mandalorian again, slipping your fingers back underneath his woolly cowl. His neck still pulses against your fingertips. 

Grogu squeaks as you push your palms against Mando’s blood-smeared chest. “Mando,” you croak, “wake up.”

You press rhythmically against him, leaning your weight into your wrists, but it’s not accomplishing much — you’re just sort of nudging the chestplate into his ribs and smudging the streaks of blood. Grogu slides off and pats his chest along with you.

“Mando!”

You stop, then give the hardest push you can muster. Your hands ball into fists as you give one brutal pound to the chestplate, hurting yourself more than him. A dull metallic thud is all you hear before your hands are flaring with pain. You recoil, shaking them out. 

And… he’s not moving. Not doing anything. Nothing. You sit back on your heels, heaving raw breaths and shaking down to the bone. Grogu frowns.

What are you missing here?

Your eyes flit back to the red scar on his side. 

A cough. Mando’s chest rumbles, barely. The movement is so minute, as if the effort might kill him.

“Mando?”

You grab him by the shoulders and shake him again, or try to. He’s too heavy for you to truly jostle.

Your name brokenly scratches through his vocoder.

You lean over him, easing your hands under his head, cradling his helmet. “Are you alright? Can you hear me? What happened?”

He groans. Doesn’t move a finger. It scrapes at the back of your mind that he should have startled awake and reached for his blaster, or grabbed you, or thrown his arms up in defence before recognizing you— but no. He just lays there, utterly frozen.

“Data st– stick… on a ship… tracked me.” He coughs again. “Gone now.”

Your gaze flits between where you imagine his eyes are, behind the black visor. Although he can’t feel it, you stroke your thumbs softly over the helmet, over his covered jaw. 

A silver pin glints. You pull back and notice a dart lodged in his other side, opposite the knife wound. He doesn’t even wince as you pinch it between your thumb and forefinger and pull it out. A dollop of yellow liquid slips off the sharp end.

“What is this? Can you move?” Something roils in your stomach at the sight of the unknown substance that is clearly running its course. 

“S’okay… Senf-f-lax. Not… lethal…”

“Not lethal?” You repeat, anxiety warbling your voice. “Then what is it?”

“Watch the k–kid. I’ll… stay–” His whispers crackle out, and so does he. But his shallow breathing continues.

*** Every muscle in your body aches after somehow shoving the Mandalorian on his bed. Even with the help of Grogu’s powers, you probably pulled something. You considered removing his armour first, but figured he’d prefer not to wake up with half his wardrobe missing. So you hoisted him up with your hands under his armpits, dragging him with all your might to the mattress in the corner. Grogu closed his eyes in focus, easing your burden.

You double checked his injuries, still baffled by the fresh scar over his rib cage– there was so much blood on the floor, on his armour, in his cape — yet it was almost as if he’d never been cut. Then you scrubbed away the rusty, dried blood on the floor, and tucked the blaster back into his holster, trying and mostly failing to keep positive.

Not lethal, he’d said. It does little to ease your worries.

Now, with Mando asleep on the bed, you pick up the baby and mount the speeder bike with him in your elbow. Grogu makes his dislike of leaving the house abundantly clear. He whines and scratches at you with his nails, but it’s decidedly gentle.

To be fair, you don’t like it either. You feel like a fool, leaving Mando here, but you need to head back to the repository so you can figure out what Senflax-something means and fix this stupid, horrible fucking mess. You can’t just lug his body to the repository with you. He should be fine. Totally fine. His wounds had already been tended to, by whoever or whatever it was. You’d just have to hope no other Imps show up while you’re gone. You’ll find out what’s wrong with him and come right back here to fix it. Everything is fine. Not lethal, you repeat in your head. 

“I’m not going to leave you here alone,” you murmur to Grogu, engaging the speeder. Alone is technically untrue — unsupervised is more applicable. Either way, you’re not leaving him with a sleeping Mando and a dead body.

Not lethal.

The creatures in the mini speeder follow you back to the library, the sun hanging higher than before. Graciously, they allow you to keep the bike for another day. You thank them for helping you find Mando, then creep into the repository with Grogu. You leave the door locked, only intending to stay until you’ve figured out Mando’s condition. No time for Quarrens.

Grogu sits patiently in your lap while you scour the holonet, the bright interface painting your clothes blue in the dark room.

“Senflax…”

You swipe through articles. Cadannia. Jungle planet. Toxins. Plants. Senflax.

“Oh,” you whisper. You switch gears, taking Grogu with you to the botany section.

Your shoulders relax for the first time since this morning as you read about the Senflax plant, native to Cadannia. A neurotoxin that paralyzes the body’s major muscles while leaving vital organs, cognition — and judging by Mando — the ability to speak intact. As for healing, the effects can only be waited out.

“Paralytics such as this are often used by hunters to capture prey.” You read to Grogu, who leans curiously over your shoulder, gazing at the text on the holobook’s screen. “If only you coulda told me that, hey?”

His velvety ear brushes across your cheek, and you sigh, leaning against the shelf. 

If it’s just a muscle paralytic, it doesn’t explain why Mando was knocked out, nor why it took a pounding to the chest to wake him up. Blood loss? The thought twists in your stomach.

He spoke to you. That was good. Then he passed right back out. You could determine the state of him much easier if you could just… look at his face. But you won’t, you’ll just — you’ll just hurry back and keep watch.

***

You spend the evening in Mando’s hut making dinner for you and the baby. He’s nestled between his father’s chest and bicep. It feels intrusive, what you’re doing, but you’d rather be here watching over the two of them than anxiously twiddling your thumbs at home.

You set a steaming bowl of soup on the island in the center of the hut. Grogu peeks at it from the comfort of his father’s arm, then soars, flipping through the air and landing on the counter. 

You stare, wide-eyed and slack-jawed, as he slurps up the broth. He clutches the bowl in his hands, which is about half the size of his body, and finishes it up in less than ten seconds.

He lets it go with a clatter.

You laugh, “More?”

While Grogu works on his second bowl, you work on your own. It’s a simple, salty broth, a few veggies thrown in. Mando didn’t have much to work with. 

You think of sitting by him on the edge of the mattress, then decide against it and sit cross-legged on the floor.

When your bowl is empty and your belly full, you consider moving the body that’s still laying outside, then quickly squash that thought when your soup threatens to come right back out.

When he’s ready, Mando can handle it. You have nowhere to take it, anyways.

He hasn’t moved an inch since you shoved him on the bed, which tracks, given the Senflax, but his extended slumber is troubling you. He should at least be awake. 

Guilt washes over your face, your shoulders. It heats up your cheeks. 

All this for the data stick.

As night falls, you flick on the lantern hanging above the counter. It casts a warm glow around you, the plants, the baby, and the sleeping Mandalorian. 

You check his pulse a third time, his neck warm as ever. It’s stronger now, but still slow. Then you check his wound again and decide to set about cleaning it. It may be healed – how, you have no clue – but it’s still dirty. You locate a medkit by the fresher and settle next to the mattress. 

“I’m going to clean you up,” you murmur to him. No response.

Carefully, you reach into the tear of his flightsuit, holding the fabric up, and pass an alcohol wipe over the bloodied area. He doesn’t stir.

It didn’t hit you then, but it does now – his skin. You can see his skin; tan and soft, yet blemished by scars. It’s as warm as his neck was– but you didn’t get to look at it. Even this tiny glimpse of his bare body is overwhelming. Swallowing, you quickly swipe bacta gel over the wound and pack up the medkit. As good as it feels to touch and admire the warm tone of his skin, it’s also so wrong – him, unconscious, unknowing. 

Fingers trembling, you toss the medkit back in the cabinet by the fresher and plop down, your back against the wall. You debate whether to take Grogu home with you for the night. It feels too much to stay here without the Mandalorian’s knowledge, yet unsafe to leave him defenseless. What if he didn’t want you here, staying in his private space?

You fight with yourself long enough to fall asleep like that, sitting on the floor with your legs spread out before you, your back digging into the wall.

***

You wake with a start against the floor, the urgency of getting to work spinning your head. Blinking, you recall where you are— the night before. You scramble to your knees and peer across the room to find the Mandalorian as still as ever. Grogu snores in the crook of his elbow.

Now. He should absolutely be awake by now.

You stumble toward the medpack, this time in search of the stimshot. You slip it out of the package and, bleary eyed, move Grogu from the bed to his pram.

“Mando,” you sigh, “say something.”

You stand over top of him, staring into the nothingness of his visor.

“Say something, or I am going to give you a stimshot.” 

You press a hot palm on his chestplate, leaving a sweaty, temporary imprint. You push. 

Nothing.

You crouch down and raise the needle, finding the sliver of skin through the gash in his suit.

“Mandalorian.”

You hold it an inch shy of his side, radiating heat. You don’t even poke him before he jolts awake, his hand closing around your wrist, and gripping it hard.

A startled, ragged grunt fills your ears. It fills your whole body.

The leather of his glove squeaks with the intensity of his hold. The stimshot clatters to the floor.

You gasp. 

The helmet turns toward you with the grace of a malfunctioning droid, then he relaxes. Your name is a quiet sigh of recognition, floating from his helmet, his fingers still wrapped around you.

“Librarian.” His voice softens. It’s one word, yet it carries so much relief. Warmth. A glint of humour. He releases you, fingers slipping off your skin. His hand drops against the mattress. “Didn’t think… still here…”

You murmur, low. “Are you okay?” 

He shifts his legs, testing his mobility, then plants his palms on either side of his body, pushing himself up. His thigh brushes your fingers as he moves. 

Slowly, he looks down at you, kneeling by his side. You swallow, removing your hand from the bed. His next movement is so small, you could have missed it – but you don’t. You don’t miss the way his thigh twitches forward, chasing the trail of your touch.

He chokes a dull sound.

As if you’d been poisoned yourself, your own body goes rigid as you gaze at each other. His helmet drops down without severing your stare, and you notice he’s panting.

You wait for an answer to your question, heat spreading everywhere. 

But he whips his head around, breaking each of you out of whatever trance had just enveloped you. He calms, finding Grogu still asleep in the pram. Then he glances toward the counter, probably eyeing the bowls from last night’s dinner.

“You took care of him,” the Mandalorian declares hoarsely after a moment, his breathing slowing. 

You situate yourself on the floor. “Of course. He came and found me.” 

You don’t know how long he’d been unconscious before you got here. How long Grogu had sat with him, trying to wake him up.

“He’s smart,” Mando murmurs, shifting higher and groaning with effort. “He trusts you.” 

He’s still looking at the baby.

The words dance around your head – glittery, special. Pride shimmers in your chest. Hearing him say it is like receiving a heavy, golden medal.

Mando turns back to you, studies you for a long moment. You try not to shrink yourself.

“Thank you.” It’s weighty, meaningful, charged.

You shrug, mostly to soothe the shiver creeping up your spine. “Least I could do. Thank you for getting my data stick. I feel… kind of terrible.” You laugh, gesturing at his body, the state of him.

He shrugs back, winces, and collapses on the bed. 

You clamber onto your knees once more, hand on his forearm. It’s breathtakingly solid under your touch, his muscles flexing. “What is it?”

He shudders. “Hurts.”

Your brows furrow. “Everywhere?”

His chuckle is ragged, scraping out of his throat. “Something like that.”

“You slept for a long time,” you whisper, “like… really long. I think you stopped being paralyzed quite a while ago.”

“Yeah, well…” Another grunt. “Hit my head on the way down.”

You picture the dart piercing his skin and his whole body freezing, and — he had a long way to fall.

“What do you need?”

He replies faster than you expected. “Water.”

You set a glass beside him and step outside, giving him the privacy to remove his helmet and drink. It's a cloudy, drizzly day. The raindrops lift a fresh scent out of the dry rock and steam rises from the lava fissures in the far off distance. 

You peer out the other direction, and the body is still crumpled over by the ship. You cringe at it— him. Whoever he was. Though you have yet to witness Mando use his weapons, you know he’s grossly capable with them. And here you are, staring at the aftermath. A conflicting blend of remorse and relief fill your chest. Is it so terrible to be glad that because the Imp is dead, Mando is okay? That because he killed him first, Mando is drinking water next to his sleeping kid?

After a few minutes have passed in torn reflection, you knock as a warning, then slip back inside.

He’s sitting up again, the baby in his lap.

“I have to get back to the repository.” You cross your arms, leaning by the door. 

They both lift their heads. You smile at their coordination, the way they watch you together. You notice Grogu’s small claw wrapped around Mando’s thumb.

“You’ll both be alright?”

“I’ll send Grogu back to you if I find myself paralyzed again.” 

You laugh at his deadpan tone. “Okay. Put that baby to work.”

The vocoder crackles with a sigh. 

You take one more peek around the cabin – the tiny kitchen, and its shelf with Grogu sized-mugs nestled inside Mando-sized mugs. The plants, which surprised you. You hadn’t thought of him as a plant person. Then again, he didn’t look like a baby person either. You glance again at the cookies on the counter. 

“Should I, um, check on you later?”

You’d yet to establish whether the Mandalorian was actually comfortable with your presence in his house, or whether he was just grateful you’d looked after his kid.

“No need,” Mando says, and it suddenly becomes hard to hide the disappointment on your face.

You turn to leave, once more recalling the Imp in the rain. You don’t know what exactly went down, what Mando remembers. Could he have forgotten, in the foggy haze of paralysis, that he’d killed a man who is still laying out on his property? There’s so many questions, so much you need to know – but he’s only just woken up. 

“Mando, there’s… a man outside…”

He shoots to his feet, the baby rolling onto the mattress with a gleeful sound. Mando shuffles a boot forward, wavering slightly as he fingers the handle of his blaster.

“The dead one…?” You clarify, eyes shooting to the floor.

His shoulders drop. “Yeah. I’ll handle it.” He falls back on the bed, resting his elbows on his knees. “Just… try to be more specific next time.”

***

You ride back to town and return the speeder bike to the little creatures. You’d never noticed their miniscule shop before; it’s tucked away in the basement of a round building, the entrance about three feet tall. You finally piece together who they are when you catch a glimpse of a squid-like man crouched inside by a worktable covered in wires, retrieving his land speeder. The Anzellans.

You skitter away to the repository before he can spot you.

It’s midmorning now. There’s a few people waiting outside the library who grumble at you for not being open yet. A mother and her child frown at your clothes as you unlock the door. You glance down – blood on your knees, a little more on your hands. The capacity to mind has escaped you. You shrug it off and walk inside.

You spend the rest of the day like that, sprinkled in blood, a certain absence in your mind as you think about Mando. He doesn’t come in, nor does Grogu – which is a good sign, you suppose. 

After arguing about the library’s right to keep holobooks on various religions with a disapproving old woman (“Ma’am, the library is here to reflect the viewpoints of all its users, not just one”), you close early and head home.

You flop onto your bed in your bloody clothes and fall asleep.

There’s no sign of Mando the next day, nor the one after that. You grow annoyed with yourself and the incessant bobbing of your knee, anxiously wondering whether it will be weeks or months before you see him again. Every ten seconds, you imagine him walking through the door to rescue you from your constant agonizing over whether you’d dually succeeded in damaging his trust and violating his privacy. Grogu was the one who took you to the house – he trusted you to help his father. Mando had even seemed relieved to see you when he awoke, but the way he’d denied your offer to check up on him left you – admittedly – spiraling.

By the third day, you almost wonder whether you should just go back – perhaps he really wasn’t okay – then you find the sliver of reason left in you. Grogu would come and find you again if he needed to.

On the fourth day, your nerves begin settling down. You busy yourself with researching Nar Shaddaa for a commander from Adelphi base. Once you finish gathering resources and notes on its atmosphere, you send them off and work on re-shelving holobooks.

There’s more than you expected in the return bin. The cart’s squeaky wheel sings as you roll it around to your starting point: the microscopic fiction section.

You trudge through the shelving, the remainder of your shift dragging as slow as it ever has.

***

The Mandalorian is waiting across the street under the leaves of a tree when you lock up the library. He leans against the white bark, his hands resting politely at the front of his body, one atop the other. 

Everything inside you floods with warmth as you take him in. It’s like the edges of your vision turn all pink and dreamy, the anxieties you’d piled and fussed over the last few days melting away. It’s like… nothing happened. 

He’s here, standing tall and strong and clean, beckoning you forward as he nods in greeting. Your limbs go numb as you walk to him. 

He manages to look handsome without a sliver of skin on display. Perhaps it’s the freshly polished armour and how he gleams in it. Or the way his helmet makes attractive angles over his hidden face. Maybe it’s the size of him, from his big heavy boots to his wide shoulders and the slim waist in between. How a sense of safety envelops you just looking at him. Whatever it is – your heart is fluttering a mile a minute. 

Words catch and pile in your throat.

“Dinner?” He pushes off the tree, nodding towards a market stall a few metres away from which a mouthwatering steam curls.

“Please,” you breathe, all at once conscious of the intense hunger roiling in your stomach.

He pays for your food, and you walk comfortably alongside him as you eat, your face warming at the occasional stares from other villagers. Once you step out of the main plaza, he leans into your side, bringing his helmet closer to your ear. “Thank you for watching the kid.”

“Oh.” You swallow a bite, taken aback. “It was no problem.”

He straightens his back, voice suddenly slashed with guilt. “It could have been. I was there for a day before you came.” 

A day. You recall Grogu’s trembling little body when you found him in the library. A fissure forms in your chest. You want to reach out, place your palm on Mando’s shoulder and comfort him, but you keep your hands to yourself.

The road thins here and there with the spread of other street vendors and their lineups, interrupting your conversation. Mando fits himself in front of you when the path squeezes, reaching behind to gently hook his fingers around your forearm and guide you through the swarms. Your heart trips, as if over a boulder. You almost drop your napkin.

You return to his side when the crowd dwindles, taking two steps for every one of his long strides. 

“What… happened?” You have no clue whether it’s up for discussion, and a bolt of adrenaline zips through your body as the question leaves your lips. “You were gone for a week, and then I found you paralyzed and covered in probably not just your own blood.”

He doesn’t pause or sigh. He merely seems to take notice of your doubled footfalls and relents, slowing his pace.

You pass a fiber artist’s booth, a jeweler, and several more leafy trees before he responds.

“I tracked the Imps for a few days,” he offers, cutting the quiet. “Found a covert operations unit on Coruscant. Took a little while to take it down.”

“The whole thing?” You blurt. 

“Whatever they’d already accessed from the data stick had to be compromised,” he answers, plain. “But I was sloppy. A couple strays followed me home.”

You lift your eyes from the flagstone paving to him, a casual sway in his shoulders as he walks. “I thought there was only one body outside the house…?” 

“Uhuh. Rest of his crew didn’t make it that far.”

You chew your last bite and toss the napkin into a receptacle on the side of the street.

He shot down their ship, he explains. It crashed miles out from the house in the lava flats. “I was going to bring you the data stick when he… showed up.”

He says no more, the rest of the story forming easily in your head. 

The guilt hasn’t fully washed away yet – it’s still nestled somewhere within you, stirring as you contemplate the magnitude of what he’d gone through to return your stupid data stick. He spent a week taking down an entire Imperial unit on your behalf, and when he got home, his reward was a knife in the ribs and a nasty paralytic dart wedged in his other side. He swung violently between sleep and consciousness while you watched over him – was he awake when the kid healed him? Did he try to move, comfort him, and find himself utterly incapable?

And – there’s still a missing piece.

“When I got there, you had this… cut on your side. There was blood everywhere but the wound had already closed.” 

“Grogu,” he mutters. “Like I said, he’s smart.”

You hum, in both astonishment and agreement. 

It hadn’t quite occurred to you that Grogu could have done it, even though it was the only probable explanation. Healing capabilities never came up in your research all those months ago. But thank the Maker for that. You don’t really want to entertain the alternative — but without Grogu’s strange, wondrous abilities, you wonder if Mando would be here, walking alongside you and just barely brushing the back of your hand as your arms swing back and forth. If the gash in his side would have killed him, had Grogu not forced it closed. 

Something builds in your chest, makes you stand a little straighter. The kid had been strong enough to heal his father’s wound, but when he still didn’t wake or stir, when Grogu no longer knew what to do, he gathered his friends and came to find you.

When you open your mouth to thank Mando, your voice barely coasts above a whisper. “It means a lot to me, everything you did. I know you were trying to take a break, but… I guess it just worked out that you were so close.”

The hand plate on his glove skims your sleeve. “I could have said no.”

Just like that – your heart is leaping again. “What do you mean?”

“They could have sent someone else.”

Your head swims, vision blurring. Your pulse tingles in your fingertips. You want to ask who, you want to ask why, but an understanding is taking form. It blossoms in your chest, delicate but sure. This wasn’t about a contract. This was about you.

Another silence passes over you.

You keep walking in tandem, his admission hanging in the evening air. You crest the town’s border where the buildings end and the rocky terrain takes over. 

It’s quiet here, under the city’s white arch, the crowds having thinned to nothing. The orange sun hangs low over the distant grey bluffs. A few silvery ships rest in the docking area to the left, dwarfing the lone land speeder parked at the boundary. 

You’re still processing what he said, absently admiring how the sunset shimmers across his pauldron when he stops, perching his weight on one leg. He seems to eye the docking bay, calculating, before turning to face you. The attention pins you to the spot. Your feet cement to the ground. Holding his gaze is a challenge – one that you lose when you avert your eyes and focus instead on the way his cape rustles in the slight breeze. 

“You know, the kid misses you,” he murmurs. “Think he wants you to come back.”

You choke on nothing. Is he joking? “He wants me to come back. To your house.”

In fairness, that would be understandable. You did make a pretty good soup. But what is this? 

“Did he tell you that himself?” You cross your arms over your chest, tilting up your chin to meet his dark visor. 

Mando huffs impatiently. “I can tell.”

You almost feel bad, giving him a hard time. But watching him get a little ruffled, hearing the slight irritation in his voice – it’s exhilarating.

“And what about you,” you say, a certain boldness mixing in with your nerves. “You miss me? Do you want me to come back?” 

A step forward brings you toe to toe.

His chestplate caves like you’d stolen his breath with that simple question. But he doesn’t look away. You watch his fingers roll against his palm. Is he… fidgeting?

Finally, a gruff murmur. “Yes.”

Yes, I want to take you home, now. Not “if you want,” not “I guess you could.” Yes.

Your pulse is a drum throughout every vein in your body. You waver on your feet and fall silent, no longer trusting your voice to come out as sure and as steady as it was mere seconds ago. First, he admits to putting himself through this whole debacle for you – not the New Republic – and now he’s inviting you home with this aggravatingly sultry yes. You think your knees might give out.

The helmet angles closer into your face, as if he’s narrowing his eyes at you beneath the visor, waiting.

“O-okay,” you blink, eyelids fluttering as you fight to maintain your composure. By some miracle, your next words come out casual and collected. “Only if you got rid of that man outside your house.”

He pulls away, no longer crowding you so closely. There’s remorse in his grumbling. “I wouldn’t invite a lady home if there was still a dead body at my door.”

It’s so… ridiculous, how a sentence like that sets your whole being on fire. He’d called you a lady, and it makes you feel precious, like some coveted, sweet thing. Then he’d referred to a man he killed, probably quite easily, the bloody image of it playing in your head. Instead of making you recoil from him in fear, there’s a heat that sears through your abdomen, a pulse that sings in your core. You sober yourself with a deep, deep breath.

His fingers find your wrist once again, and he swivels on his heel, stalking with you toward the docking bay.

“Get in the speeder.”

***

On the outside, the ride to his house is breezy and peaceful – inside, you’re anything but calm. The wind rustles your clothes, tussles your hair, and dries the sweat collecting in your palms. Anticipation prickles across your skin. It doesn’t feel real, sitting beside him and watching his hands guide the speeder. That question – what is this? – echoes in your mind. It couldn’t just be a friendly kickback, not with the way his voice dragged low when he asked for you to join him. But you’re not sure what else to expect, and you don’t want to hope. You lace your fingers together and try to squeeze out the shakes. 

You’re vaguely aware of his gaze on you as you cross the hot springs, the landscape now sprinkled with green shrubs. The sun has dipped behind the bluffs on the horizon, taking the warmth with it. Pink and blue swathes in the sky slowly meld into one purple blanket.

When you climb out of the speeder, the familiar racket of Anzellans floats from the ship behind the house. You squint, making out the shape of Grogu’s ears through the window of the cockpit.

“Repairs,” Mando grunts, already trudging away from the speeder. “Come on.”

You chortle to yourself. The kid misses you, Mando said. He’s not even waiting for you.

Mando points you to the front door while he approaches the enclosure housing the two round-backed beasts. You watch from the small porch as he reaches into a large barrel beside a tree, tossing what looks like flaky cubes of dried grass over the wired fence. They each take a block in their gigantic mouths, swallowing without a single bite. You think of asking him what they are, why he has them, but that curiosity dies when he turns in your direction, observing you from a distance.

Your heart quickens when he begins striding to you with purpose. A shiver runs through you. Here you are – alone. 

He stops just short of your body, closing you between himself and the front door. 

“You’re nervous.” It’s almost satisfied, the way he says it. 

Fuck – he’s so close, you can hear his breathing under the helmet without the vocoder having to pick it up. 

You force your voice to carry some semblance of flirtation and not betray the way you’re burning up inside. “Should I not be?”

His arm reaches past your face, caging you, as he presses a button on the wall. The door slides open.

“Go inside.”

Lightheaded, you swivel and walk towards the counter. You place your palms on the smooth surface, letting it cool them down.

The door seals with a hiss. It’s dark; the hot air consumes you. You’re painfully aware of his presence somewhere behind you, but you stay there, hands braced on the ledge of the counter.

Seconds pass. They feel like hours.

“When you were here,” his voice is scraping, so low you can almost feel it vibrate at the base of your core. “You took care of the kid. You fed him. You cleaned the blood off the floor.”

Mando is still standing by the door when you look back. His body takes up the whole archway. It feels like he takes up the whole room, really – he’s nearly as tall as the ceiling.

He approaches you at the counter, taking slow, careful steps. 

You’re trembling. He steadies you by grasping your upper arms.

The warmth of his palms seeps through his leather gloves, through your shirt, onto your skin. Your pulse races, beating violently against his grip. You want to speak, ask him what his point is, but the words aren’t coming. Your mind is lost to his touch that is somehow blazing through layers of fabric.

“You cleaned the blood off of me,” he says. “You touched me.”

Your backside presses against the counter. Fear tugs weakly at the back of your mind at his severe tone, but it’s nothing to the intensity of the arousal warming between your thighs.

“I–I’m sorry,” you plead, blindsided. Perhaps you really shouldn’t have. “You were paralyzed, I couldn’t just leave you there, filthy–”

“You could have waited.”

And – oh, fuck – this is exactly what you were hoping for, isn’t it?

He’s panting, just like when you’d tried to give him a stimshot. So are you, you realize, air puffing rapidly out of your nose. Another shiver knocks through you.

“I wish you would have waited,” he groans. “Then I could have felt– ngh–”

A wrecked gasp tears through your lungs when he presses himself against your thigh, rutting his hard cock against you. It’s harsh, lacking control – he shudders at the sensation. Your head falls back and he instantly invades the space, letting his helmet rest in the curve of your neck. 

Something strains in him as he rumbles brokenly through the modulator. “Would you have touched me if I was awake? Or were you scared?”

He rocks against you, giving another soft grunt that makes your head swim. When you don’t respond, he lifts his head from your neck and pinches your chin between his fingers, holding you at attention. “Would you?”

There’s truly nothing computing in your mind right now. It’s blank. You just watch him dumbly as his thumb presses to your bottom lip and grazes your teeth.

“I–” You hear a pitiful little whine, and you realize it’s yours over the blood pounding in your ears. “I don’t know… I – oh, please, let me touch you now, I wanna feel you.”

Your hand slips downward, and his whole body goes rigid when you give him a squeeze. The sheer size of him is so much more apparent in your hand, although still covered by the canvas texture of his suit. As you look into his visor, hand pushing against his hard cock, beskar pressing into your thighs, he rasps, “Go to the bed.”

He pulls off of you and your body slackens without the support. He stays by the counter, watching, as you walk to the single mattress and settle on the edge of it. The sheets are crisp and fresh – he’s washed them since you were here last. 

He follows, taking a knee at the side of the bed. His palm smooths down your thigh, dipping under your calf, then he lifts your foot onto his raised thigh and starts pulling off your boot. He tosses it to the side and grabs your other foot. When the second boot slips off, his gloved fingers work into the flesh of your calves, massaging and loosening the tight muscles. 

Your head lolls to the side, resting on your shoulder as you watch him deftly work his way up your leg.

“Take off your shirt,” he demands, hands now resting on your knees, his voice full of want.

Slow– so awfully, frustratingly slowly, you lift the hem of your shirt. Maybe you take so long because you’re shy. Maybe you just want to tease him. He doesn’t care – his fingers dig into your knees all the same when he catches sight of your bare skin, the soft swell of your breasts.

You let the fabric fall beside you, adjusting yourself. 

He stares. And he stares. Finally, his hands coast up your thighs, his fingers find your torso–

“Wait—” You cover his hands with your own. They’re butterflying over your ribs, painfully close to where you want them – but they’re gloved.

You sigh, “Please, can you take those off?”

At that, he tenses, gripping your torso tighter. The tips of his fingers dig into your skin. He looks up at you for a prolonged moment, chest heaving. Then he releases your torso and offers his hands up, holding them steady for you to take off the gloves.

Oh.

Not what you expected.

It's almost too much, the image of him kneeling before you with his hands raised, as if pledging fealty, waiting for you to start undressing him. Your hands shake as you start pulling off one glove. His tan, veiny hand is slowly revealed. You work on the other, then hold his wrists up as you admire his strong, calloused fingers, the thickness of his palms. He lets you look for a few more seconds before he breaks out of your hold.

A breathy moan is stolen from your mouth at the sensation of his hot, bare touch as he cups your chest. He massages around your curves, gentle at first, then with a slight, impatient roughness. He takes your soft noises as encouragement, sliding his thumbs over your nipples. They harden at his touch, and your thighs squeeze with need, and you force yourself not to beg for his mouth.

You cry out for him, “Mando, fuck–” 

It must be the wrong thing to do. He stills, and his hands drop from your chest to brace on the edge of the mattress. Your skin prickles over the plushness of your breasts at the loss of his touch. Your eyes snap open to find the helmet turned down as if he’s pondering something, and your heart starts pumping anxious adrenaline through your veins as you wait for him to spit it out.

“If we’re gonna do this,” his thumbs slowly find your skin again, stroking at your sides. You start to quiver. “I don’t want you to call me that.”

Fuck, what does that mean?

You don’t know what to say, so you just tilt your head at him like he’s done countless times to you. Your stomach does obnoxious little flips. His helmet lifts, finding your eyes. Then his whole body lifts too, as he comes to stand between your spread thighs.

His rough hand catches under your chin, guiding your eyes back to his visor. He’s exceptionally big from this angle, and it makes you squirm under the rigid hold on your jaw.

What is he doing?

“I’ll give you my name,” he says. “Do you want it?”

And… white. Your vision goes completely white, no matter the darkness of the room. It’s just pure nothingness for a moment, a blankness you’ve never known. You don’t even bother stuttering out some helpless form of nonsense to fill the quiet.

“Do you want it?” He repeats huskily, pulling your chin up a touch higher, forcing you to finally think.

It doesn’t escape you – how you’re sitting half-naked before him as he offers you a deeper form of intimacy than anything you could imagine. More intimate than his soft grunts as he’d rutted against you, more intimate than his own bare hands brushing your naked chest. More intimate than it will be, when he slides himself inside you and curses out your name.

It’s barely audible when you whine out a simple yes.

“Fuck– come here.” He pulls you up off the mattress, supporting you and your jelly limbs by wrapping an arm around your waist and holding you to him. He releases you once you find your balance and fits his hands underneath the fabric of your pants, squeezing your ass. Your lip slides between your teeth as his hands go lower, working the fabric off of your body, and you step once, twice, out of your last piece of clothing. He kicks the garment to the side with a boot.

He undoes the strap of his utility belt. Your chest constricts at the way his fingers work the leather, just above his straining erection. It falls, along with the bandolier, slapping against the floor.

He’s still covered head to toe, except for his bare hands. But you’re perfectly naked, and it’s perfectly fair that way, when he’s giving you something so much more than his skin and his body.

“I won’t take anything else off,” he murmurs, dark and hoarse and full of desire. “I’ll give you my name, and you’ll just – you’ll let me have you. Okay?”

You nod, anticipation knocking against every bone, arousal burning white hot between your legs.

It’s like your heart itself knows what’s coming, and it stops for a few seconds. The noise of your blood pumping ceases to fill your ears, just so you can hear the way he whispers his own name to you.

“Din.”

Din.

Your heart kicks back on after a few more seconds, thrashing against your ribs as you process his name. It’s short. It’s simple. Easily spoken; a press of the tongue against the roof of the mouth, a push of air, a petal soft close.

“Din?” You fit his name in your mouth, tasting it for the first time. It’s just a weak murmur when you say it. Din. It feels strange yet right to call him by his name instead of his creed. Din. Unembellished. Entirely him.

You’re hardly aware of how he falters at the sound before your mind starts racing. What do you say now? Do you thank him? But he’s already laying you down on the bed with a new sense of urgency.

He fits himself beside you on the tiny mattress, the armour cold against your skin. In your delirium, still reeling– Din, Din is his real name – you absently murmur something about not getting his boots on the bed. He just grunts dismissively, to the effect that the sheets are going to get dirty either way – fix it later– while his fingers skate down your torso and dip between your thighs. 

This time, his name is an urgent plea, a heavy moan on your lips. “Din–”

“That’s right,” he sighs alongside you, fingers sliding easily over your clit. “Fuck– you’re wet.”

He continues whispering under his breath. Words like pretty and need and soft slur together as he circles your clit, finding only more and more of your dripping arousal.

Your back arches off the mattress. You might have felt embarrassed at the ridiculously soaked state of your cunt– it’s borderline pathetic – but he just groans louder in your ear, and his hand moves lower, shallowly dipping inside you. It’s almost too easy for him to sink his knuckles deeper. Din shifts, perching himself slightly more upward on a supporting elbow. He angles his hand so that his thumb can press against your clit while his fingers massage against something achingly sweet inside of you. That spot – you didn’t really know it existed, until now. You thought you’d brushed against it yourself before, but it didn’t feel like this. It didn’t knock the breath out of you like it’s doing now, as Din rubs circles against it.

You reach out, finding purchase with a hand on his shoulder. Your muscles pull taut. You tense your stomach to mitigate the overwhelming sensation of Din’s fingers working you open. Your core pulses around him — and he doesn’t miss the way you hug his fingers tighter.

“Good?”

You make some sort of desperate noise at him, reaching for his waist, searching for his cock. It’s even harder than it was minutes ago. He rolls his hips against your touch, letting you blindly unzip the trousers of his flightsuit and pull his devastatingly hard, thick cock through the opening.

You stroke him, spreading the bead of arousal leaking from the tip. You fit your fist around the head and slide down. He shudders, ragged breaths punching out of the vocoder.

“Fuck, you want it? You want me to fuck you? Tell me you want me to fuck you.” He pushes forward, urging his cock through the tightness of your fist. “I bet you feel– I bet you feel good.”

He’s on top of you before you’re even aware that you’re nodding, bobbing your head profusely against the pillow. A whine breaks your lips open when he slides his fingers out of you. 

Faintly, you feel his cock twitch on your thigh, but he catches your wrist when you reach for it again. His gaze doesn’t break from yours as he gathers your other wrist in the same hand, holding them both to his chest.

He crowds your vision like this — his helmet, his wide shoulders and chest making up your whole world.

“Din,” you whine again, his name already tasting familiar. You feel his thighs stiffen against yours at the sound. 

“Tell me.” He tightens his grip around your wrists as if you might slip away from underneath his body.

You suck in a breath, then your mouth starts running before you know what you’re saying. “I want you, Din, I’ve wanted you for months, please don’t make me wait any longer–”

“I won’t, fuck, I won’t,” he hushes you, your name slurring wantonly somewhere amongst his hurried promises. He releases your wrists, dragging you down the mattress by the hips.

“Open your legs,” he orders, though he’s already using his palms to shove them apart. You obediently let him spread them wide, reaching for his shoulders.

Din slides a fist down his cock and holds it at the base before notching the head at your entrance.

The need is no longer a dull beat in your abdomen. It’s a violent strike, a painful throb.

“Hurry up– hurts–” You’re mewling at him, and it sends his hips jerking forward in answer. One second, you’re so empty it hurts, and the next, you’re full of him.

The sound he makes… is the sound you imagine he would have made when he was stabbed. It’s tattered. It’s a low, broken moan that ends on a hiss of pain. But it’s so beautiful, too, because he keeps moving, and more sounds tumble out of him, softer than the last. Sounds that aren’t so pained. Just sounds of pleasure – and that’s what’s tearing out of your lungs as the initial pain burns away, blooming into a blissful stretch.

“Fuck, I knew you were– you’re perfect–” His voice lands somewhere between a whimper and a growl as he adjusts.

He cradles your jaw in his palm and slides his thumb back between your lips. You run your tongue over it, holding it between your teeth. Then he pushes his cock further, taking another inch, and another.

“Shit,” you cry around his thumb.

The stretch might have been painful if you weren’t this soaked – but it only soothes the ache. He fills you, his cock sliding against that sweet spot, and then he fills you some more.

His thumb falls from your mouth. 

“I thought of you,” he rasps, his palm travelling further down and pressing against the base of your stomach. It transforms the stretch of his cock into something more. “On Coruscant, I thought of you like this– ngh– to keep me going–”

You must be soaking the fabric surrounding his cock already. His flightsuit chafes against your skin each time he sinks himself into you, but the rough sensation is wholly overpowered by the way he’s moving against that point of pleasure inside you.

“And then I– fuck, I make it back home, and the next time I see you, I can’t fucking move.”

He’s increasing the pace now, rolling his hips upward each time he bottoms out inside you.

“You were like a-an angel when I woke up, but I blacked out ag–again–”

You wrap your fingers around both of his biceps, between the pauldrons and vambraces. The muscles are hard beneath your touch, working and flexing to hold himself over top of you.

“–and ngh– I fucking missed it when you cleaned my– fuck– I c–couldn’t feel you.”

He sounds desperate and frustrated even now as he’s working you open on his cock. You don’t think he’s ever talked this much, or so freely – he hardly ever talks, even with prompting. But now, it’s like he’s baring all of his inner thoughts to you in place of his skin, and it’s working a certain kind of magic; his raspy voice worsens the pulse between your thighs.

“You can feel me now, Din,” you reassure him, purposely tensing your walls around him, “I’m here, you can have me as long as you want.”

The pressure on your stomach disappears. He stops moving. Your brows raise in the middle, your bottom lip threatens to jut out. You squirm, refusing to look away from the visor, your cunt squeezing around his cock that’s buried, now motionless inside you. You're sure he’s meeting your eyes with his own as he pants above you. 

Then he reaches underneath you, taking your body with him as he leans back on his knees and gathers you into his lap. 

He wraps his arms around you, hands grabbing at your ass as he guides you back down his length. Your thighs cage his kneeling frame, and your hands lock over his traps, clutching at the gathered wool of his cape.

At this angle, the underside of your clit slides against his cock as he bucks up into you. 

“Din.” You sigh his name. Again, and again, and again. A lightning strike thunders in your ribcage every time you say it, and your voice stumbles with each bounce, “Din, you f-feel, fuck, you feel so big.”

“Yeah?” The cold beskar of his helmet presses against your shoulder as his hips stutter. His vambraces dig into your sides. He fucks you like that for a while, an absurd display of strength – he could fuck you however he wants to, but he elects to kneel on the bed with you on top of him, using his arms and hands to help you bounce on his cock. “God, you’re fucking tight, ngh– and soft–”

Soon, he lets you just grind against him, stimulating your clit against the coarse dark hair at the base of his cock. He must notice when you’re getting close – your head falls back and your eyes shut in pleasured focus, and your walls seize around him – then he’s stammering, “No, no, no, hang on,” into the vocoder.

You’re dizzy with pleasure when he eases you onto your back again. A whimper catches in your lungs when you lose some of the friction on your clit, the dull ache of your building orgasm fizzling away. 

One of his hands travels up underneath your spine, and his fingers slide through your hair at the nape of your neck before he closes them in a fist, pulling. Your scalp tingles as his other hand grabs the underside of your thigh to hike it up higher against his body. It only slightly alters his angle but it’s doing something, causing your eyes to shut tight and your cunt to drench him with more of your already excessive slick.

He slows, milking it, admiring how your wetness makes his cock glisten. “Shit, how are you–? You’re soaking.” 

You take his brief pause to try and roll back on top of him and gain some control — you want to lay him down, use your mouth, show him just how grateful you are for all he’d done. But you can’t move, can’t get him to yield to the weak pushes at his shoulders.

He says something that is lost between his concealed lips and your ears; you’re too busy squirming helplessly under his body. He tightens his grip in your hair, forcing you to look at him. 

“Hey— relax,” he soothes, albeit a tiny bit rough and gravelly. “What?” 

You clench your jaw under his grip, struggling against the feeling of fullness, battling the words out of your mouth. “Please let me back on top. You did so much for me, let me do the w–”

He cuts you off, although your words clearly affect him, judging by the strain in his voice. “Fuck, it doesn’t matter. I’d do it again. Just– just let me fuck you. Just stay there for me.”

Din starts to move again, a new pressure building in your core. It sings with every thrust he gives, and you can’t form a single argument. 

“Then just…” you cry, “don’t stop until you c—come. Please, I’m close enough, I'll g–go with you.”

He chokes out a torn sound when you wrap your legs around his back, bringing him closer and locking him against you. 

His hand moves to rest possessively on your neck, but he doesn’t close it around you or choke you. He just lays it there, adding a pleasant weight, and holds you like that as he starts fucking you harder, your legs squeezing his waist.

“–Needed you, I needed you,” he rasps, hardly audible above the sound of him pounding into you. It’s rough. Every part of him is digging into you, beskar no doubt leaving temporary dents in your skin. But it’s all an afterthought to his thick girth, his wrecked moans. 

“Wanted to fuck you since, ngh– since I took you to the c-cantina, ‘nd you looked so fucking pretty–”

He’s losing rhythm now, just helplessly rutting his hips against you, sliding his cock back and forth through your soaking entrance.  “You st–stared at me for s-so long and then you f-finally smiled and fuck– I wanted to – oh shit, I would have taken you out back and fucked you right th—there.”

His words make your walls pull tight around his cock as he grinds against you. You wrap your arms around his shoulders — or you try to – he’s too fucking broad to hold the way you want to and bring him close.

He slides his grip from your hair and rips off a pauldron, then the other, tossing them to the floor with a loud clank.

“Better?” He grunts. 

You snake your arms back around his shoulders, enjoying the lack of the cold, hard armour against them. You don’t have the mind to tease him that he said he wouldn’t take anything else off.

“Yeah– oh fuck, Din…” 

His hand slips between your bodies, palm pressing once more to your stomach and his thumb extending down over your curve to put pressure on your clit.

Your whole body is hurtling back towards the orgasm he’d delayed. “I’m gonna–” 

“Can feel it,” Din strains, fighting to regain a sense of rhythm to coax it out of you. “Come on, give it to me.”

His thumb slides through the wetness on your clit and you hear another hiss slip from the helmet before the ache in your core becomes a shattering, white hot release, spreading through your limbs, tingling in your fingertips. It knocks the breath out of you and holds you there, shaking beneath Din’s body as he continues to fuck you through it. 

“Fuck– good girl…” He’s not so much talking anymore as he is breathily moaning out praises, drawing out syllables like he can hardly think of what word comes after the next. “You get t-tighter when you— fuck, I might—”

You’re still coming, neck straining against the pillow, and he’s panting in your ear like he might collapse.

“Wh–where do you–?”

Before you can form an answer, he’s giving you one last deep push and then dragging himself out of you to come on your stomach. It spills warm and thick on your skin, trickling down the curve of your belly.

“Fuck, you’re so…” 

Without thinking, your fist closes around his cock, pumping out the rest of his cum. Your grip slides easily up and down his length with the mixture of both your orgasms, and he twitches hard when your thumb passes over the tip. Gently, he guides your hand away, too sensitive to withstand your touch.

Stars blanket your vision in the aftershocks. With your trembling figure still bracketed by his, you place your other hand on the caved cheek of his helmet. He sinks into the touch he cannot feel, gasping. Your breath fogs over the beskar. His own is caged by it.

Metal skims your forehead when your eyes flutter closed, the cool touch fleeting — gone as soon as you open them again.

“Din?”

At the sound of his name, he tumbles beside you. He works an arm under your limp, pliant body and pulls you onto his armoured chest.

“Sleep here,” is all he says before his arms close around you and his breathing evens out.

***

The next time the Mandalorian – Din – returns to the holorepository, he’s not there to brush up on an alien language. He’s not there to pester you about researching his baby. No, he stalks toward you through the shelves, corners you until you slip backward into the archival office. Then one hand covers your eyes while his other lifts the helmet. He kisses you, and it’s more. More than sex. It’s more than knowing his name, when he trusts you won’t try to peek between his fingers.

His lips are warm and soft and searching, a moustache prickling your skin. 

Going on a hunt, he says.

Could be days, he says.

he bends to pick the pieces up, tossing them into the pile of already cut wood. you’d like to say that prepping the cabin for winter is going really well. joel would say otherwise. although the two of you are flying through the checklist, you spend more time making him go pink at the cheeks with all your unabashed admiration than actually getting anything done. not that he minds, he's good at what he does, efficient. which is what's making your attention that much worse for him, and you. 

like now, for instance. you can't help but stare at his ass, those jeans antagonise you, offensively form-fitting. you gulp, and you think he can hear it from where he's standing because he lets go of the axe, leaning it against the stump he works on. his hands come up to his hips, thumbs hooked into the belt loops as he looks at you properly this time, a knowing head tilt in tow.

“d’ya need me?” his question is unbelievably kind, devoid of any teasing. he’s ready to drop everything and you can see it in his eyes. you almost feel bad, almost being the keyword.

you push yourself up, palms braced at your knees, and lug over the piece of wood, dropping it near joel and turning to face him. this close you can see the sheen of sweat on his face and forearms, the way areas of his shirt have dampened in the heat.

“this is the last one, then i want you upstairs.”

his spine straightens imperceptibly to the firmness in your words, “yes ma’am.”

you lean up and kiss him on the jaw before heading back inside. the stairs creak as you haul yourself up them, fingers smoothing over the banister when you round the corner. you shrug off the flannel you have on–joels flannel–and sit at the edge of the bed, toying with the hem of your tank top you wore under. 

before you know it, joel is by the doorframe, one arm crossed over the other. a small smile breaks out on your face and joel mirrors it, walking over to where you’re sitting. he pushes a stubborn strand of hair out of your face, tucking it behind your ear. his hand settles over the nape of your neck, tilting your head back. the sight of him, tall, broad, in front of you sends a little shudder through you that you try to ignore. 

“you okay? you were a little distracted out there,” he asks, mildly concerned.

you curl a few fingers behind his knee, the warmth of your skin seeps through the denim of his jeans. “can you blame me?” 

he chuckles, a bashful tint dusting over the highs of his cheekbones. joel prompts you up with a small chuck of his head and two fingers hooked under your elbow. when you stand, he pulls you into a kiss, light and easy and entirely not enough to pull an embarrassingly needy sound from your mouth, but still, it does.

your lips part for a breath, exhaled into each other's mouths. he is so warm, it exudes off him in waves and doesn't do much to quell the heat building in you. it's just a kiss, he's just kissing you. joel moves to do it again but you hold him back, conflicted palms braced over the hard planes of his chest. 

“god, you’re making me feel crazy,” you scoff. he’d be concerned with the rapid rise and fall of your chest if he didn't know you better, but he knows you so well. 

“yeah, darlin’? what's got you so worked up?” 

you can tell he's talking just to talk now. he knows what, why. so he doesn’t expect an answer from you when he dips down to kiss at your neck, lightly chapped lips working over the area just below your jaw. his beard scratches your skin in a way that feels deliriously good.

you hum, absent-minded, threading your fingers through the hair at the back of his head, curling your fist into the strands. you hold him there, and knowing him, you’re also succumbing yourself to a glaringly obvious mark on your neck. you don’t mind, not when you’re out here on your own. hell, you’d let him mark you up everywhere.

the hand not occupied with tilting your head to his liking sneaks down to your waistband. joel pops the button, easing your jeans off. you let your impatience get the better of you and slip your panties off too, kicking the clothes off to the side. he laughs into your neck, sending a vibration down your spine that has you pulling him closer.

he doesn’t touch you, though. not yet. 

“up,” his murmur is a soft command, accompanied by his arm hooked under your ass. you wrap your arms around his shoulders and pull yourself higher, crossing your legs over his hips. joel clambers onto the bed, carrying you to the pillows.

when he drops you down, he doesn’t part from you, only trails his lips lower. the spot on your neck blooms in soreness, a light tingly sensation that you relish. joel moves lower, settling between your legs with a satisfied hum. he pushes your thighs apart, sweeping his eager gaze over your cunt. his eyes fixate on the glistening pool at the centre.

“messy girl,” he coos, turning his lips to your inner thigh. “all that for me?”

“mmh-yeah.”

“haven’t even touched you yet,” joel chuckles at how small your voice goes. god forbid a girl gets shy. 

his tongue peeks out from behind his lips, licking a firm stripe up your entrance to your clit. his mouth seals over the sensitive bud and sucks, just the way you like.

“jesus, fuck!” you cry out.

joel groans into your pussy, enamoured with the sight of your arched back and your head thrown in pleasure. his hand pushes your top up to paw at your breasts, a large, warm palm settles heavy over one, squeezing the flesh over the material of your bra.

the layers madden you. you frantically pull the tank off, fingers shaking trying to unclip your bra. when you get the garments off, joel is extremely happy, and he shows it by pushing two fingers inside you.

the abrupt stretch pushes a loud moan out of you. you like that you get this out of the cabin, the noisy vulgar freedom that the isolation rewards you. he takes it as an incentive to add another finger, still intently licking over your clit. 

“there we go, baby,” joel rasps. “gotta get her nice and stretched for daddy, yeah?”

“uhuh,” you keen with a nod that's pathetically enthusiastic.

he makes a noise, like he’s in pain, you know he's anything but. the term slips out occasionally. a freudian slip, maybe. regardless of whether he means it or not–in the heat of the moment, it tends to drive you both up the wall. a quiet murmur of it when he’s buried deep and he can't help but blow his load. neither of you dwell on it. 

joel huffs a dazed fuck and doubles down on his efforts. the calloused pads of his fingers rub up persistently without remorse, it sends an audible squelch around the room. you’re increasingly getting closer to your peak, it pools, hot and viscous in your belly, limbs growing heavy and sinking into the mattress. 

you’re so close–and maybe you’re your own worst enemy–but you need to have him inside you. now. so you reach down, fingers curling around his wrist to stop him, fighting every nerve in your body that wants to finish. joel pulls away, face pulled into a puzzled twist that quickly turns to something smug and knowing when you sit up to desperately remove his clothes.

you tug the collar of his shirt over his head, momentarily blinding him with fabric before moving onto his jeans. you undo the belt buckle with a resounding clink and his jeans and underwear are shoved down his thighs before he crowds back over you. 

god. he's beautiful and solid above you. the lingering smell of sweat trickles off his body, it makes you squirm under him, a restless pull urging you upwards. you’re met with his hard-on, slipping through the mess in your folds.

joel gives himself a tug and then lines up with your entrance, pushing into you with a low moan. he’s always a stretch, the girth of him causing you to wince. he softly kisses the tense furrow of your brow till he’s buried to hilt. 

“so deep, y-you’re so–” you whine through gritted teeth.

the smile that spreads across his face is shit-eating, you’d wipe it off if you had the wherewithal to do anything but lay there and feel. “yeah but ya take it so good, don't you honey? always take me perfectly.”

joel gives a shallow thrust, barely drawing back to push in further. his tip nudges at your cervix and you want to scream. you settle for digging your nails into his shoulder, pain sparks under the crescent shaped indents that you leave and shoot right down to his dick. 

he leans down to drag the tip of his nose across the edges of your face, planting barely there kisses as he goes. it's tortuous, the rate at which he pounds into you but is seemingly unaffected enough to blanket you the way he is. he loves you so much.

your thighs strain as he pushes them higher, reaching unfathomable depths inside you. joel grunts, in effort and in agony, as you clench around him, face tightening as he tries to keep his rhythm. you can feel him in his entirety, the ridges of his cock rubbing against your walls, the drag of a protruding vein doing nothing but driving you closer to release. the coarse hairs littered above his cock rub against your clit and your teeth sink into your lip, hard. call it instinct. he’ll have none of that.

he presses a thumb to your chin, pulling your lips apart, “aw, angel girl. feel good?”

“yeah, so good. mmph–fuck me so good, baby,” you whimper, words pushed out through desperate moans, high and rampant.

he chuckles, low and pleased, “y’always make such good sounds for me, should fuck you more often so i can hear this all the time. sweet little pussy can't help herself either, can she? so wet, she's soakin’ me.”

“joel,” you gasp at a particularly meaningful thrust, anchoring yourself to the moment. it hits you without warning, a spark set off by the obscenities still flowing out of his mouth. whatever he was saying was beyond you now, a comforting familiar murmur as your orgasm washes over you. you hear the tail end of a good girl as you come to again.

“keep going,” you whisper. you hold his face between your hands, looking at him through the daze. his features shine out like a beacon, you push the hair out of his face. unobstructed, your eyes trail over the faint tan, sunkissed, over the high points of his face, the result of how much he's been doing, how much he still is. 

“you are so, so wonderful, so good at everything you do, i don't know how you do it,” you murmur, gaze drenched in reverence. 

joel tries to speak then, eyes glazing over, to give himself a moment before you continue. to compose himself before the back of his neck grows too hot to handle, he has to hold it together otherwise he cant fuck you like he wants. it's not often the praise gets whirled back at him.

“need you to cum, joel,” you sigh. “fill me up, please.”

the quiet please does him in. his hips stutter, messy and impetuous as he chases his high. the peak crashes and he spills into you with a shout, muffled over where his lips press to your forehead.

you wrap your arms around his shoulders, casting your hand over his back, rubbing in soothing strokes. he flips over with a tired huff. you’re lazily draped over his body, face smushed in his chest.

“i mean it, y’know,” you mumble. joel has to strain his ears to hear you, because you aren't making any effort to move. “you’re so capable, i can't handle it. i can barely control myself from shoving my hand down my pants around you.”

“hey, i’m not complainin’,” his voice rumbles under your cheek, stupid and smug.

you give him a hard poke in the stomach, to which he winces at, and then you continue. “all that being said, i think you’re just neat.”

he's smiling so hard that his cheeks hurt, he's glad you can't see him and tease him about it. “right back at’cha, sweetheart.”

Jack never thought he'd be one of those guys.

One of those creepy old guys that have a favourite porn star, or pays for prostitutes. He's only been to a strip club once in his life when he was in the army. He'd been dragged by one of the older guys and Jack had tried to say that he had a fiance. That only made him try harder, spouting some bullshit about not being able to get married until Jack experienced the "full range of the female species" whatever the fuck that meant. Jack stopped fighting, and slipped back to the barracks as soon as his very awkward lap dance was over and called his future wife in tears.

All this to say, Jack is not a pervert.

But it's hard to be sure of this fact when he's scrolling through the options on the portal pussy website.

He's been in kind of a weird head space lately. He's felt more secure recently, almost like he's ready to start dating again but every time he thinks about going out to a bar with the explicit purpose of talking to women, or one of those godforsaken apps, his hands get clammy and he feels the begging of a panic attack starting to set in.

So maybe he's not quite ready for that step, but he's getting tired of his hand.

He doesn't even look at the thing for the first two weeks he has it, disgusted with himself for actually going through with it. The small round container with a twist off lid sits next to his bed, mocking him, reminding him of how low he's stooped.

But then his wedding anniversary rolls around. And his wife's side of the bed is still so empty.

He caves. He reaches over and twists the lid open. He's half hoping it'll be empty, that he got scammed and his credit card numbers are now on the dark web somewhere.

Instead, plump folds and pretty skin stare back at him. Guilt radiates from him in waves as he brings the container up to his nose and take a deep breathe.

Fuck, it's been too long.

His hand twitches at his side and he gives in. It's a bit strange at first, not knowing what someone's face looks like when you're pulling apart their outer folds with your fingers, looking at what you're working with. He has none of his usual tells to figure out if he's doing good or not - no changes in expression, no whispers in his ear, no full body shudders as they fall apart on his fingers.

But he's never backed down from a challenge before. He eases into it. His fingers slip through with no resistance. From the outside he doesn't have much indication about what you feel, but his mother raised a gentleman so he rubs slow circles on your clit first.

He laughs as your cunt clenches around nothing. He teases you more, two fingers sliding along your lips just ghosting over your entrance, his thumb keeping light pressure on your clit. He wishes he could see her face.

After he thinks she's had enough he slips one finger side, moaning at wet it makes when he flexes his fingers. Fuck, he missed this. He massages her walls, finding that spot that makes her squeeze his fingers.

His cock is straining against his pants. He ignores it for now, too entranced on working on the task at him. He hesitates, bringing it up to his lips. But curiosity gets the better of him. He leans forward, sucking her clit into his mouth, smiling to himself has she cums undone for him

*****

Of course, of course this new guy would chose now to use your pussy for the first time.

You slump against the bathroom door, reaching behind you with shaky hands until the lock clicks into place.

You got the notification that you had a new buyer two weeks ago. And since then nothing, you don't even think that that he's opened the damn thing in that time. And you've been wearing your special panties for your contractually obligated time, but your alarm didn't go off and you rushed to make it to your shift on time, completely forgetting about your side hustle.

You slump against the sink, biting down on your fist to keep from moaning out.

You're a little pissed off, the first time your client is actually good at sex and you're at work. You're still new to this, your past two clients never gave a shit about your body. They'd use your pussy without so much as touching your clit. Which didn't surprise you, you'd only signed up to make some extra cash during residency.

But this new client was playing your body like a damn fiddle.

It was difficult enough to ignore when he was teasing your folds while you were trying to explain the disimpaction procedure to your elderly patient. But then his stupidly thick fingers had stretched you open and you were scrambling to the bathroom before you orgasmed in front of poor 80 year old Mrs. Bennet and her concerned teenage grandchild who brought her in.

The room suddenly gets very hot as his fingers start to curl inside you. You're panting, hunched over the sink as you struggle to breathe. That fucking asshole, keeping you on edge - letting you get so close to what you want but not letting you finish.

You take a peak at your watch, someone's definitely going to start wondering where you are soon.

But it's really hard to care when the prick of stubble scratches at your lips before he sucks on your clit. Your eyes shoot open, chest heaving as you bite down on your fist so hard you taste metal on your tongue.

The woods were still crisp for early summer. It was something you'd come to appreciate about Wyoming, after all. No matter how bad winter had been, or how slow spring had sprung, you could always count on a beautiful summer, and even better summer mornings.

But this morning was far from beautiful.

You were sitting with a few others from town, mostly newer folk who'd settled in and were looking for work to do. The woods were quiet around these parts, a couple miles out from Jackson, where the trees thinned just enough to make room for the patrols to see into the valley. It had been a lookout since the beginning, or so you'd heard. A small cabin with a slanted roof, a fire pit out front ringed with blackened stones, a target range cut into the dirt nearby, and guns and ammo stored in the basement in case of emergency and training.

Why you were here, when you could be baking loaves of bread for folks getting out of Sunday worship or sending actual lookout shifts off with their breakfast freshly made, was, well…because you'd started to feel a little useless.

Not useless exactly. That was probably unfair. You did have multiple jobs. You were a part of the community of Jackson. You had a few close friends and plenty of acquaintances. You got along with almost everyone. It was nice, feeling like you knew who took their coffee black, who liked the butt of the bread, who always tried to sneak an extra roll into their coat pocket when they thought you weren't looking. You gardened and sometimes even helped with the horses or the livestock.

But still.

There was a part of you that knew, if anything ever went to shit, you'd never be able to defend your town, let alone yourself. So you'd come out with a group to train up on an early summer morning.

But you sure as shit were terrible at it.

Luckily, the ammo you used on the training grounds were empty shells, nothing actually being wasted on your awful, awful aim.

Because an hour later, the glass bottle in front of you remained whole and smug on the fence line, catching slice of sunlight along its shoulder while the wood of the fence several inches to its left had suffered greatly.

It didn't help that the man that was meant to be teaching you was a grade A Asshole.

Joel Miller was many things. Strong, capable, brave. So many epithets that could be used to describe him. You'd even dare to add handsome if he wasn't always frowning at you or cursing under his breath every time you managed to miss something standing perfectly still.

But the main thing you wanted to call him, was Asshole. Though…you thought if you ever did to his face, it might just be the last thing you ever do.

He was helping a kid down at the end adjust his stance when you heard an argument from beside you about a bet.

“Bullshit,” one of the boys hissed. Matthew, you thought. Maybe Michael? He was one of the kids from town you'd seen around the stables with hair too long, cheeks still a little chubby, and an ego too big. “You did not get Maisie Bell to kiss you.”

“I didn’t say kiss,” the other one said, and in the corner of your eye you watched as he lined up his shot, one eye squeezing shut. “I said she would’ve.”

“That ain’t a bet.”

“It is if I’m right.”

“You’re not right.”

“Two ration cards says I am.”

“For Maisie?”

“For Maisie,” he said, then nodded toward the line of town below the ridge, where you could almost see the church roof through the trees. “And the redhead from the kitchens. Sheesh what I wouldn't do to my hands on 'er. Oh, and that new girl Dina?" he let out a low whistle, "She is so goddamn fine I could—"

The heat that went through you had nothing to do with the morning sun. It rose hard beneath your collar, crawling up your throat until your jaw clenched around it. It pissed you off. Dina was funny and charming and more than a hot piece of ass for some stable boy to run his mouth over. Maisie and Riley were nice girls too, both in your book club, both worth knowing for more than the curve of their mouths or the sway of their hips.

“Maybe you two should spend less time betting on girls who wouldn’t touch you for a warm bath,” you spat, turning toward them, “and more time actually practicing—”

But you'd turned without lowering your gun.

Worse— you'd turned without taking your finger off the trigger.

A loud sound cracked through the clearing.

It wasn't like a typical gun shot, just a sharp, quick pop that punched the rest of your sentence out of your mouth.

Michael grabbed his shoulder and stumbled back, knocking into the rack behind him. A glass bottle tipped from the table and burst in the dirt by his boot, spraying green shards through the dust.

For one second, no one moved.

Then he said, “Ow—fuck!”

Your hands were still around the shotgun, finger still squeezing the trigger, your body stuck in shock.

The kid beside him lowered his own gun in a hurry. A low muttering started to rise from around you— someone else asked if Michael was all right, and Michael, pale and furious and embarrassed, said, “She shot me!"

"Think it's more of a graze—" someone was saying, pulling at the torn cap of his sleeve.

More voices began to overlap as people clustered around him, worry amplifying the noise until you couldn't hear anything because of the panicked buzzing in your ears.

"Give me that."

You blinked to your right. Joel Miller was looming next to you, a thunderous look over his features.

You looked down at the shotgun still in your hands, a gasp running through you.

Your fingers opened at once as if you'd been burned by the wooden barrel. The shotgun dipped toward the ground, and Joel caught it before you could swing wrong again. He took it from you with a look that made your stomach hollow out.

Your mouth open and shut, your voice quiet and lost to the rising murmur around you: "I'm—I'm so sorry—"

Joel didn’t answer. He checked the shotgun with a hard jerk of his hand, jaw tight, eyes not leaving the chamber until he was sure. Then he bent down, grabbed your pack from the dirt, and pushed it into your arms.

“Go.”

You froze with your hands around the straps. A burning, icy thrill ran through your spine, your skin lighting up in humiliation.

“I got no use for kids who don't give a shit about rules or make habits of gettin’ other people killed,” he said. “Go on now. No use to me here.”

You didn’t even think you could speak if you wanted to. You looked down at your backpack, torn and duct-taped in spots, the top strap sewn back down at least ten times since you'd gotten it.

You'd shot someone. What if it hadn't been a blank? What if it hadn't just grazed?

“I—”

“Don’t wanna hear it,” Joel cut in. “Go tell Jesse you're done for the day. He’ll take ya home.”

You bit your lip so hard you tasted copper and nodded, turning away.

For the next two weeks, you went back to being useful.

That was the word that seemed to dig its way into your head, after all. Useful. You baked loaves in the morning with flour dusted up your forearms and dough stuck beneath your fingernails. You wrapped bread in cloth and stacked it on the front table before the church bell rang. When you were done, you gardened the weeds that to creep into the squash beds and watermelon patch, and spent the late afternoons mucking stalls. You went to bed so exhausted you barely thought about what happened at the range.

Michael was fine, of course. He'd come by to apologize for his words the next day with Maria's stone face behind him. You apologized too, made sure he was really okay. Offered him a free bagel or two in exchange for maiming him.

Sometimes you saw Joel.

He didn't laugh or pat your arm understandingly the way the others did when retelling the story that of course made its way around town like wildfire.

He hardly looked at you at all, really. And at first you were grateful for it, too embarrassed to even meet his eye if he ever came by the stables for the horses before training or patrol up in the mountains. You'd run and hide before he even got the chance to spot you, truth be told. And when he came by the bakery, you'd disappeared into the back so fast that one time you’d knocked over an entire sack of rye flour in your haste to vanish.

But by the third week, it'd began to piss you off. Because it was one thing to be ashamed—and you were. But Joel was walking around town like you were something to be scraped off the bottom of his boot. It began to put a sour feeling in your stomach, the fact he had so much power to make you feel so small. Fuck him. Fuck him and his stupid glare and his silent brooding.

You stopped hiding.

The next time he came into the bakery, you were at the front counter with your sleeves rolled up as usual, tying string around a parcel of bread. Ellie was next to him as they entered, talking with her hands, telling him some story about Dina and a loose chicken that morning.

“Morning,” you said when they sidled up to the counter.

Ellie looked over, her green eyes brightening. “Hey.”

Joel said nothing.

You pulled down the ration bread from the shelf with their name and house number written across the paper wrapping.

Ellie grinned as you handed it to her, "Do you have any of those sweet rolls from last week?"

You hazarded a glance at Joel, who said nothing again.

"Sure do. You staying for breakfast? I could make some coffee."

Ellie perked up, looking at him. “Can we?”

“No,” Joel said stiffly.

“Oh, come on—didn't you hear her say your favorite word, old man? Cofffeeeeeee!" she sung out before huffing a breath, "Do I need to get your ears checked by the nurse again?”

“We got work.” he grumbled, ignoring her jab.

“You always have work.”

“Funny how that happens.”

You reached for the tray beneath the counter and set a couple rolls out, taking your time. “There’s fresh icing too from this morning, I just need to drizzle it on.”

You went into the back, grabbing the small bag of sugary sweet icing you'd made, and began letting it fall in a steady cascade onto the sweet buns.

Ellie leaned both elbows on the counter. “See? Now we have to stay. It would be rude not to.”

You pretended not to notice how Joel's jaw ticked under his beard.

“She makes a good argument,” you said, sliding the small plate toward Ellie next to their wrapped weekly bread loaf.

Finally, those dark eyes landed on you. It was quick and could almost pass off as an accident. A muddling of color that shown in the morning light, his mouth flat. The same hard set to his face as always. But you smiled back anyway.

Because fuck him.

Ellie took one and barely hesitated before taking a giant bite, delighted. “Thank you.” she said with her mouth full.

You looked away quickly, back at Ellie. “Anytime.”

Joel reached into his pocket and set the ration slips on the counter. His hand was close enough that you could see the scar across one knuckle, the dust caught in the creases of his fingers. He took the parceled bread from the counter, leaving the second sweet bun untouched.

"Let's go, Ellie." he said stiffly. Before you could even call goodbye, they were walking out the shop, Ellie throwing you an apologetic glance and a wave of her hand as she stuffed the roll into her mouth.

You picked up the rations he left, and for a moment, thought about chucking that leftover roll at the back of his head as he disappeared from view.

Instead of learning how to shoot guns, you began learning how to take care of them.

Learn it from the inside out, you told yourself.

And to be fair, you picked it up rather quickly. Quicker than you’d picked up aiming, anyway. There was a comfort to it that shooting never gave you, all the pieces laid out on an oil-stained cloth in front of you, metal pins and springs and screws set in neat little rows beneath your hands. There was no bottle on a fence line waiting to make a fool out of you here in the small rec room of the cafeteria after the dinner shift had come and gone.

Tommy Miller taught the class every other night, his sleeves rolled to the elbows and voice patient and kind as he showed you and a few others how to take a handgun apart and put it back together. He had a way of teaching that was so different than his brother. He was patient, never made you feel stupid for asking questions. If a piece didn't fit, he'd simply say: “The gun’ll tell you what it needs most times. You just gotta quit arguin’ with it long enough to listen.”

And maybe, a small mean part of you liked the fact that the first time Joel Miller saw you there, he stopped dead in the doorway.

You'd bitten your cheek so hard to keep the smug smile from tugging your lips as he made his way across the room with a box of empty shells the night you were learning how to make ammunition. His eyes moved across the room to his brother, who patted him jovially on the back, and then the elder Miller's eyes came back to you. And you knew you didn't look very nice—smudge of grease across your cheek and your hair pulled haphazardly away from the gunpowder, thick work gloves that hardly fit and your plaid sleeves rolled up.

But he'd stared long and hard anyway. And then, as if nothing was amiss, his face went back to its hard, frozen state, and he walked out.

It was that night that you woke from an awful dream.

A horde of infected had broken through Jackson, tearing through everything you'd always loved and cared for. The gate was splintered open, the watchtower burned down to the ground. People were running through the street in their nightclothes, slipping in mud and blood, screaming names you knew.

You woke in a drenched sweat, feeling every bit as useless with a gun in your dream as you did in waking life.

But it was the kind of dream that didn't really feel like a dream at all. You'd felt like you were there, like the chill of night was actually on your face, like the roars of infected in your ears were truly bone-chilling. Your chest had filled with so much doom as you tried to fight back. But you couldn't. Every shot went wrong, every squeeze of the trigger sent another round into a fence post, a doorframe, the packed dirt beside an infected's rotting foot.

You could load the gun. You could take it apart and put it back together. You could clean the pieces until the metal shone beneath your fingers. You'd done it a hundred times now.

But you couldn't shoot.

In the dream, it had been all your fault. The deaths. Friends, loved ones, people who had waved to you from the church steps and leaned over the bakery counter telling you all about their latest town gossip.

Even Joel Miller.

He had died in the dream too. Because of you, and your awful aim, and your utter uselessness when it came to defending anything you cared about.

So, instead of trying to fall back asleep— afraid the dream might return—you got up and headed downstairs. Making your way through your dark house that was a small thing in the middle of town, you heard the floorboards creaking beneath your socks until you stepped into your boots properly.

You threw on your Carhartt over your nightclothes, fumbling with the zipper in the dark. It was just the start of summer now, but the mornings still could be biting. The mountains liked to keep their cold weather as long as possible, holding to it until the sun finally dragged it out when summer solstice came.

On the kitchen table, the shotgun you'd been working on for Tommy’s class sat wrapped in an old cloth, its oiled barrel catching a thin line of moonlight from the window.

You stared at it for a moment.

Then, decision made, you slung the strap over your shoulder and headed out.

Surprisingly, Joel Miller was awake at the odd hour as well.

As you walked down Rancher Street, you spotted him on his porch in the old rocker, one boot planted against the floorboards to keep the chair steady. A steaming cup of something was in his hand as he looked out onto the empty street. No one was up at this hour. You shouldn’t've even been up either. You wouldn’t have to open the bakery for another several hours, and the whole of Jackson seemed to know it. The curtains of the houses you passed were still drawn in the houses along the street, the chicken coops were quiet. Even the dogs that usually barked from behind fences must have been sleeping away the dawn with their owners still in bed.

It made your boots sound so loud on the road.

When his eyes caught the movement of your form coming toward the house, you saw him pause. His brows shot up high, then narrowed back into their usual glower. As you got closer and closer, it seemed so did his brows, threading deeper, causing harsher lines to form between them. The sun was just barely beginning to peek over the east mountaintops, the sky beginning to let go of its inky blackness with only a pale line of light touching the surrounding rooftops.

Joel Miller didn’t say anything as you stepped up from the street onto the path to his house. Or as you walked through his front yard. But his eyes never left you.

You tried—very hard and very much in vain—not to care what he saw as you walked up to the porch. He was an asshole, after all. An asshole who had told you he had no use for you, dismissed you for one mistake, and ignored you for weeks after. You shouldn't care if he saw some clumsy girl with a gun too big for her hands, or the bags under your eyes, or the matching floral sleep set beneath your jacket, long sleeves buttoned to your wrists and matching cotton pants tucked messily into your boots.

"Good morning, Mr. Miller." you said, stopping just at the bottom step of his porch.

He took a long sip of his steaming cup before resting it between his hands on his lap.

"To what do I owe the pleasure of your company, kid?"

In any other circumstance, that could’ve been a polite greeting. But the flatness to his voice, the utter disapproval or contempt that threaded through it, made it sound exactly as he meant it.

You stared at him for a long, long moment.

He just stared back.

The rocker gave a faint creek under his weight. You could just smell the contents of the mug—coffee, for sure then. Bitter and dark how he liked it. You shifted the shotgun off your shoulder and set the butt of it into the dirt beside your boot, one hand rested at the top so it pointed up towards the sky.

Finally, it was Joel who broke the silence as he sighed, getting up to stand at the railing, setting one large, calloused palm against the wood as he looked down at you.

"Kid, I don't know what yer—"

"Shut up."

Joel Miller, for the first damn time since he'd met you, seemed to be stunned. His eyes went wide in disbelief.

"Excuse me, young lady?" he scoffed, standing still on his porch.

"Shut up—" you said, and if your voice shook a little, he made no notice, "and listen."

His eyebrows lifted. Then he looked down the empty street, like maybe someone else had heard you speak to him that way and he needed a witness. But there was no one, of course. Not at this hour. Only the closed houses, the pale line of morning over the rooftops, and a dog two porches down watching through the fence with its nose pressed between the slats.

When Joel looked back at you, he only gave a small shrug, one palm tipping up from the railing.

Go on then.

"I am a baker," you said curtly, taking in a shaky, deep breath, "I am a gardener, I am a sewer, I've become a damn good gun cleaner. I've been in Jackson for two years. I deserve to be here."

"Never said—"

"—and I deserve to learn how to defend it too."

Joel's eyes never left you as he heard your case. His face didn't change much, but at least it wasn't glowering anymore. He made no move to dismiss you or walk back inside even if he'd have enough reason to.

"Just because I had a shit first day doesn't mean I can't still learn, old man." you said. It wasn't a term of endearment. "Just because I'm not shooting bullseyes or killing infected yet doesn't mean I can't try, alright? I— I'm brave and—and—" you took another deep breath, "And you're going to teach me how to shoot."

"Like hell—" he stopped, scoffing again, and then went on, shaking his head: "Kid, you and I—clearly, we ain't jivin', why don't you ask another—"

"No."

Joel clicked his teeth, shifting his weight between his feet behind the wooden balusters.

"No one is as…" you glared up at him, the words searing your tongue before you could force it out, "No one is as good as you. If anyone is gonna teach me, it's you Mr. Miller."

There was a long pause, and Joel set down his mug, the steam wafting in the chilly summer morning. You almost wished you hadn't come, that you could go back to ignoring each other for weeks. What was it to you, what this man thought of you? You knew you looked ridiculous standing here, asking for help. You should be shouting at him, telling him he's mean and grouchy like a dog.

"Christ," he sighed, "you don't give up do ya?"

"Nope."

He pulled in another deep breath, looking up and down the road again for a long moment, before his eyes found you once more. You saw how they roved over your figure, over the muck boots and the white blue floral set, over your tan Carhartt, and then onto your face, where he paused for a moment before saying:

"Well first thing, don't hold the damn gun like that."

You looked down where you were leaning your palm over the muzzle of the shotgun.

"Gonna blow a hole in your palm, then I wouldn't be able to teach ya shit."

Your face burned, but you moved to grip the barrel lower and pulled the gun carefully across your belly, holding it with both hands now, pointed well away from either of you.

He nodded, lifting his mug and taking another sip of coffee, watching you, The slurp of the drink filling his mouth held the silence while the birds began waking up around you.

"You sure you'll be warm enough?" he asked finally.

You nodded.

"Alright. Let me get my shoes and we can hit the trails. Stay put."

You nodded again, and then—

"Joel?"

He turned.

"I um... I promise I won't let you down."

He took one more look at you, the harsh line of his mouth eased, eyes settling in a way you hadn't seen before.

He nodded once, and said: "I know, kid."

The sun was well over the mountain top by the time you made it to the ridge.

He hadn't taken you back to the training ground, whether it was to save you the humiliation of seeing the leftover shards of green glass on the ground, or because he liked the view better by the forgotten ranch, you weren't entirely sure.

It sat a few miles out from Jackson, tucked up where the land opened into a long slope of yellow grass and thin fence posts. One of the old checkpoint places, Joel had told you on the ride over. Not one people used much anymore, not unless they were cutting through on patrol or needed to seek shelter from a storm. There was a little graying house at the top of the rise with peeling paint along the porch rail and a tin roof gone dull from years of snow. Beside it, an old barn leaned slightly into the hill, its red paint worn down to bare wood in places, its door hanging open on a rusted hinge.

You barely registered the bird song that filled the skies as he set up a training course, the beautiful view of the mountainside and your horses grazing in pasture of the barn. Every now and then you saw one lift its head to look at you, ears flickering around, before bending down and resuming its peaceful morning loitering.

Joel was beside you, close enough that you could smell the pine of his body wash and the musk of sweat lining his shirt. He had been mostly quiet on the ride here, but not in the punishing way, you began to realize. Just quiet and focused as his is eyes kept moving over the land, the fence line, the barn, the empty windows of the little ranch house behind you.

“Lean just a little over now,” he said from behind your shoulder as you got into position by the wooden posts. “Use the fence as a brace. Easier when you got something steady under the stock.”

You shifted forward until the gun found the flat part of the top of the wood. The air was still chilly through the sleeves of your sleep set, the fence rough enough to catch on the ribboned cuff of your pant leg when you moved into it. Ahead, he’d pinned a target to the trunk of a tree, three rings and a bullseye in the center.

“First thing,” he said, “you don’t point that barrel anywhere you ain’t willing to put a hole through. Don’t matter if you think the thing's empty. Don’t matter if I told you it’s empty. You treat it like it’s loaded every second it’s in your hands.”

"I know, Joel."

"Repeat it," he said, a little firmer, and the way his breath brushed the side of your neck, it made you shiver. You didn't reaalize he'd gotten so close.

"Treat it like it's loaded." you muttered, leaning over the stock, looking down the line of the barrel.

"Good." he grunted. "Finger stays off the trigger til you're ready, keep both eyes open."

"You sure are bossy." you said under your breath.

"'Scuse me?" he chuckled, "Ain't you the one who dragged me out here at the brink of dawn?"

You rolled your eyes, but bent forward.

“Careful with that,” he said. “Eyes are useful for shootin’. Would hate for 'em to get stuck like that.”

You couldn't help the chuckle you let out—great, so he's got dad jokes too.

“Now stay where you are,” he said. “I’m gonna move the shotgun where it’s supposed to sit. Easier than tryin’ to explain it five different ways, alright?”

You felt your cheeks burn a little, but nodded.

He moved behind you, close enough that the warmth of him settled at your back before he ever touched you. One hand reached around yours, thick fingers closing over the fore end of the shotgun to shift it against the top rail of the fence, enough to settle it steady against the wood. His other hand came to your shoulder, guiding the butt of the stock into place. It was heavy, but bearable thanks to the support of the fence in front of you.

"Want it over your shoulder, not pushin' into the collarbone. S'gonna kick harder than a mule and you'll be hollerin' about bein' sore for days."

You scoffed a bit, but let the stock settle over the crest of your shoulder as he positioned it.

“Now press your cheek right here,” he said, moving his hand from the barrel to tap the side of the stock. You tilted your head, trying to place it right. You nearly gasped when you felt the thick press of his fingers on the other side your neck as he guided you into position without thought. Not rough or impatient, only warm, certain, his callouses catching lightly against your skin. "There ya go."

Your body became suddenly very aware of him from that one touch. The scrape of his jacket against yours as his chest came in closer, the weight of him behind you, the heat of him against your back.

"Stay still, you're squirmin'—"

"—am not—"

You felt the breath of a laugh over your shoulders, and it made your skin rise in gooseflesh. The target was becoming blurrier by the moment.

"Now—"

You held very still as you felt him line his body behind yours, his breath now against your neck, his voice low and gravelly like honey on hot asphalt.

“Think about all that bullshit you been carryin’ around,” he grumbled. “Starin’ daggers at me for weeks. Comin’ up on my porch tellin’ me to shut up, callin’ me old, actin’ like I decided you don’t belong.”

"Joel—" you protested.

"S'okay, didn't take none personal." he said as he stepped up even closer, one hand going to your hip. “Breathe in.”

You sucked in a shallow breath.

He clicked his teeth. “Try again. You know none of that is true, don't ya, darlin'? Let it all go here. Don't belong in that head a'yours.”

You closed your eyes, annoyed and a little embarrassed, and pulled air in deeper this time, taking in the smells of the open Wyoming air. Cold morning. Damp grass. Coffee on his breath. Mint from when he'd been chewing the sprig on the way there. Pine soap. The fence rail rough beneath the gun.

His breath was so warm against your cheek as he murmured: "That's it, now let it out."

You let the breath leave you, nice and long and through your mouth—and with it went the bickering on his porch, the shame of the range, the weeks of him not looking at you, the ugly little voice that kept saying you were useless no matter how many loaves you baked or horses you brushed or shotguns you cleaned.

"Open your eyes now, and squeeze that trigger." he murmured, lips brushing your ear. As he said the word, his hand pressed forward on your hip, long, thick fingers winding around the sensitive skin just under the waistband.

When your eyes opened, the sun felt a little brighter, the day a little clearer. The target sharpened against the tree, the black rings settling in your sight.

Your stomach dipped for one horrifying moment, and then—you squeezed.

The shot cracked across the ridge, echoing off the sides of the mountains. Joel was right—the butt of the gun kicked hard, but you only felt it jostle your body back into his, harder, the force caught by your shoulder instead of biting into your chest.

You gasped, everything happening so fast before you were blinking rapidly and seeing the paper on the tree ripped just left of center.

“Shit—”

“Not bad for a first try.” you heard him say.

"I wanna go again." you said, breathlessly.

“Jackson’s gonna be needin’ their morning bread soon,” Joel chuckled, but he didn’t move. “Tommy’s gonna be wonderin’ where his cinnamon rolls are.”

You smiled wide, the adrenaline of the shot still coursing through you.

As your breath settled, both of you were still leaning over the fence, your body pressed back into the hard line of his. His hand hadn’t moved from your hip. Neither had yours from the shotgun. It would’ve been easy, maybe, to step away. To laugh, to clear your throat, to make some comment about those cinnamon rolls or old men or how if he'd stop being so bossy you could've probably hit the bullseye.

But…you didn't.

You only tilted your gaze over your shoulder.

He was so close—so close you could see almost every gray hair in his thick beard like winter's snowy streaks in a dark sky. You could see every line on his plump bottom lip, the shining spot where his tongue had just passed over it.

"Thank you, Joel." you whispered, "For…"

You trailed off, because Joel wasn't looking in your eyes anymore. They were such a pretty hazel you'd never noticed, and were fixed on your mouth.

"You're welcome." he whispered.

Your lips parted lightly when he tilted his head over your shoulder, and he took that as invitation to lean in.

He was so warm.

Like kindled fire in a cabin, like the first morning of solstice. The prickle of his mustache brushed your nose as he took your lips with his, breathing you in so deeply it made your knees go soft beneath you. You let out a whimper, hands tightening around the barrel and grip of the shotgun, wishing so badly to put them in his hair, all over his broad shoulders and thick muscles.

He seemed to know exactly what you needed, his one hand coming up to take the gun from your hands, placing it quickly but carefully against the fence. He only broke the kiss to turn you fully towards him before his lips were on you again, hungrier and needier as he pushed his body into yours.

His hands were all over you in an instant, planted on your hips and squeezing you harder, making you whine under his touch.

Your tongue traced his bottom lip, teeth nipping, begging wordlessly for entrance, and he gave it so easily. So eagerly. He groaned, opening his mouth for you, letting you lick inside, suckling on his tongue before you nipped again at that nice bottom lip.

His hands were everywhere—under your jacket but above your cotton top, sliding up your waist and back down again, never settling for long. They were so big and broad, squeezing and groping anywhere he could hold.

Yours wound around his neck so you could drag him closer, breasts pushed to his chest, the layers between you suddenly unbearable. His jacket. Your sleep shirt. His flannel. It was too much fabric—too much of everything that wasn’t his fevered skin against yours.

How could you ever have thought he was such an asshole? This grumpy old man— this stubborn, bossy, impossible man, was just as needy as you. Maybe worse. All that silence, that staring. Those weeks of pretending he didn’t see you across bakery counters and barn aisles and muddy streets. He needed this as much as you did, someone to set him straight, yes, but also… to tell him he was needed and good, too.

You moaned when his hands traveled lower, both palms filling with the round flesh of your bum, dragging you up against him. One hand pulled up beneath your thigh so your leg was over his hip, opening you enough for him to grind the hard denim of his cock against you.

“Oh shit—” you gasped as your back got pushed into the rails of the fence.

He was thick. You could feel it even through his jeans, through the stiff seam and the metal of his zipper, the heavy shape of his length ground into the cradle of your legs perfectly.

Joel’s mouth left yours with a wet sound and moved to your jaw, then your chin, then the side of your throat. His beard scraped at your skin, his mustache rough beneath your ear.

“S’alright, darlin’,” he murmured, rocking into you again, slower this time, meaner for how much control he had over it. “Just needed someone to show you how it’s done, didn’t ya?”

Your nails bit into the back of his neck.

“Joel—”

“Been fightin’ me all mornin’,” he said, his mouth dragging lower, teeth grazing where your pulse beat too fast. “All damn month, really.”

You couldn’t even argue. Not with his hips pressed just right and his hand gripping your thigh harder, holding you open against the fence.

“S’okay,” he said, voice rough against your throat, tongue laving over your carotid. “I’ll show you how to take me just as good, yeah?”

“Oh, yes,” you breathed, already nodding. “Yes, please, Joel.”

"What good manners you have, baby," he cooed.

Luckily he couldn't see the way your eyes rolled at that, but your mouth fell open as he bit down on the tender flesh of your shoulder.

"Oh!"

He growled, pleased, the sound vibrating up from his rib cage and against your skin before he push his cock into you harder than before. The fence post pressed into your back, a little painful through your jacket, his hands holding you tightly between it and himself.

“Tell me,” he groaned. “How long?”

"How long what, old man?" you tried to clipped retort, but it came out more like a whimper as his hands pulled you closer, dragging your cotton-covered seam over him harder. You had one hand thrown back over the fence rail to keep your balance, the other fisted tightly in his hair. Your head fell forward to watch where his lap met yours, thin floral pajama pants bunched tight where his stiff denim pressed into them over and over, the friction making your thighs tremble around his hips.

"How long has this sweet little pussy been wet —since we got up here, hm?"

"Fuck you," you moaned, which only made him laugh.

His head came up to look you straight in the eye, one hand going to the side of your face, thumb against your cheekbone, the wide breadth of his palm covering your cheek. His fingers dug lightly into the side of your neck as he forced your gaze back up to him. It was shockingly sweet for how menacing his smile was.

“Your little act doesn’t work on me, sugar,” he murmured, staring at your lips. “C’mon now. Tell me.”

You glared up at him, though it was a weak thing with your chest heaving and your leg hooked around his waist. "You're such an asshole."

He bent down to nip at your nose, "'fraid I think you might like that most about me."

The both of you were very still now, though you'd brought both of your ankles up to lock at his lower back, fully relying on him for balance. Your chest heaved with fresh lungfuls of air, finally catching up to what had felt lost and shallow before.

"And what about you?" you asked, tipping your chin up. "You really hate me as much as you act like you do?"

“Could never hate’cha,” he murmured, leaning down again, his voice lower now, almost too soft for the way he was still holding you against the fence. “Only thing I hate is how fuckin’ bad you make me want you.”

You blinked up at him.

"Is it really that much of a surprise, baby?" he added when he saw your expression.

"I mean—you—"

He was beginning to kiss you again, your flustered state seemingly invitation enough to resume his affection, gentler this time. He kissed your mouth softly, then the corner where the seam of your lips met, then up your cheek and over your brow.

"—you said we don't get along, that I should find someone else to teach me—that, that you had no use for me—"

Joel pulled back one more time, looking down at you. The hand that had been hooked under your knee came up to your face too, until he was holding your head between both hands, palms rough against your cheeks, fingers cupping the bowl of your skull.

His eyes moved over your face, and for once, there was no glower there. No hard set to his mouth. Just Joel, looking at you like the words had been sitting badly in his chest too.

"Should'a never said that, I know. I'm sorry. I was an asshole up at the trainin' range that mornin'."

"Yeah, you were." you pouted.

“Only said them things on the porch ’cause I know I shouldn’t want’cha like I do.” He shook his head, jaw tight, the confession seemingly costing him something. “Can’t fuckin’ help it though, baby. I can’t.”

“Then don’t,” you whispered.

"You're too young—" he whispered, "—too sweet for me. You're right, I'm old, I'm mean as a dog…"

Your delicate fingers wrapped around his thick wrists, holding him there, keeping his hands on your face.

“Truth?” you offered.

He nodded quietly.

Out there, you could just hear the breeze over the open fields around you. The soft nickering of the horses grazes, the birdsong of the woods beyond. It was awfully quiet where just you and Joel stood pinned against the old fenceline.

"I've wanted you for so, so long." you murmured.

His eyes flickered between yours, narrowing, almost disbelieving. Your grip on his wrists tightened.

"I have. And…and… I've been wet since we got here. Thinking about this—being all alone with you and—even if I can't fucking stand you glowering at me like that—"

He pushed his lips into yours again, but this time, it wasn't only the flame of hunger and eagerness, but the gentleness of tender affection.

“C’mere,” he whispered into your lips, hands sliding down your sides.

His hands were back on your body, pulling you closer, slipping under your jacket once more before finally reaching under your cotton night shirt. You could feel just how rough-hewn his fingertips were, how calloused and worn they were against the tender flesh of your body. But they felt so right, like this was where they belonged all along.

“You’re so soft, baby. Wanna feel how soft you are under these.” His fingers hooked lightly at the waistband of your cotton pants. “Take ’em off for me.”

You listened, of course you listened. He let your wobbly legs down gently from his hips, one hand staying firm at your waist until your boots found the grass again. Your knees felt useless beneath you, weak from the heat of him, from the way his voice had gone low and syrupy thick against your mouth. You reached for the ribboned hem of your sleep pants with clumsy fingers, and Joel watched you like he was trying very hard to stay patient.

The cotton slid down your thighs, catching for a second at your knees before you stepped out of them and your boots. Morning air touched your bare skin at once, cool enough to make you suck in a breath.

You started to pull your coat off too, but Joel caught the front of it in one fist and held it closed around you.

“You’re gonna get cold, baby,” he murmured, bringing you back into his arms to kiss you on the lips once more. “Keep it on.”

He was soon bending, kissing your chin, the soft skin of your throat, down your top and lifting it just enough to lick into your navel, making you giggle and squirm. He threw you a knowing look when you bit back a laugh at the crack of his knees, and you nearly opened your mouth to say something rude before his lips found your skin again.

He kissed lower, down the soft slope of your belly, until his mouth was pressed just above your mound where your panties still covered you. Stupid sleep underwear, you chastised yourself, suddenly annoyed you hadn’t thought this far ahead. But Joel didn't seem to care. He kissed the little bow at the waistband, something slipping from his mouth that sounded awfully like 'how cute'.

Your breath caught in the crisp morning air when his tongue dipped out over your cotton panties, right where your clit pulsed beneath. He let out a low hum of satisfaction, one thick finger coming up to pull the cotton aside.

“Why don’t you spread these pretty legs for me, hm?” His eyes flicked up to yours. “Or do I need to teach ya how to do that too?”

You scoffed, still in your head enough to want to bite back a curse at him, but he was already moving your leg for you, pushing your knee toward the fenceline until your boot found footing on the bottom rail. His eyes never left the damp spot darkening your panties.

As he pulled the cotton aside fully, he sighed, face tilting a little as he looked.

“You’re staring,” you murmured, nervousness fluttering in your belly.

His eyes glanced up at you, and your heart ricocheted into your throat. You felt bare. Exposed. Ready for him to turn cold again, to go back to that surly look and stone quiet like he’d only just remembered himself.

Instead, his thumb stroked once along your thigh.

“S’just so pretty,” he murmured. “Tryin’ to take my time, is all.”

Your mouth opened in another quick gasp as his lips pressed onto the swollen bud of your clit. You felt his tongue dip out lazily, curled like a basin for collecting the arousal that had pooled for him. He licked up and up and up, before suckling on your sensitive bud again. He moaned with you when your head fell back, your fingers digging harder into the fenceline where you held yourself up.

"That's it, that's it," he cooed when he pulled away to blow gentle air against your pussy. "What a good girl you are, just want a little taste before I put my cock in ya."

Oh god, the old man really had a filthy mouth.

He was diving back in again, now with a finger to prod at your entrance. Your knees suddenly felt wobbly, hardly able to keep you standing.

He licked and sucked at your pussy like he’d been waiting for it, messy and hungry now, no patience left in him. His finger pushed inside, thick enough to make you gasp, your walls clenching down around it as he groaned into you.

"Ohhhh…" you chorused together.

"Fuck, you're tight," he breathed.

"Oh god, Joel." you said at the same time.

"I know, I know," he cooed again. His voice had gone dark and syrup-thick, coated in arousal, every word dragged rough from the back of his throat.

“Just gotta open ’er up,” he murmured, kissing the inside of your thigh before looking back at where his finger disappeared inside you. “Ain’t no way my cock’s fittin’ in here before I get you ready.”

“It will,” you chanted, hips undulating up into his mouth. “It will, it will—”

He moaned at your eagerness, crooking his finger before pulling it out to the first knuckles, and inserting a second finger. You gasped, stretched over his thick digits, the ache of it full and perfect and worse because he looked so pleased with himself. Because he knew exactly where to press, where to push, how to lave his tongue over your clit until your body was singing his praise.

“Fuck, baby,” he breathed, watching your face as his fingers worked deeper. “There you go. There you go.”

Your head tipped back against the fence post, wood catching at your hair.

“She gonna squeeze my cock this tight too, huh?” he murmured, mouth brushing slick over your clit. “She likes my fingers in ’er.”

"Yes, yes, yes," you whispered, your eyes hooded but forcing yourself to watch him. Your other hand carded into his thick graying hair at the crown of his head, nails scraping through, and he made a rough, pleased sound into you. Almost a purr. Almost a growl. His eyes fluttered for half a second before he looked back up at you, mouth wet, beard shining, fingers still buried inside you.

"M'so close, Joel, so so close, pleeeaseee…"

"There's those sweet manners again, baby. Why don't you go ahead and beg me some more? Maybe I'll let you come right now, and then I'll make you come again around my cock. Huh? Sound good? Let me hear your pretty little begging again, baby, go on now."

He said it all while panting, tilting his head up so his eyes could watch you. You put on your best pout, bottom lip sticking out so he could see how much you really really wanted it.

"Pleeeeease, Joel, please—" you mewled, "your fingers feel so good, so thick, please let me come. I'll be good, I'll be good."

"Good girl," he murmured, breath hot against you, "go on, let me feel her soak me. Come, baby,"

It felt like your belly had been waiting for the words. The overwhelming build finally tipped, the wave cresting hard before crashing through you all at once. Your body went molten as you locked up around his fingers, pleasure coursing through your veins in hot, licking bursts. Your eyes squeezed shut, your mouth falling open around a low, obscene moan you had no control over.

Joel rocked you through it, fingers pushing in and out, fucking you with them while his tongue pressed gently at your overstimulated clit until you were twitching and pulling away from his mouth.

When he pulled his fingers from your walls, you nearly fell to the ground, your legs unable to hold you up. Joel caught you before you could drop, hands firm beneath your thighs as he lifted you fully against him, both your legs winding around his waist now. Lazily, sleepily, you watched him shrug out of his coat and throw it down over the grass. Your eyes were still too heavy to take all of him in properly, so your hands did it instead—big shoulders, broad chest, thick arms built from hard work and long hours.

Just as much a part of Jackson as you were. Maybe more.

He could do everything. It made you a little sick with envy, even now, even with your body still humming from his mouth and his fingers.

Joel saw your face change, but he was busy lowering you onto his coat, easing you down into the grass instead of keeping you pinned against the fence.

“What is it, baby?” he whispered, one hand cradling the back of your head as he settled over you. “What’s in that pretty little head of yours?”

He was half watching you, half working open his jeans until his cock was freed from the denim, heavy as it bobbed, flushed red and bobbing thick between you as he leaned closer.

You licked your lips, reaching for him, but Joel caught you by the wrist before your fingers could wrap around him. You gasped in surprise, but he only brought your hand to his mouth, kissing each pad of your fingers one by one.

“Don’t think I’ll last too long if you start that,” he murmured. “Tell me what’s goin’ on.”

You shook your head. “Nothing. You’re just…you’re so…”

You sighed dreamily, distracted by the feeling of his swollen, wet lips against the tips of your fingers.

“Old?” he offered. “Cranky? Rude?”

Your mouth twitched. “Yes, and…”

He laughed a little, but you went on anyway.

“I was just thinking about how perfect you are.”

Now he really smiled wide, shaking his head before nipping at your index finger. "Think you've got the wrong man, baby," he groaned a little, and then leaned over you.

You shook your head again, winding your arms around his neck, one hand cupping the nape of his hair while your nails scraped lightly along his scalp.

“Don’t think so.”

He hummed, kissing you again, and began to roll his hips against you so his cock slid up your belly, heavy and hot against your skin. The kiss deepened, lips slotting together, wet and tender, tongues sliding slow as your hands tightened in his hair and his weight settled over you.

“I don’t know if you’re gonna fit,” you whispered when he pulled his hips back too far and the head of his cock slipped up through the seam of your pussy.

He licked his lips, looking down at you. “Told ya I’d teach ya, didn’t I?”

You smiled, nodding. “M’nervous.”

“Don’t gotta be. I got ya, baby.” His thumb brushed along your hairline. “We’ll start nice and slow.”

He did as he said, sitting back a little just so he could grasp his cock in one hand, the other still cradling your head, petting your hair where it had fallen across his jacket. The head of him notched at your entrance, wet with arousal and spit, but the difference between two fingers and his cock suddenly felt impossible.

“Easy now,” he whispered, kissing your lips. “Take a breath for me, honey.”

You did as he said, for once without some retort, and pulled in a deep breath.

What started as control quickly turned into a gasp as he pushed inside.

“Oh fuck!” you squealed, clawing at his shoulders over his shirt.

He chuckled, and you wanted to slap him.

“Come on now, honey,” he murmured, kissing the corner of your open mouth. “You’re all tensin’ up. Curl your toes. Deep breaths. C’mere, gimme a kiss.”

Your toes curled automatically, did your best to pull in another breath, and he leaned down to kiss you earnestly, swallowing the next rough sound that left you as he pushed in another inch.

His tongue licked behind your teeth. His chest pressed yours down into the coat. The weight of him made the ground feel farther away somehow, the grass cool beneath your hips, his jacket bunched soft and worn under your shoulders.

“Oh yeah,” he breathed against your mouth, rougher now. “Ain’t that so good, baby? How’s that feel?”

Your head fell back onto the collar of his jacket. “Soooo…full. Fuck.”

“Almost all of it,” he murmured, jaw tight. “Just a little more. Pussy feels amazing, baby. S’like heaven.”

Your eyes squeezed shut as he pulled back a little, your mouth opening in a small, helpless shape when the drag of him caught every tender place he’d opened with his fingers.

“Yeah,” he sighed, watching your face. “There you go. She’s warmin’ up to me now.”

One of his hands slid from your hair to your throat, resting just beneath your jaw, not squeezing, only holding you there while his thumb brushed the jumping line of your pulse. "think she's even startin' to like me."

“You’re so corny,” you groaned, but your chastising cut off when he slid his cock in all the way, his heavy balls pressing against your ass at last.

“Oh—” you choked. “Oh, oh oh.”

Joel nodded like he felt it too, like he needed the confirmation just as badly as you did. Then he kissed you again, and you let him, loose and dazed beneath him, tongue sweeping out to taste his. You could still taste yourself there, musky and sweet on his mouth, and it made your walls contract around him.

Your body was starting to understand him now. The first sharp stretch softened into heat, your muscles loosening by degrees, letting him settle deeper until the fullness became less frightening and more necessary.

“Fuck,” he breathed, forehead pressing to yours. “You okay? How’re you feelin’, baby?”

“So good, Joel,” you whispered, fingers flexing in the fabric at his shoulders. “So good. Please, please fuck me.”

He groaned, ducking his face into your neck. “Gonna give it to you good, baby.”

He started slowly. Though, you weren't sure if he was exactly gentle. He was so big and there was too much of him for anything to feel really gentle. But he was careful, controlled in the sawing of his hips that pulled halfway out, and then pressing back in. Each stroke was concise, your fingers digging harder into his shirt, each little hiccup of air pressed from you.

His coat dragged beneath your back, the grass brushing cold against your bare thighs. Your sleep top had ridden up beneath your own jacket, leaving your stomach exposed to the morning air, but Joel was warm over you, broad and heavy and panting against your throat. Every time he pushed in, your body shifted against his, the ground catching you, the earth taking what the fence no longer had to.

The open air of the field collected your simpering sighs and loud, mewling moans, the day warming around you so that you saw sweat beginning to dapple his forehead when he brought his head up to look at you.

“So pretty, baby,” he breathed. “Such a pretty girl takin’ cock so well.”

You cried out when he changed the rhythm, picking up speed.

“I know, I know,” he moaned, his voice catching rough in his throat. “God, you feel so good, baby. Pussy feels like it was made for me, huh?”

“Yes, Joel, yes—ohhh, yes, yes, yes.”

“She’s tightenin’ up on me again,” he panted, eyes dragging over your face. “Gonna come for me already? What a good girl you are. C’mon, I wanna feel it around my cock.”

Your eyes widened when Joel’s hand slid down your body again, over your thigh, hooking it higher until your leg was thrown up over his shoulder. Your body folded beneath him, his cock reaching deeper as he leaned down into you.

“Fuck!” you squealed, holding tightly onto his hair.

He looked down at you with a little pout, a mock-sympathetic expression pulling at his mouth.

“Doin’ so good,” he murmured. “Takin’ my cock like such a good girl, baby. Come on now, let me feel her again. She feels like fuckin’ heaven.”

“Jooooel,” you whined.

But that crest of a wave was swelling worse now, higher, blood coursing hot through the river of your veins, sparking as it flooded your belly. Your hips tightened. Your muscles locked. Your whole body seemed to pull toward him, toward that hard, dragging stroke, toward the pressure building so tight you could hardly breathe around it.

“Oh god,” you gasped. “Oh god.”

“Make your old man happy, baby,” he panted, hips snapping harder now. “Come on my cock. Know you wanna. Know your pussy loves it.”

“Shut up,” you cried. “Shut up, shut up.”

He grabbed your face again, mock pout gone, teeth bared with the strain of holding himself together.

“Where are those sweet manners you had not too long ago?”

You squealed as he built up a faster rhythm. His hand hooked around your neck, pulling you up just enough to make you look down between your bodies, where his cock was splitting you open over and over.

“You see that, baby?” he groaned. “She’s milkin’ me. Beggin’ me to let her come, ain’t she? Look how good she’s takin’ me.”

“So good,” you murmured between moans.

It was true. His cock was covered with your thick arousal and come, pearly white and glistening around the shaft every time he pulled out, only to swing his hips back into you again.

“So why don’t you use those good manners and ask me?” he rasped. “Hm? Too proud already? Or are you too cock drunk?”

You pushed weakly against him, and he let you lay back down fully, following you down to kiss you. His mouth was wet, his breath uneven, his body still working yours into the coat beneath you.

“Gonna make me beg for it now, sweetheart?” he asked against your lips. “That it?”

You shook your head, too far gone to answer properly.

“I ain’t above beggin’,” he chuckled, though the sound broke wetly into a groan when you clenched around him again. “Wanna feel it so badly.”

He reached down between you, his thumb finding your swollen clit and strumming it with the perfect pressure.

Your eyes popped open, you didn’t even have time to beg. To ask. To tell him.

Your body locked up all at once, eyes squeezing shut as the pleasure burst bright and black behind your lids. It tore through you in waves, hips jerking beneath him, thighs shaking where he had you folded open. Your mouth fell wide around a sound you barely recognized as yours.

Somewhere outside the buzzing of your orgasm, outside your own moans and the pulse pounding in your ears, you heard Joel groaning louder.

“That’s it,” he gritted against your cheek. “Fuck, that’s it, baby. Give it to me. Good girl. Good fuckin’ girl.”

His thrusts started to lose their rhythm, turning deeper, rougher, his hips driving into you with less control each time. His hand tightened at your jaw, his forehead pressing hot to yours mouth open against yours, and then he pushed into you one last time, burying himself as deep as he could go.

Joel groaned your name like it had been dragged from somewhere low in his chest, and then he filled you, cock pulsing inside you as his body went heavy over yours, his breath breaking against your mouth.

For a moment, neither of you moved. There was only breath.

Yours, thin, uneven, still catching in your dry throat when you tried to swallow. He felt heavy over you, his breath thick against your cheek. His weight felt good, like a blanket, though your legs had begun to cramp until he let your leg down.

The open summer morning moved on around you. It all came back to your ears eventually, the cricking of the open barn door, the horses in the pasture and the birds singing from far away. The field smelled like fresh grass and weeds and sunshine, Joel's coffee still faint on his breath.

You hummed against him as he kissed the crook of your neck, his mustache and beard prickly against you. He feathered his lips up your throat until they were over your own lips, which you pressed gently against his. He pulled back, just looking at you. And you did the same. You brought your hand up to his face slowly, tracing the line of his brow, down his sharp nose and over the bow of his top lip.

"You are so perfect." you said dreamily.

He breathed a little laugh through his nose, a crooked, disbelieving smile pulling his lips. A shyness you weren't sure you'd ever seen.

The heat between you had started to cool. Your skin prickled beneath your open jacket, the air finding every place his body didn’t cover. You shivered, and Joel noticed at once.

“Chilly?”

“Only a little.”

He sighed, like he hated that he had to move, then leaned down to press one more long, lingering kiss to your lips before sitting back.

You made a small sound when he pulled out of you, your body too sensitive for even that. Joel’s eyes dropped between you, his jaw tightening for a second at the sight of himself slipping free, slick and spent against your thigh.

"Poor baby," he said, his thumb reaching out to slide up your wet and abused folds. You whined at the touch, and he pouted down at you.

"Easy, easy, I know. Gonna take care of her when we get home."

He sat back on his heels and tucked himself away first, hands slower now, less steady than they’d been when he’d taken the rifle from you. Then he reached for your sleep pants where they’d been left in the grass, shook them once to knock off the loose dirt, and turned back to you.

You blinked up at him, limp and boneless, still spread over his coat.

Joel looked down at you for a second, one brow lifting. “Don’t make me do all the work now, baby.”

You smiled sleepily. “You seemed to like doing all the work a minute ago.”

His mouth pressed into a line, but it didn’t hide the amusement in his eyes. “Smart mouth,” he muttered.

Still, his hands were gentle when he guided one foot through the pant leg, then the other. He pulled the cotton up your calves carefully, pausing when the fabric caught at your knee, easing it loose before working it higher. You lifted your hips only when he tapped them, and even then, barely.

“There ya go,” he murmured, drawing the waistband back into place beneath your rumpled top. He helped you sit up slowly in his lap, one hand braced behind your back, the other fixing the front of your coat around you. His knuckles brushed your stomach as he straightened your shirt, then pulled the jacket closed enough to keep the morning air off your skin.

You stayed like that for a moment, hiked up over his thighs, and he let your limbs fold around him again, hands back into his messy hair.

"I meant it—you—" you began, then licked your lips, staring up into his pretty hazel eyes again, "you're good, Joel. You're perfect."

He opened his mouth to protest, but sighed instead.

"Thank you for bringing me out here," you went on, "I'm sorry if I was mean earlier."

He smiled crookedly, "I was too."

You shook your head, "You had reasons to be."

He leaned down and pressed a soft, chaste kiss to your lips, "Bakery is gonna be wonderin' where you are, we better get back."

You held on tight even when he began to move, and a little mischevious smile twitched your mouth.

"What?" he asked, smile growing.

"One more shot?"