You carried it home like it meant something. Like it had a purpose.

Joel sat on the couch in his flannel and jeans, working a knot out of his boot lace, fingers slow, tired. You watched him from the doorway a second too long, camera heavy in your jacket pocket. He looked up.

“What?” he asked, soft but suspicious.

You swallowed your nerves. “I brought us somethin’.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Unless it’s dinner, I ain’t in the mood.”

You walked over, pulled it out like it was a damn wedding ring. Set it gently on the coffee table between you. “It’s a camera.”

Joel glanced at it, uninterested. “Yeah. And?”

“And it works.”

He blinked. “Okay.”

You sat next to him, thigh brushing his thigh. “I was thinkin’… maybe we could use it.”

A pause.

He turned slowly to face you. “Use it how?”

You hesitated, cheeks burning. You hadn’t meant to say it so soon, but the way he was looking at you—all stern and unreadable—made you want to push. Made you want to crawl in his lap and ask for things you shouldn’t.

“I wanna record us,” you said. Quiet. Honest. “Just once.”

His jaw tensed. “What do you mean—us?”

“You know what I mean.”

Joel stared at you like you’d lost your mind. “Sweetheart…”

You got to your knees in front of him before he could keep talking. Looked up at him, palms splayed on his thighs.

“I just wanna see it,” you said, desperate now. “Wanna see how you touch me. How you—fuck, Joel, how you look when you’re inside me.”

His hands hovered like he didn’t know where to put them. “That’s not—baby, that’s not a good idea.”

“Why not?”

“You really want somethin’ like that lyin’ around? It could be dangerous.”

“I’ll keep it safe. No one’ll ever see it but me.” Your fingers curled around his belt. “Please, Joel. Just once. For me.”

He exhaled hard. Looked down at you, torn and twitchy and so close to giving in. His hand finally dropped, touching your cheek.

“You don’t need a camera,” he said, voice low. “You got me right here.”

You leaned into his hand. “But I wanna keep you forever.”

That did it. You felt it in the way his thighs shifted under your palms. In the soft groan he tried to swallow. In the way his thumb dragged across your lips like he was already picturing it.

He closed his eyes.

“Alright,” he muttered. “Once. But you stay close. You do exactly what I say.”

Your smile was slow. “Always do.”

Joel cursed under his breath.

And when you got up, went to set the camera just right on the nightstand, you didn’t miss the way his hands were already undoing his belt.

You can hear the soft, static click of the record button, and that’s it. No beeping. No countdown. Just that tiny blink of red in the corner of the room, steady and quiet like it’s watching you breathe.

Joel’s sitting on the edge of the bed, legs spread, shirt already off, that strong, tired body on full display—his chest dusted with gray hair, thighs flexing as he watches you set up the frame. His jeans are undone, waistband tugged low, the bulge in his boxers thick and heavy, straining.

He’s already half-hard.

“You’re sure?” he asks again, voice low and rough.

You nod, stepping toward him slowly. You crawl between his legs and place your hands on his thighs, the denim warm under your palms. “It’s already recording.”

Joel drags a hand down his face like he’s regretting every decision he’s ever made—but when you kiss the inside of his knee and trail your mouth up the inseam, you feel him twitch under the fabric.

“Jesus,” he mutters.

“You don’t even have to look at it,” you whisper, lifting your eyes to his brown ones. “Just look at me.”

And when you lean up to kiss him, he grabs your face with both hands and kisses you back so hard your breath catches in your throat. The kind of kiss that makes your knees weak. Tongue slow, patient, possessive. Like he’s trying to brand the shape of you into his mouth.

By the time he pulls away, you’re gasping.

“Clothes off,” he says hoarsely. “C’mon. Let me see you.”

You undress for him—slow, tugging your shirt over your head, unclasping your bra, slipping your pants down one leg at a time. He watches every second. Not the camera. You.

When you’re bare in front of him, he lets out a low breath. His hands slide up your thighs, thumbs tracing the skin just above your knees.

“Fuck,” he whispers. “You’re already wet.”

You nod, dizzy. “Joel—please.”

“Lay back.”

You do. Back hitting the mattress, legs spreading for him automatically. He crawls over you, bigger than the bed, arms braced on either side of your head. His mouth brushes your ear.

“Eyes on me,” he murmurs. “Don’t look at the fuckin’ camera. I want you to feel this.”

He kisses down your neck, your collarbone, your chest. His tongue drags slowly and heavy over one nipple, then the other, before he kisses down your belly and sinks between your thighs like he belongs there.

And when his mouth finds you—warm, wet, perfect—you arch with a soft cry. His tongue is patient. Flat, dragging circles over your clit, then flicking faster, lips sucking it until you’re whimpering, twitching, trying not to close your eyes.

“That’s it,” he whispers. “Let it show.”

You’re already shaking when he finally rises to his knees and strokes himself—slow and hard, leaking at the tip. You watch the way he fists it, how red and thick it looks in his hand, and you whimper.

“I want it,” you breathe. “Inside.”

Joel groans low in his throat. He lines up, runs the head of his cock through your slick folds, and just barely pushes in.

The stretch burns—thick, aching, perfect—and your mouth falls open on a gasp.

“Oh my God— Joel—”

“That’s it,” he growls. “Let the camera hear how good I fuck you.”

He thrusts deeper, watching your face twist, jaw slack, your breath catching. He moves slow—so slow—until he’s buried to the base, hips flush against yours.

“Fuckin’ tight,” he grits. “Always so good for me.”

He pulls out almost all the way and pushes in again, groaning as your cunt clenches around him. One hand slips under your thigh and hooks it higher around his waist, opening you more, making room.

Each thrust drags the air from your lungs.

He keeps it steady, rhythm deep and deliberate, hips rocking into yours as your body trembles. Your moans are high and desperate, choked off by the sheer pressure of him inside you.

You try to speak. Try to say his name. But it just comes out as noise.

Joel chuckles darkly, voice fucked-out. “You wanted this, didn’t you? Wanted to see how I ruin you?”

You nod helplessly, eyes wet.

“Look at how easy you come apart,” he mutters, fucking into you a little harder now. “You’ll watch this back with your hand between your thighs, won’t you? Pretending' it’s me.”

You moan louder, body jolting.

“Say it.”

“Y-yeah,” you stammer. “I—fuck, Joel—I will.”

And then it happens—

He changes.

The moment your voice breaks, something flickers in him. His hips snap harder. His breath hitches. His hand grips your jaw tight enough to keep you still as he fucks you like he’s gone feral.

“You’re mine,” he growls. “Every fuckin’ inch of you. Look at how you take me. Like you were made for it.”

The camera is forgotten.

Now it’s just skin and sweat and the wet sound of you taking him again and again, your cunt sucking him in so greedily it makes him groan every time he bottoms out.

He lifts your legs over his shoulders, folding you in half. Fucking deeper. Harder.

“Gonna come all over this cock,” he mutters, voice hot against your neck. “Wanna show you what you do to me. Look at me, baby. Eyes on me.”

“I— I’m close— Joel— I—”

“Yeah, I fuckin’ know.”

His hand flies to your clit, thumb rubbing tight and fast, and your whole body clenches, legs trembling as your orgasm hits like a wave.

You cry out, loud and wrecked, and Joel’s hips stutter.

“Fuuuuck—that’s it,” he groans. “Take it. Take all of it.”

He comes inside you with a long, broken sound, cock twitching deep, filling you until it spills out slow and warm between your thighs.

And when he finally collapses over you, your legs still draped over his shoulders, you both lay there for a long, breathless moment.

The red light blinks once.

Still recording.

Joel’s voice is a rasp against your skin.

“You really gonna keep that forever?”

You smile, dazed. “Every second of it.”

It’s late.

The house creaks now and then with the wind, but nothing stirs. Not even the fire—burnt down to its glowing bones.

And Joel? Joel’s sitting still in that damn chair like something’s wound tight in his chest and won’t let go. You’ve been gone since morning—long patrol east, won’t be back until tomorrow—and the silence left behind has teeth.

He’s already two buttons down, belt unbuckled, pants shoved low on his hips.

In front of him, the old camcorder sits steady on the wooden table. The one you found on patrol, grinning and breathless when you handed it to him. Said it was still functional—still had some battery left, even. He’d grunted at the time, tossed it on the dresser like it didn’t mean anything.

It means something now.

The little screen flips open with a soft click, a flicker of blue light humming to life, and then—

There you are.

The video’s grainy, but Joel doesn’t care. He can see you just fine. Better than fine. You’re spread out on his bed, legs open, body moving beneath him, a haze of sweat glowing on your skin. His body, rough and broad, takes up half the frame. The camera had been set on the nightstand, just a little off-center, so it catches everything.

You had begged him for this.

On your knees, mouth swollen, voice wrecked: “Just once. I wanna see it. I wanna keep it with me forever.”

He hadn’t said yes right away. He never did. But the way you’d looked at him—wanting, soft and wicked at once—he’d given in. You always got what you wanted from him when you looked like that.

And now he gets this.

Joel strokes himself once, slow, thick fingers dragging from base to tip. His cock twitches, already wet at the head, leaking for you like a goddamn teenager. It’s not even shameful—he’s too far gone for shame.

On the screen, your back arches. His hand wraps around your throat. Your moan crackles through the built-in speaker, quiet and sweet and soaked in pleasure.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he rasps, mouth parting.

He strokes again, slow, tight around the base. Watches as his on-screen self pushes into you—deep, hips flexing as he buries himself to the hilt. You take him like you were made for it. The wet drag of his cock inside you, the sound of your cunt clenching down on him, all of it plays through the camcorder’s tiny speaker like a prayer.

Joel swallows hard. His hand leaves his cock, resting against his thigh. He’s not ready to come. Not yet.

He watches you pant, watches your fingers grip the sheets. Onscreen, he grabs your leg and pushes it up—opens you even wider. The camera shakes slightly as the bed rocks beneath you. The sound of your moan—high, breathless, needy—makes Joel groan in real time.

He presses a hand to his belly. His cock twitches against it, hot and heavy and needy.

Then he hears it—his voice, low and rough: “That’s it, baby. Take all of it.”

His own voice ruins him.

He fists his cock again and strokes, just once. Once. The sensation is almost too much already.

He breathes through his nose, sharp and shallow. The tape keeps going. He watches himself roll his hips into you slowly, watches your eyes flutter shut, your thighs shaking. Then, you say it—his favorite part—whimpering, desperate: “Joel, I can feel you in my stomach—oh my god—”

“Shit,” he mutters aloud, hand tightening. His hips jerk up into his fist involuntarily, needing more pressure, more friction, but he slows himself. He won’t come. Not yet.

He shifts, wide legs bracing him in the chair, the tension winding him up like a coil. The camcorder’s screen catches the moment he presses your legs up and leans in, burying his face in your neck as he pounds into you. Your body bounces from the force of it, your tits moving with every thrust, mouth open in a silent scream.

He hears himself on the recording again, low and cocky now: “Fuckin’ made for me, huh? Look how good you take it.”

Joel groans, stroking himself harder now. His hand glides slick with spit and precum. He’s dripping everywhere—his belly, his fist, the arm of the chair. He wants to finish, but he needs to draw it out.

The tape plays on. He watches you start to come, sees the exact second it hits you—your mouth drops open, legs shaking around his waist, that tight clench that he knows so well rippling through your body. You’re crying out for him. His name—“Joel, Joel, Joel—” Like a goddamn melody.

And he’s right there on-screen, watching himself fuck you through it, muttering filth in your ear. He feels that phantom tightness, the way your cunt always pulses when you come, and he has to stop again, squeezing the base of his cock to hold it off.

“God damn,” he grits out. “You feel so good. I fuckin’ ruin you every time, huh?”

He doesn’t even realize he’s talking aloud. The camcorder repeats the moment of his own orgasm—hips stuttering, body locking up, face buried in your shoulder as he spills inside you. It’s raw. It’s real. No performance. Just pleasure.

Joel can see the aftermath, too—his cum dripping down your thigh, your body boneless and twitching beneath him, both of you panting like you’ve just survived a bloater in the woods. The way you pull him close, even when it’s over. The way he kisses your hair. The way he worships you even when he doesn’t say it out loud.

He strokes again, slower now. More reverent.

The screen goes dark for a second as the footage loops.

Then it starts over.

You again. Lying back. Welcoming him in. Your voice: “Please, Joel—want you so bad—”

Joel clenches his jaw.

He edges himself through the whole damn tape again, sweat slicking his chest and temples, cum threatening to boil over. But he holds it. Every time. Over and over.

By the time he finally lets himself finish, he’s groaning so loud he has to shove his fist in his mouth to muffle it. His thighs shake. His hips jerk up off the seat. His release is hot and heavy, spilling over his knuckles in thick ropes, coating his hand, his belly, his shirt.

“Fuck,” he chokes, spent and trembling.

The camcorder plays on. Your voice is soft now. Laughing. Telling him you love how wrecked he looks after.

Joel leans forward, presses the pause button with a shaking finger. The screen freezes on your smiling face, sweat-slick and beautiful.

He sits back.

Breathless. Heart pounding. Cock twitching even after he’s come.

He doesn’t rewind it. Doesn’t delete it.

He just closes the screen with a soft click, tucks it away, and wipes his hand on the hem of his shirt.

He’ll watch it again tomorrow.

Maybe the day after that.

And if you’re gone too long, maybe he’ll hit record again the next time he fucks you—just to remember how good you feel.

You slip through the quiet streets of the city, the woven handle of your basket looped gently over your arm. A soft hum escapes your lips, a tune only the night seems to know. The stones beneath your sandals are warm from the day’s heat, still radiating the sun’s memory as the hush of night begins to settle. Crickets and cicadas sing from dark corners, their chorus delicate, like lace threaded through the silence.

Rome is quieter at this hour. Not silent, never truly, but quieter. As if the mighty heart of the empire has finally begun to slow, to exhale.

You reach the thermae just before the moon crests its highest point. The structure stands like a temple in the dark, torchlight flickering along carved pillars and smooth marble that glows golden. Steam curls up from within the stone walls, thick and inviting, drifting like silk into the air. You slip through the arched threshold, and the warm, mineral-scented breath of the springs embraces you.

It’s nearly silent. Just the soft bubbling of water, the occasional drip of condensation down stone, the rustle of a breeze stirring one of the hanging silken banners overhead. This thermae has always been your favorite— nestled against a quiet hill on the edge of the city, tucked away behind a grove of flowering laurel and cypress. Fewer people frequent it. Too far, they say. But for you, it’s perfect.

You step onto the cool, patterned floor, marveling, as you always do, at the opulence. Intricate mosaics of Apollo and Venus glimmer beneath your feet, their mythic beauty frozen in tile. Wreaths of fragrant flowers wind up around the sculpted columns, fresh and damp with dew. The stone arches above are carved so finely that your eyes often lose themselves in the details: curling vines, the faces of nymphs, the wings of eagles, all staring down in solemn witness.

The water beckons beyond, a mirror of mist and light. Before you slip into it, you settle onto one of the marbled benches. It’s cool against your thighs, smooth beneath your fingers. You untie your sandals slowly, enjoying the rhythm of the ritual. The city feels so far away here. Its roar, its politics, its bloodstained spectacles —all of it muffled by marble, steam, and solitude.

You breathe in deeply. The air is rich with heat and something sweeter — honeysuckle, perhaps, or the lingering smoke of sandalwood incense still clinging to the stones. Your fingers drift to the lip of your basket. Oils, cloth, a small jar of fig balm. Enough to make the next hour utterly yours.

You do not hear him at first. Just the shift of shadows behind one of the larger columns across the way. A footfall, soft yet heavy.

And it is not until he steps into the light: scarred, sharp-eyed, leonine in profile, that your breath catches in your throat.

General Acacius.

You turn away before your gazes can meet. The water between you becomes a kind of sanctuary, veiling you in ripples and warmth, a safe expanse separating your solitude from his gravity. He remains on the opposite end of the thermae, partially obscured by a column and the rising curtain of steam—but even half-hidden, he draws the eye. This is the first time you’ve ever seen the general alone.

Usually, he is trailed by a flock of senators and sycophants, his path cleared by his loyal soldiers. Or he’s perched high above the chaos of the colosseum, cast in gold and shadow as blood paints the sand below.

Up close, in silence, without armor or ceremony, he is something else entirely.

The rumors are true. He is devastatingly handsome. A mix of the delicate beauty of poetry or painted heroes and the kind carved into marble— stark, masculine, impossible to ignore but made to admire. His frame is massive, the breadth of his shoulders a thing that demands reverence, the curve of his jaw like it was drawn with a honeyed blade. Even now, without the bronze of war adorning him, he carries himself with an authority that stirs something in you.

It is no wonder women speak of him with flushed cheeks and eager lips. Nor is it a wonder he remains unattached. No woman, no man, no lover could compete with the hunger in his eyes for conquest. War has claimed him, become his mistress. And yet… you find yourself wondering, perhaps foolishly, what it might be like to be taken with that same possession.

You keep your gaze averted as you reach into your basket, fingers finding the familiar pieces of your nightly ritual. You remove your jewelry then slowly peel the fabric from your body, exposing skin to the open air, to the eyes of gods and men alike.

You try not to think of whether he’s watching. You try.

Your foot touches the water first, heat curling up your calf, then your thigh, until you are swallowed by it. A soft, involuntary sound escapes your lips, a breathy moan that seems to echo louder than you intended in the stillness of the summer night.

You glide further in, deeper, until the water kisses just below your collarbones. You find your place, easing against the stone, eyes fluttering shut—but not for long. Curiosity, wicked and warm, coaxes them open again. And this time, you let them wander.

He is still turned away, his broad back like something from a myth, all sculpted muscle and roughened skin. The light of the moon and torches play against him, catching on every ridge, every scar, every flex and pull as he shifts to undress. Sweat clings to him, glistening down his spine, mixing with the dirt of training or battle, a sheen that only makes him more savage, more real, more desirable.

He bends slightly to unfasten his remaining garment, and when the cloth falls, your tongue twitches in your mouth.

His ass is nothing short of divine. Round, tight, perfect in its symmetry, in the way it moves as he steps out of the tunic. Your teeth find your lower lip and stay there, pressing hard. 

He turns and suddenly, the air shifts. Heat blooms low in your stomach, tender, slow.

Hazelnut eyes lock with yours—not passive, not startled, but piercing. Like he’s known all along you were there, and now he’s choosing to look. Choosing to see you. The connection is immediate, tangible, a pull so intense you feel it in your pussy, in the tips of your fingers beneath the water. His gaze does not waver. It devours.

Then, languidly, his eyes drag down your form. Over your bare shoulders, your collarbone, your breasts rising from beneath the water with each breath. He lingers there. Long enough for your nipples to harden. You can’t help the way your chest arches forward, as if offering him more of your full tits.

He notices. You see it in the slight lift of his brow, the shadow of something dangerous and amused that curls his lip.

You match his look without thinking, lips parting just enough to draw in breath as your gaze drops between his legs. And gods—there he is. Thick even while soft, his cock hangs heavy between his thighs, nestled in a thatch of dark curls that look fucking edible. Your thighs press together instantly, your cunt clenching around nothing as heat flashes in your gut like it’s trying to eat you alive.

It shouldn’t look that good. Not at rest. But it does. Your mouth waters, lips buzzing, and your fingers twitch at your sides like they don’t know why they aren’t already wrapped around him.

You don’t even realize how long you’ve been staring until he moves.

No words. Just that quiet, lethal stillness breaking as he steps into the water with the weight of a predator deciding when to strike. You don’t know if he’s doing it for you or simply because that’s just how he moves, but when his body sinks into the pool, muscles flexing, steam licking up his sides, it feels like something carnal crackles in the space between your bodies, more ancient than language, more honest than names.

He disappears beneath the surface, the water rippling out toward you like the heat radiating off your skin, and the soft splash of it yanks you back to yourself. Barely.

You sit up straighter, hand reaching for your cloth and small vial of oil, your pulse beating wild behind your ribs. Your fingers tremble, though you pretend otherwise, smoothing the perfumed mixture over your skin in slow circles. Sensual. Like you’re bathing for an audience… because you are.

When he rises again, your eyes snap to him like they’ve been chained there since the moment he arrived.

His hair is plastered back, dripping. Water runs down his face, clings to his thick lashes, trails over the angles of his jaw and beautiful nose. He’s fucking gorgeous—soaked and gleaming and massive. Your eyes drag lower, over his chest, watching the droplets race across his pecs and down his stomach. The line of hair that starts beneath his sternum and leads right down into the water makes your whole body ache to see more. To touch. To taste.

“Are you here often?” He asks, voice low and rough like gravel worn smooth by time.

You blink at him, a little slow, and answer as best you can with a dry throat. “Almost every night.”

Acacius hums. A sound that seems to rumble from his chest rather than his throat. He reaches for his own items and begins to tend to himself with a practiced efficiency that only deepens your curiosity. He has no servant with him, no one waiting nearby with fresh linens or scented oils. For a man of his station, that’s rare.

His big hands slide over his own scarred chest like he’s used to being looked at. Used to being wanted.

And fuck, do you want him.

He’s here. Naked, alone, reciprocating this unspoken lust in your favorite bathhouse. With you. It feels impossible. Like a gift from the gods. Or maybe a test.

You don’t care which.

The silence that follows is far from empty. It brims with energy, charged and volatile. You bathe yourself in the same slow rhythm, cloth gliding across slick skin, never breaking eye contact for long. You keep looking. So does he. And every time your eyes meet, it’s like a match is struck right at your core.

There’s no way he doesn’t feel it.

The space between you shortens with every breath. Neither of you says a word about it. You just move. Drawn. Like animals circling closer. The scent of oil and flowers in the steam is thick as incense—sticky sweet, dizzying. Your nipples are hard, peaked above the surface, aching for attention, and his gaze drops there more than once.

There is desire. There is certainty. And you will not waste this night.

Your fingers brush under the water, barely, but the jolt of contact sends a spark straight to your pussy.

He doesn’t pull away.

Instead, his hand turns, clasping around your wrist and tugging you towards him, just enough to let you know what he wants.

What you want. You meet him halfway.

The water barely muffles the slap of your bodies meeting, chest to chest. You’re not shy about it. There’s no point pretending. You want all of him. When he reaches down and cups your jaw with one large, dripping hand, the roughness of his touch makes your pussy clench tight.

Acacius doesn’t ask permission. He doesn’t need to.

He kisses you like it’s owed. Like it’s overdue. His mouth slants over yours, fervent, lips parted before they even meet. It’s filthy and deep. His tongue slides past your lips, tasting you. Your fingers fist in his hair, still damp from the bath, nails scraping his scalp as you pull him closer, desperate to keep your mouth sealed to his.

His hands roam with no restraint. One grabs your ass, squeezing and savoring the plumpness in his grasp, while the other palms your tit, big fingers curling around the soft flesh, thumb flicking over your nipple as you curve into him.

You clutch at his broad shoulders, his back, the muscles shifting beneath your hands like carved stone come alive. He’s so solid, every inch of him hard and smoldering and built for war. You do a little jump then wrap your legs around his waist without even thinking, gyrating your hips against him in a silent, burning plea for friction.

His hand immediately go to cup the back of your thighs, strong enough to keep you sturdy against him as his dick slips between your slippery folds.

“Fuck…” you gasp when he breaks the kiss, head tipping back as your mouth falls open with a desperate whine, his lips dragging wetly down your throat. “Please do not stop…”

“Was not planning to,” he growls, teeth grazing your skin, biting and sucking, leaving a trail of heat that makes your pussy throb. You can feel his shaft thickening beneath you, half-submerged in the water, heavy and hard right between your legs. You grind down on it without thinking, your clit brushing along his length, desperate for more.

“You’re soft,” he murmurs against your neck, voice wrecked, “and sweet. Gods…”

Your only answer is a shuddered moan as his mouth trails lower, nipping your collarbone, dragging his tongue along the curve of your breast before he captures your nipple between his full lips. He groans like he’s been starving for it, like your taste is better than any wine in Rome. He nips at the sensitive bud—just enough to make you twitch—and then his tongue soothes, circles, sucks.

Your fingers dig into his shoulders. Your legs tighten around his waist as you continue to grind against him. The water sloshes and ripples between you, the scent of oil and sweat and arousal heavy in the steam.

You’ve never felt so thoroughly handled—his big, calloused hands roaming every inch of you, gripping, groping, pulling you apart and putting you back together. His body is a weapon, and right now it’s being wielded for you, on you.

“Please, Acacius… fuck me.”

Your voice breaks on the plea, the words melting into a high, desperate whine as he sinks his teeth into your nipple. The sharp bite makes your back arch with a moan, the sting blooming at your chest just as he pulls off with a lewd pop.

He licks up your neck, tongue moving slow and shameless over your pulse. “Marcus,” he sneers against your mouth, his breath warm, the edge of a grin playing at his lips. “That is what I want you to cry while I am splitting this tight little cunt open on my cock.”

You barely manage a gasp before he seals your mouth with his again, tongue plunging past your lips with a hearty groan.

Then his hand moves—leaves your ass to wrap thick fingers around the base of his cock. And gods, you feel it, the weight of him pressing against your slick, aching entrance. Hot as sin.

You barely have time to breathe as he pushes in deep.

You let out a ragged sob, mouth falling open as your walls stretch around his fat shaft, the burn sharp and sweet all at once. Your nails claw into the hard, oiled up muscle of his shoulders while your pussy tries to take him. Inch by inch, he feeds himself to you until he’s buried balls deep inside your clenching sex.

“F-fuck—oh Marcus—”

His intimate name rips out of your throat in a needy wail as your head tips back, spine bowing, offering him everything.

He snarls, low and brutal, muttering curses in his native tongue under his breath. You barely have time to recover before he shifts, hoists you higher and hooks the backs of your knees over the bends of his elbows.

He fucks into you savagely, like he’s meant to be deep inside you every night until the gods have to intervene and pull him from you. The power in his body is insane, thrusting into you while standing, while holding your curvy and heavier figure, every stroke punching up into your guts with obscene, wet sounds that echo off the marble.

The water thrashes around you, splashing wildly with every slam of his hips. Your tits bounce, nipples raw and exposed, while your ass claps against his thighs with every impassioned thrust. His cock is merciless, thick veins dragging against your fluttering walls, the fat head hammering that spongy spot deep inside you until you’re choking on every moan.

“Fucking… tight…” he spits between grunts, “had I known a praecantrix with a body like this was here every night aching for cock,” he pants, “I would have abandoned my duties and been buried in this sweet cunt instead.”

You clench hard at his words and he feels it, groaning through gritted teeth while your fingers twist in his damp greying curls as you tug his mouth back to yours.

You kiss him filthy, open-mouthed, tongues tangled, spit dripping between you. It feels so good knowing you’ve got one of the strongest men in Rome between your thighs. His beard scrapes your chin, making your skin curl in the best way, and you moan into his mouth when he sucks your tongue like he wants to devour it.

Your orgasm is coming fast. Titillating and climbing and climbing and climbing—

“Harder,” you gasp against his lips, nails sinking into his scalp. “Marcus, please.”

The salacious symphony of your fucking is beautiful, and Marcus gives you what you asked for, plowing into you with a force that knocks every breath out of your lungs and thought out of your head. 

You don’t even notice when he begins to move, strong arms locking beneath your thighs as he shifts, never once pulling out. He carries you backward, step by careful step, until he lowers himself onto one of the submerged stone steps, the heat of the water sloshing around your waist. You’re now straddling him, perched in his lap, knees spread wide on the slick surface. His cock stays buried to the root, making you keen.

You can feel everything. Every vein, every ridge, every throb. He leans back slightly, giving you space, giving you control—and gods, he looks bewitching. Half-lidded eyes drink you in, crooked scars slicing across his cheek and nose, only enhancing his brutal allure. Steam helixes around the angles of his face, water dripping down the hard lines of his chest, down his stomach, disappearing between your bodies where you’re still joined.

His hands find your breasts again, greedy and reverent all at once. Your skin is slick with water and oil, and he groans at the way your tits spill into his palms, nipples pebbling against his calloused fingers.

You start to move, slow at first, grinding down into him with insatiable want. Your clit presses into the coarse hair at the base of his cock, every drag sending white-hot sparks all over. The stretch of him inside you is overwhelming, the ache delicious. With every swivel at your waist, your slick spreads between you, smearing over his thighs.

Acacius watches you with worship and gluttony in equal measure, hands never leaving your skin, guiding your rhythm with subtle tilt of his hips.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice hoarse, the reverence in it making your thighs tremble harder. “So divine like this.” He studies you, head cocked with a fascination and you can’t help but perform for him, willing your body to imprint on his memory as surely as he’s etched on your soul.

“That’s it,” he growls, large palm smacking against your ass, making it ripple and sting as your thighs tremble from the force. You scream out his name, hands finding purchase on his shoulders again. “Ride it. Use me, carissime.”

The term of endearment does it for you, spurring you to fuck him like he’s never been fucked before, grinding harder, rolling your hips, chasing the rising wave of release that corkscrews at the base of your spine. The slap of your bodies grows louder as you bounce in his lap. Your tits jiggle with every thrust and he’s mesmerized, the repeated crack of his palm smacking your chest making your toes curl and your cunt pulsate around his meaty cock.

You bury your fingers in his curls as you clutch him close, your mouths meeting in a kiss that’s all teeth and passion. His tongue tangles with yours, and when you moan into him, he groans deep and animalistic, like he can feel it in his bones.

“What a perfect cunt,” he mutters against your lips. “Taking it all. Men go to and die in war for pussy like this.”

His praise sends another shock of bliss through you, and your pace falters as your legs begin to shake. Yet he doesn’t let up. His hands grip your ass, helping you move, pulling you down harder, deeper, each thrust sending his cock punching up into that devastating spot inside you. You cry out, clinging to him.

“Are you going to come for me?” he taunts raggedly against your throat. “Soak my cock like the desperate thing you are?”

“Yes—yes, Marcus—fuck, yes!” The words spill from you in a delirious rush, your pitch climbing higher as you ride him with reckless desire. Every drag of your soaked cunt around his thick shaft sends another jolt up your spine. You know you’ll feel this for days; every step, every shift in your body will echo with the memory of his ruin. The sheer power of straddling a man like him and breaking apart on his cock.

Then his mouth is on your breast, downright ravenous. He devours you with ardent, open-mouthed kisses, lips sealing tight around your nipple as he sucks hard, his tongue flicking rapidly before his teeth sink in just enough to make you mewl out in gratification. His attention shifts from one bouncing mound to the other, spit-slick and gleaming in the moonlight, the sting of his teeth making your walls clamp down around him.

“Marcus!” You come apart with his name tearing from your throat. Your climax hits like lightning, sharp and blinding. Your vision splinters, black spots dancing at the edges as ecstasy rips through body locking down, muscles seizing as your pussy quivers around his cock, dragging a primal sound from his chest. Every part of you is slick—sweat, oil, steam, and arousal mingling on your skin as your orgasm wrings you out.

The tight squeeze of your pussy has him snarling, losing the last thread of control. He wrenches his mouth from your tits and sinks his teeth into your neck, spitting curses as he fucks up into you with brutal, punishing thrusts. His fingers dig into your ass, holding you down as he drives into your spent cunt.

“Fucking take it,” he grits. “All of it.”

You feel the heat of him flooding you, dick twitching deep inside as he spills into you with a low, lecherous moan, biting down harder as he rides it out, making you wince. He doesn’t pull out, doesn’t move, just holds you flush against him, chest to chest, your body trembling as his seed fills you.

There’s no pause for breath, only the ragged, desperate sound of two bodies ruined by pleasure, locked together in the heat of the bath, gods watching from marble pedestals as if in envy.

Acacius still holds you, his strong arms wrapped tight around your waist, anchoring you to him like he never wants to let go. His cock remains buried deep inside you, softening slowly, the warmth of his release cradled within.

He presses a kiss to your temple, and then another to the hollow of your throat, working his way down with lazy affection. His hands roam your body, no longer rough and demanding, but tender and adoring. Fingertips graze the curve of your back, the dip of your waist, the fullness of your thighs; learning every inch of you like a man starved for closeness.

Your heart hammers against your ribcage, and you nuzzle into the crook of his neck, catching the scent of warm skin, salt, and the faint hint of sandalwood oil still clinging to him. You lean in, lips brushing his, and he meets you with a kiss so slow you feel like you’re floating.

When you pull back, you pause to look at him—really look at him. His dark curls cling damply to his forehead, drops of water trailing down his neck. His eyes, deep and glistening brown, are locked onto yours, hungry still, but softened by something far more dangerous than lust. Something like longing.

“Marcus,” you whisper, your voice barely more than a breath.

His lips pull, slow and knowing. “Say it again.”

You smile, fucked out entirely. “Marcus.”

His arms tighten around you, and the two of you sit there in the warmth of the water, wrapped around each other. The steam coils around your bodies, carrying with it the heady scent of oils and sex. Neither of you rushes to speak again. There’s no need.

This night will linger in more than just muscle memory. It will haunt your thoughts. It will live in his hands.

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When you go back to dragging your lips along his throat, he groans loudly, wriggling under you in excitement, his heart thudding in his chest. 

“Love,” he moans, needy and wanting. He places his warm hand on the back of your neck, applying a firm but not oppressive pressure. 

You know what he wants, what he craves. But instead, you smile and run your tongue along his jugular. 

“Love.” He pants, a little harsher this time and you just about manage not to giggle at the indignation in his voice. 

‘Steven.’ Marc’s voice echoes in his head, clear as day and he rolls his eyes. 

‘Bit busy now mate.’ 

There’s a pause, and even though Steven doesn’t look over to the mirror, he can feel Marc shiver, the sensations starting to bleed over, his arousal. 

‘Yeah, I get that.’ Marc pauses, but doesn’t fade back. 

You nip lightly at the spot under Steven’s ear. He shudders, whining beautifully. 

‘Maybe you can…’ Marc swallows. 

‘Spit it out mate, come on. Me and Jake have talked to you about this. It’s not really fair that you’re constantly dropping in on, well, intimate moments with us, but when it’s the other way around, you get all pissy and-’

‘This isn’t about that.’

‘Isn’t it?’ 

Steven can feel Marc frown at his sarcastic tone. But neither of them comment on it. 

‘Look, it’s about the biting-’

It’s almost like you can hear them. At the exact moment the word is out of Marc’s mouth you sink you teeth into Steven’s neck and suck.

Steven yelps, arousal burning in his lower stomach. His grip on you tightens. “Oh, fuck love, yes, that’s what I want.” 

‘Steven.’ Marc tuts. 

‘I don’t care if you’re here or not, don’t act like I can’t tell when you’re in the background watching to get your rocks off. You’ve got a vouyism thing, I swear down, all high and mighty on your horse acting like you don’t when you watch all the blood time and-’

‘Steven-’

‘But do not give me the condescending mother goose voice when I am trying to have a nice time here, yeah? It’s a bit of a mood killer.’

‘I’m not trying to kill the mood!’ Marc snaps back, going from his stern slowness to matching Steven’s fast pace. His accent is stronger when he’s frustrated, and now it’s out in full force. ‘It’s the biting! Does it always have to be with the biting?’

‘First, is this really the time to be discussing it? Second-’

‘I think it’s the right time, the best time. You hardly ever-’

‘Second, you one to talk!’

‘Bullshit.’

‘It’s true!’

‘What the fuck are you talking about, Steven?’

‘You love getting bitten.’

Marc gasps, trying to sound insulted. But it falls short. ‘I don’t.’

‘Yes you do!’

‘I don’t!’

‘Protest all you want, but I know you do Marc.’

‘That’s a fucking lie.’

‘You’re a fucking liar.’

‘Steven, I’m not, shut up!’

‘You just use the suit to heal them after, but I know, Jake and I both know.’

‘Bullshit.’ 

‘What’s the real problem here?’

‘I…’

‘Yes?’ Steven waits. 

Marc sighs. ‘Look, can you, you know, heal them after too?’

‘Why?’

Marc squirms a little, embarrassed. ‘‘Cause… I get… worked up… when I see them, feel them, on the body…’ 

Steven snorts involuntarily and then quickly stops himself, internally apologising. ‘Are you saying you get a boner from some bruises?’ 

He can feel Marc’s glare. 

Steven chuckles. ‘You do!’

‘Fuck off.’

‘Oh, you really do. That’s bad mate, really bad, a fetish for sure.” Steven teases and Marc scowls. 

‘Fuck off.’

‘A deviant they’d call you.’

‘Like you don’t fucking get the same?’ Marc snaps. ‘Acting like you’ve never got turned on by anything.’

Steven relents, internally holding his hands up. ‘I’m sorry, I’m just teasing. I’m not trying to really upset you.’

Marc pauses. ‘Yeah… I know… sorry. I just…’

‘I’ll heal them after.’

‘You don’t have to.’ Marc says quietly.

‘You don’t have to fuck off either, you can stay and…’ Steven pauses, realising that your lips are no longer on his neck. He opens his eyes to look up to you, confused. “Love?” 

You smile at him. “Marc or Jake or both?” 

“Hmm?”

“Who you were talking to?” You lean down again and kiss his cheek.

“Oh, how did…?”

“You go still and sort of, move your lips a little, like you’re asleep.”

Steven blushes a little. “I’m sorry.” 

“Why?” You shrug.

“Not very sexy, is it?” 

You chuckle, “It’s fine, I’d do the same if someone was talking to me.” 

“Still…” Steven smiles. 

“So, who were you talking to?” 

“Marc.” Steven touches back into their shared space. Marc’s still there, though he’s stepped back a fraction. But he’s not pretending he’s gone. “He’s hanging out.” 

You smile and stroke his hair. 

“Now, I believe you were in the middle of something?” Steven wiggles his eyebrows at you, giving you a cheeky look. 

“Oh, was I?” 

Steven nods. “Something that you’ll have to finish, love. You have no choice.” 

You giggle at his teasing tone, “Oh, well,” you shrug, pretending as if it’s some great chore. “If I have no choice.” And lean back down to suck a love bite into his skin.

Thank you for reading!

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“Yes, habibti?” You say, casually scanning the museum lobby. It’s a public, brightly-lit institution with sparkling glass cases displaying relics far older than you. There are groups of people sparsely scattering around the room, milling idly from one display to the next, unaware of the oversized jackal trotting through people and the display cases as a spectral entity.

The black-tipped tip of its tail wags in gentle greeting when it catches you looking, and you manage a pointed glance at Eliana before turning your attention back to the exhibit she dragged you to.

“It’s you,” she announces cheerily, grinning up at you. She is a dead-ringer for her father; same loose black curls and dark eyes that glimmer with a mischievous streak of satisfaction in teasing you. You look closer at the replicated statue of a jackal-headed god and huff out a laugh. It’s a statue of Anubis, of course, and you don’t have to look behind you to know that the jackal lingering in your shadow has an open-muzzle grin at the acknowledgment.

“Your flail is better,” she adds, pointing to the replicated flail dangling in the statue’s hand. The museum’s version is plated with imitation gold and striped blue, the metal sparkling beneath the fluorescent lights. The length of its handle fits flush to the statue’s forearm in the traditional symbol of a shepherd’s tool.

“Mine does look different,” you agree, idly swinging your joined hands between you. She stares up at the statue of Anubis with an intent solemnity, and you feel that familiar pitch of guilt in the pit of your stomach. Your service as a god’s Avatar is absolute; as his hands and his faith, you have had to adjust to a life of constant change. What began as a simple career at a local mortuary has transformed into a globe-trotting itinerary with a rapidly-expanding catalog of adversaries.

You resist the urge to glance over at the gift-shop counter and instead tuck a stray curl from Eliana’s eyes, smiling at the way she twists to look over her shoulder and scrunch her nose up at you. “I think we should take a break for lunch, habibti.”

“I wanna see the Ennead,” she frowns. Well, it’s bordering closer to a pout, but you can tell she’s getting hungry and her temper is on a shorter fuse than normal. She points to the banners on the wall, naming off the gods she sees, then pauses. “Where are the other gods, Mama?”

You study the display. There are only seven of the Ennead displayed, Anubis included, unlike the nine traditionally depicted. It’s clear who is missing immediately, and some strange emotion flutters in your gut at the realization.

“Khonshu and Ammit are gone,” Eliana announces. She twists around, peering for any sign of their presence, and she goes tense in your grip when she spots the man at the gift shop counter. “Oh! Daddy’s here.”

“He’s not himself today, habibti,” you tell her. She squints at him, studying the curve of his posture and the polite smile he gives the old woman buying a glass paperweight in the shape of a pyramid. There’s an earnest sheen to the clumsy way he gestures towards the display of fridge magnets that makes his customer smile, polite yet uninterested. He looks like he’s spouting off a laundry list of information, and the old woman nods kindly as she collects her change and receipt before retreating. He manages a wave in goodbye then moves onto his next customer.

“He’s nice,” Eliana decrees. “Can we say ‘hi’, Mama?”

Yeah, Jake is going to kill you for this.

“Sure, habibti. Let’s get a souvenir and we can see him when we checkout.”

In the very least, it’s an easy redirect towards getting her out of the museum to get lunch. She practically drags you over to the gift shop, her eyes taking in the inventory with ravenous longing, and you notice the display of plushies with a resigned sigh.

“Taweret!” She shouts. You let go of her hand before she yanks you off-balance to follow behind at a slower distance, smiling as she gazes reverently at the tower of plush hippos. The black bead eyes shine kindly under the display lights, perfectly reminiscent of the goddess herself. She would be utterly delighted to see the merchandise in her likelihood.

“Oh, we just got those in,” an accented voice says, coming around the checkout counter to edge closer to the two of you. The relentless buzz of worry and stress that you have been harboring since Jake went missing in the dead of a Cairo night eases as his body comes into view. Of course, you assure yourself, his body is fine. With the Moon Knight suit to accelerate his healing instantly in battle and Anubis’s blessing to keep him whole, he was never in danger of death.

Still, your shoulders loosen from the relief, and you turn to smile at him. The name tag fastened to the lapel of his jacket says ‘Steven’, though you figured as much based on the British accent and the seemingly exemplary customer service skills he has displayed. Marc, during the plentiful amount of life-threatening occasions you’ve clashed with him in, is not as patient as his alter, and you know Jake prefers limited contact with strangers when necessary.

“She’s a bit of an Egyptology enthusiast,” you tell him, gesturing to Eliana. A sensation of warmth spreads through your chest as you watch Steven turn to your daughter, his face lighting up in delight. Jake liked to lament the fact that she was just as Egypt-obsessed as Steven was, though you knew he was secretly pleased that she shared that trait with his fellow alter. Steven is a soft-hearted history nerd, he had told you, and he never shuts up about it.

And you love him for it, you had translated, and Jake had expertly changed the subject by changing the channel on the television to put on the game show you both liked. There was something to be said about the way he complained about Steven’s constant stream of history trivia facts only to religiously tune in to Jeopardy with you during his time in the body. Not to mention how damned good he was at it.

“Hello, there,” he says to her, crouching to get closer to her level. He points to the display of stuffed hippos. “I reckon you know who that is, yeah?”

“Taweret,” Eliana beams. She looks to Steven with that smile, and he returns it just as brilliantly. “She’s the goddess of women and children, an’ she helps steer the boat in the Duat.”

Steven raises his eyebrows at that, but his voice doesn’t falter from that kind, attentive tone. “Wow, you’re an expert! She helps guide the souls through the afterlife, yeah?”

“She weighs hearts,” Eliana agrees.

“Oi,” Steven says, sounding a little put-out by the declaration. “Well, that’s more of Osiris’s thing, innit? Weighing the heart, comparing it with the feather?”

Uh-oh. You know that her furrowed brow mean she’s gearing up to properly educate Steven on the true nature of the Duat, so you edge your way back into the conversation, crouching down to be level with her and Steven.

“Do you want to tell Steven what we noticed, Eliana?” You prompt, and her face turns solemn as she stares down Steven.

“You’re missing two,” she tells him. At his startled look, she points over his shoulder to the Ennead banners displayed on the far wall. “Khonshu gets cranky when you don’t talk about him.”

You barely manage to tilt your head down to hide your grin from Steven. She clearly picked that observation up from Jake, who often translated his disdain for Khonshu’s regular self-righteous rants into kid-appropriate terminology when he noticed her paying attention.

“Right,” Steven says, frowning. For a beat, you think it’s from the way Eliana talked about the Egyptian god of the moon with familiarity, but no, he looks justified as he points to the banners. “I told my boss the same thing, yeah? There are nine members of the Ennead and only seven banners. In a museum!”

Uh-oh. Now you got Steven all worked up.

“Stevie!” A voice shouts, startling the three of you. Eliana reaches out to clasp Steven’s hand, eyes wide, and some unspeakable emotion clogs your throat when you see his grip on her hand tighten reflexively, a silent comfort.

“Uh, here!” he calls. To Eliana, he says, “Donna, my boss.”

He dares a glance your way, and you blink at the flush of red creeping over the crest of his cheekbones. You aren’t used to your husband’s body looking so… soft and shy. Not in public, anyway. “I’m real sorry about that.”

“Don’t apologize,” you tell him, soft, and he seems to blush harder only to yelp in surprise when Donna turns the corner. He straightens up to his feet fast enough to shake the display rack of Taweret plushies in a dangerously tedious wobble, which makes Eliana giggle and in turn draws Donna's attention to the way he’s still gripping onto your daughter’s hand.

“What do you think you’re doing?” She asks him, her voice edged in exasperated annoyance, and you rise up from your crouch, eyes narrowed. Donna gestures to their clasped hands. “Let go of that child, Stevie, what’s the matter with you?”

Steven releases Eliana’s hand as if her touch burns, and she stares up at him with wide eyes, hurt twisting her bottom lip into a wavering pout. You reach out and draw her closer to your side, smoothing a hand over her dark curls as she buries her face against the hem of your coat to hide her tears.

You look at Steven, and the gutted expression that flashes across his face nearly rends you in half. Jake. You would know him by sight alone, even if he only takes control of the body’s expression just long enough for you to see his hurt before he shutters himself away again. Got you, you think, relief unraveling the pit of worry trapped beneath your ribs. The body is alive, yes, but so is Jake. He’s there, even if he masks himself behind the presence of his fellow alter.

Part of you had thought… you had worried that…

“Steven is a real scholar,” you interrupt, forcing a smile to your face, hard-lined with polite disdain for her tone. Donna pulls her glare from Steven and looks at you as if just noticing your presence for the first time. “He was just telling Eliana about the Ennead. She loves Egyptology, I’m so glad she could talk to someone who loves it just as much as she does.”

“Oh, it’s nothin’, really,” Steven scrambles to add, flushing darker, his gaze darting from you to Donna with a wariness that reminds you so much of Jake you wonder if he’s still at the surface of the body’s consciousness, prepared to strike.

“I appreciate his help,” you add over Steven’s stuttering apology to Donna. She gives him a flat, annoyed look then turns to you with a fake smile.

“Well, at least he’s good for something,” she says, pointedly staring at Steven, and the defensive curl of his shoulders makes you want to throttle her. The blaze of fury that curls up the length of your spine is not only your own; a jackal’s rumbling growl echoes in the space above you.

“He is amazing,” you blurt out. She turns to stare at you, but you only have eyes for Steven. His posture is slumped, but those dark eyes are glittering with surprise as you stare at one another, a rising tide of unsaid words swelling in the back of your throat. You want to tell Donna of the incredible knowledge he has, the kindness of his heart, and the mirrored facets of his body that she could never fully understand. She cannot understand that when she disparages Steven Grant, she is also targeting Marc Spector, Jake Lockley, and Moon Knight.

Instead, you say, finally, “I really appreciate it, Steven. We would love to hear more when we come back.”

“Of course,” Steven says immediately, then blanches at the glare Donna gives him. “Right, uh, you’re welcome back anytime, yeah? Eliana, too.”

At the sound of her name, Eliana twists her head to look shyly up at Steven, her fingers easing their death grip on your coat when you gently tug at the curl falling into her eyes. The smile she gives him shines bright enough to make him grin back. “Thanks, Steven!”

“Thanks, Steven,” you repeat, and part of you wonders what Jake sees when you lean down and haul Eliana up onto your hip, carefully maneuvering your way out of the gift shop without bumping into the few patrons staring openly at the strange display between you, Steven, and Donna. He had told you that he stays aware during the day, giving his nights to Marc unless he felt a spike of adrenaline that signaled the start of a fight for the body.

You hope he sees your message loud and clear as you make your way to the museum’s exit, glancing over your shoulder just once to find Steven watching you, his face morphing into guilt and embarrassment when he sees you catch him staring.

You offer him a fleeting smile. You hope Jake sees your silent meaning: come and find me.

***

You get lunch at a cafe across the street from the museum, and you don’t argue when Eliana begs to sit at one of the bistro tables outside despite the clouds rolling in and muddling the sky. London is a dreary change of pace from your last apartment in Tunis, though you silently admire the way Eliana watches with open amazement at the crowded sidewalk and idling cars passing you on the street, enraptured by the bustle of pedestrians and flow of afternoon traffic.

You are no stranger to the world, but you forget how novel the entire experience is for your daughter. For a five year old, she’s been to more countries than you had been to at her age, but she still chews on her sandwich with an absent-minded instinct as she watches. Like the exhibits in the museum, she is utterly taken with the foreign display of another life.

The french fries you ordered taste like ash in your mouth, but you manage to chew and swallow without feeling too nauseous. It helps when you have a spectral jackal curled up at your feet under the table, its weightless head resting on your shoes in silent support. Its head is pointedly aimed to the front doors of the museum, acting as a sentinel. You don’t expect Steven to lose control of the body any time soon, especially not to Jake. Last you heard from him, he was intent on keeping his role in the system as a secret.

There’s enough going on in their head without me, querida.

Fair enough, you think, though you give up on picking at your fries in favor of scrawling another entry in your travel journal. It was a simple way to keep track of Jake’s memories during your former glory days as traveling Avatars, but you keep the habit without him there to add his own observations or opinions.

Noon: Visited the National Art Gallery with Eliana. She took us around the Egyptian exhibits for an hour. Saw Steven in the gift shop. Saw you briefly in the front. Got lunch at the cafe across the street.

Staring down at the entry only furthers that jolt of longing in your heart, so you snap the journal closed and slip it back into your tote bag, far out of sight.

“Oh,” Eliana says, breathless, and you barely have time to look up before you see her get swept up out of her seat by a pair of hands.

Your choked gasp of shock catches the attention of a nearby table, but the older couple looks away when Jake glares back at them, hoisting Eliana up onto his shoulders. He carries the body with the same lithe grace as a panther, you think. Where Steven is huddled and wary, Jake burns as bright as the sun, his shoulders squared, every step graceful and sure.

Even his smile to you is near-predatory. Unhappy.

“Fancy to see you here, querida,” he says. Not unkindly, though you know it’s more for Eliana’s benefit. There’s an edge lining the corner of his mouth that is reserved only for you to see now that she’s stashed safely atop his shoulders.

“I saw Steven!” She tells him, burying her hands in his dark curls. She leans down to press her temple to his, only to squeal in delight when he turns to kiss the tip of her nose.

“You told him he was missing the gods on that poster, princesita?” He hitches his shoulders to make her bounce, and she curls up to steady herself in his grip, giggling riotously against the crown of his curled hair. “I think you forgot something when you left.”

“Not-uh,” she declares. “I got my jacket!”

“Hmm,” Jake muses. “What about your shoes?”

“One, two,” she shows him one foot then the other. Jake’s smile softens at the sight of the untied laces, and you know he’s thinking of the same daily rituals you are. So many mornings he has spent muttering over her sneakers, constantly re-tying the laces, failing to convince her to get velcro shoes because she likes Jake to tie them for her and he cannot resist making her smile, even in that small way.

A morning ritual the two of you have tried to remedy together since he left. You’ve shown her how to tie her own shoes many times since then, but both of you can feel the gaping emptiness that he has left since Cairo.

“¿Estas segura?” He teases, and when she lets out an offended squawk of annoyance, he releases his grip on one of her ankles and pulls out a fuzzy dark-fur plush from his pocket.

You laugh despite yourself. A plush jackal, colored just like the god tucked in at your feet.

“Anubis!” Eliana gasps. She takes the plush from Jake with reverent joy, tucking it securely into the crook of her arm as her other hand curls gently into his dark hair. The exhaustion and annoyance that lined his face earlier is long gone, and a gentle adoration softens his eyes as she leans in to whisper in his ear, “Gracias, Daddy.”

“De nada, princesita,” he whispers back. For a moment, they stay just like that, her face ducked low to lean against his, his hands clasping her ankles to steady her perch on his shoulders. She has the same sort of smile that he does, too, as if it’s a secret split open and divided just for the two of them to share.

You’re loath to interrupt their first moment of peacefulness in nearly two months, so you merely catch Jake’s gaze and hold it, silently conveying every thought rattling in your head.

Cairo. The apartment abandoned in Tunis. The journey to London through international flights, hauling around a cranky kid that missed her dad and didn’t understand why it was important to pretend she wasn’t Eliana Lockley Spector when the boarding agents checked them in. Seeing Jake’s body being piloted by a near-stranger in the gift shop, knowing he was close enough for you to touch but you had no right to ask for the privilege.

“Join us?” You ask softly. He swallows thickly, and for a beat, he lets you see the emotions filtering through his mind in his subdued expression: exhaustion, stress, panic, relief, love, love, love.

“I have an hour for lunch,” he says. He doesn’t say that it’s Steven’s lunch, though you know that based on the tension ticking in his jaw, he’s already wondering how he will cover the blank spot in Steven’s memory when he comes back to front.

You push your plate across the table, and he eyes the untouched sandwich and half-eaten fries with a knowing look.

“No mayo,” he assumes. It’s endearing, you think, watching him scrutinize the lunch date you arranged while Eliana pets his curls with gentle fingers, tangling up the sleep-mussed locks even further. If Steven looked tired and rumpled, then Jake seems exhaustively spent. There’s a firm tilt to the corner of his mouth that reminds you of the way Marc always frowns when he’s in the front, but as Eliana carefully combs through his hair with her little fingers, you can see his expression smooth out and soften.

“You should finish lunch,” he finally says. He’s looking directly at you, but he lifts Eliana up and over his head to settle her in his lap, claiming the chair he swept her up from. She wiggles to lean her head against his collar, her posture loose and sated. He pulls her plate closer to the edge of the table so she can reach, and one of her hands dart out to snatch a french fry.

“Ay, have more than just the fritas,” he admonishes, but he takes a fry off of your plate with a wink only you can see. Eliana giggles but obediently reaches for her half-gnawed sandwich next, and so Jake doesn’t complain when she curls up in his lap to nibble on it, watching the passing traffic with a bright smile that makes your heart ache.

The three of you will never have your little life in Tunis again. You know it, even if you want nothing more than to take Jake by the hand and drag the both of them back home. It eases the sting to know that Jake would go with you and he wouldn’t fight it. His willingness to settle down was never the obstacle in your relationship.

“How was the shiva?” You ask. It’s easier to switch to Spanish; you can feel the sidelong stares from the old couple at the table next to yours, still uneasy at Jake’s sudden appearance. They are likely harmless, but you don’t have enough energy to sidestep the actual topic you need to discuss by using petty code-speak.

Jake takes the offering without stumbling. “Didn’t go in. Had to nudge them through the city streets before one of them got run over.”

“The museum is just his day job, then?” You ask, nodding to the name tag still fastened to Jake’s coat. Or it was technically Steven’s coat, you supposed. The three of them have their own preferences, and you know Jake would have preferred something softer and warmer for the tepid English weather.

“Gallivanting at night,” Jake agrees. He takes another fry off of your plate and eats it slowly, chewing as if he can delay the conversation entirely. Eliana eats just as slow, you notice, and you wonder if it isn’t just Jake who feels the tension brewing between the two of you.

It isn’t fair for her, you think, and that gives you the courage to speak first.

“I’ve been talking to my sister,” you start, and the next sentence dies in your throat when you see Jake stiffen, panic flashing through his eyes before his gaze settles in wary distrust. The slope of his shoulders tense into a straight, drawn-back posture. A soldier’s stance.

“You,” Marc says flatly. Eliana straightens up at the sound of his voice, looking at you with wide eyes, and you can only offer her a smile in what you hope conveys comfort. Either that, or you just might expose some of the frustration welling up in your chest.

“Just having lunch,” you tell Marc. His brows draw together, unsure, and you quickly jump back into English. “We invited Steven to lunch.”

Wrong thing to say. The tension stiffens into protectiveness, his dark eyes slowly taking in the plates on the table, the half-eaten vegetarian sandwich pushed between you and him. Then his attention trails down to Eliana, and his expression smooths out when he realizes that she’s watching him with rapt attention.

“Hi, Eliana,” Marc says, soft. When he looks at you, that wariness turns the softness of his black eyes back to stone. “Steven isn’t involved in any of this, Lockley.”

You nod. The sound of his voice sends that shiver down your back. God, you missed this so much. Jake may be the alter you married, but Marc is still the reason you have him and Eliana. He was your partner in a way Jake didn’t quite equate to.

“I know.” You offer your best apologetic look, but he doesn’t seem swayed until you nod to Eliana. “We came to the city for my sister. I got a lead and I needed the babysitter.”

“Lockley,” he warns. He glances around the cafe, and you follow his gaze. The old couple that sat next to you have gone while you were distracted, and you supposed it was good they left before they noticed Jake switch into a brooding American from Chicago that looked like he was holding a pipe bomb rather than your daughter in his lap. The faces around you are different but unassuming, and none seem interested in your suddenly tense conversation. It’s only the three of you, and the jackal curled languidly at your feet, unbothered by the display.

Good. That must mean Khonshu isn’t here yet. When Marc looks back to you, you smile at him.

“I know,” you say, soft enough to sound less like a defense mechanism and more like an olive branch. It doesn’t loosen the slope of his shoulders, though there’s less wrinkles across his brow. “I just needed time before meeting with Sophia. Eliana wanted to see the exhibits.”

“I saw a mummy,” Eliana adds, patting Marc’s shoulder to get his attention. The anger clears from his face when he tilts his head down to offer his full attention. His eyes linger on the plush jackal clutched in the crook of her arm, but he merely offers her a kind, gentle smile.

“Oh, yeah?” He says. He pokes her side, supporting her weight when she jolts away at the ticklish touch with a giggle, then pokes at the plush on her other side. “You picked up a souvenir, too?”

“Anubis,” Eliana affirms. She pulls it out to offer it to Marc, and his hand is gentle as he pets the top of its furry head, his smile tugging ruefully at the corners of his mouth. You take a brief, gracious moment to silently thank Jake for his thoughtfulness. Not only did Eliana have a souvenir, but it was a good cover story for when this exact scenario happened: they saw Steven at the gift shop counter during checkout, and they got lunch together.

From what you knew of Steven, you gathered that he was an earnest, kind-hearted, and well-mannered man. He wouldn’t refuse an offer for lunch, and he was just as likely to strike up a friendship with Eliana through a few conversations about their shared love for Egyptology.

Like you choosing the vegan-friendly restaurant, Jake chose a prop for a lunch date. For all of the complaints he had about Marc’s love for strategy, he could be a formidable opponent in the game of chess you all played with the system. Hiding Steven from the world of Avatars, hiding Jake from Marc and Steven, hiding who you and Eliana truly are from Marc.

It was all a delicate circus act of balance and lies, and you wondered just how far you could let it go before it all came crashing down. Marc would be gutted if he knew the girl cradled in his lap was his daughter just as much as she was Jake’s and Steven’s. He would be furious if he knew his marriage to Layla was null and void just because he was married to you, instead, long before he started to even date her.

Yeah, some chess game you all played. Some days you wondered if it would be easier simply to set the board on fire and let it all go.

“I’m sorry,” you say suddenly.

Marc and Eliana both look to you, an eerie mirror to the life you pose for. She has his striking dark eyes and soft curls, and thanks to you, she has his name, too. One of the contacts you worked with beyond the scope of Marc and Layla’s influences forged her birth certificate and passport, sympathetic when you explained to her that Eliana was a surprise and her father had no interest in being involved. She needed identification papers, and you couldn’t go to the local embassy to register her birth with her father, and so you made them up.

You couldn’t blame Jake for lying about his role in the system. You were just as complicit in the deceit of your daughter’s life. By extension, for better and for worse, that meant Marc’s life, too.

“For showing up so suddenly,” you explain. “I didn’t expect to get so caught up in a museum today. We just had to kill some time.”

In emphasis, you check your watch, and you don’t have to fake the tired sigh that overcomes you at the acknowledgment of the time. Steven’s lunch was about over, and you had to catch the next bus to your sister’s house before she started to worry about you.

Marc, ever attentive, takes the hint.

“I understand,” he says, though he doesn’t sound happy. “Just… leave him out of this. We can talk about the scarab later.”

“Didn’t tell you that was my lead,” you point out, a little sly, and he levels you with an unamused look. You relent, “I’ll share my sources and we can make a plan. You don’t have to rush in alone.”

The smile he gives you is bitter. “Am I ever alone, Lockley?”

With that, you watch as his posture softens, Marc stepping back from control. For a moment, you wonder if he intends to have Steven step in, in which case explaining the lunch arrangement again will get much more confusing. But no, you can see Jake’s mouth twitch with a muted frown before he gives you a wide, uncharacteristically bright smile.

“Right, look at the time,” Jake says, and you can’t help but smile at the British accent. “I best get a move on, right, love?”

He presses a kiss to the top of Eliana’s head, and only you can see the way he closes his eyes for a heartbeat, a wave of longing sweeping across his face before it settles back to an imitation of Steven’s soft look and he leans back. When he looks at you, his face betrays nothing of his true nature, and you wonder what he would say if Marc wasn’t hovering so close to the front, watching your interaction.

He would probably be pissed. He didn’t like to be left out of the loop, and you coming to London was so far out of left field that you came from another stadium. Bringing Eliana only complicated things, but were you supposed to leave her with your neighbors in Tunis? As much as you liked and trusted the al-Karims that lived next door, they were vastly unprepared to take care of Eliana if you never came back. Next of kin was the best opportunity you had, at least for now.

“It was nice to see you,” you say to your husband. You hold his eyes for a long moment, a silent conversation held delicately between the two of you. Years of working side-by-side as Avatars and the aspect of parenthood where being aware of what Eliana shouldn’t have to hear finely tuned your silent communication skills, and you are more than fluent in the language of Jake Lockley.

He is beyond pissed. He is utterly fucking terrified. He wants you to leave just as much as he wants to pull you in and keep you close. He wants to settle in and rest, even for just a little while, and he does not want to let the two of you out of his sight.

I will be back for you, you tell him silently. We are not doing anything alone. We are going to fix this and go back to normal.

Jake says, with the slightest furrow of his brow: I want you to be right, querida.

Yeah, you want to be right, too. It’s a work in progress.

“You ready to go, habibti?” You say to Eliana, gathering up your tote bag and her small pink backpack. Before leaving Tunis, you packed it with her clothes, along with some of her favorite books and a few toys. How strange your life was that you had a go-bag for your five year old. It had been even worse that she recognized her backpack and had gotten ready for your flight before you even explained the trip to see your sister.

She heaves a world-weary sigh and shuffles around to face Jake, lifting up her Anubis plush to kiss his cheek with a soft peck of its nose.

“Anubis likes you,” she tells him, solemn. The jackal at your feet, nothing more than a shimmering mass of sand and shadows, gives Jake a bared-teeth grin of acknowledgement that no one but you can see. She isn’t far off, though you would rather not have Khonshu overhear that his Avatar has a soft spot in a rival god’s heart.

Marc must still be close to the waking consciousness of the body, because Jake nods enthusiastically and generously pats the plush’s head.

“Right, thanks, mate.”

You bite the inside of your cheek to muffle a laugh. His impression is openly expressive and earnest, though not entirely overdramatic. The accent is a dead ringer for Steven’s stereotypical posh English. It makes sense; he has spent many years posing as flashes of Steven to keep Marc unsuspecting of certain blank spots in his memory. Typically, it’s softer errands, such as grocery shopping or doing laundry, but you have heard Jake’s impression of Steven and Marc enough to know when it’s him putting on an act, even if it happens to be a very accurate act.

Jake keeps up his front as Steven, and you wonder if you’re the only one that notices the way he reluctantly passes off Eliana to you, his hands lingering just a moment on her untied shoes before they drop back in his lap, empty.

Eliana nuzzles her face in the crook of your shoulder, her arms wrapping around your neck in loose comfort. She’s exhausted after your morning of travel to London by bus, followed immediately by your museum visit and the impromptu lunch date. When you reach your sister’s house, you know she’ll be grumpy until you can convince her to nap.

Then, you will have to leave her there, and meet up with Marc.

“Thank you,” you say to Jake, though it’s half meant for Marc, too. The two of you can manage to find the scarab and keep it out of the cult’s hands, surely. The quicker you locate the artifact, the quicker you can arrange a real routine for Eliana while you adjust to London life. Or maybe you’ll get lucky and you can go back to Tunis, the three of you, to go back to enjoying the sunshine and frequenting the food stalls in the Medina.

You give him a suspicious look. “It’s presumptuous of you to speak of our mutual friend. If I’d been destined to marry a woman, and had given her up for my own noble pursuits, I’m not sure I’d be so quick to mention it.”

Victor looks distressed. It highlights the changes in his face. His skin is a bit tan from wandering the forests and paddling on the lake. His dark eyes always sparked with curiosity, but there’s a depth to them now. Manhood looks very good on him.

“I apologize,” he says. “I thought Elizabeth was very happy to be the wife of another, to live nearby and be a friend to me, and to all.”

Your heart pangs with regret. You’d always been one to speak too quickly. “Elizabeth is very happy in her marriage. I’m the one who should apologize. You were never formally engaged. We all just thought…”

You’d held a grudge on behalf of Elizabeth. It was your right, as her friend. Still, Victor wasn’t wrong. She’s much better off now, married to a well-to-do man who treated her like the sun and stars.

Victor nods. It highlights the shiny, black curls on his head. “If it had been destiny, as you first said, then Elizabeth and I would be man and wife now. Yet, I’ve just been to breakfast at her estate. She’s very much at home there. Close enough to see my brothers and father every day. Her husband dotes on her. Everything she deserves.”

There’s a hint of wistfulness in Victor’s voice, but it does look like he means every word he says.

Elizabeth and Victor were cousins of a sort, both raised with Victor’s parents at their large house here in Geneva. It had been Victor’s late mother’s wish the two marry, but the years went on and Victor went away to school and then traveled. And traveled.

Elizabeth was sure his heart belonged to his studies alone.

One spring, the estate down the road, empty when you were young, received a new generation. A young man who had instantly fallen in love with Elizabeth. Most men did. There wasn’t a kinder, gentler heart in all of the civilized world.

Mr. Frankenstein had written to Victor, who you’d heard had been nothing but supportive of Elizabeth’s match. She’d been married a few months ago.

“Elizabeth said you’re not yet married,” Victor says as he falls in step next to you.

You pause. “You don’t need to walk with me, I was just heading home.”

Victor glances around. “You never know what lurks in the woods. And anyway, I was walking from your house. I was looking for you.”

A moment of tension blooms between you. His eyes are deep and dark. Thick, black brows frame the top and impossibly long lashes fringe out. That a man should have beautiful eyes like this is quite unnecessary.

“Looking for me? Whatever for?” you ask.

“As I said, Elizabeth said you’re not yet married,” Victor says.

“Yes, but that’s nothing to do with you.”

A laugh barks out of Victor’s lips and you realize what he meant.

Victor Frankenstein? Who spent all his time in those dusty old books, and the rest strictly devoted to his family and best friend? Who’d become the darling of his university? Then spent all the years afterward gallivanting about the world? Interested in you?

You resume your walk, unsure what to say.

“Ah, the way is a bit wet from the rain up here. Please, take my arm,” he says, holding his arm out.

Reluctantly, you do. It’s a tiny puddle, barely even on the path. Victor guides you around it, keeping your arm tucked around his afterward.

“How long are you staying this time?” you ask him.

He shrugs gracefully. “As long as you can stand to have me underfoot,” he grins.

“Ah, well, you’d better run home and pack, then. You can still catch the evening train into France,” you joke.

The fading light warms the green forest, throwing light and shadow over you and Victor. It’s cooling rapidly, but this close to him, you stay warm.

“This is unforgivably rude,” Victor says, his steps slowing as if to prolong the walk, “but why has some lucky gentleman not laid claim to you yet?”

You concentrate on keeping your eyes straight ahead. “Your question is no ruder than walking alone with me like this.”

“And will you answer?”

I slight sigh escapes you. “Most men are tiresome. Sometimes, it seems a lofty goal to want a man who can make a decent, intelligent conversation. I’m sorry my words are unfocused. I should have a good answer. My family asks often enough. They think I’m waiting for a truly great man, and that it’s arrogant of me to do so.”

“You require more than average, and I mean that as a compliment,” Victor says. “It’s something we have in common. Though, I wouldn’t describe myself as good company.”

You turn your head slightly to him. His profile is thoughtful.

“How would you describe yourself?” you ask.

His eyebrows raise in a funny expression. “Where would I begin to catalog my shortcomings? I’d like to tell you my virtues, but I’m no liar. Let me put it this way, if I were a wine, people would take a sip, call it too complex, too abnormal, and set the rest of the glass aside.”

“Cabernet Frankenstein. Notes of oak, sideburns, and selfish decisions,” you muse.

“Exactly so,” Victor smiles, looking self-conscious.

A fallen branch across the path stops you. You bend to pick it up, but Victor beats you to it, tossing it aside with a wince.

“Are you alright?” you ask, a hand on his arm.

“A bit of a back ache. It’s why my vest is laced like a corset.”

“Not vanity then?” A smile touches your lips.

“Believe it or not, no.” He takes your hand in his. “My study has brought with it some manual labors. Sometimes I think my body is telling me not to pursue them. It’s why I came home, actually.”

“Your father said you’ve taken over the attic for a laboratory.”

Victor’s smile fades. “Yes, though not all of my equipment has arrived from Ingolstadt yet.”

“Once it does, do you mean to shut yourself away? Will we see very little of you?”

He studies your hand, tracing his fingers over the veins on the back, rubbing the skin as if relishing the warmth and elasticity.

“You will see me, if you wish,” Victor says. “You would be a welcome diversion.”

You see the tip of his tongue wet his lips and you think, hope, that he’ll kiss your hand. Instead, he wraps it back around his arm and resumes walking.

“If I may speak to you in strictest confidence?” Victor asks, his eyes almost pleading with you.

The woods are silent and still, a breeze rustling through the trees. It blows your skirts and quiets the birdsong.

Victor takes both of your hands. “I love Elizabeth as you do, as a dear heart and a faithful friend. If I had come home earlier, we would’ve been compelled to marry. I didn’t want that. I confess, I’ve avoided it for years. I’d always had my pitiful heart set on someone else. Now, Elizabeth is settled down in the arms of a true love. Freeing mine, I hope, to embrace another woman. But, if I were her, I wouldn’t have me.”

“Why not?” you ask, taking a step closer to him, too close to be appropriate, but he has such a strange look.

His hand suddenly comes up, cradling your face. “You don’t know what I’ve done. Or, what I’m close to doing, rather. You’re, perhaps, the only person who could understand, though. Your mind is as capable as mine, but your heart is still good.”

“Victor,” your hand raises to cover his, “what have you done?”

His gaze skitters away from yours. “If man is created in God’s image, then I’ve taken it to an unforgivable extreme. Allow me to call on you at your home, and your mother can sit with us to keep appearances. But, if you take a walk in the evening, do so alone, and we can speak freely. I’ll tell you all.”

*****

You think Victor is insane at first.

Brilliant.

Evil.

The greatest talent in humanity’s history.

He’s as selfish as you’d always thought, so consumed with succeeding that he’d stopped considering whether this should be done at all.

And you love him.

During nightly walks for a week, he’s showed you his journals. Recounted to you the ghastly project that’s become his life’s work.

Creating life from whatever pieces he can scavenge from death’s hands.

“Why must men always think themselves equal to God?” you ask Victor tightly when he’s finished his story.

“I don’t,” Victor retorts.

“You do. You must give this up.”

Victor stalks a few steps ahead of you, then turns around and stalks back. “You know I can’t. With your daily company, though, I believe good can still come of this.“

You cut him off with a sharp laugh. “Never. Stealing dead bodies? Sewing parts together like pieces of a dress pattern? And why did you have to begin with a person? Why not a lower creature? You’re so arrogant, it’s outrageous.”

“And you’re beautiful when you’re angry. You take my breath away.” Victor takes your hands and presses your knuckles to his lips.

“Oh stop,” you scold him, but don’t pull back.

He kisses each of your knuckles in turn, murmuring over them. “Let me speak with your father.”

You can’t help the smile that cracks your face. “I said, stop,” you say unconvincingly.

“You don’t want me to. You wouldn’t have met me all of these evenings, unchaperoned and vulnerable, if you had no feelings for me,” Victor says.

“I have feelings for you, but you’ll be hard pressed to convince me to marry a man who’s primary interest isn’t my body, but rather, creating one of his own in a laboratory, in the attic of his family’s home.”

Victor chuckles. “Perhaps if I had access to your body, I’d be less inclined to make one myself.”

“You’re mad,” you tease him.

“Madly in love with you, yes.”

Quiet for a few seconds, both of you lost in thought, Victor finally wraps his hands around your waist and pulls you close.

A gentleman wouldn’t dare. You weren’t even engaged. After all he’d told you though, Victor no longer concerns himself with gentlemanly behaviors.

He leans in to kiss you and you meet him halfway. He’s very good at it. You can feel his want as he gently sucks your bottom lip. The slight brush of his tongue isn’t fooling you. He does it on purpose.

Now, in the waning light, he’s no longer clean-shaven and his scruff feels seductive and rough against your skin.

“Victor,” you say, trying to stop him from kissing you further, but not actually wanting him to stop. “Victor, I’ll only marry you if you promise me one thing.”

His forehead rests on yours, his breath hot on your lips. “What is it?”

“No, you must agree first, then I’ll tell you.”

He stands straighter. “An unusual bargain.”

“Am I not worth it?” You raise an eyebrow.

“Of course,” he says quickly. “You’re an intelligent, rational woman. I know you won’t ask for anything impossible.”

“You’re in the business of impossible, aren’t you?” You counter, knowing he’s trying to get out of it already.

He nods reluctantly. “Ask whatever you wish, my dear. I agree.”

Your lips part to speak, but you can’t bring yourself to make rational demands. Stop trying to make life from death. Stop this madness. Leave the dead to their peace.

“Never keep a secret from me,” you say instead. “Whatever you must do, you’ll tell me. I can’t promise to help, or to wish you success, but I won’t be kept in the dark.”

To his credit, Victor thinks it over. “Since I’ve already agreed, I’ll say only this,” he squeezes your waist, “there will be nights when even a long, hot bath won’t wash the smell of death from my skin. The dirt under my nails will be from graveyards. My muscles will ache from carrying dead weight to the attic. But I will love you. With everything I am.”

“I love you too,” you trace your fingers down his thick sideburns, over his jaw. “I’m not marrying you to be your moral compass. You know what you’re doing is wrong. Just as I know that I can’t stop you.”

“But you will marry me regardless?” Victor asks hopefully.

You nod and Victor wraps his arms around you, lifting you onto your toes. He laughs with his entire body, kissing your face.

It had always been your dream to marry a genius. Perhaps you should’ve been more careful what you wished for.

*****

Victor agrees to hold off on his grisly work until after the wedding.

Partly because he can’t really continue until his equipment arrives, partly because he’s setting up a small home on his family’s property for you both to live.

He’s made no mention of his scientific endeavors moving from the larger, family home into your new one. He says his work will be safe enough from his father and two younger brothers. What Victor plans is now a secret between only the two of you.

The wedding itself is beautiful, everything you’d ever hoped.

Victor is the handsomest man you’ve ever seen.

As he escorts you into your new home for the first time, your smile catches, freezes, as you look down at his hand, a smudge of dirt under his nailbed.

“Victor, you promised,” you say softly.

He rubs the dirt away. “I’ve kept it. Only, I’ve still been digging around. It’s not what you think. Come, look.”

Victor pulls you through the house and out the back door, to a sunny little garden. The last time you’d seen it, the flower gardens had been bare. The sizeable shed that was meant to hold gardening things was empty.

Now, it looks… well… the flowers are haphazard to put it kindly. They’re planted in chaos, but that they’re planted at all warms your heart.

You laugh, looking at a group of very droopy violets near a small metal table perfect for two.

“I stole the plants from your mother’s garden. Thought you might like them,” Victor scratches his hand through his curly hair. “Honestly, making life out of body parts is easier than this. I can’t figure out why they all look so sad.”

“Well, they need water and care, Victor. Extra attention.”

“Extra attention,” he scoffs. “Mother nature will take care of them, I’m sure.”

“You’re right,” you say sarcastically. “We wouldn’t want to make mother nature cross by meddling in her business, right?”

Victor’s lips twitch. “I’ll have the servant water them tomorrow.”

“No, the garden will be mine to care for. I don’t want anyone to intrude on our new life yet,” you pull on his slim waist, drawing him closer for a kiss.

He makes a low sound in his throat as he does, his tongue pushing its way past your lips. His hands grab into your bottom. He grinds lightly against you.

“Let’s go upstairs. I’ve pictured you naked every night for weeks now. I’ve rubbed myself raw thinking of your mouth and tits, not to mention between your thighs.”

“Victor,” you scold him.

“We’re married now, I can speak about my wife as I wish,” he says proudly. “And what I’d like is to lick at you until you scream for me.”

You laugh, the sound fills the garden and soon, Victor is laughing with you.

It’s idyllic. Like nothing is wrong, or could ever be wrong. Probably a perfect first day of marriage.

Then, Victor settles his beautiful curly head between your legs and you’re absolutely sure it’s perfect.

Your hips are lifted on a pillow, presented to him like a gift. He buries his hot mouth on you. He makes you so wet and then licks it up like its the most sought-after delicacy in the world. No part of you down there goes untasted by him.

Victor hadn’t even taken the time to undress. He only half unbuttoned his shirt before he’d gotten too impatient and gave up.

He hums in appreciation, groans in ecstasy, thrusting against the mattress as he feasts on you. You can do nothing but arch and moan, fistfuls of sheets in your hands until you’re a shaking, weak mess for him.

Only then does he fully take off his clothes and sheathe himself inside of you. It’s uncomfortable at first, but Victor takes care with you.

In a split second of clarity, as he pushes in and out, his fingers working your sensitive clit with surgical precision, his eyes almost frenzied as he watches you come, you think of what his hands have done.

To love this man is to love his work. It might be mad. It’s definitely wrong.

You’d always known Victor’s heart was a labyrinth of secrets. But he’d always loved you. God help you, you’d always loved him too.

He kisses you deeply, his hips pressing desperately against yours, like he wants to seat himself into your body forever. Your back arching, voice moaning his name, Victor shudders on top of you, spilling his seed. His lips tremble and his hands, those clever hands, hold onto you so tightly you’re sure his fingerprints are etched into your skin.

You feel him dripping out of you before he even softens. He stays stuffed inside of you and you never want him to leave. He lies on you heavily, but peppers your face with soft kisses.

“I love you so very much.” Victor’s voice is full of emotion. He props himself up on his forearms so as not to crush you. He smiles, his eyes clearer now that the haze of lust has cleared. “You look quite alluring like this, Mrs. Frankenstein.”

“Do I? Because I feel a mess,” you laugh.

“But it was good, yes?” he asks, almost hopefully. “It didn’t hurt too much? I wasn’t too rough?”

“Oh Victor, it was perfect.” You pull on his sideburns, bringing his face down to kiss him.

“I’ll be loathe to keep my hands off of you,” he says earnestly. “If you would allow me, though, I was planning to get up early tomorrow. Back to business. ”

Victor rolls off of you carefully, his eyes avoiding yours. He stares emptily at the ceiling, lost in thought. You feel a pang in your heart.

“About that,” you say carefully.

A quiet sigh escapes him. “I won’t hide anything, like you asked, but you don’t have to worry. I’ll spare you every detail. I know you don’t approve and it wounds me that I have to put you through this at all.”

You sit up, looking down at his worried face. “Now that we’re married, I think of your work differently.”

Victor looks stricken. Almost sick. Like you’re going to make him choose between you and his experiments.

“No, my love, please listen,” you reassure him. “Your equipment arrived, but it’s still in boxes. Tomorrow, we should move the laboratory into the gardening shed here at the house.”

“So close?” Victor says reluctantly.

“I’d like to help you,” you say.

Victor’s eyes narrow. “I could never ask you to do that. You’re too pure to be so near death.”

“But your work isn’t about death, is it? It’s about life. Creating life. Which, as far as I know, is primarily what a husband and wife should do together.” You touch your pointer finger to his nose.

“You’re too clever,” Victor says with a soft smirk. “You know I respect your brilliance as much as my own. It isn’t that I think you’re not capable.”

“Then let me help you,” you insist.

His hand traces your face and neck, your shoulder, down your breast. He licks his lips. His hooded eyes take you in, considering. His long lashes blink.

“I do not deserve you,” he says.

“Perhaps not, but humility has never been your strongest quality. You’re a genius. It’s part of why I love you.”

“Ah, and here I thought you loved me because of my nimble tongue,” Victor raises an eyebrow.

Your cheeks warm. Not just from the memory of his mouth on you, something you hadn’t even known men did at all. But also from the anticipation that there would be many such times as this. Tired from loving each other, speaking as equals. An idyllic life, even with the shadow of his work looming overhead.

“Very well,” Victor says finally. “I promised to share myself with you in every way, and I shall.”

Your heartbeat quickens. A trickle of fear settles over you.

Not fear of the work itself.

No, the fear that maybe, this is why you and Victor are so well matched. Both of you mad, in the same way.

It’s too late now to go back. There’s a new light in Victor’s eyes.

“I know today is the first day of our marriage and therefore, the start of our new life together,” Victor says. “But tomorrow is also a beginning. Tomorrow, we’ll start something no one’s ever done. Our days and night spent always together. We’ll think as we wish, do as we wish, love as we wish.”

You feel Victor’s excitement in how his body hardens again. He pulls you on top of him, guiding you. From this angle, you can almost take your pleasure at will from him. Victor lets your hips glide over his. His hands are everywhere on your body.

This time, you don’t think of awful things his hands have touched. You think only about the skill he has with your body, and with any body he works with. That if he’s this good at touching you, getting your body to shake and orgasm, then you can’t wait to see him in his laboratory.

Victor pulls you down to kiss him as you ride his cock faster. You clench around him, driving both of you toward ecstasy as his hands cup your ass, encouraging you.

It was meant to be this way, you’re sure.

You and Victor, making something new together. Something impossible and unique. No consequences. No doubts. Nothing to hide between you.

Creating life, as a newlywed couple should, though not in the traditional way. Passion and intellect are why you and Victor are perfect for each other. It isn’t madness. It’s love.

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Din’s heart skips a beat at the sight of you. He has tried to fight the feelings he has developed for you, convinced himself that his feelings aren’t truly as deep cutting as they feel. Tried to be content with the time you would spend with him and Grogu before you eventually would move on and he’d be left with the memories and the fantasies of how it would have been if you had really been his. The sight of you and Grogu is almost too much for him, and it makes it very hard for him to not just give up everything and tell you how you make him feel. Your features are highlighted by the silvery moon light that is shining down from the night sky.

You are beautiful.

Din had thought so from the moment he first saw you. But now, after you have travelled with him and Grogu for almost a year and he has gotten to know you, really know you, ‘beautiful’ simply doesn’t cut it anymore. The word in basic is feeling too banal, too trivial, to describe the true beauty of your being. You are the most beautiful person Din has ever known and he is confirmed in this by you every day. 

The way you smile up at him when you walk side by side in a crowded market when you’re on supply runs, always insisting on finding a treat or a new toy for Grogu. The way you always greet Din so happily when he comes back from a hunt, like you truly are happy to see him again, like you have actually missed him… How you will always make sure he is okay and hasn’t been hurt, and how you will insist on helping patch him up on the occasions he is. The feeling of your soft hands delicately placing a bacta patch on his bare shoulder a few weeks ago is still burnt into his skin… The way you take such good care of his son, you look at Grogu like he is the one who hung every moon and every star in the galaxy. The kindness and beauty of your soul is truly bewitching. Maybe that is why he started calling you mesh’la. 

The first time it had just slipped out. It was a couple of months ago. He had come back from a hunt late at night, tired and muddy. For a short moment, Din had felt like all the air had been knocked out of his lungs by the sight he had found. There you were, so lovely, so beautiful, fast asleep on his bunk with a sleeping Grogu curled up beside you, his little green fist closed around one of your fingers.  

Din’s heart had yearned by the sight. The feelings you and Grogu are bringing to him are new territory for Din. He has never wanted anything like this before, or at least never let himself admit that he does. But you and Grogu make it impossible for Din to keep lying to himself. The kid is under his care, under his protection, and from the moment he chose the armour instead of the sabre and came back to Din, his ad'ika. Din and Grogu are a clan. A clan of two. A clan that Din  wishes was a clan of three. 

He had been quiet when he started  to walk off to the cockpit, something he usually was good at, but you had stirred awake anyway, like your sleeping subconscious had felt his presence. You lifted your head from the pillow, sleepily blinked until your eyes had found him.

“You’re back.” You had said, your voice had been a little hoarse from sleep, but still as sweet as usual, a tired smile had painted your face as your eyes had found the dark T of his visor. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.” He had said, but you had just shaked your head and hugged Grogu close against you. Oh, how Din had wished he could have crawled into the bunk and joined the two of you.   

“Are you okay?” You had asked, just like you always do after he comes back from a hunt. 

“Yes, I’m okay.” He had reassured you before continuing. “Go back to sleep, mesh’la.”

He has never told you what it means and a part of him feels guilty about that. Maybe you wouldn’t like to be called that by him. You are technically his employee, even though the lines between you feel pretty blurry by now. An undefinable bond has been built between you, Grogu and Din. Maybe it is the small proximity there is forced upon the three of you, due to the size of the Razor Crest. Or maybe it is due to the undeniable connection there has been between you and Grogu from the beginning, but your presence on the Crest feels too domestic, too loving, for you to simply be Grogu’s nanny. 

Din has felt feelings this past year that he has not been acquainted with before. Desire, jealousy, a desperate yearning, all fairly foreign to him until you had entered his life. It is an emotional disruption he hasn’t felt since Grogu had come into his life.

When Grogu had come crashing into his life it had been an upheaval beyond anything Din could ever have imagined. He was so used to not having anyone around, let alone a small child that was so dependent on him. It had been confusing and foreign, but Grogu had climbed into his heart and carved out a space there. A space that Din never wants to become empty again. 

Din had never been aware of how lonely he actually had been before Grogu. It had been a hard realisation, but he couldn’t deny it any longer, especially when he thought that he had lost him. Forget hunting bounties and fighting ferocious creatures, handing his foundling over to the Jedi was the hardest thing Din has ever had to do. Din had ended up caring more for Grogu than he had ever thought possible, he had removed his helmet for his foundling, the little green child had given din a whole new purpose in life.    

And now Din is a changed man. Grogu has changed him, down to the very atoms of his DNA. Din had never thought he would have what he now has. He had been settled with the way his life had been- lonesome and brutal, in order to support his covert and give back to the Mandalorians that had taken him in, or he had at least used to think so…   

But seeing you now, there is really no way of running from his feelings any longer. You are gently bouncing Grogu on your hip as you point out a constellation for him, but the youngling seems to be more interested in playing with the hem of your tunic than looking at the stars over your heads. The silver light from the planet’s moons illuminates you and bathes you in the shine. 

Din had landed the Crest on the little planet not even twenty minutes ago and even though it was past Grogu’s bedtime you had insisted on letting him have a couple of minutes in the fresh air before putting him down for the night. Din had not objected, the three of you had been in space for almost a week straight so a little moonlit night stroll before bed had sounded tempting.   

A light breeze sweeps over you and Grogu lets go of your tunic to instead nuzzle himself close against your chest as  he lets out a cute little yawn. You let out a low chuckle before looking up at Din and his heart skips a beat for the second time this night. The stars are reflecting in your eyes and you have a sleepy smile on your lips.

“I think it is time to get our little one here back to his bed.” You chuckle while you hitch Grogu up a little higher on your hip.  

‘Our little one…’ 

Our!

 Dear Maker how Din wished that you had meant it in the way he secretly yearns for. 

“Yeah, let’s head back to the ship, mesh’la.”      

—

Grogu is sleepily blinking his big eyes up at you as he slowly snoozes off in your arms. You let out a content sigh as you plant a kiss on top of his little green head before carefully placing him down into his little hammock. The sound of his small soft snores echoes through the little sleeping chamber. You are never gonna get tired of this. You smile down at the little sleeping figure as you back away, turning the switch for the door to give the youngling peace to sleep. 

You look around the hull for Din, but you don’t find him so you climb up the ladder to the cockpit where you find him sitting in the pilot chair. He looks like he is lost deep in his thoughts, looking out through the window at the night dark meadow where he had docked the ship. 

“Hey.” You say as you approach him, sitting yourself down in the passenger seat next to him. 

“Hi.” He says without looking at you. 

A silence falls over the cockpit, not necessarily an uncomfortable one, but it does feel loaded with something you can’t really put your finger on. Din had been silent for the entire walk back to the Crest and you wonder if something is bothering him. Maybe he is just tired. You had told him to take the bunk tonight when you made it back to the ship, but he had refused. You were supposed to be taking turns sleeping in the bunk under Grogu’s hammock, but it has been weeks since Din has slept in it and wasn't like he did it often before that. You feel bad about it, his back must be killing him after all these nights on the hard mat on the floor.  

“Din is-” You lean forward in the passenger chair, leaning slightly towards him to try and catch his attention. “Is something wrong?”    

He finally looks away from the window and turns his helmet towards you, and despite only being met by the dark visor of his helmet you just know that his eyes under it are locking with yours. The thought of that always sends a little shiver through you. You know that you shouldn't think about it. Maybe it is wrong, an insult to his creed, but you can’t help but fantasise about the man he must be underneath all the beskar. He is handsome, that is for sure. It doesn’t even matter in what way, it is deeper than that. He is a handsome person no matter what he actually looks like under the helmet and armour. You have seen some of him in glimpse. A bare hand as he removes a glove to get a better grip on as he fixes a clasp on a crate, or the time he had gotten hit in the spot between two pieces of armour and you had helped him getting it bandaged. His face is still a mystery to you. It is a little weird not to know what he looks like, especially considering that you have fallen in love with him. 

You had not meant to fall in love with the Mandalorian. You had tried to fight it, but it was a fight you had no chance of winning. You know that you are being silly, but you sometimes get the idea that he might feel something for you too. It also doesn’t help that you have ended up loving Grogu as much as you do. You don’t think you could love him more if he had been your own. It is kind of scary, the thought of the day din decides he doesn’t need you anymore. That your feelings for Din never will be reciprocated hurts, but you will be able to get over it with time, but the day you will have to get separated from Grogu… Oh, that day is going to kill you. 

“No, mesh’la nothings wrong.” Din shakes his head, he isn’t looking at you anymore, back to looking out at the night. “I was just lost in my own thoughts.” 

“Oh, okay...”

You sit in silence for a little while, you don’t know if you should go and let him be alone with his thoughts or if you should break the silence. You are just about to open your mouth to say something, what you don’t even know, but the silence feels too much. Din beats you to it though. 

“The kid, he uhm…” His voice is much softer than usual, almost close to a whisper. “He really likes you.”

“Well, I really like him too.” You say, you can’t help the soft smile spreading on your lips. 

“I’m glad  you do, mesh’la…” 

“You know… You keep calling me that, but you have never told me what it means.”

“I guess I haven’t…” His voice is low and a little shaky through the modulator.

You don’t know what it is with him tonight, but something feels different.  

You take a deep breath, trying to steady your fluttering heart. “Are you gonna tell me?” 

He freezes in the chair, sitting more still than usual, if that is even possible. He is almost reminiscent of a statue. The silence builds, and you begin to regret that you asked. The air between you feels charged, but you can’t figure out with what. It feels like whatever his answer is gonna be it is gonna fundamentally change something between you. You are starting to think that he is going to ignore your question when he finally breaks the silence.

“Beautiful.” His voice sounds a little weak, almost like he regrets telling you, but he continues in a more confident tone. “It means beautiful.”  

Beautiful… He’s been calling you beautiful all this time? The word always falling so naturally from his lips, soft and earnestly.

The rapid beats of your heart against the restraints of your ribcage thumbs loudly in your ears. You can’t believe what he just said. He is finally looking back at you again, but any signs of what he is feeling are hidden behind the dark reflection of the visor.  

“You call me beautiful?”  

“Yeah, I do… Trust me, if anything or anyone has ever deserved to be called that, it is you.”  

You can not believe that this is really happening, is there really a chance that he might feel the same as you?

“I don’t know what to say.” You say, the hope that has bloomed in your chest is scaring you.    

“You don’t have to say anything. I actually would prefer it if you don’t… I’m sorry if I have made you uncomfortable.” He stands up from the chair, turning his back to you.  

“Din please don’t go…” You grab his wrist before he can get to the ladder and disappear down the hull. “Din, I need you to tell me how you feel, please… I need to know.” 

“Dank farrik.” He curses under his breath and turns around to face you again. “I don’t know how to do this…” He shuffles anxiously from one foot to another. 

It is always so surprising to see Din like this, the usual confident and stoic bounty hunter all anxious and nervous, but you have seen it a few times before. He might be a tough and hardy bounty hunter, but put the man in a social setting and he can get nervous. But this is a whole new level. 

“Grogu he…” He pauses, the sound of his breath sounds shaky through the  modulator of his helmet. “He means the world to me. I love him, he… he is mine. I never thought that I would have that, my life was never set on that path, I didn’t think I was ever meant to be anyone’s buir, but… now I can’t imagine my life without him in it. It was hard for me to accept that I wanted someone around, but I couldn’t deny it any longer.” 

His words come out with so much emotion, you have never heard him like this before. You know that he loves his son, he shows that every day, but hearing him say it like this… The rawness, the emotions. Your vision starts to turn blurry as the tears start to build in the corner of your eyes. You want to be a part of that love so bad.  

“What I’m trying to say is…” He takes a shaky breath through the modulator, his shoulders are tense under the shoulder plates of his armour and his gloved hands are curled into tight anxious fists. “Now I can’t imagine my life without you in it either.”  

“Oh…” Your lips part, you are founding yourself dumbfounded. Is this really happening?

“I want you to be a part of my life, both our lives…” He is actually shaking as he tells you this. “I don’t want to just be a clan of two anymore… I want you mesh’la.” 

You suddenly understand. The way you will sometimes worry that he is avoiding you, or how you sometimes feel like your presence is making him uncomfortable. It makes sense now, you rise from the chair and close the distance between the two of you. You search for the eyes under the helmet, even though you can’t see them you want him to know that you are looking at him - the man and not the Mandalorian. You realise how hard this must be for him, he has been hidden away for all of his adult life, physically, but emotionally too. You reach out for him, placing your palms on the sides of his helmet.  

“Din…” You start out, it is probably just something you imagine, but it is like you can feel the heat of his skin through the beskar on your hands. “You already got me. I’m already yours.”

“Really?” It is Din’s turn to sound like he doesn’t believe what he is hearing. 

“Yes, Din.” You can feel the tears sliding down your cheeks now, and you can’t keep the grin off your face as you nod up at him. “I’m yours, okay. Yours and Grogu’s.”

“And we are yours... Kriff, mesh’la I’m all yours.” He gasps through the modulator. He rests his forehead against yours, the coolness of the beskar is feeling nice against your warm skin. You stand like this for a moment, simply enjoying the intimacy of the closeness, your hands cradling his helmet and his resting on your hips. The silence stretches until Din finally breaks it. 

“I want to kiss you so badly.” He confesses. 

“I know.” You say, but you know that he can’t and that is okay. You have accepted that things with him are going to be different than it would have been with others, so the shock you’re feeling when a loud hiss is echoing off the durasteel walls is big. You squeeze your eyes tightly shut without even thinking about it. Your hands land over your closed eyes, like an extra protection to make sure you don’t see him. 

“What are you doing?!” You shriek as you hear the loud thud of beskar landing on the metal floor. Din has removed his helmet! He didn’t even give you a warning so you could close your eyes before, you had been quick so you haven't really seen him just gotten a quick blurry peek.  

“Open your eyes, mesh’la.” His voice is so low and soft, it is so close to a whisper, you almost miss it. His fingers brush against your hands to make you remove them from your eyes. His bare hands, you notice, and the skin on skin contact makes a hot shiver run down your spine. “Please.” He adds.

You can’t believe this. First you learn that he has been calling you beautiful for months, then he tells you that he wants you to stay with him and Grogu and now… Now Din is helmetless in front of you and he wants you to see him?  

“Are you sure?” You stutter. 

“Yes, mesh’la.” This time he speaks with his whole chest, like he has never been more sure about anything in his life. The sound of his voice without the modulator of his helmet hits your ears and you feel like you might cry. It’s deep and rich, reminding you of the sonorous melodies played on a f'nonc horn. 

You inhale a shaky breath before removing your hands from your eyes and slowly blinking them open. And there he is. Din Djarin, your Din Djarin, staring back at you. You let out a little gasp as you take in the sight of him. You can’t believe that this is what he has been hiding all this time. You knew you would like the way he looked, because it would be him, but the reality is still exceeding all expectations you had. Din Djarin is gorgeous. The brown hair, that curls up at the ends, matches the colour of the irises of the prettiest most soulful eyes you have ever seen. His strong jaw is covered with a short, slightly patchy, beard that frames his face nicely. A moustache is framing his mouth. A mouth with the most kissable lips you have ever seen.

Another long silence breaks out between you, both of you are shocked by the situation. 

“Hi…” He finally says and it is all that you need to break out of your haze. 

“Hi.” You smile at him, maybe the brightest smile of your life.

You reach out for him, you need him closer.

“Do I disappoint?” He asks, but he is smiling too now.

“Hell no.” You shake your head with a laugh, the thought of this face disappointing anyone is an absurd idea. 

“You’re beautiful.” You whisper, your hands find his hair, wrapping your fingers in his soft locks. He leans his forehead down to rest against yours again. It had felt good before, but this - his skin against yours, oh that is heaven. The two of you stay like this for a while, enjoying the affinity between you. 

“What about that kiss?” You finally say and it is all he needs to hear. His lips crash onto yours. It is like a switch has been turned, the softness from before replaced with an intense hunger. The kiss is heated and needy, like he is desperate to taste you, wanting to map out every corner of your mouth. His hands are on your hips, a tight grip as he pushes you closer against him. 

You gasp into his mouth as you feel the solid curve of his bulge press against your pelvis. It is sending a warm shiver through you that settles in your lower stomach. You press yourself into him, slightly grinding your hips against his clothed cock which pulls a low groan out of him. His broad hands squeezes your hips, guiding your rhythm as you rock against him.

“Do you really want this?” You ask him 

“More than anything.” You can hear the smirk in his voice. “Do you?”

“Yes!” You nod wildly. “I’ve never wanted anything or anyone as badly as I want you.”

Your confession makes him let out a deep groan from deep within his throat, it makes a new shiver run through you. His fingers find the hem of your pants which he starts to slide down your legs. You take over, kicking the garment of your legs as you push him towards the pilot’s chair. 

“Sit.” You command. You don’t know what it is, you are usually not the commanding type, but you are feeling wild tonight, drunk off of Din’s lips.

Something flickers in Din’s eyes at your sudden bossy tone. “Yes, ma’am.” He mutters as he sits back in the seat, his strong thighs spread out and a cocky smile on his lips. Fuck, he is going to be the death of you aren’t he? 

You take a second to enjoy the view, before walking over to him, stepping between his thighs. Your hand lands in his hair as you look down at him through hooded eyes. 

“Come here, mesh’la.” He whispers as he reach out for you, gripping your hips and pulling you closer. You lift your leg over him, straddling his broad lap.

He groans at the pressure, as you start to rock your clothed cunt against his muscular thigh. You suspect that he can feel the warmth of your dampness through the fabric. Din adjusts his hold on your waist, helping you set a rhythm as he begins to move your hips. He is moving you slowly at first, but the eager sounds you’re letting out is quickly making him pick up the pace. You purr out his name as you feel his thigh flex under you. 

“Kriff… Doing so good for me, mesh’la.” Din curses under his breath. “Looking so pretty.”

“Mmm..” You hum out, burying your face into the crook of his neck as you keep grinding against him until you can’t take it anymore. 

“Fuck, Din, I...” You whine, feeling the fabric of your panties getting gradually more and more damp against him.

“I need you, Din” You remove your head from his neck so you can look deeply into his eyes. His brown eyes are burning you, his hands coming to a still.  

“Okay, yeah…” He nods at you, his pupils are blown wide and a flush is covering his cheeks. “Ne-need you too, mesh’la.”

His eyes are still locked with yours as he moves you, making you lift yourself up from him so he can start on removing some of his armour plates. You use the time to get rid of your tunic, leaving you in only your bra and panties. He ends up removing most of his armour, leaving him warm and soft for you.   

He pulls you down on him again, connecting your lips once more as his hand dives down to your panties, sliding his fingers under the hem and finding your clit which he begins to stroke with slow, firm circles after coating his digits with your wetness, making you moan into the kiss.  

“Fuck, mesh’la, you’re so wet. All soaked, just for me. My sweet, sweet girl.” He whisper against your mouth.

He keeps circling your clit with one hand, setting a faster pace as his other hand finds your breast, squeezing it gently through your bra, making you let out another desperate moan. Your hands find the clasp at your back, fingers fumbling slightly from eagerness as you open the latch before zealously removing the item from your body. Din lets out a pleased groan as your exposed breasts appear. His free hand, that isn’t occupying your clit, eagerly kneads the soft plumpness of one of your tits before taking its nipple between his fingers and gently twisting it. 

“Oh, fuck… Fuck, Din, I…” You whine out, feeling your orgasm approach. You don’t think you have ever felt it come this early before, but he has you so riled up.

“I know baby, I know.” He encourages. “You can mesh’la, you can come for me.”  

It is all you need to hear, the last string that holds you together gets cut and the warm euphoric waves of pleasure wash over you. His name is falling from your lips over and over again as you ride out your orgasm. 

“Did that feel good?” He asks you with a kiss to the top of your head when you’ve finally come back down from your high and now has relaxed into him.

“So good.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” He says and you can hear the smile in his voice without even looking at him. 

“Wanna make you feel good too.” You say letting your fingers find his cheek and gently stroke his cheekbone. “Want you inside me.” You feel how his cock twitches underneath you from your confession.

“You sure mesh’la?” He asks, placing his hand under your chin to gently holding your head up as he look deeply you in the eyes for your answer.

“Very.” 

“Okay.” He hums, pressing a gentle kiss onto your lips, but it very quickly turns heated. 

Your hands reach down between you, finding the buttons of his pants which you quickly begin to unbutton. The angle is slightly awkward, but you manage to get the last button undone without breaking the kiss. 

Din taps your thigh to make you step back for a second so he can pull down his pants and free his cock. Your eyes widen at the sight. You had gotten the idea that he was big from what you had felt when you grinded against his bulge, but nothing could prepare you for the view that met you. He is big. His cock is throbbing and thick, laying heavy against his stomach, the tip is already dripping with precum and you feel your mouth water by the sight.         

You slide your panties to the side as you readjust yourself, and start to slowly sink down on him. You’re really taking your time, both so you can adjust to the imposing size of him, and so you can enjoy the sounds he’s making for you as you slowly take more and more of him, until you finally are taken the entirety of him. 

“You are so perfect…” He sights. “Cyar'ika you have no idea…” He adds before he starts on leaving hot kisses up and down your neck. 

‘Cyar'ika.’ Another word you don’t know the meaning of, but you are too far gone in your shared pleasure to stop up and ask him the meaning. 

The two of you sit like this for a little while, letting you adjust to him, but you soon can’t take it anymore, you need some movement. 

You lift yourself a little from the chair before sinking back down on him, making Din choke on a throaty moan. His hands stay on your hips, as you begin to bounce on him in a slow, but steady rhythm, but he occasionally slips them down to your ass, squeezing the soft plum skin with his broad hands. It makes you go wild. You pick up your pace.

“Dear, Maker…” You gasp “Din, you’re feeling so good.” 

“You too, mesh’la. So fucking tight.” Din praises, lifting you up with his strong arms and pulls all the way out of you before slamming back into you, filling you up again. “So warm, so perfect.” 

His hips now meet yours with every bounce as he thrust up into you, burying himself so deep inside you it has you bite down hard on your lower lip to not scream loudly and wake up Grogu. The sound of Din’s heavy balls slapping up against your wet cunt, as well as the loud creaks of the chair, is echoing from the walls and it is honestly the hottest thing you have ever heard. Your arms have begun to shake as your grip on the armrest of the chair is getting tighter and tighter. You keep bouncing up and down on him as you feel your second climax getting nearer and nearer. 

“Oh, kriff… Mesh’la you’re so tight.” He groans through gritted teeth. 

“I… I won’t last much longer.” He warns. His thrust falters a little as he gets closer and closer to his release. 

“It’s okay, you can come, baby…” You pant out. “Please come for me, Din” 

He let out a throaty groan at your encouragement. 

“I have an implant.” You add. “Please, I want to feel you inside of me.” 

You pull his face up to you, kissing him hard. Your lips connected passionately as you both get pushed over the edge. His fingers dig into your hips as he comes, your name spilling from his lips like a prayer.

You moan out his name, as your walls clench down around his cock. You feel how his dick twitches inside you as he comes undone. The warmth of his release coats your inside, and you dote on the feeling of being filled by him, milking every drop of his release as he keeps pumping into you, fucking his cum deep into you. You feel like the two of you have melted together as you both ride out your climaxes. Tears of pleasure are wetting your eyes. You have wanted him for so long, never thought that you would have him, never thought that he would feel the same as you. 

You find his lips again, kissing him as you both ride out your climaxes. He hums content into your mouth and you can feel the smile on his lips. His hands are leaving your waist and he is instead cupping your cheeks, gently holding your face and the rough and heated atmosphere is soon turning soft.   

“Are you okay?” He asks while caressing your cheek with light strokes of his finger pads.

“Yes.” You assure him with a small smile. “More than okay.” 

He smiles back at you. He has the prettiest smile in the galaxy you decide. “Ni kar'tayl gar darasuum, mesh’la.”

You don’t know the meaning of his words, but they fall from his lips with such warmth and care that you it has your heart flutter with warmth in your chest. 

“What does that mean?” Your voice is nothing but a whisper. 

“I will know you forever.” 

“That is beautiful.” 

“It’s…” He looks into your eyes, the deep mahogany of his irises make your heart clench. You can’t believe that these are the eyes that has been looking at you from under the helmet all this time. “It’s how we tell people we love them.” 

“It is…?”

“Yes.” He nods. “I love you, mesh’la.” 

He loves you… Din Djarin loves you. 

“I love you too, Din.” You say before connecting your lips again in a long passionate kiss. “You and Grogu.” You add when you eventually have to pull away for air.

Joel Miller

Have a Good Night - @punkshort ❤️‍🔥

Wet Nights - @shellshocklove ❤️‍🔥

Wedding crashers - @yxtkiwiyxt ❤️‍🔥

What's a fanfiction? - @talaok ❤️‍🔥

A fake soccer date - @toomanystoriessolittletime ❤️‍🔥

Tastes like strawberries - @thedilfdiaries ❤️‍🔥

Subscribe - thedilfdiaries ❤️‍🔥

Javier Peña

Best friends dad - @babybugwrites most of hers are good ❤️‍🔥

Din Djarin

Oblivious - @pentechnics

Of Love and Time - pentechnics

Gut-Wrenching - @absurdthirst ❤️‍🔥

Alternative Ending - absurdthirst ❤️‍🔥

Laid bare - @pedros-mustache ❤️‍🔥

Heat signature - @javierpinme ❤️‍🔥

Beautiful truths - @haylzcyon ❤️‍🔥

Cabin Fever - @omgreally ❤️‍🔥

pornstar!Din - @charnelhouses ❤️‍🔥

Inevitable - @ejlovespie ❤️‍🔥

The sweetest melody - @noisynaia ❤️‍🔥

Beyond my skin, deep in my bones - @djarins-wife ❤️‍🔥

I'd like to... - @ak-vintage ❤️‍🔥

It was the kid’s idea - @the-witty-pen-name 🤰

Joel’s at the breakfast table, paintbrush in hand. The kitchen cabinets he’s lovingly built for Ellie and Dina sit propped up on decades-old scraps of newspaper, glossy from hours of painstaking attention. His glasses hang off the end of his nose, a warm mug of coffee sat at his elbow.

“You’ve been busy,” you hum, moving to bend down behind him. “I guess,” he replies modestly, as you stretch your arms round his shoulders, kissing his temple. Ellie left the garage a few months back to live with Dina, coinciding with Joel shyly inviting you to move in with him. Their house needed a lot of work — work Joel was only too happy to oversee.

You toy with the collar of his shirt as he asks about your day, if there’s anything new to report from patrol. Joel’s hand is warm over yours, bodies melting into one another as your nervous system regulates. Neither of you take a relatively peaceful day in Jackson for granted, not even after the long years you’ve been here.

“Still up for tonight?” you ask, watching the crease deepen between his brows.

He kisses your hand. “Only if you’re agreein’ to be my date.”

“If you get cleaned up first,” you try to brush some stray, dried paint away from his cheek, “then I’ll think about it.”

///

Half an hour later, you’re lying on the bed, watching Joel trim the scruff along his jaw with practiced concentration. He’s all broad shoulders and narrow waist, soft belly embraced by the towel round his hips. You should make an attempt to move, to get ready yourself, but you’re transfixed by him. As always.

He’d showered with you, despite your faux protesting that he’d only slow you down. You marvelled at his body every time; so strong and capable, his skin bearing the wounds of his past. You traced each scar, kissed every fine line that framed his dark eyes. Joel revered you in the same way: warm hands finding your hips, calloused fingertips travelling along your sternum.

He makes you feel safe. Loved. Happy.

He’s also the reason you’re running behind for Jackson’s New Year’s Eve party. Joel flicks his flannel shirt at you as he comes back into the bedroom, tutting underneath his breath.

“Come on, pretty girl. We’ll be missin’ midnight at this rate.”

“And whose fault would that be?”

Joel tries to hide his grin, chewing his cheek. Showering with him was always a good idea in principle; until his lips found their way to your throat, unwavering in his intentions, your back arching instinctively into his chest. He’d rocked up into you, filling you completely, filthy encouragement whispered in your ear until you’d fallen into an abyss of pleasure — together.

He drags you from the sheets now, into his chest. You inhale deeply, enjoying one final moment of quiet between you both before the festivities.

///

Lanterns guide your way towards the barn, your arm looped through Joel’s. Children squeal in excitement on their parent’s shoulders, lovers wrap themselves around one another in soft embraces, dogs skitter along in the snow. Laughter echoes between the buildings, the community geared up for the celebration of another year.

“Is Ellie going tonight?” you ask Joel, and he nods.

“Should be. She and I are gettin’ breakfast together in the mornin’.”

You smile in the darkness, heart full at his words. He goes on, telling you that he’ll be spending some time over at their place in the next few weeks, working out what materials he’ll need for his next project there. It’s a stark, staggering contrast to a year ago: Joel bereft and alone on his porch, their relationship shattered — seemingly beyond repair.

That night, you’d headed inside before Joel, accepting his wish to spend a few moments alone. You’d gotten into his bed with a heavy heart, lost in a dreamless sleep before your head even hit the pillow. The next day, he’d told you: Ellie had come back. She’d come to the porch, told Joel that she wanted to try — to try and forgive him for a myriad of things, some you’re still no closer to understanding.

But that was okay.

Joel started to smile again; breathe easier, laugh more often. The darkness that surrounded him seemed to lift as his would-be daughter came back to him, slowly but surely. Ellie began to stay for dinner most nights, sitting with Joel to learn new songs, falling asleep on the couch, her feet nestled near his. Theirs was a quiet love: forged and broken and rebuilt again, just like the world they inhabited.

///

The mulled cider simmers in your veins; Joel’s hand in yours as the floor fills with couples and friends, parents and children. Sal from the stables is perched on a stool onstage, strumming his guitar as the string lights glitter overhead; the barn shrouded in a golden glow — a protective, loving embrace around Jackson’s inhabitants. You feel it, too, in the nods and smiles from your friends, ones that have become family.

The delicate opening chords of Harvest Moon fill the air, Sal beginning to sing about the full moon risin’. Joel sways you gently, hand splayed over your back. You know he loves this song; playing it for you in front of the fire or on slow mornings wrapped up in bed together. He croons quietly now, loud enough for only you to hear.

When we were strangers,

I watched you from afar.

When we were lovers,

I loved you with all my heart.

For a moment, you could swear it’s just the two of you: his soft half-smile, tired eyes and comforting scent, holding you close as you hum along with him.

Dina and Ellie break the illusion, drinks in hand as the former drags the latter to the floor. You marvel at Ellie’s expression; although not blood-related, she’s so like Joel. There’s no awkwardness, though. Not like last year. Dina leads Ellie confidently in their dance, Joel squeezing you joyfully as he looks on. “Reckon we can outdo ‘em,” he teases, leaning you back a little with a flourish to kiss you.

“You’ve still got it, old man,” Dina teases quietly, winking your way. “He’s never had it,” Ellie rolls her eyes, and you catch the shared grin between the two of them. His kid is about the only person Joel will willingly take shit from: she has him wrapped round her finger. The way it should be, you muse internally.

Suffused with happiness, you rest your head on Joel’s chest as the song draws to a close. You wish you could bottle this moment forever: content in his arms, the people you love most in this world not too far away. You feel the steady beat of Joel’s heart against his ribs, the soft scratch of his beard against your forehead, his fingertips against your spine.

“I’ll go first,” he says at the top of the landing. 

Your eyes are already on the bathroom door, the reward of a shower beckoning. “You just want to get all the hot water.”

Resting his hands on his hips, he gives you a look. It’s meant to be stern, but just like always, all it does is cause a slide of arousal to pool in your belly. 

“I’ll be faster than you,” he reasons. “Then you can take as long as you want.”

“How chivalrous," you tease. 

He rolls his eyes with a scoff - his version of a laugh, but only just. You haven’t heard a full one, but it’s been a goal of yours since he let out that first rough huff of air with the corner of his lips turned up to make him laugh, for real. You’ve learned to tease with him, prodding the edges of his silence and restraint. You have to be the one to push forward, because he won’t – but gently, gently. 

He shakes his head in amusement, and for now, you’ll take what you can get. 

“I’ll be quick,” he promises, working open the buttons on his shirt as he turns away from you. 

His shoulders dappled with sunlight, his fingers working open his flannel on the bank of a creek. 

“Keep your back turned,” you hear from behind you. “No peekin’.”

He undresses in the bathroom, behind a cracked door. You hear the shuffle of his clothing, his soft grunts of movement. The pipes groan, and then the sound of water splashing along ceramic, and all you can think about as you sit on the edge of the bed with your hands under your thighs and the toes of your sneakers lightly scuffing the floor is what he must look like. 

You’ve imagined it so many times. You’ve seen glimpses of him for months, slivers of skin that get exposed when you’re traveling with someone: sleeping in close quarters for weeks, bathing when you find water, the changing of clothes with furtive glances when he’s not looking. The vee of his collar that hints at chest hair; the only softness you think is left on him just above the waist of his jeans; a trail of coarse, dark hair that leads beneath his belt. 

You’ve felt him too. Felt his solid form behind you in the saddle, felt his lap tucked behind yours when you sleep. Pieces of what you’ve seen and what you’ve felt swirl together, your mind filling in the blanks to form formidable temptation that haunts your every waking moment, your body a live wire when he’s close. 

Shameless - it’s what you have to be in this new world. Any hesitation could risk a missed opportunity, be it comfort or supplies or your life. You have to be bold, direct. Blatant in what you want and what you need. Opportunities aren’t given freely, so you take them when offered, without a second thought.

The bare expanse of his back just above the surface of the creek, his skin glistening with water. Too busy washing to catch you peeking, he doesn’t see the blatant hunger on your face. There is so much of him on display: the tanned nape of his neck, the breadth of his shoulders, the dip of his spine. 

Hiding behind the bushes, your heart thunders and your mouth waters, imagining the salt-taste of his skin. 

Water splashes down the hall as he moves under the shower, and your opportunity dangles in front of you in the image of a slice of light from a doorway.  

Fuck it. 

Getting undressed quickly, you sneak light-footed down the hall, gently pushing the bathroom door open. You can see the shadow of him moving beyond the curtain, an aching throb beating between your thighs at how close his naked body is. 

The room is enveloped in steam, the rich, decadent smell going straight to your head and the metal rings on the shower curtain drag when you pull it back. 

You’re met with a wall of tanned hardness. 

“What’re you doin’?” His tone is stern with disapproval, his expression dark. 

He’s so…much. So much man, so handsome and thick-bodied, solid and formidable. Your eyes devour the coarse hair that gathers at his sternum and spreads across his chest and down. His skin is marred and nicked with survival and age, and there is something so arousing about the experience his body holds — the years he’s lived, the formation from teen to young adult to a man and beyond. 

You bite your lip, thinking of the bodies he’s touched and brought to completion. A man who knows how to use his fingers for more than just pulling triggers – and you know, because you’ve felt them.

He rests his hand over his crotch to hide it from your view, but you can still see the thick base of his cock and the coarse, dark, wet hair that surrounds it. His hold isn’t quite big enough to cover it everything, and you swallow hard, trying not to immediately reach for him. 

Steady, steady.

“You were taking too long,” you lie, ignoring the look on his face when you step in, lest you lose all nerve. Turning your back to him, you feign nonchalance. “I got worried the water would run out.”

He’s silent for a moment, and you can feel the heavy weight of his gaze between your shoulder blades. 

He sighs, the sound laced with annoyance. “Could’ve waited.”

“Well I didn’t. Pass me the soap?” You keep your back to him, waiting to see what he’ll do. Your voice casual, your face openly vulnerable. 

“You can get it yourself. I’m gettin’ out.”

Your stomach bottoms out, both with panic and neglected need. You feel him shift behind you, and you turn, reaching for his hand just as he grabs hold of the curtain. 

“Don’t,” you plead. “Please.”

Please. 

You’ve never heard him say the word, but you’ve said it plenty enough for the both of you. Your need for him is all encompassing, never relenting. A steady hot weight cradled between your hips, a constant throb of want that he tries his best to discourage. He’s slipped a few times and given into your begging with a hungry press of his mouth before he’s pulled back, or given you the stretch of his fingers if you’re really desperate, but this is the furthest you’ve ever toed the line. 

You always say it so helplessly too, please. Like you’ll die if he doesn’t help you. But you can’t help it because sometimes it feels like you will. You’ve found that the sound of it seems to be the only thing that breaks him, the only thing that gives you a glimpse at what’s underneath his calcified restraint. 

Afraid that he’ll say no and really mean it this time, you watch his initial look of disapproval slowly give way to something else. 

He looks at you for a long time. Assessing, considering. You expect his eyes to sweep down your naked body and back up again, but they stay fixed on yours, holding your gaze. His face is unreadable, your stomach alight with nerves. The air smells of damp warmth, of him, and a muscle in his jaw feathers. You brace yourself for embarrassment, but desperate arousal overrides it. Your body trembles with it, a pulse beating in the empty space inside you. 

You watch a stream of water follow a vein down his forearm to where he’s holding himself and biting back a moan, you press your thighs together. 

With a sigh, he relents. 

“Turn around.”

You obey immediately. 

Holding your breath, your body twists with anticipation when you feel him step closer. He crowds you in the small stall, his form exuding heat and though he blocks some of the water, the heat held in your own skin makes up for it. He moves behind you, his hulking form shadowing your own. 

When his soaped up hands touch your skin, you let out a whimper of relief. 

Relaxing into his firm hold, you melt into the way his calloused hands slide over your back. His hand slides up your spine to massage the nape of your neck, the other one sliding down around the curve of your hip, and your chin dips forward, letting him wash you. His thumb digs into the knots he finds, soap aiding in the glide of his touch. When his fingers knead just along the swell of your ass, you swallow a choked moan. 

“Relax,” he murmurs, the honeyed caress of his voice deeper in the small space, richer. 

You’re a trembling thing, all want and need, breathless and aching with every touch of his splayed hands. They map the sides of your torso, slide down to curl around the meat of your hips. He lathers more soap on his hands and kneels behind you, his hands splaying wide to wash the back of your thighs and the thought of his face so close to where you need him has your hips squirming, the phantom scrape of his scruff dragging against your skin. 

You’re not ready when his hand slides up between your thighs with a perfunctory motion, his fingers brushing over your cunt. 

He washes you there, his fingers slipping into the crease of your thighs with reverence, rubbing soap into the dark hair that covers your cunt. Your breath catches, your hips jolting back before you can stop them into his touch, but if he notices, he doesn’t act. Instead, he pulls his hand away to stand, reaches for the soap again and with one hand gripping your hip, he slides the flat of his hand through your cheeks. Your cheeks heat, but all thoughts of shame dissipate into the steam when his fingers brush against your entrance, digging into the needy space between your thighs. A whimper pours from your mouth, the weight between your hips hot and heavy. It’s too much, you need him too much and your hand reaches out to braces on the wall in front of you. 

“C’mere,” he soothes, pulling you back against him. “I got you.”

Every wet inch of him presses against your back. He molds himself to you: his solid chest, his soft belly, his strong thighs, dusted with hair. His hips, pressing into the plump curve of your ass and his cock is a solid, thick heft between you. You can feel the shape of it against your lower back, but before you can fixate on it, you feel his hands slide around the curve of your waist. Letting your chin drop with a trembling breath, you watch them. 

Large, the two of them covering your whole belly. Nicked and marred, tanned from the sun, and sure in their movement as they slide up, up, up. He cups the weight of your breasts and your knees buckle, your fingers digging into his wrist as an anchor. 

His soaped thumbs brush over your peaked nipples, tight and aching. A soft, breathless moan pours from your throat into the steam surrounding you. Your head tips back into his collarbone, and one of his hands slides up to curl around the base of your throat, while the other one slips down to cup you firmly, wholly between your legs. 

You let out a whine, trapped in place, your heart thundering in your chest. 

“Just this, okay?” he says, his own breathing ragged against your ear. “Nothin’ more. I mean it.”

You don’t know how he can say that when you can feel how hard he is against you, but desperate with arousal, you nod. “Okay. Just – please.”

He hums, a darkly rich sound that rumbles against your back and his middle finger curls upwards, slipping between your soaked folds. The moan you let out is shameless, blatant, and he slides his touch back and forth, collecting the slick he finds there. 

“Christ, baby,” he groans, adding another finger. “She’s soaked. How come?” 

“It’s you,” the words tumbling out of your mouth, soaked and slurred with want. “It’s you.”

He hums again. “S’that right?”

His fingers slip inside you, filling you with a stretch and his thumb starts to circle your clit, your body trying to curl forward into his hold but his hand on your throat prevents you from moving. You squirm against his cock, the thick crown of it brushing against your wet skin, his heavy balls pressing just under your ass, the drag of his coarse hair sliding between you and you shift your hips backwards to feel more of the solid heft you’ve been dreaming about — but the subtle squeeze at your throat tells you to stop. 

“Ain’t about that,” he scolds. “Just stay still and lemme take care of you.”

But you want it to be about that, this thing he won’t give you. This thing he won’t even let you see, even though you’ve felt it plenty. In the saddle, in the sleeping bag, pressed against your body when you feign sleep. 

“It’ll help,” you whine, babbling, your body vibrating with need. “It’ll help if you let me just let me touch it, just let me see it —“

“No.” His answer is firm, brooking no room for argument. A small sob pours from your throat, and he clucks his tongue in sympathy, his tone softening. “I know, babygirl, I know.” 

His thumb nudges your chin up until your head is tipped back to see him and as he tucks his thick fingers inside you, his dark eyes greedily take in your face, drinking in every minute reaction that plays across it. As if he’s just as hungry to see that as he is to do everything else.

He strokes, his fingers stuffed down to his scarred knuckles, and the combination of the full feeling paired with the endearment has tears watering at the edge of eyes. His thumb adds pressure to your clit, and your thighs tense, a tear sliding down the curve of your cheek. 

Maybe it’s how good it feels, or how long you’ve been waiting for it. Maybe it’s how badly you need to come and how good he feels against you, or maybe it’s a blend of everything, born of desperation. The bright release he’s coaxing out of you teeters on the edge, your cunt clenching desperately around his fingers and you grasp anything you can as he plays with you: the thick muscle of his forearm, the solidness of his thigh. 

His skin slides against yours, all firm and heat and man, the muscles along his torso bunching underneath the hair that covers his skin all the way down to where he is thick and heavy for you, grinding against the plush curve of your ass. His wrist works higher, and you put your foot up on the edge of the tub to give him more room and he takes it, the heel of his hand grinding against your clit. Your hips rock into his rough touch, desperate to come and he keeps his hooded eyes fixed on yours, hungrily devouring every plea pouring from your eyes. 

“Come on, darlin’,” he coaxes, the words rumbling from his chest. “Lemme see it.”

The moan that pours out of your throat when you come sounds almost shocked — like you had no idea it could be this good, or that you could come that hard. His fingers coax out everything you’ve been holding inside you down to your bones, a syrupy sticky weight flooding through your hips outwards. Your breasts tingle with it, your heart racing from it, and though your eyes slip shut with drowsy relief, he doesn’t stop. 

Growling low in your ear, you feel his mouth open to taste your skin, his heavy, strained breaths following the same pulse as your clit. He doesn’t let up, doesn’t let your body come down. You let out a soft whine, clawing at his hand and he doesn’t budge, instead using the calloused pads of his fingers to circle your clit, faster, harder, pulling another peak from you expertly, efficiently. 

Just as the first one ebbs, you start to crest into a second release, your hips locking under his touch, your stomach clenching while your moans echoes in the stall. 

“No, I can’t. I –”

“You can,” he growls, demanding it. 

You shake your head with a frown of pleading pleasure, and he doubles down. 

“You wanted it, didn’t you? Bad enough to come in here?”

You whine, your nipples tightening as shame and arousal flood your body with heat.

“Then let me tire you out. Let me give her what she needs.”

His hand spreads over your belly, big and wide, pinning you in place, a tremor of muscles underneath his hold. He hauls you against him until the tips of your toes balance on the tub floor, and his chest hair scrapes against your back and he cups your cunt with his whole hand and then he’s got you, he’s got you, he’s got you, your eyes clenched shut as everything inside you pulls up tight and aching and wet — 

“Joel!” 

His name breaks from your throat, an aching throb bursting underneath the skill of his touch.

“Christ.” The guttural sound rips from his throat, rough like gravel. 

His hips grind into you from behind, the soapy slide of his thick cock dragging along the cleft of your ass. Every rock forward has the crown pushing against the small of your back, every roll of his hips forcing the stiff heft to slide against you with a slippery slide. You want him to force a hand between your bodies and push himself down, you need him to notch his thick cock at your entrance and force you to bloom open around him. 

He won’t though. You know he won’t let himself go that far. 

Your hands wind around his neck, your fingers threading into his wet hair. You arch your back, pressing your ass tighter against him, testing the edges of his restraint. 

His deep groan reverberates through the stall and wrapping his large hands around your waist, he forces you tighter against him. The way he’s fucking your cheeks flickers and sparks need, blood rushing to your cunt, your body wrung out yet still hungry for him. 

“Just put it in,” you beg. “Please, put it in.”

“Goddamnit.” 

Groaning as if in pain, his white-knuckled grip tightens on your hips and you feel the first hot spurt of his come splash on your back. Another rope of it hits your skin, his cock a hot pulse between your cheeks, and he keeps grinding against you, the slip of his cum aiding in the slide of his cock. It smears on your back, slips down to collect between your bodies, sticky and thick, and as he works the last dregs out, you wonder if he’d let you taste any of it. 

Your mouth waters, your body still a wanting little throb even after everything he drew out of you. Always hungry, just for him. 

The sound of the shower slowly comes back to you, and when he steps away, you shiver from the cold. 

“Here,” he guides, switching places with you. 

Hot water pours over your skin, and he lets you rest drowsily against him as he picks up the bar of soap again. Turning to face him for the first time, you nuzzle the hair that dusts his chest, breathing him in. You hang onto his sides, onto the skin that’s been hidden from you for months now. Solid and firm and warm and wet under your touch and your fingers skim the muscles over his ribs. When your chin dips south to finally get a peek at what you’ve been imagining, his fingers nudge your face back up. 

“Hey now,” he murmurs. ”Eyes up here. Right on me, okay?”

You can feel him resting against your thigh. Still thick, still half hard, still out of reach and you wonder if he’ll ever let you see it, just like that full laugh that you’re waiting for. 

He grins. “Maybe we can convince General Organa to give it the okay.“

“No.”

His grin doesn’t stop, but does turn quizzical. “No? But it was your plan and it was, again, brilliant.”

“Given that it was almost a suicide mission, I’m not surprised you’re on board,” you smile.

“Come on, you said it yourself in there. I’m the only pilot with the skills to pull that off.”

“Maybe. I said, maybe pull that off.”

“Neither here nor there.” He shifts closer to you as people shuffle out of the briefing room. “Look, why don’t you let me take you out on a date, talk about it over a drink? I’m buying.”

You eye the people walking by, sure they’ve overheard Poe living up to his reputation.

“Only you would try to ask out someone who just proposed a plan to basically get you killed.” You sigh, even though your lips can’t help but smile at the earnest way he flirts with you.

“I’m one of a kind. What do you say?”

“Commander Dameron-“

“Poe.”

“Right. If I was just a communications officer, I would go out with you. No question. But I’m also a strategist, which means I have to view things from a distance. And I can’t do that if I’m out on a date with you.”

His eyes crinkle a little as he smiles at you. “Who knows? Maybe after one date, all your plans will be to basically get me killed.”

You laugh, despite yourself. “Thank you for the offer, but I have to decline.”

He motions down the hall to his squadron that he’ll catch up with them later.

He turns his attention back to you. “Okay. But you know what makes me the best pilot in the galaxy? Other than my magic touch of course.” His gaze, still flirty and friendly, sharpens slightly. “Persistence. You have never met anyone as dedicated to details as I am. If I feel like there’s something I’m missing, a little piece of the puzzle not fitting quite right… well, there’s no stopping me.”

“And do you know what makes me good at my job?”

“All kinds of things, I bet,” he says as he looks you up and down.

“Objectivity, Poe. Have a good afternoon.”

You give him a small smile and head back to your quarters. You’re due a break for an hour or two and know just what to do with it.

The door to your quarters opens and shuts again in a snap mere minutes after you’d entered.

Poe practically runs to you, a smirk on his face. He wraps his arms around you and kisses you hotly on the mouth. “You know, I think we’re hiding things a little too well.”

You run your hand through his hair and then down his chest, already aiming to completely unzip his flight suit. “What do you mean?”

“That plan of yours was actually even crazier than something I would have suggested. Honey, if you want to get rid of me, all you have to do is ask.”

You laugh. “Well, you are due to take off in about an hour.”

“Plenty of time.” He kisses you again and runs his hands around the back of your neck to cradle your head. “You need to speed up your transfer. I can’t sneak around like this anymore,” he says against your mouth.

“It’s only ten more days, Poe. You’re so impatient.”

“When it comes to you? Absolutely.”

He works the clasps on your uniform and practically rips it off you, proving his impatience.

“You know, transferring to comms full time will have its advantages.” You slide his flight suit off his shoulders as he backs you toward your bed. “I’ll get to talk to you on your radio more often.”

He rests his forehead against yours briefly before giving you a gentle shove, your back landing on the bed and Poe a second later on top of you. He finishes undressing you, running his hands over every single patch of revealed skin.

“You can’t talk to me while I’m flying,” he says, kissing his way down your chest and stomach.

You lean up on your elbows. “Why not? Can’t the ‘best pilot in the galaxy’ handle hearing my voice in his cockpit?”

You rest your hand through the curls of his hair as his mouth continues its journey to his ultimate destination.

He looks up at you with amused annoyance. “No. Might interfere.”

“With what?”

“Objectivity.”

You intend to roll your eyes at his teasing, but he’s making quick work of the time you have together. You’re not smiling anymore, just gasping, feeling Poe’s mouth and fingers over and over until your eyes roll back for entirely different reasons.