#middle aged reader

The last thing you'd expected to greet you at the front door on this muggy Saturday morning, though, was a shirtless and sweaty Joel, fist raised in ready to knock just as the old wood swung open on its hinges…

But you were definitely not complaining.

"Good timing," he remarked, surprised.

You stared at him like a deer in the headlights for several long seconds, willing your eyes not to wander. This exact scenario could have been taken directly out of your private daydreams.

"Joel," you finally spluttered. "Hi…"

"Hey," he replied, eyeing the mug steaming in your hand and book tucked under your arm. "I'm sorry to bother you."

You shook your head wildly, completely flustered by the sight of his bare and muscular chest.

"It's no bother," you responded leaning awkwardly on the doorframe in a poor attempt at a casual posture, voice unnaturally high, probably giving away your substantial crush on this man to any passersby. "What's up?"

God, you were making yourself cringe.

"Well, uh…" he started, gesturing toward his neighboring home. "Any problems with your water? I got nothin'."

You just stood there, gaping dumbly. Were you having problems with your water? You could hardly think straight with Joel standing half-naked on your porch.

Finally, you remembered the tea you were literally holding in your hand. Obviously, you had water.

"No problems over here."

He shook his head, hands going to his hips, putting on the stereotypical annoyed stance that you'd come to know well.

"Well, shit."

________________________________________

What the fuck had you been thinking? Inviting the man of your intimate fantasies to use your shower?

At least you'd had the mind to suggest he go back home to grab a clean change of clothes first, giving you a few moments to get your house in order.

You did quick a once-over of the bathroom which had fortunately been cleaned that very morning, ensuring that you'd not left out anything embarrassing. The last thing you needed was for Joel to see your personal hygiene products.

The coast clear, you put out a fresh bar of soap and grabbed some clean towels from the hallway closet, placing them on the stool by the tub.

You wished you had a bit more time, but it was good enough on short notice.

Joel was incredibly apologetic when he returned not even two minutes later, still shirtless, holding a bundle of clean clothes in his hands.

"Thank you for this," he said, eyes conveying genuine gratitude. "I'm so sorry to intrude… but I'm filthy… was out working in the yard this morning… and I've got Benji's birthday party later…"

"No need to explain, Joel," you replied warmly, finally overcoming the titillation of having him half-dressed in your presence, leaning into the comfortable companionship you'd cultivated over the last several years. "What are friends for?"

Friends. Is that what you were?

Your eyes met briefly then, that quiet question passing between you, before the spell was broken, and he went off toward the bathroom.

And now…

Now, Joel was naked in your shower… and your brain was likely to implode.

______________________________________

Joel was not faring much better this morning.

By some bizarre turn of events he'd found himself stepping into your most private space…

And now he was trying (and failing) not to imagine you under this same spray… just as naked as he was right now…

He chastised himself as those thoughts invaded his consciousness.

You were a kind person doing him a favor, and he was making it weird. But it was hard not to go there - a losing war with his own mind.

Because he liked you… He liked you a lot…

You'd been dancing around each other for years now, ever since he'd moved in to the house next door.

Initial acquaintance had quickly turned to friendship… and then to something else…

Something that had you both making up silly reasons to spend time together.

Like your garden overflowing with so many vegetables that Joel just had to come over for dinner to help you eat them all…

Or that time he'd insisted Ellie would enjoy your company while they played the old movie he'd found on a recent patrol.

And so it had gone, week after week, for ages.

It was painfully obvious that the attraction was mutual, but you two traumatized, middle-aged idiots didn't seem to know what to do about that.

And now he was naked in your house, allowing his mind to wander to places he'd never humored before.

Distracting himself by taking in his surroundings, he spied the fluffy green towels you'd seemingly left out just for him, folded neatly on a stool in the corner. That was both thoughtful and fortuitous because in his anxious state, he'd forgotten to bring one of his own.

That was one of the things he'd always admired most about you, honestly. You took care of others without hesitation - no bartering, no expectation of a returned favor - just a genuine compassion that was hard to come by in this new world. And unlike many, you never gave up on the idea of making a truly comfortable home - one where fluffy green towels could still be a reality.

Just like that, his lusty thoughts were replaced with those of warmth and affection, and when he finally stepped out of the shower, blessedly clean, he savored the sensation of that soft terry cloth on his skin, steeped in fondness for you.

________________________________________

It was awkward when Joel finally emerged, hair still damp and handsome as ever, now fully dressed.

You both had indulged in some particularly spicy thoughts this morning, and it lent a slightly embarrassed and timid energy to the interaction.

Eventually, though, stilted words and nervous laughter dissolved into comfortable conversation, and Joel had decided before he left your bathroom that it was time to take the leap.

"Hey, uhmmm… " he started nervously, suddenly terrified that this had been a one-sided thing all along. "Would you like to have dinner with me tomorrow night?"

"Ellie found a new VHS?" you replied, chuckling warmly.

"No, uhhh… I mean just us," he trudged on, clearing his throat. "Like… a date…?"

You looked shocked for a moment, having assumed this moment would never come to pass, but soon your mouth turned up in a joyful smile, and you leaned forward to lightly kiss his bearded cheek.

"I would love to, Joel."

He let out the breath he hadn't realized he was holding then, grinning like a schoolboy.

"Great, I'll see you then," he responded, voice half an octave too high, nearly walking right into the doorframe because his eyes were still trained on you.

Gosh, he hadn't been flustered like this in a very long time.

You gave him a small wave as he finally navigated his way through the exit, pulling the door closed behind him.

Maybe lazy weekends were overrated… You liked where this one was going a lot better.

________________________________________

your heart raced like this at five am, at twelve pm, for stretches of nineteen and twenty-five minutes—was it a panic attack? were you running? for crime, for sport, for pleasure?

the dossier pages spread before him like a welcoming embrace.

immediate family, dead. extended family, states away. taxes, paid. juvenile criminal records. you didn't bother with expungement. social media, cursory and barren.

current address.

in the spring of 1981, the first space shuttle from NASA poked at the sky. the first tube in history spat out a superpowered baby. and you were born, to so-and so, at so-and-so hospital.

he might have been underwhelmed. the most you could be proud of was holding down a stable job. you're not a supe, you're a lame, black sheep on the outskirts of the herd, as unwelcome in their midst as a wolf would be. you never married, though—never married or got engaged or participated in a civil union, and that might feed his hope and ego enough to overshadow everything else.

your heart is brisk but steady now. you must be walking.

your windows have locks. homelander hopes that the clattering give of them will be the first step of his courtship—the startle that speeds up your heart and finally gives him the visceral, bodily confirmation. it doesn't. you're not home.

madelyn took great care to smell like luscious body care products. on bad days, she reeked of babysitting. on the last day of her life and the first day of her honesty, she smelled like fear. you smell like sweat and stress and exhaustion.

your apartment smells distinctly human. tangible. real.

when he touches your unmade bed, his gloves are off, and his fingers clench on the sheets—like he can grip your presence, your reality, and will you to appear.

your apartment is lonesomely neat and has an air of abandonment, like you only come here to sleep. this checks out with what he found out about your working hours. he's pleased to discover no one except him came to visit. maybe no one except him ever comes.

the turns of the key in the door synchronize with your heartbeat. if only his could sync to it as well, to make the moment perfect, fairy tale beautiful, but it's, as always, too quick, too powerful.

the key turns once, twice.

your back is turned as you lock the door from inside, but you freeze. your heart rate picks up. it's like you can sense him standing behind you.

the heel of your worn boot shifts slightly as you're about to turn around.

he grabs you, and, per your juvenile criminal record—assault, larceny against retail establishments—you kick and claw at him, but you don't scream, and most importantly, your heart is racing. he can feel it with his forearm as he squeezes. when you're scared, your heart can almost go toe to toe with his.

he's careful not to choke you out. he clings to the back of your head and murmurs into your hair:

"it's me." he closes his eyes, waiting.

he wants it to feel like homecoming. he wants you to relax in his arms, to know him instantly, but you merely stop fighting. he can feel your try to turn your head, and he lets you.

he pulls his hand away from your mouth. he's never assaulted a non-supe without gloves before. you left saliva on the inside of his palm. you're real, real, real.

"so that's why your heartbeat always felt like you were running," you say as you take in his suit.

your voice is unreadable. are you in awe? are you in shock?

"i didn't know you were real," he's quick to assure you; he nuzzles into you, cradles you from behind. it's a staged way to hold someone, snatched from silver screens. it's the best he can do, "i didn't know you existed until now. if i had known, i swear i would have run to you. but we can be together now... and make up for lost time."

your smile is empty and crooked: "don't... you grabbing me is less off-putting than those kinds of speeches."

it took all he knew of romance to say this. it was the finest, kindest, most human thing he has ever created, or so he thought. when he thinks it was not enough—absent perfection, absent the last god he could have worshiped, for a moment, he wants you dead.

when you turn back to him, there's a rugged warmth in the crinkle of your eyes. your smile spreads for him like the pages of a storybook. he wants you to never die.

...this isn't what he thought compatibility was. it might be the will of god, because its chokehold on his neediness is just as merciles.

it might be compatibility of mental disorders. you tilt the kettle. the string of boiling hot water slams red out of the teabag. berry tea is your favorite. you say it's the cheapest way to taste fruit—he knows there's not even a morsel of fruit in that pennyworth square of bleached nylon—he'll have fresh fruit delivered to your doorstep daily if that means you'll stay. you offer him the cup. with it, you offer curt details of your life.

"it’s like you’re a fucking freak of nature, like you have dirt instead of intestines and everyone can smell it. at the end of the day, you just got your dump of a house to go back to, and whenever anyone mentions family it sounds fake as fuck. and trust is like cotton candy. it melts away and leaves you with nothing but fucking cavities."

you drop fuck and other expletives with no inflection; you drop horror stories with a clattering chuckle. when he shares his own horror stories, he doesn't drink—he holds the cup like it's a prop he's forgotten what to do with.

he's uneasy when, whenever he looks back at you, you're staring. the ambiguity is enough for him to consider that compatibility is futile. he's been through too much. with how frayed he is, anything less than perfection is worse than nails on a chalkboard.

it's the tolerance to his fuckups that gets him, hook line and sinker, when you ask, matter-of-factly: "you really did kill all those people, right? it wasn't all accidents and them shooting first and so on."

"how do you know?"

"just... you know, fundamental mistrust in all things corporate."

"i did." if there are supposed to be challenges in courtship, there goes his. "and i liked it, too," he adds, like a kick to someone who's already down.

you nod and tilt the last of the tea into your mouth. the slurp is grating, real, imperfect, messy; when you put your cup down and meet his eyes, it's as if you'd lowered the barrel of a gun. "okay."

you say nothing else. he doesn't know what he wants you to say.

you keep studying him, and it finally dawns on him that you might be doing it because you like him. he rushes to look back.

as he tries to take in details of your face, like songs and books—manuals—say lovers do, he can't help but slip up and start watching for signs of your affection, instead.

"why did you say that... my... that what i said was off-putting? more off-putting than grabbing you." he wishes he could rip the smallness of his voice out of his throat.

you frown, worried. "just sounded so... stilted. like you were reading from a book. you do know you don't have to do that? if we're soulmates, you don't have to woo me. i'll take you as you are."

"you beileve in soulmates? you know, that it's... forever?.. god's plan?" he adds the bit about god hastily, frantically—on the off chance you're religious. he will say anything to prove you're kindred souls, he will say anything to draw that crinkling smile into your eyes again; with that as the prize, all methods of persuasion and coercion seem fair.

"well, there has to be a reason." you regard him for a moment longer and finally, you smile again as you shake your head, "i thought you were tachycardia, you know, i thought you were the phantom heartbeat disorder. i never thought you were real."

"did you ever think i might be a supe?"

"maybe. i figured i'd be one of the folks that die quickly if i ever encountered a supe. you know, under the rubble, terrible accident, yadda-yadda."

"why didn't you ever look for me?"

"i guess there's a name for it in the books... self-sabotage." you sigh and look down at his cup, "you might wanna drink that, it's getting cold."

he brings it to his eye level and lights his lasers without thinking; he forgets that it might be off-putting, too. when, a second later, he remembers, he brushes it off frantically—you're his soulmate, you're supposed to like everything he does, right? when he looks at you, the red heat gone from his eye, you're smiling again.

"you're cute."

it chafes, and he's rattling with how vulnerable he sounds when he speaks, "cute, like, handsome? gorgeous?"

"no... no, you're just cute. hey. hey, don't overcomplicate it. hey..."

when your hand touches his face, he kisses you, and it's rushed, rough and clumsy.

it's a crude wrangling of this, this thing—human, uncontrollable, imperfect, off-script—into a shape of something he knows, something he's seen, something he can recreate. children trace outlines of their parents' hands with crayon. he's trying to do the same. when he grasps your face, your shoulders, he's really grasping for humanity—and his ignorance of what humanity means is as unending as his longing.

that's what you tell him, later, when, after the embarrassing bravery of mutual nakedness, after brushed-off awkwardness, after you endure the tightness of his grip—you feel that the bruises come with the territory—you lay together on your narrow bed.

the bedsheets are old. the seventies floral pattern on them is washed out. the faded dream of a perfect american family.

you're more a scavenger than a woman. he's more a manchild than a man.

you tell him:

"you're like an... ignorant clumsy monster. have you ever seen invasion of the body snatchers?"

"no," he breathes.

"you're like an alien in a human body, but nicer. softer. you're... you're good."

your words are confusing, and he only has the earnestness of your tone to tell him you're not trying to be demeaning. he only has your hold on his face, both hands, eyes staring into his, seeking and seeing, to tell him that, when you say good, it's neither an estimate nor a reward.

when he sees that, and, in the post-coital haze of relaxation, feels secure enough to have a single non-paranoid thought, he realizes that you might be just as ignorant. what with your dead family and hollow social life and a barren apartment.

when you tell him about your office job, you say, "i pretend to be a functioning human well enough."

His face… his hair… his mouth… whatever skin you could reach…  You had never had intimacy like this - earned in exchange for real trust and affection. 

Of course, that certainly didn’t mean you wouldn’t like to explore his other parts, too.

You would not take any agency away from Din to decide when or if to cross that barrier, but you could demonstrate your willingness and leave it for him to pursue if he so desired.

And that’s how your shirt came off, tossed to the side on the floor behind you.

Din froze momentarily, not having expected this development so abruptly, but his want to proceed became clear as his hands moved up to cup your breasts over the fabric of your chest bindings.

“Can I?” he asked in a strained whisper.

Oh, stars… you could feel his arousal now.  This was happening.

“Yes.”  The word barely made it out of your mouth before his lips were on the swell of your breast, moving along each inch of newly exposed skin as his fingers pulled the fabric down and off achingly slowly until it was tossed to the floor, as well.

Your breath caught in your throat as he took one nipple in his mouth and used a hand to grope the other before moving to the other side.  Your heart was beating wildly with anticipation, and your breath was erratic due to the building arousal.  It was embarrassingly difficult to control the motion of your hips.  

His hardness was pressed right up against you in this position, and he seemed to be struggling, too, breath heavy.

Bless him for not making you ask out loud because, no sooner did you reach that point of desperation, were his hands traveling down to the waist of your leggings and tugging them slightly down for better access.  

“This is okay?”

“Please, Din…” you begged, bringing his fingers yourself to slip inside of your underwear, guiding him to precisely where you needed him.

And boy, did he remember what to do once he got there.  It didn’t take all that long before you were shaking in his lap and holding on to his neck for dear life.  

Instead of the self-serving dirty-talk other men had offered in this scenario, Din whispered the sweetest words of quiet encouragement in your ear - and of all things, that was what put you over the edge.

It took several long seconds, collapsed against his chest and catching your breath, to recover from the most long-awaited and hard-earned orgasm of your entire life.  It had never felt quite like this with anyone else before, and you desperately wanted to find this pleasure with him…

You lifted your head to kiss him one more time before asking the ultimate question, taking a small risk and laying your fingers lightly over his erection, still confined under the fabric of his pants.

“Do you want to?”

His breath subtly deepened a bit more, and you could imagine his eyes darkening with desire.  For the first time in your adult life, that wanting image felt safe and even comforting - not taking or pressing…

“Please?”  He asked - he didn’t demand.  How different this was from your past dalliances.

He hissed into your mouth as your hand palmed him a few times with more intention while dropping off his lap to kneel between his legs for a moment, giving you more space to fumble in the dark for his zipper and help him pull his pants and underclothes down his thighs.  

You took the liberty of touching him, too, for just a minute, rewarded with a few small whimpers of quiet pleasure.  But this was not what you both really wanted, now was it?

Standing to remove your remaining clothes, you climbed back over to straddle his thighs.

“Ready?” you asked, caressing the back of his neck affectionately.

He huffed and leaned forward to kiss you lightly, though his voice betrayed his need.  “Very.”

You sunk down on him exceedingly slowly - it had been a very long time, and while it felt absolutely amazing, it was a bit intense at first.  Gods, he was so sweet about it, nevermind his own pressing arousal, making sure you were alright when you paused partway to adjust and gently encouraging you to relax.  

“You’ve got me in a death grip, mesh’la.  Just take a few deep breaths.  We can stop if you need to.”

You did not want to stop.

Eventually, after some calming breaths and a concerted effort to relax your pelvic floor as he rubbed your shoulders comfortingly, you were able to settle on him fully.

And after that, it was fireworks.

You moved against each other slowly this first time, likely an effort on his part to ensure you weren’t injured, but that was okay because the position allowed a very satisfying depth.  

Stars, it felt amazing and connected and safe… and just so good…

There was little talking, your mouth continuously occupied - kissing anywhere and everywhere possible as your hands roamed under the shirt he was still wearing before moving to wrap around his neck, keeping close as he neared the end.

Still, you broke the silence to reassure him before he would have to ask, putting his mind at ease: 

“It’s safe if you want to…”

He swore under his breath - as if this wasn’t already incredible enough, he was allowed to finish right here inside of you.  

Gods, he realized in the haze of pleasure, he might love you…

Your patience… your kindness… just everything about you… you… you…

He came with a muffled groan, face buried in your neck, and you rode out the aftershocks with him, staying put while he recovered his faculties, rubbing circles on his back soothingly.

“I think that went well…”

He laughed against your collarbone before lifting his head to kiss you properly.

“That was downright incredible… and it was just the first try…”

“Hmmm…” you hummed, smiling against his cheek.  “I hope there will be many more… You’re still in your clothes - that must be remedied next time.”

Truthfully, he was thankful that you didn’t push him tonight, and it was part of what he’d grown to love about you - you simply accepted all of his limits, no questions asked.  He felt naked as it was without the beskar, and skin on skin might have been too overwhelming with all of the other unfamiliar sensations of this sort of intimacy, at least this first time.

“Do you… want to stay the night…?”

This felt like a full circle moment.  You’d accidentally spent a night on his couch the first day you met - and now you would spend the night in his bed with full intention.

“You’re pretty serious about me, huh?”

He paused before responding to that.  “Yeah, I am.  Is that okay?”

“More than okay, Din.  The feeling’s mutual.”

He released the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding and encouraged you to stand up before securing his pants and doing the same.  His hand tangled with yours.

“Come on.  I’ll guide you.”

————————————————————

You woke up the next morning in a panic, a warm hand clamped over your eyes.

But a familiar and soothing voice brought you quickly back to reality. 

“Hey, hey… I’m sorry… it’s just too bright in here now that the sun is up.”

Oh, yes.  You sighed happily in remembrance of the previous night’s events.

“I’ll keep my eyes closed.  Promise.”

His hand lifted off your eyes to smooth over your forehead while his mouth met yours.

“I’ll never tire of this,” he murmured between kisses.  “Stars, you’re beautiful, Flora.  I couldn’t see any of you last night.”

Oh, gosh, you were still naked.  

You’d never believed any part of you was particularly beautiful, especially as age had started to gray and wrinkle what few decent attributes you possessed.  But the honesty in his voice almost made you believe it.

“I have yet to see any of you, though.  It’s a little unfair - don’t you think?”

“Well,” Din started, running his hand over your breast and traveling down to the apex of your thighs.  “I could put on my helmet, and we could remedy that right now.”

“I…” you struggled to respond, old fears suddenly resurfacing unexpectedly.  “I don’t think I can… I’m a little sore… I’m sorry…”

“Flora, no…” he responded immediately to your tone, moving his hands away from your body and instead cupping the side of your face.  “You never have to apologize for that.  I hope I didn’t hurt you.”

The relief you felt in that moment, the confirmation that this man was not like the others, brought you to tears.  You cleared your throat and quickly wiped them from your closed eyelids, praying he didn’t notice.  It wasn’t his fault.

“No, it’s just been a long time,” you replied with a sniff.  “I trust you not to hurt me.  Please know that, Din.”

He observed you for a moment, puzzled by your subtle emotional outburst.  Had others been unkind to you in such intimate encounters?  He’d murder those men if you asked.

“I have another idea if you’re up for it.”

————————————————————

You were perpetually intrigued by this man.

Here you were standing naked in the shower… with an equally naked man… in the pitch black dark of the locked fresher…

And there was no groping… no begging or coercing… no expecting you’d do anything but actually shower with him in the dark.

In fact, despite the banality of it, it was exhilarating to know that he was willing to be so vulnerable with you - more than he’d been with anyone else in many, many years.

You couldn’t see him of course, but he didn’t turn you away when you pressed your body against his in an affectionate embrace - skin on skin.  Maybe it was easier for him this way - easing into it… no pressure to push his limits with this new intimacy.  It must be overstimulating when you normally walk around covered in multiple layers of canvas and metal.

You stayed like that until your skin started to prune.  You really wished this night-turned-morning didn’t have to end.

But alas, Grogu needed to be retrieved, and you had duties to attend to at the greenhouses.

————————————————————

After the armor and helmet went back on, you walked hand in hand to your cabin so that you could change your clothes and share a quick breakfast before heading to Karga’s home in the town center.

Greef winked knowingly at you as he placed Grogu back into his father’s arms and gave Din a little jab in the ribs, whispering to find him later for a chat… ‘about business matters, of course’...

You couldn’t help but wonder if perhaps you’d found more than love and companionship here on this little backwater planet.  

Maybe you’d walked right into an empty place in this little makeshift family… 

————————————————————

"i have one?"

"you know it, go on."

his expression hardens. "you think you can do what i do?" he throws his hands up with all the exasperation of a seasoned professional, "do it. no one can do what i do."

you watch him grin. you watch him say it over and over:

"i'm the homelander. i'm the homelander! i'm the homelander." you take in his tone, its hue shifting from corporate warmth to frustration, "i'm the homelander, and i can do whatever the fuck i want."

a fractured star, shining from all the wrong places.

you remember seeing him on television in the years before. his voice never chafed your frazzled mind the way others did—as if you knew. you didn't let yourself process him as attractive—attraction was never safe—but you did feel yourself soften at the sight of him. a sight for sore, overworked eyes. the only things that bothered you were the cracks; the smallest giveaways that just didn't parse with an inner, consistent goodness.

the only times you felt he was real were when he was angry.

"better?" you ask.

"quite simply," in the mirror, his eyes shift to meet yours, "i did it because it's the right thing to do."

you nod. "you have the full weight of vought behind you, public sympathy. the propaganda machine will not stop spinning, it'll carry you through."

"yeah."

"besides, what kind of prison would they even put you in?"

"right."

"you can go scorched earth on them if you want, any second..."

"right."

"so just take a deep breath. there's nothing to lose."

the breath he takes is more of a hiss—through his teeth. you watch him work through the rest of the speech.

"firefighters are the real heroes. teachers are the custodians of our youth."

did he or the publicist write this? you frown. he praises the typical list of honorable—hazardous, underpaid—jobs like he's throwing meat at a hungry predator. how does that help with justifying murder in broad daylight?

you watched the clips vought had put together... five hundred thousand views in one day, ashley, as ever, smiling through the pain, the corporate orchestral music swirling beneath her words.

you would have done the same if you were there. his kid was your kid. you were perfectly aware of reality, as much as homelander would like you not to be—that starlight had done little wrong and would always suffer for it, putting all of her skin in the game; that ryan was a child of rape and circumstance and sacrifices that he would hate himself for. as much as homelander would like you not to be.

he thought that you living within his four blue walls would be enough to keep your point of view completely under his sway... what an achilles he is, building his own doom—reaching out in prayer to the mirror to tell himself he's perfect, when nothing is more fragile than perfection.

head in your lap, he still confessed it all—the lesson finally sinking in; that being seen and accepted is more nourishing than being admired.

"i liked her. and... and she came onto me, anyway."

"home, you don't have to make excuses."

"...fine. she didn't come onto me. she just stared at me a few times and i thought... i did it. and i liked it. and i still remember the feeling—and i like remembering it, too."

you steeled yourself as you stroked his head.

"i can't tell if you're upset or not," he murmurs, vulnerably, into your thigh.

"i knew you were a monster," you put a stray hair behind his ear, "what's the point in being bothered by that?"

his face was hidden, but you saw the wrinkle crease his forehead. manchild. "that's not an answer." manchild. you stroked his cheek and made him look you in the eye.

it took him a while to understand that what he'd perceived as coldness was merely you. the chopping boards you two grew up on were made of the same wood, the blood stains mirrored, but yours was not abuse that lent itself to petulance or neediness. both were dangerous, and so was your constant composure, your bizarre rationality. he'd always remember how you said it will never make sense for me to hate you, you're my soulmate and how he had to dig i love you from it on his own—how, when he strained under your lack of outward enthusiasm, it felt easier, in split seconds, to just kill you, throw away the thing that hurts—how he finally understood what madelyn tried to mean when she said, you mean everything to me, when he woke up once and you were staring.

him, asleep, the furthest thing from cognizant and useful, was apparently the view for you when new york city was right there, behind the giant window, pulsating enticingly with car lights. how you never pulled your hand away from his—or your mind, when he had nothing but campfire horror stories to tell about himself.

what he thought were twin stars turned out to be two pyres, burning side by side in hell. you, from the start, didn't think there would be anything but pyres.

"if we're getting a reckoning, it should be better," you come up to his side and throw your arm around his waist, "i can't fucking see it getting to us in a courtroom. come on."

"i like no reckoning much better."

"for ryan," you squeeze, knowing he can't feel it, "remember, though, we can't slip up again. keep your cool."

he gets a distant look in his eye. you look little alike. the world has worn you more than him. you wonder what the mirror thinks of you.

the mirror reminisces about the moment you told him, your smile's very plastic, it's lipless. your teeth are very white, and... yeah, right here, in the corners of your eyes... your wrinkles look like melted, crushed plastic.

it was what made marble lose its appeal. marble might be a memorial, a glorified statue, but plastic is what beloved, cradled toys are made of.

Your mind was filled with questions. 

Of course you wondered why a Mandalorian was residing in Nevarro given the recent news that Mandalore had been reclaimed, how he came to garner such respect from the locals, and by what circumstances he became caretaker to such an unusual child…

But more importantly - 

How old was he?  What did he look like?  And was he single?

You’d have to ask one of your coworkers tomorrow what they knew about him - make sure he was neither some young buck nor an elderly man under there… and definitively unattached… before you considered getting to know him with certain intentions in mind.

But as fate would have it, interrogating your colleagues would be unnecessary.

“Flora?”

Oh, that voice.  You’d be dreaming about it tonight.

You whirled around to face the subject of your musings and his tiny ward, trying hard to keep the delighted smile from your face.  Maybe he felt it, too.

“Yes?”

He stood awkwardly, fumbling with his posture as he stumbled a bit with his words, but regardless, he was absolutely resplendent, the Nevarro sunset reflecting beautifully off of his armor.  And the physique which was more obvious as he stood just before you… wow…

“Well, uhhh… Grogu… and I…  If you’re not in a rush, we’d love… uhmmm… like… to show you around…”

Oh, you could sense it clearly now.  He liked you, too.

You’d never felt that you were much to look at, especially as the fine lines settled around your eyes and grays peppered your hair.  But this man was drawn to something about you, nonetheless… and you were not going to turn him down.

You smiled broadly.

“I would love that.”

—-------------------------------------

Din relaxed quite a bit as you walked around the town center together.  He was definitely in his element here.

While he focused more on the practical, showing you where to purchase all of the basic necessities and find the public facilities, Grogu was on a mission to introduce you to the best dining and sweet treats.  He toddled in front of you, pointing you toward each destination as you followed behind, feigning excitement at each and every one.

Din finally turned to you as you slowly meandered toward the open-air cafe under Grogu’s guidance to engage in real conversation.  “Thank you for humoring him,” he said sincerely.  “He’s having the time of his life right now.  I’m not nearly so patient.”

“Oh, it’s my pleasure,” you replied.  “He’s a very sweet child… though I think that blue cookie is probably melting in my pocket.”

Din huffed.  “Sorry about that.  It does wash out - don’t ask me how I know…”

“I can only imagine,” you responded lightly.

“Best if you don’t...” he deadpanned.

You laughed out loud at that, and Din thought it might be the most beautiful sound he’d ever heard.

Nobody ever thought his dry humor was actually funny.  How were you so different?

“Hey,” you said, knocking his shoulder with your own.  “I still feel like I owe you.  Could I cook you dinner?  I love cooking, and opportunities to make a meal for friends are far and few between these days.”

Din should refuse.  He was going to refuse.  How would he keep himself from looking like a fool over an entire evening with you?  And then there was the issue of the helmet…

While he was busy formulating a response to let you down easy, Grogu took the decision out of his hands, jumping directly into your arms without warning and nodding vigorously in the affirmative.

And once Din heard your joyous laugh in response, he couldn’t imagine saying ‘no’.

It didn’t even register that you’d just witnessed Grogu’s force jump…

—---------------------------

In the end, you’d all made your way to Din’s cabin, which was in relatively close proximity to your own, as you remembered that you’d not yet unpacked most of your dishes and utensils.

His place was remarkably modest and simple, though he’d clearly put in an effort to provide the comforts needed for a child.  Grogu’s artwork decorated many of the walls, and you spied a few toys and other knick-knacks on the porch and in the living area.

Din had admitted apologetically as you looked through his meager kitchen cabinets that he wasn’t much of a cook and had a bare minimum of supplies at the ready.

“Not to worry, Din,” you’d reassured him, with a hand to his shoulder.  Gosh, you touched him so easily.  “I can still put together something decent, I’m sure.  And I can teach you a few things, too… if you want…”

Your offer may have been a mistake - except no, it definitely was not.  You nearly died when he came to stand beside you, peeling off his gloves and washing his hands in the kitchen sink.  Gods, what would happen if you ever saw the rest of him?

I’m a grown woman, you reminded yourself as you regained some of your composure, and I can handle a man’s attractive hands.

All in all, it went very well.  Din was so earnest in his desire to learn, probably to provide his child with more satisfying food options, that you couldn’t help but admire his effort even as he fumbled through much of what you were trying to teach him.  It was rather endearing, honestly.

And he finally, truly relaxed, falling into comfortable conversation as you worked.

He told you about his recent involvement in the retaking of Mandalore, why he was here and not there, and about his under-the-radar work with the New Republic, an endeavor at its root meant to serve his good friend and leader of his planet, none other than the Mandalorian princess, Bo-Katan Kryze.  

Maker, this man had a galactic presence - and here you were standing in his kitchen with his child hanging off your leg teaching him how to season grains.

You told him about your own decidely less exciting adventures in agricultural science, too.  For several years, you’d been an academic, teaching and doing research at several of the core universities after earning your doctorate.  But you had longed to be back in the field, doing the hands-on work, and that’s how you found yourself here in Nevarro, leading Greef Karga’s new initiative to promote homegrown agriculture on the arid planet.

Holy kriff, Din thought.  She may be too smart for me.

—-------------------------------------

You waited with baited breath for the moment Din would take off the helmet as you all sat down at the table to eat.  You were dying to know what he looked like.  Thank the Maker you’d been blessed with patience.

Din hesitated for just a breath with one hand grasping the lower edge, like he was thinking it through, before lifting the helmet only just past his chin to take a bite. 

What?

Grogu seemed unbothered - this was apparently typical mealtime behavior.  

Was the helmet a whole thing?  Was he not allowed to remove it?  Hmmm… you’d have to do some research about Mandalorian customs.

No matter - you didn’t really care how he looked.  And anyway, the stubbly beard you’d glimpsed was patched with gray, confirming at least that he was probably age-appropriate.  That was enough for now. 

You pushed those thoughts out of your mind and enjoyed your meal, keeping your eyes averted as much as you could to respect this boundary, even if it didn’t make any sense.

—-------------------------------------

Din noticed right away what you were doing - and it fostered a strange, contradictory feeling.  

He sort of wanted you to look - to see as much of him as he could allow you.  But at the same time… Stars, he was much more comfortable that you weren’t… and it was so much easier to relax and enjoy this very unexpected turn of events knowing that you had some inherent degree of respect for his creed.

In fact, he couldn’t remember such an enjoyable evening as this in the recent… or distant… past.  He could get used to it - but that was definitely putting the cart before the fathier.  Regardless, he really liked you, and it had been a very long time since he’d felt this kind of warm draw toward another person.

But an unexpected turn threatened to pop the little bubble of blissful companionship you’d fostered over the last few hours.

“Oh, what’s this?’

Din watched in slow motion as you noticed the metal gear knob that had been resting on the floor beside your chair and reached down to take it in your hand.  

Turning toward Grogu in no small amount of panic, he meant to warn him not to do the thing he was certainly about to do… right in front of you - a kind stranger… but a stranger still nonetheless.

But it was too late.

The knob flew out of your hand directly into that of his small son’s.

A collective gasp echoed around the table - Grogu as he realized his error, Din in abject panic, and you in delighted wonder.

Din couldn’t breath - this was all going to be over before it had even begun.  And what if you weren’t who you said you were?  

And then your mouth turned up into a smile.  

“I knew it…”

And the knob flew back into your outstretched hand.

—-------------------------------------

it was, hopefully, awe—for once. for how much he brought to the table, to your table, you always seemed so stoic... steady hands to stroke his head at night, and your eyes, ever studying him—and that was the most of it. he wanted you to swoon. you barely swayed.

"are you sure you have time for this?" you squint at him when he lets you down onto the roof of a skyscraper.

"i can have as much time as i want for whatever i want, especially for you," he tilts his head with a grin, but you don't pick up the moves of the dance. he swoons, you don't. it chafes.

if not for the pattering of your heart, he wouldn't even know you felt anything—the wind and the height did faze you if his romantic efforts didn't.

he extends you the roses with a florish. you take them, baffled, and it takes some time for you to string words together. he waits with bated breath...

"they'll... die soon, i... can't." of all the times, now is when you sound distraught.

"you don't have to worry about that. why would you worry about that?"

"they're... they'll wilt, and..." pursing your lips, you look up at him, "i mean, it's a gift from you, how could i... not. want to keep it?"

"that's their point. they make you happy and they die."

your reaction was moving, if nothing else... he watches you consider the flowers, touch them, as if they're something alien. his throat clicks, his smile is nervous:

"i guess i'll do this the hard way. i... what do you want? from me."

you stare.

"what do you want? what makes you tick, what do you like. nothing i ever throw at this... emotionally constipated, no offense, wall that is you, seems to stick."

there is genuine confusion in your eyes when you look down at the flowers, and, slowly, brushing a petal with your finger, say:

"i don't... often want anything." it's as if you realize this as he asks.

"you don't? just... ever?"

you struggle to explain. "it's... more trouble than it's worth. like gambling. like investing into shady ventures."

"wanting?"

"yeah."

he watches you pace the roof.

he never considered it that way—couched in corporate vocabulary... it was somehow comforting, familiar, he could understand.

"and you never wanted to look for your soulmate," he asks, "the thought that he's a supe never excited you? not even the money you could get?"

"i told you, i thought it was a heart condition or something. i also figured that... well, me being me, a supe would want nothing to do with me."

you were right about yourself—it didn't mean that he agreed. you were an ease. the label of a soulmate meant you would never leave—it was an argument you brought up more than once... why would i be scared if you're my soulmate? this is it, we're it. calm down. the certainty, sealed in flesh, in the very physicality of your lives, gave him, if for brief moments of confidence, the space to reflect.

"have you... always been like this? not wanting things?" he says.

"what about you?" you look at him; the question is a gentle invitation, and your gaze is, as always, thoughtful and dedicated to him fully. he blinks:

"i..." an ashamed stammer. he's ashamed to admit—even now—even to you—especially to you—that his whole existence was wanting.

having no wishes—was it strength or weakness? wanting hounded him everywhere he went. every day he wanted, grasped, reached. every wish ended up dissolving in his mouth like cotton candy.

to want nothing, to mind only one's needs, would mean no weaknesses... perfection. divinity.

"i always wanted a m... mother," he finally says it, stumbling on his words. right away you step closer, hand on his shoulder:

"yeah. yeah, i get that. don't feel bad about it, it's natural."

"natural, right, so—you? did you ever want a mother?"

he wants you to say yes—his wishes chuck him back and forth between wanting to be exceptional and normal. didn't the whole soulmate thing mean being mirrors of each other?

you know he wants that—because you love him, by mere fact of him being your soulmate; you figured this is what parents feel when they discover their missing child, the same kind of natural, second-nature affinity—but you can't lie to him. "i didn't."

"why not?"

"well..." you flounder. "i mean, what could it do for me? i can... take care of myself. i don't need a mother. i got the memo pretty quickly."

"how did you teach yourself... that? not to need?"

"i... well, how much did you give to get the things you wanted? mother, father, approval, whatever."

he gave too much to be put into words. all he can do is shake his head. he regrets ever starting this, the hateful vulnerability the conversation brings out of him. "i couldn't... handle it. i was too weak."

as he watches your head lower, thoughts start to spin in his head. if he's weak for wanting and sacrificing to get what he wants, and you're weak for doing neither, both can't be right. his thoughts, the words they come in seem to him malformed, anemic, he does not let them out of his mouth—he simply paces the same way you did earlier.

weak or strong, weak or strong... always black and white, never another shade.

"if you want nothing, you're a god," he says, putting his foot on the ledge for emphasis. "nothing can sway you. there's nothing you can be threatened with."

"i never felt like a god," you walk up to his side and do the same. your silhouette, not framed by golden eagles or the flourish of a cape, is much less imposing. "did you?"

"i... there were moments. moments, when... everything was just right, and i was adored, and everything went perfectly."

"only then?"

"i can kill whoever the fuck i want at any time. isn't that what god does?"

"gods never have to prove they're gods... they're divine whether you believe in them or not." she sighed, "this is related in an unrelated way... have you ever hated being a man?"

he never thought of it that way. "why would i?"

"i hated being a woman. and at the same time, i felt it was the most convenient position. you know... the position of greatest weakness from which you can gather your strength quietly. you're beaten down... so no one cares if you walk away. you're the least interesting prey."

that was really backwards logic. "you're strong—when you are beaten down?.."

fumbling again, you chuckle and shrug. "i... i don't know what else to do. when you're a man, you have to prove your strength, don't you? being a supe didn't keep you from that."

Din was shocked and rightfully nervous.  Did you have an ulterior motive for being in his home right now?

You let out a relieved exhale as Grogu chirped, suddenly breaking the tension as Din turned his helmet toward his son.  More hand gestures - apparently this was how the non-verbal child communicated.  You wished you could understand.

“Okay,” Din replied firmly, nodding once toward the child who nodded back in a knowing and strangely mature manner.

And now the visor was back again on you.  Gods, you were a little bit terrified.

“Are you a jedi?”

The absurdity of the question made you forget your terror altogether.

“What?!” you snorted, huffing out a laugh.  “Of course not!”

“You have force powers…”

You shook your head in disbelief - how could the guardian of a force-sensitive child have such a simplistic understanding?  “Having force sensitivity does not make a person a jedi.  I can move small objects over short distances and occasionally sense strong emotions in others… and that’s it…  I don’t think the jedi even exist anymore.”

Din tipped his helmet toward Grogu.  “He was one.  And I’ve met others.”

Your face scrunched up in confusion as you questioned, “How old is he?”

“Fifty-something.”

“Oh,” you replied rather dumbly.  This was not at all how you imagined your evening going when you offered dinner.  “I… I won’t tell anyone… if you’re worried about that.”

“It’s not a secret,” Din stated.  “But still, I prefer if fewer people know outside of our tribe.  His powers are very strong.  The empire once hunted him.”

“I swear I would never…” “I know,” Din replied.  “Grogu says that he trusts you.  And I trust him.”

“Okay...” you sighed out, relieved.  Could this day get any stranger?  “I think I need a drink.  Do you need a drink?”

—-------------------------------------

Unfortunately, Din did not have alcohol at the ready, admitting he rarely partook, and you had left the spotchka that Karga had very dramatically gifted to you this morning at your desk in the mad rush to find a restroom at the end of the day.

And so the little loaf of bread and some blue butter would have to suffice.  Later, you’d be grateful that your head was clear for this conversation.  There was certainly a lot to talk about.

To Din’s great chagrin and amusement, you essentially commandeered his living room, setting yourself on his small couch and patting the seat next to you, demanding he sit down and quite literally tell you everything.

So against his own nature, he did - every last detail, from taking Grogu’s bounty to his adoption on the newly reclaimed Mandalore.

You were riveted - what a complicated man… with an extraordinary child.

Din, who generally found conversing at all rather difficult, surprised himself with all that he was revealing to you.  Your electric presence seemed to loosen his tongue… 

Or was this part of your magic?  Making others feel secure enough to reveal all of their secrets?

No, he preferred the former - even he, in all of his emotional constipation, could clearly feel the spark flickering between you.

And how you could listen to this entire story and not judge him for his immoral ways… he almost felt undeserving of your company.  

But you were smart, and you were still here, so who was he to question it?

————————————————————

Somewhere along the way, Grogu fell asleep, and Din reluctantly excused himself to bring the small child to his own room before settling himself next to you again.

And with Grogu now safely put away, the mood shifted - to that of two adults in the throes of attraction taking some time to actually get to know each other.

Your conversation remained innocent, talking of your lives, teaching Din a bit about the force, learning of his creed… but your actions were decidedly not.

You turned your entire body toward him, leaned into him, touched him…

Din was buzzing from the top of his head down to the tips of his toes.  Your touch was stimulating in all of the right ways, but he had no kriffing clue what to do about it.  He’d never done anything like this before - no prior experience to inform how to properly and respectfully touch you in return.

And he wasn’t really ready, anyway, if he was being honest, for anything to actually happen here tonight.

But he also had no desire for this to end.

————————————————————

You couldn’t help the tingles of the force that told you of the emotional states of others, but you did, as a general rule, try to force it to the back of your mind.  To do otherwise would feel like a violation.

But you didn’t need the force to tell you that Din was enjoying your admittedly mild advances.  With each friendly pat on the knee and gentle lean into his shoulder, he further relaxed, allowing a contented sigh to escape every now and then.

You wished he would touch you, but baby steps - clearly this was an unfamiliar experience for him.  However, you did not get hit with any negative projections on his part at any point in this interaction, bolstering your desire to go on despite your increasing drowsiness at the late hour.

A mistake was made, though, as exhaustion began to chip away at your inhibitions.  

In a foolish moment, when you’d laughed delightedly at another of his genius one-liners, spoken in that monotone that was just so him you were starting to realize, you swung your body around to playfully straddle his lap as you lightly slapped at his chest plate.

Din’s sharp intake of breath betrayed his excitement at this sudden action… but you certainly didn’t miss the way his body went rigid with discomfort before forcing himself to relax.

He was getting overwhelmed.  

The force whispers you’d been trying to ignore throughout the evening out of respect for his privacy were now screaming at you to pull things back.

“I’m sorry, Din,” you started, pulling off his lap and facing him instead safely from your own cushion.  “That was a little too familiar, wasn’t it?”

He cleared his throat, a little embarrassed at his inexperience.

“It’s okay.  I’m just… I haven’t really… I’m not used to it.”  Maker, he sounded like some virginal teenage boy right now.

But of course you wouldn’t let this night end in his humiliation.

“I understand.  Adult companionship hasn’t really been a priority for me, either.  So I might be a bit overly eager…”

He shook his head.  “No.  It’s fine, Flora.  I’m just not accustomed to it.  The beskar usually scares people off.”

You smiled that lovely smile of yours.  “It doesn’t scare me.”

“I’ve noticed,” Din huffed good-naturedly.  “And I’ve really enjoyed this.  I just need to… slow down a little…”

“I can do that.”  You grinned sleepily and laid your head on his armored shoulder, wrapping your hands around his arm.  “Is this okay?”

“Yeah,” he replied tiredly.  Maybe he could just close his eyes for a moment and enjoy this companionship a minute longer before offering to walk you home.

————————————————————

You awoke with a start, completely disoriented.  It took only a glance at the armored forehead pressed up against your own to recall the previous enjoyable evening, apparently ending in you both nodding off to sleep.

You took stock of your situation.

For all of his reluctance to touch you last night, Din’s hands seemed to wander freely in sleep.  Your bodies were tangled together on the small couch, one of your legs even slung over his hips and his hand resting firmly on your buttocks.

Well, well.  It had been a good decade since you’d awoken next to a man.  But at least this time you had all of your clothes on and not one ounce of shame.  How nice it was to enjoy intimacy with another person and for once not have any other expectations hanging over your head.  You hadn’t thought such a thing was possible.

But what to do now?  If you woke Din, you were quite certain he’d be an embarrassed and apologetic mess given his awkwardness with even the most innocent physical contact yesterday.

So instead, you gently extricated yourself, resolving to head home for a change of clothes and come back with fresh caf and that book about force basics you’d promised to loan him.

Oh, the butterflies… You really didn’t think you’d ever experience this again.  What a wonderful start to your new life here in Nevarro.

————————————————————