the pit of despair

The corridors of the palace were cold, the stone walls echoing your soft footsteps as you approached the hidden chamber. The servants spoke in hushed tones of a “visitor” gone missing, but no one dared say more. You knew. You had known the moment you heard the rumors—the man who had come to negotiate peace, who carried the weight of the Republic on his shoulders, was being broken.

And that he could not survive without you.

Through the small barred window of the cell, his form was slumped, shivering.

Obi-Wan Kenobi.

The Jedi, the negotiator, the one man whose voice could make even the cruelest lords hesitate. His hair was matted, his uniform torn, and his blue eyes, when they met yours, were haunted but alive.

“Please, your Highness…” His voice cracked, and it was all you could do not to rush to him, to take his hand and shield him from the world. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“I couldn’t stay away,” you whispered, your hands trembling as you fumbled with the lock. “Not when you’re like this.”

A sharp intake of breath. Pain, but also something else—a flicker of hope. He reached toward you, a tentative, desperate gesture, and you felt the weight of your own life pressing against the bars of the prison. Freedom and danger intertwined in that fragile space, binding you to him as surely as chains bound his wrists.

You do not delude yourself into thinking there is a safe way to do this.

Obi‑Wan cannot stand.

That truth settles in your chest like lead the moment you kneel beside him again. His breathing is shallow, uneven, his body fever-warm beneath your hands. When you try to lift him, even carefully, his weight collapses forward—boneless, unresisting. He murmurs something incoherent, a fractured apology that makes your throat burn.

There is no walking him out.

Which means deception is your only weapon.

You leave the dungeon with blood on your cuffs and resolve in your spine, and you do not go alone. You summon them quietly, one by one, under the pretense of a late-night prayer gathering—your handmaidens, the aging quartermaster who once smuggled medicine into your rooms after one of your husband’s rages, two guards who avert their eyes when the lord’s temper turns cruel. People who have seen you endure. People who have loved you for your gentleness, not exploited it.

They listen. They do not interrupt.

When you finish, the silence is absolute.

Finally, Elira—your first handmaiden, who has braided your hair since you were sixteen—steps forward. Her hands shake, but her voice does not.

“You will not survive him much longer,” she says simply. “Nor will the Jedi.”

Another nods. Another swallows hard and agrees.

No one asks what happens to them if this fails.

They already know.

The plan is obscene in its audacity.

You will run.

At least, that is what your husband will believe.

Elira will wear your traveling cloak, your signet ring, your veil. She will take the fastest diplomatic vessel—the one always kept prepared for you but never meant to be used. She will leave loudly, publicly, at dawn. There will be shouting. Orders barked. Your husband’s fury will consume him whole. He will chase the insult. The betrayal. The humiliation.

While his attention burns elsewhere, the dungeons will be momentarily forgotten.

That is when you move.

They drug Obi‑Wan lightly—enough to dull the pain, not enough to stop his breathing. He slips into unconsciousness with a faint sound that nearly breaks you. You help lift him, your arms trembling as you bear his weight alongside two guards who pretend not to see the tears on your face.

He is so light. Too light for a man who carries so much.

Every corridor feels endless. Every shadow feels like accusation. You expect at any moment to hear your husband’s voice, sharp and cruel, calling your name like a summons or a threat. But the palace holds its breath. Even the walls seem complicit.

At the hangar, the second ship waits—unmarked, older, forgotten by anyone who values appearances over survival. The ramp is cold beneath your hands as you guide his body aboard, murmuring apologies you are not sure he can hear.

When the engines finally hum to life, your knees nearly give out.

You do not watch Elira’s ship depart. You cannot. You focus instead on Obi‑Wan’s chest rising and falling, on the fragile proof that you have not failed—not yet.

By the time your husband understands that the ship tearing through the dawn sky does not carry you, you are already gone.

The palace erupts behind you in fury you cannot hear but somehow feel, like a pressure wave through bone and blood. Orders are shouted. Accusations fly. The lie unravels quickly—too quickly—and when it does, he does what he has always done when denied control.

He punishes.

You do not see it, but you know it as surely as if you stood in the hall yourself.

They are dragged from their posts. From their beds. From prayers half-finished and breakfast tables still warm. There is no trial. No need for one. Loyalty to you is treason to him. Love is rebellion. Mercy is weakness.

He orders them killed not because it is necessary—but because it hurts.

And because it will follow you.

The automated cargo ship breaks free of the planet’s atmosphere with a low, mechanical groan, stars stretching into streaks as the engines engage. The transition is rough. The lights flicker. The hum settles into something steady and merciless.

Only then do you allow yourself to collapse.

You sit on the cold deck beside the stretcher, one hand gripping the edge as if the ship itself might throw you back to him. Obi‑Wan lies motionless, pale against the stark fabric, bandaged and bruised and breathing only because you refused to let him die in a hole beneath a palace that pretended to be civilized.

You press your forehead to the side of the stretcher.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper again, the words torn and useless. “I signed their names away. I knew what he would do. I knew.”

Your shoulders shake, grief finally breaking through the discipline you have lived under for years. The tears come hard and fast, silent but relentless, falling onto the metal floor and the edge of Obi‑Wan’s sleeve.

They loved you.

That is the cruelty of it. Not obedience. Not fear. Love. They believed you deserved a life that did not end in bruises hidden beneath silk, in a smile worn like armor. They believed in the quiet strength you were never allowed to show.

And you repaid them with death.

The ship clears the last pull of gravity. The planet shrinks into something distant and indifferent, blue and green and utterly unconcerned with the blood spilled in its name. You feel something inside you sever as cleanly as a cut wire.

There is no going back.

No forgiveness waiting behind you.

Only forward—into exile, into danger, into a future built on bones and necessity.

You reach out and take Obi‑Wan’s hand, his fingers slack and warm in yours.

“You were the only chance,” you tell him, voice breaking. “For me. For them. I just didn’t know the cost would be this high.”

He does not answer.

But he lives.

And for now, that has to be enough to justify the unbearable weight settling into your chest—the knowledge that you escaped… and left ghosts in your wake.

If only you didn’t get him so worked up. Sometimes he’ll let himself glance down your blouse, and once he dropped a file to watch you bend and pick it up. He’s not proud of it, but he thinks about the swell of your ass every time he jacks off.

When it really gets bad, there’s a call girl he knows who will pretend to be a virgin. With her, he’s as selfish as he wants - bending her over and pushing all the way in, and fuck, he’d love to take you like that, to show you what you do to him. He’d ruin your tight pussy for any other man.

The only way he’s actually going to fuck you is if you beg for it. And I think you have play to his ego. You have to tell him nobody’s ever made you cum before, that you need him to show you what it’s supposed to feel like.

He agrees to help you, but emphasizes a hundred times that you can’t get attached. It starts off slow, he’s watching you touch yourself and giving instructions, and works up to him finally fucking you. But it’s not like it was with his call girl. He finds himself remembering it all the time, especially this one moment when you flipped him over, acting on instinct, and got yourself off grinding on his cock. You held his eyes when you did it, and it made him feel strange, someplace deep in his chest.

You had told him, of course, that such splendor was unnecessary, that a small supper with the family would have more than sufficed. Yet Baelor delighted in spoiling you, for you were the finest blessing he had been granted in a lot of time.

Whenever Ser Duncan the Tall found himself in your presence, he devoted most of his time to watch you from afar—seeing you laugh beside Baelor, play with Egg, or even speak comfortably with Prince Aerion. Your presence was nothing short of glorious, a magnet for eyes and devotion wherever you went. Your nature was exquisite—kind, gentle, and so unbearably sweet that at times Dunk thought you could scarce be of the same blood as the rest of them. 

And your beauty… that was another matter entirely. You were the loveliest sight the humble eyes of a hedge knight had ever beheld. Your form was wondrous, your face celestial, your long hair falling over your shoulders like a silken cascade, and your smile... it stole the very breath from his chest every time. Each time you entered his sight, a sigh would just escape out of him, soft and helpless, like a boy hopelessly in love.

“Do not even think it, Dunk,” Egg warns him, as he had more than once before, quick to notice the besotted look upon his big friend’s face as they sat together at the table. “That's out of your power to reach, Ser.”

But Dunk does not answer. He is far too intent upon you as you appear in the great hall’s doorway. 

Today you wear a gown of red, dazzling, adorned with pearls and white embroidery that spreads across your bodice, climbs your shoulders, and trails down the length of your spine, where darker crimson stitching forms the likeness of dragon scales. Your hair lies loose down your back, softly waved, gleaming in the candlelight.

All rise at your entrance.

Dunk is the last. He nearly stumbles over his chair in his haste, its legs scraping loudly against the stone floor as he shoves it back. That alone—and you—turn him red as a summer apple.

Valarr, seated at his other side, watches his brutish motion with poorly hidden amusement.

“My love,” Baelor calls first, his face gentle as drifting clouds, fondness curving his lips as he comes to greet you properly. “Happy name day.”

You accept his embrace, smiling as he presses a tender kiss to your hair.

After him, the others come in turn, forming a line to offer their wishes, their thanks, their gifts—small tokens and letters placed into your hands.

Egg flings himself into your arms, making you laugh and sway back a step beneath the force of him. Baelor, standing close at your side, smiles at the sight. Ever tender are you with the younglings, and for that, he loves you all the more. You shower his children with a devotion so maternal and steadfast that one would never guess they did not spring from your own womb.

“Thank you, my sweet Aegon,” you tell him, stroking the fine, pale silver-gold hair already sprouting upon his head. The boy had even brought you a flower—one of those you cherished most, a silent token of his affection.

Duncan feels painfully out of place when his turn comes. Standing empty-handed while his stomach twists into a tight, miserable knot.

He is already flushed when you lift your gaze to him, your eyes sparkling with amusement at the familiar effect you have upon him—his trembling hands, his stammer, his shy smiles. He's so cute!

“Ser Duncan. I hope you would be here,” you greet him warmly, you know well the bond he shares with Aegon; to have him present is a comfort to your heart. “Aegon speaks wonders of you. It does not surprise me to see you have become each other's shadow.”

“My lady,” Dunk answers you, his voice no louder than a mouse’s squeak. His gaze, much against his better judgment, betrays him, making a swift, helpless journey over the length of your body.

And Baelor notices, of course; his smile fades, slow and certain, as he watches the knight’s every movement like a hawk perched upon your shoulder. A single brow lifts slightly, and a deep, thoughtful furrow begins to cloud his brow.

Duncan clears his throat and casts your husband an apologetic glance before daring to look at you again. “I— I beg your pardon. I would not wish to be an intrusion upon your name day. Your father was kind enough to grant me to attend.”

The hall falls into sepulchral silence. The small conversations that bloom among the Targaryens die at once when Dunk’s words echo through the great chamber, their meaning plain, their offense unmistakable and unashamed. Even the youngest cease their play, and the servants stand frozen right where they are.

All turn to stare at Duncan now, and they look upon him with mortified eyes, as though none dare breathe.

Somewhere, someone fails to smother a laugh—most likely Aerion.

Egg’s mouth falls open in mortification. He looks up at his friend, his expression stricken, willing him to understand—to see—that what he has just said is wrong. Very wrong.

Duncan looks down at him when his small squire gives his shin a furtive kick, meant to draw his notice without the others seeing. He frowns, bewildered, not understanding what offense he has given now to deserve such a blow.

And when he looks back to the grown folk, he finds you watching him with an expression poised in perfect balance between horror and amusement. There is even the faintest hint of a smile at the corner of your lips, one you must press away when you turn your head toward your prince.

Baelor does not look pleased as you do.

His face is uncommonly stern, his brow drawn tight, his lips pressed into a hard, unforgiving line, he is trying to gather every shred of his restraint to keep from striking the foolish knight upon your name day.

“She is my wife, Ser Duncan,” he clarifies, his patience stretched thin, drawn so taut it borders upon offense. His hand comes to curl around your waist as you lean into him, lifting one hand to his chest in quiet reassurance.

You are still trying to hide that treacherous, amused smile.

“Oh—Seven—” Dunk breathes, realization striking him at last. He drops at once to his knees, bowing his head in reverence and shame. “I beg your forgiveness, Your Grace. I—I did not know. My manners are poor—you must understand, I never m–meant offense.”

“Of course not, Ser,” you reply kindly, looking down at him, still leaning against your husband’s chest. He lets out a soft sigh beneath your touch, your hand rising and falling with the steady motion of his breath.

Baelor makes a sharp, dismissive gesture for him to rise. “See that it does not happen again.”

“Of course!” Dunk scrambles to his feet at once, his face burning red with shame. “I only meant that she is so young and beautiful, and you—”

His frantic blue eyes fall upon Valarr, standing just behind his father. The prince shakes his head swiftly, his mismatched eyes widening in urgent warning, bidding him to hold his tongue.

Dunk obeys at once and his jaw snaps shut so hard it almost snaps apart.

“You witless boy,” Maekar rebukes him, his face twisted with disgust and disdain when the hedge knight dares glance his way, standing at your side like some old, ill-tempered hound. “That should cost you your fucking tongue.”

Your soft laughter breaks through the tension of the moment, and all turn to look at you, the heavy air easing when they all realize this offends you not half so deeply as it does them.

“I am certain Ser Duncan meant no malice, Maekar,” you say, seeking to soothe them—most of all your husband. “And I should not like to see any tongues torn out upon my name day, please.”

Baelor’s gaze remains fixed upon the mortified knight, his hand coming to rest upon the pommel of his sword—a blade he carries in quiet defiance of your pleas to remain unarmed this day. He thinks, perhaps, that he shall have a use for it against Ser Duncan.

“... shall we eat at last, then?” Comes Daeron’s unmistakable voice from somewhere within the hall. “I am hungry. And thirsty.”

“Of that, none have any doubt,” Maekar mutters, rolling his eyes as he returns to the table.

The others follow in his wake, granting you and your husband a moment alone.

Ser Duncan gives you another quick, apologetic bow before hastening out from beneath your husband’s gaze.

You cannot hold it any longer.

A breath of laughter escapes you, soft and bright, and you turn in Baelor’s arms to face him fully. 

He is still watching the place where Duncan stood, his jaw tight, his shoulders rigid beneath your touch, as if the insult lingers in the air like a foul smell.

Your fingers curl more firmly into the front of his doublet to call for his attention.

“My prince,” you whisper with a smile when his two-toned eyes finally meet yours. “My heart...”

You rise onto your toes and press a gentle kiss to his cheek, his beard tickling against your skin. His body noticeably softens beneath your warm affection.

Another kiss follows, softer still, at the corner of his mouth.

And one more, sweet and lingering, upon his lips.

“Peace,” you plead humorously against his mouth, your fingers toying idly with the Hand of the King’s badge on his chest. “You look as though you mean to challenge the poor knight to single combat over a slip of the tongue, my love.”

“I am not amused,” he manifests, his tone remarkably sullen, yet you press another loving kiss to his lips to chase away his pettish little pout.

“No?” You lean closer, your voice drops into something more playful and teasing, “is it because he thinks you're old, husband?”

His lips tremble at your words, holding back an ironic smile, and his hands tighten at your waist, pulling you closer against him.

Baelor clicks his tongue, and your gaze falls to his lips as he does. “I am not old.”

“Well, considering my own age... truthfully, you are a bit older,” you continue to tease him, biting back a small laugh at his startled reaction. “Should I begin calling you father now, hm?”

His beautiful eyes narrow.

You grin—and steal another quick kiss before he can protest.

“Do not push your luck, wife,” he warns all the same, a playful little smile curving his lips. His hand slides down to the small of your back before he delivers a sharp, scolding swat to your backside, making you jolt lightly against him.

His brow arches slightly. “You are the only one left breathless and trembling like some frail, ancient little thing. Or must I remind you how you clung to me the other night and begged me to—?”

Your hand flies to his mouth, covering it before he can utter another word.

“My prince,” you hiss under your breath, though laughter trembles in your voice, your eyes wide with scandalized amusement. “You grow bold. We are in a hall full of eyes, and your sons sit but a stone's throw away.”

His lips move against your palm, pressing a lingering, heated kiss there that sends a shiver down your spine. Baelor gently pulls your hand away, though he does not let go of your fingers, his thumb stroking your knuckles with a slow, possessive rhythm, grazing your betrothal ring.

“Let them look,” he dismisses, leaning into you to kiss your lips properly, claiming them. And claiming you.

Ever since Baelor Targaryen had wed the young, sweet, insatiably cunning thing with silver hair—blood of his own blood—he surmised he’d need to keep an eye on the time of month if he knew what was good for him.

He didn’t want a son. He scarcely had any desire to ascend the Iron Throne himself, and yet he was bombarded, always, with admonitions, queries, downright pleas to procreate. To produce an heir.

Because of this reality, it wasn’t lost on the man in the slightest why he had been promptly paired off with you

Another inch gliding inside of wet and slippery perfection, and his whole body seemed to shake. Your cunt sucked at him delectably, temptingly, and it was getting harder and harder to keep the need at bay.

“Seven hells,” he cursed, just as his balls kissed the globes of your ass, and he was completely sheathed.

You’d offered him head after that trial at the Tourney of Ashford, if one could believe it. You’d welcomed him home that night with a hug and a kiss, marveling the multitude of bumps and bruises and lacerations he’d sustained in the fight, and then, just as fast, fallen to your knees. It had only taken four or five bobs of your mouth and a couple more kitten licks up his shaft before Baelor had lifted you and thrown you on the bed

And here he was, again, exactly where he’d promised himself he’d never be the week you were ovulating.

“Baelor,” you whined, canting your hips upward to make the slide of his cock that much more maddening and deep. You threaded your fingers through the short gray hairs at the nape of his neck, and when he hadn’t answered you in words, you said, even louder, “Uncle.”

“Hush, my dear,” Baelor implored. Another clench of your velvety heat, and his hips were stuttering again. “Y-You know I am not ‘Uncle’ when I sink this far ins—”

One more fluttering pulse. One more helpless grunt from him. Particulars about when his niece should and shouldn’t say ‘uncle’ were shortly lost to the ether.

You were much too young to be a mother. He was too old to be raising any child alongside you—it was wrong.

The bed creaked and groaned some more beneath you both, while your legs wrapped tight around the backs of his, and his cock plunged repeatedly in and out, in and out. He could feel your essence drooling from the place he had you plugged, and he hated how dearly he loved the feeling of it smearing his skin. Matting the wiry hairs at the base of his abdomen and making him feel, more than any measly Trial of Seven or other bloodshed event he had yet lived to see, like he belonged. Like he were born to serve a purpose.

He couldn’t be so selfish as to do it, though.

Wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong.

The words hummed through his skull like a broken refrain, and when, at length, your back arched from the bed and your whimpers grew higher and higher in pitch, Baelor took comfort in the fact that you were close—that very soon, all of this would be over with.

“I— I—” you fumbled around for words, eyes rolling back as the wet smack of skin suddenly increased.

“Shh, shhh, that’s a good girl. I know it,” Baelor assuaged you gently. Pressing the tip of his cock to that sweet and special spot he knew would send you careening over the edge and into bliss in no time at all.

His thrusts were quick but as tender as ever; in just these few short months of marriage, the old man had come to learn your body like the back of his hand. He could tell by the way your nose scrunched presently that it wouldn’t be long before you reached your peak, and then his tight, hot, needy, greedy little minx of a wife would be satisfied. At least until the break of day.

“It’s alright, darling. You can let go. Go on then. Come.”

He plunged in to the hilt once again, and you shrieked.

“Baelor.”

“Come for me.”

Nails the shape of crescents clawed deep within his skin, and he could feel you. Squeezing him. Swelling.

“Baelor.”

“Darling, please—”

“I— I— I thought— I thought I’d lost you tonight.”

The words came out in a slurred, frenzied rush. Rather than hitting your high, like he’d hoped, you were releasing something else entirely: a feeling. Fear.

Or terror, as it happened to be.

Eyes widening out of panic, as opposed to the aftershocks of orgasm, startled Baelor abruptly.

Before he could even think: “What do you mean?”

“The Trial of Seven—I could not bear to watch it. I was certain you would be maimed, or—or, oh, I can’t say it!”

“That I might die?”

His movements slowed but didn’t stall entirely. He was still holding you, or cradling you, as it were, and your body was splayed with such abandon. You spread yourself to him but remained glued to his body like a second skin. Baelor only ever knew you to behave this way when he took you to bed. Every other hour of the day, you were as fiercely independent as one could be.

“You never told me—” he started delicately.

“I’d be left with nothing,” you went on, in almost a sob. “If you…passed, I’d have nothing to remember you by.”

As if on cue, he felt his cock twitch. Stiff as a fucking rock and planted halfway inside your heat, he felt a pull like he never had before. Baelor swallowed the thought as fast as it came and resumed his ministrations then, this time reaching down to thumb circles on your clit.

“You’d have memories aplenty, wife, would you not?” He tried schooling his features into something like unaffected complaisance, but the effort was largely in vain. His length was still throbbing with sick ideas.

“And what sort of company should memories be to me?” you huffed. Your own expression seemed bent on petulance for the time being, but your resolve was evidently waning. With the friction of those little shapes, your inner muscles tightened and clenched.

Fighting off orgasm anyway, you managed, quietly, “No, I— I wished I had had a part of you in my belly.”

That made Baelor halt in place.

Cock stretching you very nearly to your body’s limits—he was an abnormally large man, and you had only just learned to accommodate a girth of that size on your wedding night—he froze, as did the pace of his hand.

He spoke your name in a low and warning tone.

You rolled your eyes, as you were often wont to do.

“Don’t speak to me as though I’m naïve, uncle. I understand the purpose of this union as well as you!”

“To strengthen the repute of our House—”

“To preserve our bloodline!” you snapped. Digging your heels into his calves while a soft and strangled breath crawled its way out of your lungs. “Which we…cannot accomplish so long as you withdraw and spill your seed over my stomach or down my throat each night.”

Baelor was taken back by the frankness of your speech; indeed, he’d never heard his niece so uninhibited when it came to the subject of childbearing. You looked as austere as ever.

“If I ever lose you in combat someday…” you went on.

Then you swallowed and blinked harder, and Baelor could hear his heart splintering at the sight of it alone.

“If I could have just something to keep of us—”

While you spoke, Baelor sank in. Resumed.

He stroked your cheek, shaking his head.

“You won’t lose me. I swear by the old gods and new.”

That seemed about as good of a promise as any one man could make. Though no day was guaranteed for the prince of the realm, and there very well might be a time when his life hung in the balance, he could give that assurance: come what may, you wouldn’t lose him

At the same time, your body drew him closer to yours.

Now the warmth between your legs had risen to a near-conflagration, and that sweet, wet, precious tunnel of muscle and quivering flesh pulled at his cock taut as anything. He’d never felt such need, or heat, in his life, and the light that flared in your eyes reminded him just who you were, and where he came from, too.

It’d be a shame to leave this world without a namesake

Pity to rot away into the cold and hardened dirt without having left his mark in some way, with you.

Now to fuse a piece of himself inside your womb and see family grow from it: children with your silver hair and fiery gaze, all sunny and strong and steadfast, too.

The thought consumed him to the point of paralysis—at least in his mind, he was rooted in awe of that idea.

It happened before he meant it to.

Crashing his hips to your own in a kind of desperate, frenetic movement and then letting out a full-throated groan, he emptied himself completely inside you. He felt rope after rope spit from his hot, aching tip with every pulse of his cock, and he didn’t regret a drop.

What he could, and did, lament was how fast it came. Had you gotten the chance to hit climax yet yourself?

The answer to that followed from your cry in almost the same second—lips parting, legs trembling, body convulsing, momentarily, before your eyes flitted up.

You seemed almost incredulous of what you’d just felt flooding your insides as your orgasm washed over you. A little frightened, perhaps, to think your husband had only done this by accident and didn’t want the same things as you. The only way Baelor could think to put a stop to those thoughts, and savor the present moment, was to kiss you. So he did, tenderly.

When your body relaxed, so did his own.

His tongue traced every contour and crevice of your mouth, and in no time, the man had procured solace once more with the simple undulation. You kissed him back with all the force of a woman starved, lips needy.

Only now, it seemed, the wanting wasn’t just physical.

Primal seemed more fitting a word as limbs tangled even tighter together, mouths clashed, and hands reached everywhere, anyplace they possibly could. Baelor remained buried inside you, stuffing you full.

And when the two of you had had to part, eventually, after several dozen eternities that still couldn’t have lasted quite long enough, he beamed down at you.

With a newfound feeling and an unmistakable heat beginning to trickle down your thighs, you smiled back.

“You can’t possibly intend to sleep on the floor,” he said, voice a precise mixture of incredulity and faint reproach, as though you’d committed some minor heresy.

You shot him a look over your shoulder. “And you can’t possibly expect me to cram into that tiny bed while you roll around like a stormtrooper on leave.”

“The bed is ample enough,” he countered, raising an eyebrow so sharply it could have cut glass. “Certainly more comfortable than—”

“—the floor, yes, yes, I know,” you interrupted, crossing your arms over your chest and curling your legs up instinctively. “Comfort doesn’t mean crowding, Obi-Wan. I value my limbs intact.”

He sighed, pacing slightly, hands behind his back. “You are remarkably obstinate when it comes to comfort.”

“And you’re remarkably stubborn about doing what makes sense,” you shot back, trying not to notice the warmth in your cheeks as he stared at you with that impossible mix of exasperation and something else—something softer that made your stomach twist uncomfortably.

Obi-Wan paused, weighing the argument in his mind. “Very well,” he said finally, almost grudgingly. “If you insist, I will… allow it. But only because I am generous, not because the floor is an acceptable sleeping arrangement.”

You allowed a triumphant little grin, tugging your blanket tighter around you. “Generous, huh? I’ll remember that when I wake up without a crick in my neck.”

He muttered something about proper Jedi rest, but eventually retreated to the bed, leaving the floor to you. You rolled onto your side, pulling your knees up slightly, letting exhaustion pull your thoughts under.

Hours passed. The station’s hum became a lullaby, your breathing deepening. And then, somewhere in the night, you stirred.

Warmth pressed against your back in a way that made your heart stutter. Not the warmth of the blanket, but of Obi-Wan himself. His chest was pressed lightly against you, one arm draped over your side as if you were somehow both fragile and necessary all at once.

Your eyes snapped open. You froze, heart hammering. The floor didn’t feel cold anymore—it felt impossibly intimate. His steady, calm breathing contrasted sharply with your own rapid pulse, making your cheeks burn.

“Obi-Wan…” you whispered, though the word felt entirely too loud in the quiet of the room.

He shifted slightly, as if acknowledging your presence without fully admitting why he was there. “Hmm?” came the soft, drowsy reply, still warm against you.

You swallowed hard, heat creeping into your chest and neck. “You… you’re on the floor,” you managed, though the words sounded ridiculous even to yourself.

“I could say the same about you,” he murmured, voice low and careful, like he was testing boundaries as much as you were. And then just like that he went back to sleep, as if nothing was happening.

You wanted to squirm away, wanted to insist on proper space and propriety—but some part of you, the part that had always admired Obi-Wan’s patience and strength, wanted to stay exactly where you were. Your blush deepened as the thought lingered.

Anakin shifts where he's sitting, and another Padawan looks over at you with a curious expression.

"I mean, did you have a—disagreement or a fight? He talked about you the other day and then he kind of seemed annoyed. I don't know how to describe it."

You blink, trying to think, and to do so quickly. Really, you should have known that your stupid crush would lead to something like this. What were you thinking, asking Master Kenobi if he wanted to go to a diner with you one day?

"A fight? No, I just, um. I think I asked him a stupid question after class one day, and maybe he remembered and, you know." You let the sentence hang in the air, but Anakin doesn't press you.

"Good," he simply says, and with that, the conversation is over for him.

You duck your head, feeling yourself blush violently.

***

Later, on your way to your rooms, you don't watch where you're going for one moment, but that one moment is enough.

"Why the hurry?"

"Master Kenobi," you say respectfully, hoping against hope that he doesn't notice the slight tremble in your voice. He sounds amused, though. You look up; the first mistake of the afternoon.

He's not that much taller than you, but somehow always seems to find a way to make you feel small underneath his gaze.

"About your question from the other day," he says, and you feel your ears burn. Did he overhear your conversation with Anakin? But how could he have? "I think I finally found the right text to help you. Would you mind taking a look at it?"

"Right now?"

"Right now. If it's not inconvenient for you, of course."

You shake your head, but even that small gesture requires more strength than usually. Remembering your shyness as you asked him out (because now you can admit that that was what you did: there was nothing casual about it), you wonder what he has in mind right now. He can't punish you, at least you don't think so. You're not his Padawan; but oh how you would like to be. Then he could take you out to eat whenever he or you wanted. You'd always get the best results, score highest amongst your peers. At the same time, you'd remain cool, as if this was nothing to you. As if you wouldn't start to glow the moment he laid his eyes on you, fixed you with an approving look that says, Look at my Padawan. I'm so, so proud of her.

"It's not," you say, and this time, your voice is steadier. You watch as his face changes from slight disbelief to surprise, and then a smile takes over: all teeth.

***

The door closes behind you with what sounds like finality, but you don't really pay attention. He motions for you to sit down at a little table, but you go straight for one of the settees, which are artfully arranged in one corner of his rooms. You breathe in deeply but try to make it look inconspicuous—but deep down, you want him to see. Want Master Kenobi to notice what his scent does to you, how it forces you to stop your eyes from rolling back in your head and your back from arching ever so slightly.

If the look he gives you is anything to go by, he notices. He comes to sit next to you, a holopad in one hand, and you swallow as he fingers it for longer than is strictly necessary, as if he can't find the right button to turn it on.

"There we go," he murmurs as the image springs to life: it's a series of what appear to be lecture notes on the fauna of some Outer Rim planet, you don't catch the name, but then again, you wouldn't have caught it if he had screamed it at you, or painted it in blinking letters on the outside of the Temple.

He's toying with you, and you let it happen.

"You'd better pay attention. This might be important for your next lesson," he says.

"And what lesson would that be?"

"You asked about food. This is about food."

You hate him, you think. You'd love nothing more than to bite into his hand for him to drop the holopad; that would show him. It would show him a lot of things.

Suddenly, he switches the thing off puts it down on the couch next to him, and it's as if a curtain of static has descended on the room. You swallow, watch him track the movement of your throat before he catches your eye again.

"Wasn't there something else you wanted to ask?" he says, his head cocked. His tone is casual, but you can feel his full attention on you like a ray of light.

"One or two things." You're surprised at your own boldness as you turn to face him more openly. He mirrors you not a second later, his arm draped over the back of the settee, and you imagine for one moment that you can feel the warmth of his hand even with five inches and your robes between you.

"Ask away," he says.

You open your mouth, but you must have waited too long, because before you can say anything, he leans in a little, and your breath catches; you lift your head without thinking, his lips so, so, so close to yours the only thing you can focus on.

"I thought so," he murmurs, and then he's kissing you softly, just the barest hint of pressure, but it's enough. You sigh into his mouth, tilt your head and open up. He swallows your gasp as soon as he slips his tongue into your mouth, and you let your body take over, giving your mind a break.

The hand beside your shoulder sneaks up to cup the side of your neck, then your jaw, his broad palm holding you in place while he kisses you deeper, and your own fingers grasp his tunic and just hold on.

He draws away first, but only to nose at your cheek, his beard scraping along your skin making you shiver and tighten your grip.

"You're a fast learner," he whispers in your ear; his hot breath almost manages to distract you from his other hand, which is sneaking up your thigh and comes to rest on your hip. It's big enough that he could probably reach out and run his thumb over your clit, you think, trying to concentrate through the haze that has fallen on you.

"Would you like that?" he asks, and only then do you realize that your shields are practically all the way down.

"Yes," you say without thinking, "yes, yes, yes," and you can feel him smile against you.

"My sweet girl," he coos, and then he does exactly what you want him to, and more: dragging not one, but two of his fingers down between your legs, which you allow to fall open to give him more space, and you need him to feel how wet you are, for him to know just how much you want him.

"Please," you beg before trying to kiss him again, but he clicks his tongue and presses his forehead to yours instead. You both look down at his fingers caressing you, and you moan when he shifts and cups your pussy, your clit now snugly fitted against the heel of his hand. You grind against him and have to swallow a cry.

"Patience, dear one. I'm not going anywhere." His voice has dropped what feels like an octave. "Not when you're so needy for me to play with your little pussy."

"Master," you groan, before snapping your head up with such force that he laughs.

"Oh?" he asks, trying to catch your eye, but you feel your face heat up with embarrassment and try to look anywhere but at him. His hand stays between your thighs, just holding you. "Say that again."

You swallow, the sound too loud in your own ears, but after a moment you obey. "Master, please," you say, voice close to breaking.

"Please what?" He drags one of his fingers forward and back over your slit, and you don't know how but you get even wetter just from this simple gesture.

"Please play with my pussy, Master Kenobi," you manage before he releases you and lifts your hips up, and you just have enough presence of mind to help him drag your trousers and underwear down; he doesn't even look, you notice with a hint of disappointment. But that evaporates as soon as he drops to his knees in front of the couch, parts your thighs and kisses along the inside of one while he massages small circles into the muscles of the other.

"You deserve it, because you asked so nicely. And because your pussy looks so pretty like this," he says, and when he finally touches you, you feel as if you could float out of your body and into the Force, because this is like nothing you have ever experienced before. His fingers are deft with the way they part your folds, careful yet insistent at the same time. You clap one hand over your mouth when he grazes your clit, the pad of his thumb light as a feather. "All wet and empty. Let's rectify that, shall we?"

And he actually looks up at you and waits for you to nod, and seeing him like this, his eyes heavy and dark beneath his lashes, a spot of color on his cheekbones, something inside you melts. You slide your fingers through his hair and he leans in, kisses your pussy and presses his warm tongue against you. Your throat feels too tight all of a sudden, your breaths coming in sharper and sharper gasps the more he nuzzles you. The sound of him lapping at you make your head spin even harder, and you lose yourself in the softness of his touch.

"Just like that," you force out, pushing his face deeper into your cunt, and when he nudges your entrance with his tongue, dips inside before he sucks at your clit, you do let out a cry, wrecked and broken, and dig your heels into his shoulder blades. "Again, please, Master," you say, your entire body shaking.

"Anything for you, Padawan," he murmurs against you, and groans as soon as he properly starts eating you out. Two of his fingers prod at you, and you pull his hair to tell him to go on, and they slide in without meeting much resistance. You clench around him immediately, his thick fingers filling you up perfectly, but he doesn't move, not yet.

"Master," you whine. "Please."

And he smiles against you, gently bites your skin, and fucks his fingers in and out of you, curling them experimentally until you groan, and then he keeps hitting that spot, without mercy, his hot mouth and the scrape of his beard pushing you closer and closer to the edge. Heat coils in your belly, and your release builds until you're thrashing underneath him, but it's a sound he makes, low in his throat, that does it for you.

"Master," you whisper, or try to; you don't recognize the sound of your own voice. Your orgasm rips through you like a knife, tearing you apart only to put you back together as someone new, someone who got to have this.

You open your eyes to see him breathe heavily, his cheek resting against the inside of your thigh. He's almost as flushed as you feel, and smiles lazily at you when he catches you looking.

"So beautiful, Padawan," he praises, his voice rough. His fingers are still inside you, but you don't care. How could you care, feeling the way you do right now? "You did that so well. Now," he says, with a dangerous glint in his eye, "I think you deserve a treat for being such a good girl, coming so nicely on your Master's fingers."

You smile as you watch him reach down between his legs.

When you stayed in bed for too long, you felt like you were missing something important going on outside, but beyond these four walls that had witnessed everything, nothing short of simplistic domesticity would satisfy your heart’s desire to be a part of something bigger. There wasn’t anything out there for you; all you needed was right here, contained within a small space, but there was enough room for your heart to beat and for your lungs to fill with air and that was all you could’ve ever asked for. You breathed easier with the two Jedi surrounding you, breathing the same air, their specific scents comingling in a potent blend of spiced cedarwood, campfire smoke and vanilla amber. It soothed your senses and kept your heart full, reminding you that both men hadn’t strayed far throughout the night, but the tossed sheets hinted at a fitfulness that was all Anakin. 

The keepers of your heart both held keys to your happiness, and this was how they gave back—their bodies glistening in the glittering light that streamed through the curtains, skin stained with sleep and sticky from the shared warmth of closeness, their eyes glazed and their limbs heavy as need trickled thickly through their veins like molasses and dripped from their lips in the form of sweet nothings and stoic sunrise confessions.

They knew what you needed because they felt the echoes of it reverberating within themselves and that was the reason they stayed. Nothing felt quite as right as it did when the stars aligned and, at this point, they might as well have mapped themselves out across your skies like your own personal constellations and the way you looked up to them held a striking similarity, but this wasn’t how it felt deep in hyperspace, when they were alone with their thoughts. This was more visceral, a true, shining opportunity to exist in the here and now; there was no more time to waste. 

“You’re hogging her, Master…” Anakin complained, and a sun-kissed arm reached out from the blankets and wrapped snugly around your midsection. He yanked you back against him and buried his nose in your hair, inhaling your scent into his nostrils. He knew that all too soon he would become nose-blind to your pheromones and all that would be left was his own lingering smell layered with yours, but still he stubbornly tried to keep you there, close to him, “she’s mine too, you know.”

Obi-Wan rolled over and the sheets rustled around him as he moved, fluid-like and otherworldly. He propped himself up on one arm, making a half-closed fist and resting his temple against his curved fingers, “every morning, we pass her around like a glass to be sipped from, a…a pastry to take a bite out of, but she’s not an object, Anakin. She’s allowed to decide for herself which one of us she’d like to be affectionate with.” 

Anakin raised an eyebrow as he smirked up at his former Master through thick, dark lashes, “A lot of food references there, Master. Sounds like you’re hungry. You could always go and start on breakfast, and we’ll meet you down there in-”

“Ah, hah…You’re not getting rid of me that easily, Anakin,” Obi-Wan chastised, and the tilt of his smirk snagged on you. He couldn’t look away as you curled into Anakin, “but it seems that this morning…she’s chosen you.”

As if on cue, you lifted your arm, fingers reaching till they found purchase on Obi-Wan’s sleeping tunic. Both Jedi watched your movements, trying to assess what it was that you were after, but Obi-Wan, who was more attuned to your needs because he wasn’t as consumed with his own, seemed to realize what you wanted before Anakin did. 

“Want me closer, dearest?” he asked, but was already moving before you could answer, shifting closer to you in the bed as he drew his arm up around your shoulders and the threatening look in Anakin’s eyes would’ve been enough to make his blood run cold, if he’d been apprehensive of the young Jedi in the first place. Anakin could pout all he liked; it didn’t change the fact that Obi-Wan had as much of a right to you as he did. 

You managed to maneuver your upper body so that your chest pressed against Obi-Wan’s, your lower body still clutched in Anakin’s tight grasp. The younger Jedi wasn’t planning on letting you go anytime soon, especially to run straight into the arms of his former Master. If you were going to be cuddling with anyone this morning, then it was going to be him, even if you were still trying desperately to cling onto Obi-Wan like the vestiges of sleep still lingering in the corners of his eyes. Anakin was tired and he didn’t have it in him to fight back more than just letting out a series of discontented grumbles as his arms tightened around your hips, “you aren’t taking her from me…”

Obi-Wan’s pointed smirk was more of an insult at this time in the morning than he meant for it to be, “no one’s taking anyone anywhere, Anakin. We’re simply…being.”

“Philosophical as always, Master.”

“If you think that’s philosophical, you wouldn’t have lasted a single day as Grandmaster Yoda’s Padawan. He has far more insightful comments to pass on than I have.”

Anakin snorted at that; as frequently as Obi-Wan made biting comments that were steeped in his usual dry wit, he never got used to his former Master’s sense of humor or had learnt enough restraint to simply not engage, “I suppose it’s a good thing my training was a bit more straight-forward.”

“Yes, well…” Obi-Wan let out a sigh of resignation while he idly ran his fingers through your hair, “someone has to keep you out of trouble and it might as well be someone who won’t hesitate to tell you, in no uncertain terms, to think first and act later.”

“You’re a wealth of knowledge, Master,” Anakin quipped, “a fount of good advice.”

Obi-Wan opened his mouth to offer a retort, but the moment a few of those soft sounds spilled from your lips, his attention shifted onto you. You cooed as you inclined your head, looking up at him through your lashes similarly to how Anakin did and Obi-Wan felt his heart suddenly leap within his chest. You still held fast to his tunic, fingers grasping the fabric as though your very life depended on it. The look in your eyes reminded him where his mind should’ve been and the palm of his hand affectionately cupped your chin, “apologies, my love,” Obi-Wan’s voice sounded like sun-soaked velvet, “The conversation can wait. In this moment, our attention should be on you.”

There was no place the two Jedi would have rather been than in this very moment. You felt Anakin’s arms abruptly tighten on your hips and you wiggled, wanting to be just as close to him as to Obi-Wan. The two men could glean your intentions from your movements, and both shifted even closer, the two of them now practically nose to nose with each other, leaving you sandwiched in between. You snuggled into the warmth pocket, burying your nose in Obi-Wan’s shoulder; you could almost taste the saltiness of his skin, and you had to stop yourself from swiping your tongue across his neck at the delectable smell. You wanted him, perhaps more than you had ever wanted either of them to know, but they could feel it as you channeled it into the Force, giving it to the Light as if it were too much for you to hold on your own. 

Anakin’s fingers brushed against the delicate skin of your inner thighs, and you shivered, pressing into him with more insistence, but Obi-Wan’s expression of reproach made you pause, “I would prefer to be spared the indulgence of my former apprentice’s lustful imaginings this early in the morning.” 

Your skin grew hot, and his words filled you with shame; you had far more self-control than that and you hadn’t meant for your desire for closeness to be misinterpreted. 

“I think he was teasing you, princess,” Anakin’s voice was a soft, playful growl, “but just in case…I wouldn’t get any ideas if I were you.”

The two often communicated through outwitting each other in blatant sarcasm and deadpan line delivery and it was all you could do to keep up at this early hour, “I wasn’t trying to get Anakin riled up,” you joked, “I just want…more.”

Both were looking at you in what might’ve appeared as confusion, but they knew more than they were letting on. It was rare that you were allowed a moment of reprieve, to shelter in the embrace of one another and lounge the morning away, and none of you were going to take it for granted. If you wanted them close, then you would find no space in between and if you wanted more of them, then the more they would find within themselves to give. 

Obi-Wan wrapped a strong arm around your shoulders and you noticed the hint of speckled skin peeking out from beneath his sleeve, an indication that the sun had deemed him its chosen one, but as Obi-Wan’s pale flesh freckled, Anakin’s glowed. A tanned arm snaked its way across your torso and held you close, then a leg hitched up over your own, keeping you trapped against his body, but you were anything but. 

Your lovers weren’t prison; they were home, and you’d built it together. 

“Then you’ll have more,” Obi-Wan acknowledged, pulling you into him and letting out a peaceful sigh as your head nestled in the crook of his neck, right below his jaw, so close he could rest his chin on the crown of your head, “we’re here for you, love. There’s no place in the galaxy we’d rather be.”

Anakin nodded, echoing the same sentiment, “Yeah. And even though missions and deployments and meetings might take us away…we’ll always come back to you, you don’t have to worry about that.”

It was (and is) a well-known fact that one in three marriages ends in separation. And of course, you—being the lucky duck you were—found yours rapidly accelerating toward that destination.

You and Joel had agreed that you’d be better off apart. Joel got his own place while you kept the house. And Sarah lived with you every other week.

All you needed to do was send your attorney the signed divorce papers.

Outside of the sympathetic comments you received from acquaintances and relatives almost daily, you were doing just fine.

In fact, tonight you had a date.

A date. The kind that made you choose a tight-fitting dress that hugged your curves just right. The kind that inspired you to wear your hair in something other than a claw clip. The kind that provoked you to shave places you haven’t shaved in a long time.

The lucky bachelor was a fellow divorcee named Mark, whom you had met on a single-parent dating app. He had a full head of hair, a decent sense of humour, and two rescued Labradors. He offered to bring you to his favourite Italian restaurant, bringing up the fact that he’d pick up the bill no matter what, much to your protests. Needless to say, you had a good feeling about him.

After one last check in the mirror, you grabbed your coat and slung your purse over your shoulder, ready to head out the door.

Then, you heard it.

A faint gurgling. 

You blinked twice, trying to zero in on the sound. Proceeding a few moments of intense concentration, you followed the sound into the ensuite bathroom.

The faucet was running. Had you forgotten to turn it off?

You reached for the handle. Twisted it. It spun freely, and nothing happened. 

You tried and tried again, but all your efforts were in vain. You could only watch the tap stubbornly defy you as the handle jutted uselessly, loose in its socket.

“Shit.” You breathed.

The faucet sputtered out a particularly heavy spurt of water as if to say: shit, indeed.

You sighed, staring helplessly at the sink as it stared contumaciously back, water that couldn’t be swallowed by the drain toppling over the edge of the sink.

A quick Google search informed you that you needed to turn off the principal water pipe—the mains. Which you didn’t know how to do. 

So, you resolved to delegate the problem to more capable hands. Like, a twenty-four-hour plumbing service. No, they could easily overcharge you. You could call your dad? No, he was too far.

Or…

Sighing, you dug out your phone from your purse and called your only remaining option. Someone who was a seasoned contractor, someone who dealt with this sink before, and someone who you just so happened to be divorcing. 

He answered on the third ring.

“Hey—everything okay?” Joel’s concerned voice filtered through your phone.

“No.” You inhaled. 

“No?” Joel echoed hesitantly, then waited for elaboration.

When nothing came, he cleared his throat.

Slightly confused, slightly wry, he continued, “This is the part where you tell me what’s wrong.” 

“Um, my sink’s busted.”

“Your sink… is busted?”

“Yeah. Faucet won’t turn off. It-It’s a lot of water.” You bit the inside of your cheek, leaning on the wall. “I didn’t know who else to call.”

A moment of silence, then:

“You need me to fix it?” 

Was that annoyance? Exhaustion? It definitely wasn’t exhilaration at the prospect of doing manual labour at eight o’clock on a Friday evening.

“You know what? Forget I called. This was stupid. Sorry to bother you—”

“I’m on my way.”

Despite the gravity of the situation, after he hung up, the smallest of smiles began forming on your face. 

Fifteen minutes later, a knock came from your front door.

You swung the door open, and there he stood. Tool bag in hand, flannel shirt stretching tightly over his broad shoulders, salt-and-pepper hair just a little bit unkempt.

It had been a good few months since the two of you went your separate ways, but there he was—still at your beck and call. What that meant, exactly, remained to be seen. 

But you were glad to see him, nonetheless.

“Hi,” You said breathlessly.

Upon seeing you, Joel’s brows shot up, and he blinked a few times.

“Hi.” He said back slowly, then cleared his throat. “Am I… interruptin’ something?”

You glanced down. Right. Tight dress and makeup.

“I have a date in…” You raised your left wrist and winced as you looked down at your watch. “Five minutes ago.”

“A date.” He clicked his tongue, nodding to himself. “Well, I’ll try to make this quick, then.”

You hummed a noise of agreement, pivoted, and, with a wave of your hand, invited Joel inside.

He stepped through the doorway with a quiet grunt. And, as he bent down to undo his boots, his coffee-brown gaze landed on a pile of unopened mail by the entryway table. A few envelopes had slipped to the floor, and he crouched to gather them without thinking. 

But, as he straightened up to his full height, his eyes lingered on the recipient line.

“Mrs Miller?” Joel read aloud.

“What?” Your breath caught in your throat, and you spun around to meet his stare.

Joel wordlessly held the envelope up with two fingers, the corners of his lips slightly upturned.

“Oh.” You cringed inwardly. “Yeah.”

“Didn’t, uh, realise that you were keepin’ the name.” He shrugged offhandedly, tossing the stack of mail onto the entryway table.

“I’m not. I just…” You ran a hand through your hair. “Paperwork isn’t final.”

For the divorce.

Joel’s eyebrows pinched together. “I sent you my signed copies, if—” 

“I know you did. I just haven’t sent the papers to my lawyer yet.” You pressed your lips into a thin line and avoided his gaze. “Just got a lot on my plate, recently.”

That was very unconvincing.

Joel hummed a noncommittal noise.

“Well…” He huffed sheepishly. “You know I always liked my name on you.”

You swallowed, feeling your stomach do a funny flip and your ears burn up. Why were your ears burning up?

“C’mon. The problem is upstairs.”

The faucet, to your dismay, hadn’t stopped. It was worse now, if that was even possible, spitting little rogue sprays of water alongside the main stream. Great.

You checked your watch again. Fifteen minutes late. You would no doubt have a few missed calls from your poor suitor if you had the guts to check your phone.

Joel sank to one knee as he inspected the sink, squinting at the appliance and shaking his head. Miraculously, he reached in and, a few rusty squeaks later, the water stopped.

“You fixed it.” You blinked.

“Far from it,” He muttered, frowning. “The cartridge’s shot. And the valve stem’s stripped. Who installed this?”

Without missing a beat, “You did.”

“…Right.”

You leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed over your chest. “So?”

“So, this isn’t a quick fix. I need to pull out the whole assembly. Maybe replace the handle, too. And judging by the corrosion around this nut—” He held up a discoloured metal hexagon like it had personally offended him—“you’ve probably had a leak back here for a while.”

You blinked. “And you didn’t notice that when you lived here?”

Joel turned to shoot you a look. “I was your husband, not your handyman.”

“Really? I could’ve sworn I married you for that toolbox of yours.”

“And here I thought it was ‘cause of my radiant personality.”

“Definitely not that.” You huffed out a laugh.

Despite his back being turned to you, you could just about make out a reluctant smile forming through his slightly greying stubble.

You watched as he rolled up his plaid sleeves, exposing tanned forearms that were entirely too bulky for someone in his mid-forties. He then dug into his bag, fishing out an Allen Wrench.

“You can go on your date,” Joel added, not looking at you. “I’ll be out of here in an hour. Two, tops. But… if you feel like gettin’ frisky, maybe do it at his place. Just in case.”

Right, your date.

Biting the inside of your cheek, you took out your phone. Six missed calls and a flurry of concerned texts.

Decidedly, you typed out an apologetic message mentioning a water-related emergency and stuffed your phone back in your purse.

“I’m staying with you.”

Joel froze and turned to look at you from over his shoulder. “No, you ain’t. I’ll take too long.”

“Well, I can’t leave you to fix my problems while I’m out eating overpriced ravioli.” You shrugged and, with a soft grunt, took a seat against the wall near him. “You’re not a plumber, you’re a… you’re my…”

Ex-husband.

You cleared your throat, then emphasised, “You’re not a plumber.”

Joel let out a slow exhale. “Do whatever you want, but I doubt watching me fix your sink is gon’ be as fun as your date.”

“I’ve got a full bottle of Pinot Noir in the fridge.” You tilted your head. “We can make it fun.”

Joel’s eyebrows shot up.

“Not—not in that way.” You rubbed a clammy hand down your face.

To your surprise, that earned you a small, gruff laugh from Joel, his eyes crinkling momentarily the way they only did when he was truly amused.

His voice was soft when he responded. 

“Go on and get the wine, then, sweetheart.”

Two crystal glasses and a little while later, Joel had put down his wrench and opted instead to sit beside you on your tiled bathroom floor, his shoulders brushing up against yours in the cramped space.

Efforts to tame the defiant sink had long since been forgotten. He did the best he could, but retired upon discovering that you had no spare sink handle lying around—how very unprepared of you.

The bad news was that you weren’t going to be able to wash your hands in the master bedroom ensuite tonight. The good news was that you were having a surprisingly good time with Joel. The conversation evolved from discussing your stood-up date (you showed Mark’s profile, Joel was convinced he was lying about his dogs being rescues), then to how his company was going, and then, reminiscing about the good ol’ days.

“All I’m sayin’,” Joel continued through a laugh. “Is that she did it on purpose.”

“My mom has always been bad with names!”

“Bad enough to still call me ‘George’ after a year of us datin’?” He scoffed.

You stifled a giggle. “In her defence, it’s a very similar—”

“Like hell it is. And your dad? He was worse.” Joel chuckled, finishing the last of his wine. “How is he?”

“Fine. Just called him yesterday, actually.”

“He still callin’ me–?”

“He still calls you ‘porn stache’, yes.”

Joel snorted into his hand, his shoulders bobbing up and down with laughter. Real, genuine laughter.

You smiled and turned to steal a glance at his profile.

His eyes crinkled at the corners, his hooked nose scrunched mid-chuckle, and his laugh was exactly as it was before—low and rough, but somehow boyish and unguarded.

You had almost forgotten how his whole face lit up when he laughed.

And, you didn’t mean to stare. But you did. 

God, you missed this.

“I think I prefer George.” Joel ran a hand down his face, still smiling.

You cleared your throat and leaned over to retrieve the almost-empty wine bottle, refilling your glasses.

“Sarah told me to say hi to you, if I got the chance, by the way.” You said, pouring the Pinot Noir into his glass. “She’s with my parents in the lake house.”

“The lake house?” Joel hummed, taking another sip of his drink. “Still disappointed I didn’t get that in the settlement.”

You snorted, amused. “You don’t even like lakes.”

“No, I don’t like the mosquitoes that come with the lakes.” Joel corrected you, pointedly. “But, I don’t know, I guess I just miss it. A lot of good memories there.”

You felt yourself smile. “Yeah. Yeah, there were.”

A beat.

“Hey, at least you kept the cars. And the boat. And the frequent flier miles. And, well, you see Sarah every other week.” You turned to look at Joel, but he was already looking at you.

A certain vulnerability swam in the brown of his eyes. Something you hadn’t seen in a very long time.

“Yeah, well… there were more important things I couldn’t keep.”

The air thinned. The wine, the laughter, the conversation—everything dissolved in the quiet admission, hanging thickly in the space between you.

And suddenly, there was only you and Joel and the mistakes that had wedged you apart yet somehow brought you back together again; on a random Friday evening on the floor of a bathroom you used to share.

“Joel…” You swallowed, your hand falling from your lap onto the tiles.

But you couldn’t form any semblance of a sentence. How could you? 

There was nothing to say. Yes, you missed him. ‘Missed’ was an understatement. 

Sometimes you’d roll over in the night, wishing to feel the weight of his arm resting on your waist, reassuring you that these past few months had only been a bad dream. Sometimes you came to pick Sarah up early, just to get a few more minutes with him. Sometimes—no, a lot of the time, memories of him came rushing back, cleaving your heart into two, further and further each time.

No matter how hard you tried, you just couldn’t let go of the man you spent so many years loving. 

Joel’s eyes still bore into yours. And nothing in the world could have torn you away.

He exhaled slowly, then set down his glass with care. His hand barely brushed yours, but it was enough to make your breath hitch.

“I think about it,” He said softly. “More than I should.”

“Think about what?”

A quiet, almost sad laugh escaped from his throat. He leaned back against the wall, staring up at the ceiling.

“How things used to be.”

“Oh,”

A moment passed, marked only by the metre of your incessant heartbeat pounding in your ears.

And then, “Do you ever miss us?” Joel asked.

You faced him once more. The answer was on the tip of your tongue, but you couldn’t bring yourself to say it. Because that was too complicated. Because that would break you.

Joel didn’t need you to say it. He found the answer in your eyes.

All the time.

Instead, you asked, “Do you? Miss us, that is.”

“Of course, I do.” He said softly. “More than you can imagine.”

You held your breath.

Joel heaved a sigh.

“I think about calling,” He added, voice low. “Just to hear your voice.”

“I’d answer,” You said, barely above a whisper.

He smiled in a bittersweet, melancholic sort of way and leaned in just slightly. Unconsciously, you mirrored him.

And then his eyes flickered down to your lips. It was only for a second, but it was enough to make your stomach flutter.

This was dangerous. You should’ve told him to leave ages ago. Or, maybe you should’ve left yourself and gone on your date.

But you couldn’t bring yourself to pull away.

“Can I ask you something stupid?” You whispered.

Joel whispered back, “Always.”

“Do you…” You trailed off, biting your lip.

“Do I what?”

“Do you—does even a part of you… want what we had back?” 

You knew what he was going to say. You just wanted to hear it for yourself.

And you did.

“Yes,” He admitted earnestly.

You searched his face for any sign of deception, but found none. The only thing in his coffee-brown eyes was regret. And, maybe, something else, too. Something softer.

Your eyes widened. “We fought a lot.”

“We did.”

“And we probably said some shit.” You sighed, looking up at the ceiling, as if all the answers were written there. Joel did, too.

His voice came softly, sadly, “We did.”

Silence again. Thick and fragile and charged with so many unspoken words.

Joel’s knee brushed yours, neither of you pulling away. It was nice to have him close, to feel his familiar warmth, to see him—really see him. Bare and raw and vulnerable. No facades of indifference. No hiding behind closed car doors. Just Joel, your Joel, there beside you; soft-eyed and quiet, like maybe he was seeing you, too.

Your fingers twitched on the floor beside his. You wanted to reach for him, but you wanted him to reach first. 

He looked at you then. Not a glance, but a full turn, slow and deliberate. His dark eyes searched your face, pausing on your mouth, your cheek, your lashes, then settled on your eyes again. He looked at you like you were something he’d spent months trying to forget, and only just now remembered why he couldn’t.

You held your breath.

Joel’s voice, when it finally came, was low, cracked around the edges.

“I know it was bad in the end, but I meant what I said.” He breathed. “I miss us. I miss you.”

Your heart twisted. And there went that cleaver again, slicing further.

“I miss seeing your keys on the kitchen counter and knowing you were home. I miss kissing you before work and smudgin’ your lipstick. I miss watching stupid movies with you that we’d fall asleep to halfway.”

His throat bobbed. He leaned back against the wall, like it hurt to say it out loud.

“Yeah, we fought and said some real mean shit. But God help me, I’d give anything to go back in time and fight for you like I should have. Because you were it for me. You were everything. Still are.”

His eyes glistened as he held your gaze, fierce and unflinching.

“Because, no matter how hard I try to ignore it,” He smiled to himself, shaking his head like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “I love you.”

He loves you.

Those three simple words rang in an echo in your mind. He loves you, he loves you, Joel loves you.

“You love me?” You could barely hear your voice above the deafening thrum of your pulse.

Your faces were barely an inch apart, now. You could smell the familiar scent of his laundry detergent, and traces of his cologne, and wood, and tobacco, and something that was so uniquely him.

Joel nodded.

“I never stopped.” He whispered.

Without thinking, you closed the remaining distance, smashing your lips against his. Joel grunted in surprise, but quickly gave in, exhaling through his nose like he’d been holding a breath in for years. 

He returned the kiss with equal fervour, reaching out to cup your face and pouring all his pent-up emotions against the haven of your lips—longing, relief, desire.

You pushed yourself closer against him. Closer, impossibly closer, until you were straddling his lap, moving against the tent in his jeans, feeling his big hands instinctively settle on your hips, and tasting the Pinot Noir on his lips.

Shit. Was this even a good idea?

You pulled away suddenly. A tiny whine came from Joel, who tried to chase your mouth, but you were insistent.

“Wait,” You panted.

His eyes opened fully. His brows were knitted, his lips were kiss-swollen, and his chest was heaving slowly.

“What?” Joel asked quietly, his thumbs idly tracing circles on either side of your hips.

“This…” You breathed. “I don’t want this to be a one-time thing. I don’t want it to mean nothing.”

Joel smiled softly at your words.

“Means a whole lot to me, sweetheart.” His hand went to gently tuck a stray strand of your hair behind your ear, caressing your cheek in his wake. “We can talk about what this means, if you w—”

“Okay, good. Means a lot. Talk after.”

“After?” His eyebrows rose.

“After you fuck me.”

A breathy ‘Jesus Christ’ slipped from his throat, but Joel didn’t spend a second refusing your bold assumption.

With a hand on your nape, he leaned forward to capture your lips in another searing kiss, which you happily accepted, sighing against him.

His big hands then travelled to the back of your thighs, and the next thing you knew, he carelessly swept away whatever was decorating the base of your faucet, and carried you with ease to perch you atop the sink.

“Joel.” You mumbled urgently into his lips.

“Mmm?” He hummed back, not wanting to break your mouths apart for even a second. 

“Might break the sink again.”

“Don’t care. I’ll fuckin’ fix it again, then. Just… need you,” Joel groaned. “Look too fuckin’ good,”

And he pulled away. His half-lidded, cloudy gaze drank you in, sweeping down the snugness of your dress, and lingering on the generous amount of cleavage it revealed. His hands drifted higher and higher up your thighs, until they reached the hemline—dipping under just slightly.

“Too fuckin’ good,” He snarled.

You smirked. Knowing him, he was definitely going to ask if—

“How much was this dress?”

Sighing amusedly, “It wasn’t cheap.”

“How attached are you to it?” He mumbled, a hand reverently skirting up to your hip.

“A moderate amou—”

“Can I rip it off you?”

There it was.

In the many years you were married, Joel shredded more than enough articles of your precious wardrobe in similar heated moments. If you were to count the offences, you’d likely run out of fingers. Your wedding dress had been among the few survivors of his destructive tendencies, though not for lack of trying on his part.

You stifled a snort and shook your head, reaching up to caress his face. 

“No.” You smiled. “Because I’d like to wear it again.”

Joel held your hand against his face and huffed out an exaggerated sigh. “Next time.”

And then his hands found the zipper on your side, pulled it sharply down, and tugged the dress off you.

His eyes darkened.

You had chosen to don an intricate, black, lacey number underneath your dress that teased just enough and only hid the bare minimum. Of course, you had. You hadn’t had an opportunity to wear anything vaguely provocative in ages and were expecting some luck after your date.

You certainly didn’t expect that your ex-husband would be the one seeing it.

“This for him?” Joel’s lip twitched.

Heat rose in your cheeks. “Well, I—”

“Yeah, these don’t get a pass.”

With a sharp tearing noise slicing through the air, Joel ripped the flimsy lacey bra clean in half, watching intently, hungrily, as your tits spilled out.

“Joel!”

“I know, I know,” Joel grunted. “I’ll buy you a new set… buy you all the fuckin’ sets.”

You were about to object, intent on citing the price attached to that particular pair, but Joel had sunk back on his knees and spread your legs apart.

He pressed his lips on your inner thigh, scruff tickling your skin as he slowly, softly trailed his mouth upward, leaving goosebumps in his wake.

His face came to a stop in front of your core, noticing how heavily you were breathing, and his eyes flicked up to yours, smirking. Smug fucking bastard.

“Joel.” You gritted your teeth.

“Yeah, baby?”

“Don’t fucking tease me.” 

And he leaned his forehead against the lower part of your navel, taking a second to breathe in the unmistakable scent of your arousal seeping through your lingerie. 

He was practically salivating, now. 

“I’ll try not to, ma’am.” 

Without another word, he took the lace into his teeth, yanked his head sharply, and tore your panties open.

Confirming his suspicions, you were absolutely soaked. Slick drooled freely out of your puffy folds, taunting him and draining every ounce of self-restraint he had. 

Fuck, you were gorgeous.

“Tell me,” Joel said lowly, meeting your gaze once more as a thick finger swiped lightly through your lips, collecting your arousal. “This for him or me?”

“You.” You breathed without a second thought.

“Louder, sweetheart. My ears ain’t what they used to be.”

“You.”

Smirking wider, “Damn fucking right.”

Then, he happily hitched your legs over his shoulders, leaned forward, and dove in.

His tongue prodded into your heat, dragging down your walls and sending jolts of electricity down your spine. He worked fast and sloppily, sliding through your folds and flicking into your walls, urgently tasting you like he wouldn’t get another chance. 

Your arousal coated the lower half of his face, his eyes were almost black with desire, obscenely wet noises echoed in the silence of the tiled room as his tongue eagerly devoured you whole—

“Fuck, almost forgot how good you taste. So fuckin’ sweet.” Joel mumbled against your sex, entirely, wholly bewitched. “She missed me, too, huh? Just drippin’ for me…”

He continued to furiously lap at your entrance, scruff rubbing against your inner thighs. And then he moved up, planting messy kisses higher and higher until he reached your swollen clit.

You gasped brokenly, flinging a hand to grasp his curls as his lips alternated from pressing messy kisses along your seam to greedily sucking at your bundle of nerves, latching onto it almost desperately.

After a particularly delicious drag down the roof of your core, you rolled your hips up into his mouth and brought him closer to you with your grip in his hair.

“Shit—sorry.” You panted, breathing heavily.

He barely pulled away to look at you.

“Don’t fuckin’ be. I can handle it, you know I can.” Joel all but growled, before returning to attend to your needy fucking pussy.

He was like a man possessed; lapping frenziedly, groaning lowly into your sensitive skin, curved nose swiping through your folds as he worked.

Very soon, a familiar tingle in your lower stomach introduced itself.

“Joel,” You called urgently, attempting to warn him.

He knew you were close. Oh, he knew. So, he went faster and harder, pressing himself further against you, suffocation be fucking damned.

His low, wrecked voice came slurred and slightly muffled by your sex, “y’gonna come? Go on, baby, all over my face—thaaat’s it.”

A shattered moan escaped from your throat, and you felt your release take over your body almost violently. You couldn’t help the way your legs clamped down around his head, but Joel loved it, letting you smother him and humming happily into your heat as he worked you through your climax, swallowing your release and eating like a man starved.

Finally, he pulled away with a wet squelch, softly pressed a kiss to your inner thigh, and gently let your legs down.

And you were immediately greeted with the sight of his lower face shining with your slick.

A good look on him, if you’d say so yourself.

He smiled lazily, eyes blown-out and absolutely fucking pussydrunk. 

“That good for you, sweetheart?” He mused.

“You, Joel Miller, are what we call a munch.” You smiled back.

Pride bloomed across his face. “Gladly, sweets.” 

And you pulled him up by the collar of his flannel shirt into a filthy kiss, tasting your arousal on his lips.

He let his eyes fall shut and reached up to curl a hand around your jaw as he returned the kiss, his brows furrowed in concentration.

Not wasting any time, your hands flew to his belt, blindly fumbling at the leather material to slide it out of the loops of his jeans.

Joel chuckled, leaning forward to trail his lips down your neck, leaving a path of open-mouthed kisses.

“Need somethin’, baby?”

“Wanna return the favour,” You glanced down at the bulge in his lap.

“Mm-mm. That was more for me than you. Missed your sweet fuckin’ pussy.” Joel mumbled against your pulse point.

“Munch.” You couldn’t help but giggle.

“Yeah, yeah.” Joel sighed, lifting his head and undoing his jeans just barely enough to pull himself free from his boxers. 

You heard yourself swallow.

Joel Miller was a big man, and you were very aware of that fact. It was written all across his body; from his impossibly broad shoulders, to his beefy arms, to his thick fucking cock.

He stroked himself, once, twice, as his eyes fell to your pulsating, slick core. Beads of precum leaked from his flushed tip and down his length as he did so.

“Spread those legs wider for me, baby. Let me see you,” He breathed lowly.

And you very willingly obliged.

“There’s my girl,” Joel hummed.

With a hand around his base, he guided himself closer to your drooling cunt, nudging his swollen head against you.

Sighing, “Deep breath, baby.”

And he slowly forced himself in, one hand on the small of your back, the other on the underside of your thigh, prompting you to wrap your legs around his waist as he steadily fed you his cock.

You gasped some variant of a plea.

Needless to say, he was a tight fucking fit.

“Takin’ me so well. That’s it, baby, let me in.” He blabbed mindlessly as he continued to sink deeper inside. 

Deeper, deeper, deeper…

He winced. “Shit—there you go.”

When all of him was nested inside your welcoming channel, he let out a gasped expletive at the sensation.

Full. You felt so full with him inside. You always did.

“Fuck, missed this.” Joel panted, resting his forehead against yours. 

You tried to echo the sentiment, but the only thing you were capable of doing was letting out an incoherent groan of his name.

Joel got the message, though.

Maintaining an unhurried tempo, he rolled his hips back and forth, slowly dragging his thickness against your walls, making you painfully aware of every last inch of him.

“How’s that feel, baby?” He mumbled, voice airy.

“Good. Feels so good.”

And, fuck, he did. 

He felt amazing.

His tempo soon picked up, leaving your mouth to fall open as you took every inch of him again and again, stretching you open with enough pleasure to dull the slight pain.

“Tell me,” Joel hummed as he continued to drive ceaselessly in and out of your tight channel, adopting a false lilt of indifference. “Who’s fuckin’ you so good, huh?”

An incoherent syllable slipped from your lips.

“Who, baby?” Joel urged you, unrelenting in his pace. “Sure as hell ain’t fuckin’ Mark.”

Dumbly, you shook your head.

“You, Joel.”

Your words were almost drowned out by the symphony of your own moans, which were accompanied by the obscenely wet slaps that sounded every time his hips fully met yours.

“Louder.” He snarled, punctuating his response with an intentionally rough ram. “Neighbours can’t hear you yet, c’mon.”

“You, Joel!”

Satisfied, his hands went to hold you by your waist, keeping you as still as possible as he drove insistently into you, his tip now kissing your cervix with every thrust.

You cried out at the feeling, nails raking down his back.

Heat pooled in your gut, your vision blurred, a high-pitched ringing almost deafened your ears.

“Joel, Joel, I’m…” You babbled.

“Close? Go on, gorgeous. Let me feel you choke my dick.”

With his blessing, his name left your mouth in a high-pitched scream, and you felt yourself clench around his throbbing length as your orgasm rippled across your body like an earthquake.

Joel, being the overachiever he was, didn’t stop for even a second until your breathing slowed and your eyes fluttered open again.

And, once he saw that you had recovered, he leaned forward to slant his mouth against yours, swallowing your sighs.

“You okay?” He mumbled into the kiss, barely breaking away.

“Yeah.” You exhaled. 

He smiled against your lips.

“Good. Almost there, baby. Gonna take you against the sink, now, and you’re gonna give me one more, how’s that sound?”

You nodded dreamily, feeling him slowly pull out.

He leaned back and, with his hands on your waist, delicately set you down.

“Turn ‘round for me, sweetheart.” 

You acquiesced without hesitation, bracing yourself on the porcelain countertop.

Joel hummed, kicked your legs open even wider, and, not long after, sank the entirety of his cock into you in one deep thrust.

A sharp breath hit the air behind you, and an airy ‘fuck’ followed it. This angle made him feel bigger, if that was even possible.

He didn’t wait long after that. He couldn’t. Overcome with the need to feel you, he started moving. The first thrust was slow. Experimental. The second was hard. The third was harder.

Before you knew it, his big hands found a home on your hips, and he began to drive roughly into you, as if making up for lost time.

He certainly proved he was willing to atone for his absence, thrust after thrust.

“Oh, look at you.” Joel tutted and pulled your hair to tilt your head upwards.

You came face to face with the woman in the bathroom mirror.

Somewhere in between thrusts, your mouth had fallen agape, letting loose a long whine of pleasure, which was stuttered by every slam of his hips against yours.

Your hair was frizzy, your face was flushed, your hooded gaze was flooded with desire, and a light sheen of sweat doused every inch of your skin.

You were a wreck, thanks to the man fucking you so well behind you.

“Eyes up here.” Joel sighed. “Keep ‘em open. Gotta watch how well you take me.”

Joel was even more of a sight. 

The top few buttons of his flannel were undone, his sleeves were haphazardly rolled up, his hair was wild, and the look on his weathered face was nothing short of territorial as he held you to him and fucked you with reckless abandon.

Your eyes fell to where your bodies were connected, hypnotised by how easily his tanned cock disappeared in and out of your puffy cunt.

Again.

And again.

And again.

The corners of his lips were coyly upturned when he cooed, “Don’t we look good, baby?”

You could only respond in broken syllables.

“Yeah,” He grunted. Then, after a particularly forceful thrust, “we do.”

He continued to ram into you, finding your cervix with each thrust, keeping his eyes trained on the mirror, fixated on how your tits bounced so prettily for him.

“Beautiful.” He whispered, jaw tight.

If your brain hadn’t been turned to mush after the two orgasms he forced out of you, you would’ve heard him. But all you were focused on was the rush of another climax approaching.

You gripped the countertop harder and gritted your teeth, feeling warmth collecting in your stomach and bracing yourself for impact.

As if reading your mind, Joel’s hand moved from your hip to your front, trailing down until he brushed your clit, rubbing sloppy semi-cricles and whispering sweet things as you whimpered.

“You gonna give me one more?” He murmured encouragingly, his nose nudging the side of your face.

You could only manage an open-mouthed nod.

His fingers sped in their motions, swiping at your clit feverishly as he continued to rut into you, grazing your cervix each time.

Again. And again. 

“Come for me, sweetheart. I’ll catch you.” He whispered gently.

Your jaw slackened, your heartbeat quickened, and, in a blinding flash of pleasure, you came with his name on your tongue, helpless to the throes of your climax.

“There you go. Shit… so good for me.” Joel groaned. And then, urgently, “Where—where do you want me to–?”

Not even a full second later, “Inside.” 

“You sure?” He panted, starstruck. 

“I have an IUD, just—please.”

He didn’t reply. Instead, he pressed closer, his chest flush against your back, letting you feel every shaky pull of his breath as he caged you in. His hands found yours at the edge of the sink, lacing over them gently. His head dropped beside yours, his forehead nearly touching your temple, and a warm breath fanned across your skin as he sighed. 

And then he resumed his earlier pace.

He rammed into you hard and fast, chasing his own release as if it were a life-or-death situation. And all you could do was take it.

After a dozen more jerky thrusts, his breath caught in his throat and, with a low curse, he came. Hot ropes of his spend spilled inside you, and he rode it out until he couldn’t give you any more, which took a few more lazy rolls of his hips.

His breath evened not long after, warm and steady against your browbone. Soothing, almost.

Gently, he pulled out of you, and you felt his come slowly drip down your thighs.

“Fuck,” He breathed, pressing a soft kiss to your hair, scruff rubbing against your crown as he did so.

And he bowed his head to rest it on the crook of your neck.

“That was great, George.” You panted.

Joel snorted tiredly. “Just couldn’t help yourself, huh?”

“Nope.”

He huffed out a chuckle.

Then, he languidly pressed a trail of open-mouthed kisses wherever his lips could reach—the underside of your jaw, your throat, your neck, and down, still.

A warm, fuzzy sort of feeling radiated from his touch, lulling you into a state of bliss. It felt like love; it felt like coming home.

You couldn’t help the smile that stretched across your face.

Joel mumbled something unintelligible against your shoulder.

“What?” You replied, breaking free from your trance.

“I said,” He pulled away and, with two fingers on your chin, tenderly turned your face to look at him. His voice was wrecked and so very earnest when he finally repeated himself. “Don’t send the papers. Please.”

He held the rest of his plea in his eyes in the way they shone with a certain sincerity.

You smiled softly and shook your head. Because you knew you never really had any intention to. Because you wanted to hold on to him. And you were glad he wanted to hold on to you, too.

Your lips found his. Gentle, delicate, a reassurance. He gave in to the kiss almost immediately, sighing into your mouth.

“I won’t.”

And you meant it.

thanks for reading!!! reqs are open, if you wanna send an idea or anything over :)