Terrible news: now electric!Mara can’t even shower without Luke pressed up against her naked wet body. Such an unfortunate affliction 😔😔
New chapters up tomorrow, hopefully, but here’s a taster:
———
“Mara?” Luke’s heavy, warm presence flared on the other side of the door, bright with alarm.
No.
Another bolt ripped up from her palms. She gasped. The sound came out more like a sob.
She barely registered him entering; just the sudden gust of cooler air, his silhouette in the steam, the sharp, horrified spike of his senses as he took in the scene.
“Stop—” she got out, unsure if she meant the lightning, or him. Maybe both.
He did not stop. Of course he didn’t.
He crossed the small space in what felt like one stride. The water was still hammering down from above, turning the floor slick, but he didn’t falter.
“Skywalker, I’m naked,” she hissed, because humiliation was a good distraction from pain. Her voice cracked.
“Trust me,” he muttered, “I’m very aware”, and then his hands were on her.
He didn’t hesitate. Of all the ways this could have gone, that was what undid her.
One of his arms came around her from behind, under her breasts again, palm flat across her ribs. The other went over it, pinning her forearms against her body. He hauled her back away from the full force of the spray, rotating them so that he took the brunt of it across his shoulders.
The contact stole what remained of her breath.
Skin. Everywhere.
In the studio there had been clothes, her training tunic. Now there was only heat and slickness and the hard planes of his chest against her wet back. Every place they touched felt branded: his forearm under the swell of her breasts, his wrist against her sternum, his hands locking across the front of her like a bar.
The lightning did what it had done before, only worse.
It leapt.
The current that had been trying to eat her nerves alive found a new path and went for it gleefully. It stormed into him in a rush that made her vision white out. She felt it flood along the length of his arms, through his chest, down into his centre.
His body jerked once against her. His breath came out between clenched teeth.
“Okay,” he grated. “Okay. I’ve got you. Just—” He wrestled for control, voice and body coiled with tension.. “Just… let it come.”
As if that were easy. As if she hadn’t spent years slammed into the opposite discipline.
Her first instinct was to fight. To wrench away, to twist out of his hold, to slam the whole storm down before it could show him anything more.
His arms tightened, anticipation beating her to it. He pulled her more firmly against him, chest to spine, soaking wet. She could feel his heart hammering.
“Mara, listen to me,” he said, voice rough and close at her ear. “You clamp down right now, you’re going to burn yourself from the inside out.”
“You’re going to see—” she managed.
“Nothing I haven’t already”, he shot back, too fast. “Let it move. Through. Not away. Through.”
Her feet skidded on the wet floor. All that kept her upright was his hold. There was nowhere to anchor herself that wasn’t him.
The lightning roared, looking for the smallest narrowing to crash against.
She thought of letting go and everything in her screamed. You do not let go. You do not. You hold and hold until there is nothing left. That’s how you survive.
Luke’s chin brushed the crown of her head as he leaned in, bringing his mouth closer to her ear. “Trust me,” he said.
Stupid, she thought wildly. Stupid, naive farmboy words, offered like they meant something in a universe where trust was a currency people spent too easily and died for.
Her body believed him anyway. She stopped pushing back.
Tiny shift. Microscopic. She made no heroic decision; she simply didn’t brace quite so hard against the current as it battered through her.
It poured.
The path into him opened so quickly it made her dizzy. The pain in her hands eased by degrees, going from sharp, searing lines to a deep, fierce ache. The water carried away the worst of the heat as it bled off.
His hands spread more firmly over her ribs, fingers splaying as if to cover more surface. It didn’t feel like restraint. It felt like contact.
She felt him throw his own attention into the Force in that way he did – earnest, unguarded, like a kid opening all the windows in a stuffy room. The energy met it and sank, hungry, into the wider current.
His jaw was tight against her temple. Drops of water ran down his face and into her hair, cold tracks in the warmth.
“Good,” he said, sounding a little wrecked. “That’s it. Breathe.”
She did, because she had to to stop her lungs from shutting down. Each gulp of air pulled more of the power along with it, a tide rolling through and out instead of smashing inward.
The spray was still hitting her shoulder and the side of his neck. The noise of it was too loud in the small space. The steam was thicker now, curling around them like a curtain.
He moved one hand – she felt the loss of contact like a shock – just long enough to flick his fingers toward the control. The water shut off with a protesting clunk.
Sudden quiet crashed down around them.
Only the drip of cooling water on stone, the ragged echo of their breathing, the fading crackle of little residual arcs over her skin.
His arm was back around her in the same instant, as if he didn’t trust her not to disappear in the transition. Warm. Solid. Entirely too present.
Gradually, the buzzing in her fingers faded to pins and needles. The smell of singed skin, sharp and acrid, cut through the soap.
He swore softly under his breath. “You’re burned.”
“Don’t look at me,” she rasped.
“I’m looking after you.” He sounded almost furious now, which was unfair. She was the one who’d just had her nervous system turned into a power conduit.
He shifted his weight, adjusting their balance. The movement slid his chest against her back. Every inch of her that wasn’t numb from lightning was abruptly, humiliatingly aware of how extremely naked she was.
Her spine went stiff. “Let go of me.”
“Not until I’m sure it’s stable,” he said. “You’re still sparking.”
Blue-white arcs zigzagged from her hands to the walls, the ceiling, the floor; blooming outwards in violent, uncontrollable detonations of light. The curtain by the window tore open in a flash and caught fire. The lamp shattered. The doorway panel exploded in a halo of sparks.
The whole room was strobing in fierce pulses - too bright to see, too loud to hear, overwhelming - until she wasn’t sure which parts were the nightmare and which were really her.
“No no no no”
Her breath seized.
She curled inward on the bed, fists over her skull.
Something slammed outside - loud, urgent. Voices from far away.
And then his presence hit like a door blowing open.
Luke. Half-dressed, sleep-creased, eyes wide with alarm.
He didn’t hesitate.
He crossed the room in two strides and caught her arms just as the power peaked. Wrapped himself around her from behind and pulled her tight against his chest.
The contact was blinding.
The energy poured through him like lightning through a conductor, hot and clean. The light flared once, then broke apart into harmless sparks that scattered across the floor and winked out. The smell of smoke thinned. The curtain collapsed in a heap of charred fabric. The lightning vanished so fast the room smelled like scorched air mourning the loss of it.
When she could breathe again, he was still holding her. Her whole body sagged as if someone had cut her strings.
Luke held her tighter, breathing hard but steadying fast. His cheek pressed to her temple. His voice was low, a whisper in the wreckage.
“It’s all right. I’ve got you.”
She couldn’t speak. Couldn’t breathe properly.
“It’s dark,” she choked finally. “It’s lightning. You saw—”
“I felt it,” he said, voice firm. “And it’s not dark.”
“You don’t know that—”
“I do,” he said. “I know you.”
Something in her chest collapsed inward at that—pain, relief, terror, she couldn’t name it.
“I can’t stay here,” she whispered. “I’m going to hurt someone.”
He pulled back just enough to meet her eyes.
“Then you’re with me tonight,” he said. No hesitation. No option for refusal. “I’m not leaving you alone like this.”
The words struck something deep and fragile inside her chest.
Before she could protest - before she could form the sentence - he wrapped his hand around hers, careful but firm.
“Come on,” he murmured. “Let’s go.”
He helped her to her feet, one arm wrapped securely around her waist because she was still shaking too hard to stand. His other hand skimmed her ribs, grounding, steadying, gentling.
She was wearing only a thin sleep-wrap and shorts. He was just in sleep pants. The proximity should’ve been humiliating. Terrifying. Instead it felt like oxygen.
He didn’t let go of her the entire walk to his quarters.
Not when they passed two startled apprentices.
Not when the lights flickered back on across the hall.
Not even when she muttered, “I can walk, you know,” and tried halfheartedly to pull away.
His arm simply tightened, not possessive—protective, grounded, steady.
“You’re shaking,” he murmured. “Just lean.”
And she did, because her legs were unreliable and her chest still felt like it was full of broken glass.
His quarters were dim. Cooler than hers. The air smelled faintly of cedar resin and clean linen. He kicked the door closed behind them without ceremony.
“Mara.”
His voice gentled further - dangerously close to intimate.
“Come here.”
He guided her to the bed and sat with her on the edge. For a moment he just held her head against his shoulder, his hand warm at the back of her neck. She could feel the minute trembling in her muscles as the aftershocks passed.
Then he shifted, nudged her back gently, and pulled the covers down.
“Lie down.”
She bristled automatically. “I can take the sofa-”
“No.”
Soft, certain, as if the word were simply a fact of physics.
“You need contact. This is safest.”
She was too wrung out to argue. Her limbs felt heavy, her skin still humming faintly somehow. She sank back against the pillow, breath coming in uneven threads.
He stretched out beside her - no hesitation, no awkwardness - and curved his body against hers like it was a reflex he was born with. One arm slid around her waist, the other tucked under the pillow by her head. His bare chest pressed warm along her spine, steady as gravity.
The second he touched her, the residual static drained away like water finding its level.
Her shoulders loosened. A small, involuntary sound escaped her - barely more than a sigh.
Luke exhaled against her hair. “There we go.”
It was the gentleness that did it.
Not the closeness. Not even the warmth.
Just... that voice.
She closed her eyes. Too tired to think, too tired to fight.
His fingers brushed her hip in a grounding pattern she recognised from earlier - slow, repetitive, calm.
She drifted.
And he followed her into sleep almost instantly, breath going deep and even, arm tightening around her even in unconsciousness.
Every chapter of this fic is a delight to write except Chapter 1, meaning I still haven’t published it yet.
But here’s a snippet where Electric!Mara sneaks off and asks Kam to try grounding her instead of Luke, and it goes badly. Luke has to come to the rescue and he’s not exactly impressed…
—-
Luke didn’t release her immediately.
Even after the last of the static dissipated into the floor, he kept his hands on her arms as if daring the Force to contradict him.
Kam, normally the calmest presence in the room, seemed unusually careful now. He stepped back, hands clasped behind him, gaze flicking between them with a measured kind of concern.
“Mara,” Kam said gently, “how do you feel?”
“Tired,” she answered stiffly, then looking at Luke, “Irritated.”
All understatements. She felt like she’d been singed on the inside.
Luke didn’t let go.
Kam nodded. “Then maybe you should sit—”
“She’s not staying here,” Luke cut in.
Mara snapped her head toward him. “Excuse me?”
Luke’s grip didn’t shift. “You’re coming with me.”
Kam gave Luke a long, slow look - the kind that suggested he’d like to challenge him, but also wasn’t stupid enough to try while Mara was still actively crackling under Luke’s fingertips.
He cleared his throat. “We need to understand what happened.”
“What happened,” Luke said, voice low, “is that grounding is not a transferable skill. Not for this. It’s not a technique. It’s a resonance. It has to be me.”
Kam didn’t deny it, but he didn’t agree, either.
He just said, “Then we note that.”
Mara bristled. “I don’t need to be discussed like a lab experiment”
“No one said—” Kam began.
“Actually,” Luke interrupted sharply, “she has a point. None of this is normal, Kam. Not even by Jedi standards. And trying again without me is absolutely off the table.”
Kam folded his arms - slowly, deliberately. “Luke. You’re emotional. That’s understandable. But if you’re saying only you can help her, you need to be sure.”
“I am sure.”
Kam’s voice softened, though his eyes stayed keen.
“And you’re sure that that certainty isn’t… emotional investment?”
Mara’s stomach dropped.
She felt Luke’s entire body go rigid.
“That isnt relevent,” he said flatly.
Kam tilted his head. “Everything is relevent, Luke. You know that.”
A muscle jumped in Luke’s jaw. “This has nothing to do with—”
“Then why,” Kam said gently, “did she come to me instead of you this morning?”
The silence landed like a stone.
Mara’s cheeks burned hot. Luke stiffened. Kam realized he’d stepped on a fault line and immediately pulled back, hands raised.
“I’m not judging,” he said hastily. “Just observing. Something here is… personal. Maybe for both of you.”
Luke’s laugh was sharp and brittle. “You have no idea.”
Mara wanted to scream, or to smash something, or to run far away. Instead she said nothing, burning silently under Luke’s relentless grip.
After a long pause, Kam nodded to them both.
“Alright. I’ll write in my notes that grounding attempts with anyone but you are contraindicated. And dangerous.”
Luke’s voice was a blade.
“Good.”
Kam hesitated. Then he looked straight at Mara — not at Luke.
“If you need anything from me that isn’t grounding,” he said softly, “I’m here.”
For a moment, Mara’s breath went thin.
Luke pulled her a half-step closer to him — not quite possessive, but something very near the border — and she felt Kam notice.
From my very serious high-brow fic where Mara exudes dangerous Force electricity unless she is being constantly touched by Luke.
Just for *grounding* purposes, obviously… It’s like, science.
—
She spent the morning elbow-deep in her ship’s guts, running diagnostics, replacing melted relays, muttering inventive insults at the circuit blocks. When Luke’s shadow fell across the open hatchway she didn’t pause to look up.
“Your landing report says you nearly overloaded the primary converter,” he said mildly. “You all right?”
She kept her eyes on the coil she was loosening. “You’re reading maintenance logs now? Must be quiet around here.”
“Quiet isn’t bad,” he said. “It gives people space to listen.”
“To what, the insects?” The coil came free with a hiss and she set it aside. “I’m fine, Skywalker.”
“Luke,” he corrected automatically. “And you don’t look fine. Neither does your ship.”
She filled the silence by scraping at the carbon scorching.
He crouched beside her, close enough that she could feel his calm radiating out. It was infuriating, that endless steadiness. Like he didn’t know how to be anything but centred.
“Whatever you’re doing to block the Force,” he said, “it’s fighting back.”
She turned then, eyes sharp. “You think this is about control? You have no idea what - ”
Her sentence cut off as the hydrospanner in her hand suddenly *sparked*. Blue-white light licked across her hand snapping tiny fizzing stars into the air.
Luke was already moving; he grabbed the spanner, tossed it aside then went for her wrist.
“Mara-”
“Don’t touch me!”
The flash was instantaneous. The entire ship sang as every light in the cabin blew out and smoked. Panels cracked. Tiny blue filaments licked up over her arms like glowing neon lace.
Luke swore under his breath - the sound of a man unaccustomed to swearing - and pulled her against him, hard.
It was like a held breath released. The surge that she’d been holding, so bright and vicious, flooded out at the contact, humming harmlessly into him.
When the world steadied, they were both on the floor, pressed together, her heart hammering hard against his chest. He rubbed his thumb lightly where he was cupping the back of her neck.
“Are you hurt?” he asked quietly.
She pushed him away from her, shaking. “No. I… It’s just…”
The smell of smoke again. Her fingertips crackling blue.
Luke took her hand then, and laced their fingers tightly together. She watched the flickers run over them both, for a moment, and then dissipate into the air.
“Let’s just… keep hold of one another for now” he said, breezy, like a suggestion they go and drink tea.
When she finally looked up, she found she couldn’t return his smile.
The thing I keep telling myself lately in regards to my writing is this:
if I'm not having fun, then what's the fucking point?
Stop worrying about publishing. Stop worrying about what people might think. Stop thinking about if your story will be a bestseller, if it will be hated, if anyone will read it at all.
Stop getting ahead of yourself. You're overthinking.
It's okay to have fun. You are supposed to have fun, you are supposed to enjoy the process, the effort, the work. Are there times that are less pleasant, less fun? Absolutely. But your favorite authors and heroes did not become the writers they are because they were grinding their teeth in agony with every word they wrote.
Let go of all the questions. It doesn't matter what people might think about your story. It doesn't matter if this story gets you an agent. It doesn't matter if this is the best story ever, or the worst, or most forgettable or whatever else you hope or fear it will be.
Let them go. Turn your mental focus away from them as best you can. Tell yourself, "my future self will deal with that when my present self is done".
Because none of those are relevant unless you finish the story. And you can't finish the story if you're worrying about the future.
Don't give up. You've got this. And if you haven't heard this today, I'm proud of you.
So grateful to @pedrostories for making this Christmas so very merry for us all with this fic exchange!
Gorgeous @grogusmum - I wrote this for you! ❤️ Thank you for your perfect prompt. It’s been a while since I wrote fiction and ashamed to say I got UP IN MY HEAD over this - wrote three, hated them all, and eventually decided this was the best. I hope it’s ok and it brings you some well-deserved joy! (And I apologise for all of my typos. I will be back for another review with fresh eyes in the morning!)
Prompt: “We’re not going anywhere in this snow”
Din/F Reader. Post Razor’s Crest.
CW: Language. Mild angst; some self-loathing; vague and non-specific references to a difficult past. Loneliness. Light jealousy, some fluff. Also, like… Elsa-powers? I don’t really know how that happened. I really hope it’s ok!
A Spell Of Winter
This is the shit all your nightmares are made of.
It hasn’t been like this for years. Not since you were a kid, when the toxic cocktail of fresh teenage hormones and unexplained abilities had turned your world on its head. “A hot mess” your sister had jokingly called you back then, until your fuck ups grew increasingly serious, and then nobody laughed anymore.
“I’m about 5 minutes from your place, and I need a medpac.” She tries to keep her breathing level but she can hear it rasping down the line all the same. His concern is immediate.
“What’s happened?”
“Just some sleemo with a vibroblade. Don’t worry. But I’d rather avoid a med centre right now, for obvious reasons.”
She hears him swallow. Even across this distance she feels the incandescent surge of rage that flares up, before being quickly snuffed.
“I’ll meet you at the lifts.”
True to his word, when the elevator doors slide open he is there, pacing lightly, face tight. That doesn’t abate when he catches sight of her; she can only imagine how she must appear, tunic half-soaked with blood, slightly dazed with pain and her best Force-suppression attempts.
He puts a gentle hand to the small of her back - barely any pressure, just a suggestion of a touch, really - and guides her swiftly to his door.
Once inside it’s down to professional military gestures. He seats her sideways in a straight-back chair and carefully cuts at the seam of her shirt with shears. She’d take the time to complain - she liked this tunic, damnit - but keeping the pain at bay requires the bulk of her concentration and everything else is vaguely fuzzy. She’s missed what he’s saying just now, too.
“Huh?”
He gestures to her back.
“The wrap. Is it ok if I...?”
Oh, her bra. Well, under the circumstances. She reaches back to untie it for him and her shoulder wound screams in fresh firey protest. It’s sharp enough that her vision blurs and her stomach turns briefly with nausea.
“Stop.” His voice is a steady light of comfort through the choking haze of pain. “I’ve got it. Just sit still.”
He doesn’t ask her any more questions after that.
Once the bacta is on, mercificully cool and numbing, he delivers a shot to her arm and reaches for the bandages. There’s a memory now of herself as a child, open wound to her leg, asking for a dressing in tears. “No”, her minder had told her. “We do not cover our failures, child.”
But the thick blanket of dressing over her wound feels good, as Luke’s careful hands tape it in place. The painkiller is starting to take hold, and she risks drawing back from the Force a little, enough to allow her thoughts to clear a little bit.
Enough to realise she is topless in Luke’s dining room and he now has the warmth of his palms against her back, and he isn’t moving.
“Uh. Luke?”
He shushes her in response. He’s lucky she’s too tired to object.
She turns to look at him but his eyes are closed and his shoulders soft. “Healing” he says with the exaggerated shortness used to convey an air of concentration.
Oh, right. She closes her eyes and reaches out to see if she can join him.
A little while later she opens her eyes. Dusk has fallen and her shoulder feels about a million times better. She could even sleep on it, if she needed to.
Luke comes round too, yawning and stretching.
“How do you feel?” He asks her, and she looks over a shoulder and graces him with a smile.
“Better. Thank you”
He nods in acknowledgement. “Do you want to tell me what happened?”
Reaching for her wrap, she awkwardly shrugs. It hurts. Perhaps not quite as healed as she’d imagined, then.
“Not much to add. Some huge reptile with a back-up posse grabbed me by the main shuttle line. By the time I’d cleared the hired muscle he’d pulled a vibro, and you’ve seen the rest.”
“He just got in one lucky swipe” she grouses as an afterthought.
Luke nods, takes the ends of the wrap from her fingers and begins to wind it around. His hands brush the curve of a breast by her right underarm, and she suppresses a shiver.
“So you’ve no leads on who they were?” His anger is quiet but palpable.
“Well, I wouldn’t say that.” With a smirk, she leans forward gingerly to snag her utility belt form where it rests on the table. Rifling through a pocket she retrieves a small black wallet, which she opens and quickly flicks through before pulling out a data card.
<Character name>, resident of <planet> she reads aloud. Handing the the card to Luke she adds, “quite the looker, isn’t he?”
Luke looked from the card to her face and back again.
“You swiped his wallet?” He shakes his head in resignation. “Of course you swiped his wallet.”
“What, you thought I let him slice me for the fun of it? A little credit please, farmboy. I’m a professional, after all. And now we have a duracrete lead.”
His face lights up and he moves forward as if to hug her - then thinks better of it, instead he offers her a warm smile and says, “you’re brilliant.” The smile drops and he adds a rough punch to her good shoulder.
“Ow! What the hells?”
“That’s for putting yourself in danger for it. Don’t do that again; you’re not invincible. Now, I’ll get you a shirt.”
And still quietly glowing with pride in her, he begins to tidy away the medical kit on his way to the bedroom.
Something I really love about the Pedro fandom in particular is the way we can take the spark of a character and turn him into something way bigger and more developed than the original role, with universally agreed traits and consistent characterisation across different authors and fics.
And amazing oral skills. Always amazing oral skills, no matter what.
Summary; ....well, at least your boss knows your name
Warnings; drug use (marijuana), casual touching - F!Masturbation, the raunchiest nastiest, dirty talk, Dieter being a chaos gremlin, some descriptions of a really terrible workplace environment.
A/N; Once again, the love, support and kindness you all have shown this fic has truly blown me away and I cannot express how much I appreciate all of it. This has been a rough week for me, so thank you for being my safe space <3
Leaving the office at 5pm on a Friday is a cardinal sin. The other interns watch you with a curious expression as you gather your wallet and phone, shoving them hastily into your handbag. You hope they aren’t looking close enough at your face to see the tears gathering in the corners of your eyes. If you get out of here in under a minute, you can cry safely on the street.
There’s no crying in this office. You made it through the first round of layoffs, the relief an itch in your chest as you watched co-workers pack their desks, move their little succulent plants into cardboard boxes and vanish. All their work was farmed out to all of you, 100 people whittled down to seventy with the same amount of papers. It was inevitable that something would get missed.
And you missed it. A line in one of the thousand spreadsheets, not updated, the formula not copied over. Ones and zeroes that caused the math to implode, for everything to grind to a halt until they found your error, fixed it and resumed the churning pace, each of you glued to screens with headphones and mouths set into a grim line.
She didn’t yell at you. It was in the raise of her eyebrow, the twitch of her finger over her keyboard, the way you watched her manicured nails hover over the “delete” key, as if it would have real world consequences. It was an hour of dressing down, of explaining the mistake in its simplest terms, as though you were an infant, your first class of your first year. No sympathy for the late nights or caffeine fuelled mornings, where you dragged yourself into the office mere hours after leaving it.
“I want you to take the weekend and consider your future with this company.” She sniffed, her eyes narrowing as she looked over your attire. “We certainly will”
There’s nothing waiting for you at your apartment except a Lean Cuisine and a dead plant. The streets are full of people in the same business attire as you, listening to podcasts and talking on headsets, they part around you like a rock in a river, barely noticing the tears that are now flowing freely down your cheeks. Nobody would stop if you were screaming, it doesn’t matter that it’s silent.
You start to walk.
*
Fall meant blankets for Dieter. He pulled them from the linen cupboard in his kitchen with something akin to glee, emptying the shelves of the rainbow of fleece and thick comforters, spreading them around his apartment as he walked in and out of the balcony, breathing in the air that chilled his lungs.
Summer had left without a goodbye, no final send-off of scorching heat or sticky sidewalks. Instead, the sun rose one morning on air that felt crisp, that chilled lungs and demanded steam in a hot shower, for the tea to be steeped a moment longer, the mug to warm your hands. Taking on an orange hue as the stores changed from bright colours to warm earth tones, the occasional pop of Halloween peeking through as hemlines got longer. Dieter reached for sweatpants most mornings.
He called you once a week. He saw you once a week. That was the baseline established. You would come in on a weekend in the mid-morning rush, and he would get a call, Owen, or sometimes Molly letting him know of your arrival. It was his wakeup call some days, just a few steps away from opening his eyes to see you first thing. He fell down the last stair most mornings. You would sit and talk with him, people watch in his carved out corner as you drank your coffee, ate a muffin. You asked him about himself, and he answered you honestly.
You seemed wholly unsurprised about the drugs, the women, the men. He had only made oblique references, a highlight reel of parties and tabs of LSD, you even laughed when he told you about Bertha, the strawberry-banana weed plant growing in the abandoned bathtub on his balcony. You guessed correctly that he preferred to grow his own, no pesticides or interference. He’d used the seeds from his last harvest, grown her again and marvelled at the cycle of life. Owen brought up the used coffee grounds once a week for fertilizer. He got the jars from goodwill.
You admitted your own indulgence was a glass of good Chardonnay. He’d stocked his fridge with Chablis right next to the blueberries, his whiskey remaining on top of the fridge, bottles emptied and repurposed, growing flowers out of makers mark on his nightstand.
The phone calls were his favourite. The shyness about you disappeared, you were more willing to admit things, less willing to suffer the silence as he waited for you to expand on an answer. If you didn’t want to answer something, you told him and he asked a different question. Your favourite colour was of ruby grapefruits.
He smoked and painted while you talked, bowls of fruit and tidily rolled joints accompanying your laughter. He loved to make you laugh. It tugged at his insides when you said you rarely did otherwise. On the weekends you chatted with Owen and Molly, lingering at the counter while Owen ground and pressed, and Molly doodled on your receipt. They knew better than to charge you, so you compromised by buying someone else’s.
You had no tattoos, the only piercings simple studs in your ear. You’d looked interested as he slowly filled in the triangles on his forearms, but didn’t ask him. He was still resisting the urge to push, to unfurl his fingers and reach to touch you in those quiet lulls of conversation. Feel your skin again under his thumbs, as if he could ever forget the sensation.
The scent of melted dark chocolate and cannabutter was thick in his kitchen. He could feel a mild contact high as a fuzz in his limbs as he watched them blend together. A floured pan was waiting for the brownies off to the side, and so far he’d only burned the tip of one finger on the cooktop. His lungs were too old for the crispness of the air, and after a few days of sobriety in the guise of a tolerance break, he found the scribbled brownie recipe in a Julia Child cookbook he had been given more than a decade ago.
He would call you tonight. Your last call had ended with his honesty. You still seemed to hedge whenever he opened, this delicate dance of advance and retreat. Every time you asked a question, you knew the answer, but seemed surprised when he gave it to you anyway. It was well past two am, the streets quiet as he watched the fan spin above him, listened to you talk again about ambitions and goals and plans that had more steps than the recipes he followed.
You hesitated, faltering at the finish. He wanted to ask you “What then?” what happens when you check every item off your list, when you’ve undoubtably achieved everything you want to and there’s no moon left to reach for – which lofty star would gain the focus of your new pursuits. But he let the silence linger, waiting for the question he could taste in the air, smoke curling from the ashtray at his bedside.
“Dieter… do you ever wonder what the rest of your life looks like?”
“No Loulou… this is the rest of my life. Talking on the phone with you.”
*
“Sorry we’re closed”
The bell creaks your arrival, groaning under the pressure of the day as you shove the door open. You don’t know why you’re here, why your feet brought you, protesting the impractical heels that carried you blocks and blocks in the dwindling sunlight. Everything hurts from crying, your face angry hot from the tears. The reasons left you in the smog from screaming cabs, catching in the choking pollution until you were blind with it, left with nothing but a hollow despair.
“Did you hear, I said… oh fuck!” Owen turned and blanched as he looked at you, dropping the rag he was using to polish the gleaming machine.
“I’m ok, everything’s ok, I’m sorry, I just…” you start, shame creeping up your spine as you watch the colour drain from his thin face. He scrambles, beads clinking merrily as he ducks behind the curtain.
“DIETER!” His voice booms, loud and echoing around the empty shop as you jump, holding your elbows as you glance at the door, wanting to run, to go home to your dead plant and sad dinner and pretend you didn’t have a breakdown. To glance nervously at your phone with a glass of chardonnay and hope he calls.
Instead he appears, dishevelled in sweats and a bathrobe that’s at least three sizes too big. He’s wearing sunglasses, there’s a stain that looks like chocolate on his cheek. He carries with him the same frantic energy, spiced this time with fear as he sees you, takes stock of your appearance and points at the chair, the faded mustard yellow that’s unofficially yours.
“Owen, grab one of those veggie pastries, make a hot chocolate and fuck off” he says, his voice stricter than you’ve heard it before, a glint of danger as he watches you, the painful shuffle as you make your way through the mismatched desks and tables.
He crouches rather than sits, close enough that you can smell the air on him, the crispness of fall and spices that cling to his clothing. Close enough you could count the greys in his beard. He watches as you fold in on yourself, shoes dropping to the floor with an echoing thunk as you curl into the familiar softness of his company. He doesn’t say anything, his eyes darting frantically around your features as you hear Owen in the background.
There’s a clink, a steaming cup and a plate placed beside you, as Owen offers you a smile, palms Dieter’s shoulder as he leaves in silence. The lock sounds heavy as it clicks behind him.
“Eat, Loulou” he says, his hands splayed wide on the armrests of the chair. You watch as his thumbs tick like metronomes as he strokes the fabric. This is the closest he’s been, since that first day. He doesn’t touch you, besides the accidental brushing of clothed knees as you sit in the mid mornings. He gestures when he talks, tugging at his clothes or his hair, watching your own limbs as you sit still, pen poised in your grip, hovering over the journal you always intend to write in.
The pastry is good, full of rich vegetables and buttery soft flakes, the hot chocolate steals the heat from your face, distributing it throughout your body as he waits patiently for you to finish. He brings you an extra napkin, you dry your eyes.
“Owen can’t deal with crying women. We had this woman once, who would come in and read these tragic romances, and sob over her latte. He went to this bookstore in Hell’s Kitchen and bought her all these bodice ripping pirate novels and told her she was banned from reading anything without at least two nipples on the front cover.”
You hiccup a laugh.
“Her names Mallory, they trade Kindle recommendations for books with aliens with blue dicks now”
“I’m sorry Dieter, I didn’t mean to… I should just go, this was stupid, I’m sorry, I’ve worried you for nothing and it’s stupid really. Honestly, I’m fine, it was just a bad day, I made this mistake, and it was completely my fault and I should have known better and I shouldn’t be crying, I should have just done it properly the first time”
“Can I give you a hug?” He asks. “Would that be okay?”
He waits. Perched on the balls of his feet as though his knees aren’t screaming in protest, as if his whole body hadn’t been jolted by electricity from the sight of you in pain. The roar of primal rage that flooded every sense the minute he saw the tears glistening on your cheeks brought him back to his youth, to the cocaine fuelled bar brawls and waking up with sticky fists. He gave it up in his twenties, but found he felt the need to scorch the earth to find those that caused you pain. You nod. Just a tiny jerk of your chin, your eyes filling again as he watches your fiddle with the hem of your shirt, looking down to try and blink them away.
He's stronger than he looks. The baggy clothes hiding a thick frame as he lifts you, depositing you back onto the armchair, curled exactly the same with him beneath you. He wraps the bathrobe around you both, bringing his arms around your middle as your head rests on his shoulder. He’s warm. Soft and broad beneath you as you feel his body still when your hair brushes his cheek.
Its easier, to bury the words in his skin. To talk into his shoulder, your eyes on the pulse of his throat as you explain your day. The dressing down from your boss, the judgemental eyes on you as you left the fluorescent lighting of the office, the pain in your feet from walking here. That you weren’t even sure why you were here, just that you didn’t want to go home. His thumb smooths a steady rhythm on your hip, rubbing tiny gentle circles over the robe and your clothing. You can feel him breathing beneath you, his warmth floods your senses.
“You don’t have to go home” he says quietly.
He still thinks you’re soulmates. He still thinks that this friendship you’ve fostered is the kindling to a blazing inferno. You don’t tell him about the coffee dates you sometimes go on throughout the week, about the men you swipe right on Tinder, the hopes you pin to white smiles and JDs.
“I can’t”
“I have a batch of weed brownies cooling on the counter. A stack of movies and very comfy couch. Nothing else.” He says, shrugging so you look at him. “Do you trust me?”
“Yes” its an answer without hesitation.
“I’m not going to use your shitty workday as an excuse to tempt you into bed. We can get high and watch movies and fall asleep. That’s it – we’re friends right now Loulou, this is what friends do. Promise”
He hooks his pinkie into yours, nudging his nose against your cheek as he nods, waiting for you to agree. When you do, he lifts you to your feet, grabbing your shoes as you wander slowly behind the beaded curtain.
*
Everything is green. There are plants in every corner of the apartment. Apartment is generous for the room you’re standing in. Shaped in an awkward rectangle with a sliding door, a small kitchen is crammed into a corner, shelves sit uneven, their contents sliding drunk with gravity. A huge deep green couch in front of a large television, looking every bit as soft and comfortable as promised. Hiding behind a wicker screen is his bed, which is when you start laughing.
“Like it?” he asks, grinning as he flicks off light switches, darkening the hallway leading to the stairs. Its round. Huge and sprawling, pillows piled against the wall with crisp sheets tucked awkwardly on the rounded edges. You can see where he sleeps with the comforter, puddled in the middle and your brain provides you with an absurd image of him, a frog on this lily pad, talking on the phone with you as the ceiling fan spins above.
“It’s very you” you shrug, gravitating towards the corner, paint and canvases stacked like pizza boxes, a tower almost as tall as you. The easel is propped on a brick, the work only half finished as you look at it. Its streaks of midnight, deep rich blues as you look closer, the tiny speckles of the universe behind a moon made of spun lace, glued to the canvas. In the foreground, two tiny figures sit hand in hand, as if observing the webbing above them.
“This is beautiful” you say, reaching your hand towards the texture, stopping yourself at the smell of fresh paint. He hasn’t finished it yet, some white canvas peeking through the edges.
“Thank you” he says, grabbing your hand and pressing forward. Your fingerprints are left on the sticky surface, they come away streaked purple. “I’m going to suggest something that’s going to freak you out a little bit. Take a shower. I’m going to give you some of my clothes to change into – you can’t be comfortable all buttoned up like this. Half a brownie and a shower, and then we’ll watch some movies”
He wipes your hand on his shirt, taking most of the pigment with it as he strolls to his cluttered counter, a tray of half cut brownies waiting on the edge, balanced precariously. You can see the jars behind him, half full of buds of weed in mason jars. There’s an orchid growing out of a bottle of Makers Mark.
He grabs dark sweats from a haphazardly folded pile, pulls one shirt, then another, before settling on a third and giving them to you. From his pantry he gives pulls a towel in jewel tones before opening the door to his bathroom, depositing them on a cluttered vanity. You catch a glimpse of more plants before he skitters back to the kitchen, a knife held loosely in his grip as he ponders the slab of brownie.
“Have you…”
“I went to college Dieter” you reply, rolling your eyes.
He cuts two pieces, cutting one in half before offering it to you. The chocolate smells rich and heavenly, decadent in the weight of it as you take a bite, the flavours exploding across your tongue as you taste cinnamon and brown sugar, just a hint of the vegetal weed exploding across your senses.
He eats the other half, and then another piece as you finish yours. You notice the way he lingers on your lips as you suck the chocolate from your thumb. He points to the bathroom; you enter to another jungle. There’s a plant in a terracotta pot in the corner of his shower. All the soap is cluttered on the floor.
But the shower itself is a marvel. You lock the door behind you and stare, the giant square head protruding right from the ceiling, and you know it will rain down on you like that first day you met him, heavy and warm and soothing. You fold your clothes neatly, rolling them to fit in your handbag as you turn the water on, immediately jealous of the hot water streaming from his taps.
It washes down the drain at your feet as you turn under the heavy spray. The tension that had been slowly leaking from your pores turns to a gush as you relax, allowing your eyes to drift shut as the hot water hammers your shoulders, your palms braced on the tile. Idly, you wonder if Dieter had ever placed his hands here, if he stood in this same position.
It was cold enough to stand outside and will himself to calm down. The sound of the shower had his cock perking up with interest. It had been silenced by your tears as you moulded yourself onto his lap, but the idea that you were naked mere feet from him had brought it back to life with a roar. He forced himself into the cold, tucking himself into the waistband of his sweats as he looked over his apartment. He shoved the toys into the bottom drawer, wincing at the stickiness of dried lube as he made note to run them through the dishwasher in the morning. He turned off the overhead lights, grabbing a weighted blanket from the bed and throwing it with a grunt onto the couch.
The lava lamp on the coffee table gave off a blueish softness, making him feel as though he was underwater, his limbs heavy as he loaded up a bowl with salted cashews, grabbing a few sodas from his fridge as he scrolled through the DVD menu, waiting to hear the water stop.
Oh. Oh.
Oh, you look so good in his clothes. Your hair is still damp as you exit, clouds of steam billowing with you as if you’re a goddess come to earth, shoving your handbag into a corner with his laundry. His brain is static, all white noise and lust as he watches the way his shirt stretches across your tits. You’re wearing fabric that has touched his skin, that smells like him. You’re going to smell like him. His cock twitches dangerously at his hip.
“Dracula first” he says, amazed he found words other than begging you to let him taste what you taste like mixed together.
*
Everything is so deliciously warm. You’re under a blanket that presses on your thighs, the weight making you feel heavy. Everything is clouds and deep breaths, blurry and hazy, a film left too long exposed. Your fingers are salty from cashews, the texture on your skin making a pleasant hum as you shift closer to Dieter again. He’s blurry too, as though you’re looking at him underwater, and your palm, swimming in and out of focus makes you giggle, as you trace the lines he did, trying to recreate his steps.
“Mount of Venus” you say, your tongue thick and warbling as you press into the padded flesh.
“Mhm” he replies, deep and rumbling, an ancient carving next to you. You rest your head on his shoulder, your palm in his lap and wait.
“Pleasure” he says, his fingers twitching across the blanket. “Love of beauty, and expression. Warm and open, giving to others. Intimacy, sexual expression”
“You said mine was pronounced.” You grab his hand, flipping it in the mirror of your first meeting, trailing your fingers across his palm. You feel him shiver next to you. “Yours is too”
“Mhm” he repeats, his head lolling to look at you. He’s beautiful really. The blue shadows dancing across his features. His skin is soft, the lines deep in his face. There are mismatched patches on his beard, he’s greying around the jaw. You want to scrape a finger across it, but your arms feel too heavy to lift.
“I’m not going to kiss you Bette” he says, flipping his hand onto yours, matching those movements with a delicate touch. It races up your spine, flames licking at your senses as you sigh, shift even closer to him.
“Why not?”
“We’re high. And I made a promise. And I haven’t gotten tested, and you haven’t gotten tested, so even if I was going to kiss you, I’d have to deny myself everything else. And if I did kiss you, you’d vanish so fast in the morning, and it would take months to get back here. And if I want you like this by the New Year, it’s better to be patient”
He sounds sober in the moment. A determination in his voice as he presses his thumb into your pulse. You know he’s right. The tiny voice that’s drowned by weed shouts agreement. You would run from him in the morning – you’d know immediately it was a mistake.
“And if we weren’t?” you ask, edging yourself over the flame.
“Are you sure you want to know?” he asks, nodding to the TV, where Boris Karloff follows the Ave Maria to find a friend.
“Tell me what I’m missing”
“Have you ever been properly fucked beautiful girl?”
He watches the way your pupils’ contract. The tremble in your lip at the hitch in your breath. He feels your pulse jump beneath his fingers, feels the twin twitch beneath his own sweats. He’s thought about nothing but properly fucking you, of taking apart every put together piece of you and rearranging them between his sheets. Of finding every spot that makes you giggle, squirm, moan. Of what you look like covered in a thin film of sweat, of the way you swallow when you cum.
“Yes” you whisper.
“Liar” he accuses. “You’d be thinking of them right now, not wondering what I mean. Do you know what I mean Loulou? When I say I want to properly fuck you?”
“No” its breathy and soft, and he knows that’s exactly what you’ll sound like when he finally buries himself to the hilt inside you.
“I’ve thought about it a lot.”
He’s throbbing, thankful and mournful for the weighted blanket not betraying the weight of his cock pressed into his hip. He can feel it, the first sticky bead as it seeps into the waistband. You’re watching his mouth, your eyes focused on his tongue over teeth as he sucks in a breath, tries to calm himself.
“I’d start at your neck. I know someone in college probably got it right on accident. Found the spot where if you scrape their teeth just right, you’d whimper. That spot, and then the others, under your jaw, right down the middle of your throat. I’m going to mark you; my beard alone will leave you red. But I want my teeth as well, I want to brand it right over your pulse, watch it bloom like an opening flower. I want you weak kneed, grinding up against me because you’re already soaking wet.”
“Do you think you’re that good?”
“I know I’m that good. It’s the getting you naked part that will be a problem the first time. Because I don’t know if I’ll be able to control myself. I think I’m going to destroy a bit of your clothing, my clothing, to begin with. I’m a fan of a good striptease, but I think that will have to wait until later. Once the ravenous hunger has died down a bit.”
You squirm. Just enough that he knows you’re pressing your thighs together, that some of the lazy warmth has concentrated right between your legs.
“I have to taste you. I’m desperate to taste you. Some days I lay on that bed and think about all the different ways I want to. I want to have you spread open on that armchair downstairs so I can see just how wet you are – I want you on my face, I want to pull all your weight on me, so I can feel how your whole body twitches when you cum. I want to watch you open for me, watch the way your clit swells every time I wrap my lips around it, the throbbing of your cunt before I even work my fingers inside.”
You whimper. Its enough to make him hiss. A strain against his muscles as he grinds his hips into nothing. You’re both unsettled now, shifting to find comfort against your own skin. His cock hurts, and you’re right here and you smell like him, and all he’s touching is your palm.
“You’d take one finger for me, easy. Two and three might take more coaxing, but I know you’ll take them for me. You’ll be so out of it by the first time I make you cum that the second and third will feel like a wave, crashing and breaking and not stopping. I think three might make you squirt; I hope it does. I want to be drenched in you, drink it down. I think you’re going to taste like blueberries, sugared and sweet and dripping. I want my palm soaked in you; this mount of Venus pressed right up against your clit. If you’re good for me, if you do what I want, I’ll share. I’ll gather all of you onto my tongue and spit it right in your mouth. Ill make you cum again with my tongue halfway down your throat.”
“Jesus…”
“You need stretching Loulou. I need to take my time, even though I’ll be fucking the sheets like a wild animal, getting them sticky and wet with how much I want you. If you’re sitting on my face, you might see me fuck my fist to take the edge off – a poor substitute as I’ve discovered”
“Why?”
“You know why” he replies, flipping your wrist to press against him over the blankets. He watches as your eyes widen, the thickness of him matching the delicate bones in your wrist. He pulls your hand away before you can curl your fingers in the fabric. He watches your free hand disappear beneath the blankets, the way your eyes glaze over as you press your fingers between your thighs.
“Once you’re ready, you’ll have to get used to it. It’s going to take time, for me to cram my cock inside you. You’re going to feel like heaven, and I don’t know how long I’m going to be able to hold off from pounding your slick little cunt. I’ll need you to help me, rake your nails through my hair, down my back, mark me up like I’ve marked you. If you need toys, I have them. If you want to watch the way you fit me I’ll film it.”
“Then what” he can see your hips rocking beneath the blankets. The lazy slow fucking of your own hand over his clothing makes him groan. He’s dangerously close himself, the weight of the elastic on the head of his cock enough to have him dribbling, he can feel it sliding over his skin, seeping into his shirt as he closes his eyes, willing himself not to cum.
“You’ll get fucked properly beautiful. I’ll fuck you until you can’t form words, until you’re drooling from my fingers in your mouth, until you can’t hold yourself upright. Until all your body knows how to do is submit to it. To give in and sink under and cum again, so hard you squeeze my fat cock out, so I can run it across that swollen berry of a clit and make you scream. Wherever I cum, you’re sharing. If its in your pretty little mouth you can’t swallow, I want to kiss you till its dripping all over your tits. If its inside you I’m going to fuck a dildo into you and lick it off. I want it on your skin, I want it on my skin. I want every time to be so fucking filthy we need to change the sheets. I want you as ruined as I am, for anybody else but me.”
“Dieter…” you whimper, your nails digging into his palm as he watches you stiffen, the little shudders across your skin as it breaks out in goosebumps, your mouth falling open in a moan. The bite of pain across his hand strikes the match and he cums, panting and untouched into his own skin, threading his fingers through yours to hold your hand, both of you squeezing in time.
He shifts, wrapping an arm around your shoulders as he drags you to lay in the deep couch, curled up against his chest. You can smell the mingled scent of your release in the air as you press your face into his shirt, suddenly embarrassed as his hand rests between your shoulder blades.
“Then… we do this. You lay in my arms, or I lay in yours and we catch our breath together. There will be some differences, if you’re wearing a shirt, my hand will be up it, I can already tell I’m going to be obsessed with your tits”
You smile, some of the embarrassment shrinking at the matter-of-factness in his tone.
“And then we fall asleep, and when we wake up, we do it all again. That is the rest of my life Loulou.”
You can’t think of what to say. Shifting to place your hands on his hips you allow yourself the luxury of relaxing into his arms, his thumb stroking the same metronome on your spine as you close your eyes and let the exhaustion pull you under, a deep and dreamless sleep.
You wake before him in the morning. The sobering light coming from his balcony makes you stiffen. Fear boils like filtered water through your blood as you taste salt on your lips. His hold on you has slackened in sleep, allowing you to slip free without waking him, searching for your shoes, grabbing your handbag from the corner. Processing the night before isn’t an option. You need some distance to put it in a box, and label it as something other than the emotion coiling in your belly like an angry viper. You find your shoes on his counter.
As you walk past the couch he grabs your hand. You look down at him, his eyes bleary with sleep as he smiles at you. He says nothing, hooking his pinkie into yours and nodding. He lets you go, closing his eyes as you stand like a statue in front of him.
You don’t give yourself time to second guess the decision before you crawl back under the blanket. He reaches over you and presses play.
I think I’m going to have to cut this orgasm, so enjoy it here instead. (It’s ok, they’re both getting a better one in the re-write!)
Decidedly NSFW. From a written-but-rough fic that I just have saved under the title “Sex Pollen, with Edging.”
But really it’s about science, of course…
Tears of frustration are in her eyes, and she’s dimly aware that she’s wailing. She can’t take any more. It’s hurts now - the denial a physical pain. This is torture. She’ll do anything, anything, if he’ll just let her come.
Then he’s kissing her face, kissing her eyes, whispering sweet, calming words to her, brushing her hair from her eyes.
“I’ve got you” he tells her, one arm curling around to cradle her skull “beautiful girl, I’ll take care of you. You’re going to come so hard for me, Mara. Just breathe, take a moment. And then you’re going to tell me how you want me to make you come.”
She gulps for air, tries to silence her moaning. She knows she’s babbling, thoughts and noises tumbling out in her Force sense and words.
She doesn’t even know what she wants any more, but he seems to find some sort of logic in all that she’s saying, seems to parse what she needs, because he lies back decisively and moves his hands to her hips. Lying flat on his back as he is, she can’t help but notice the prominent bulge in the front his trousers, but his focus is entirely on her as he turns her, encourages her to lift.
“Up” he says, and she tries to oblige, scooting around until he positions her over his face.
Hungrily, he leans up and takes a long, languorous lick at her, and it’s enough to have her sinking down, riding his face for more pressure, more depth.
She’s impaled on his tongue and he’s rubbing her clit and fuck, she can’t help but grind harder and faster and cover his whole face in mess. Mind to mind, he starts up a steady chant of encouragement - “that’s it, beautiful. You’ve done so well. You can come for me now.” On and on and on and on.
She can barely support herself - legs useless, arms like jelly, all of her awareness pressed down desperately into Luke. And he takes it all - eagerly, hungrily, wet noises and panted breaths from both of them, until he slips his tongue out and upwards again, slides a couple of fingers inside in its place.
The glide, the plunge, the change in pressure - it’s all too much, or maybe just enough.
She is gone. Screaming, shaking, Her whole pussy clamping down as electric waves of pleasure-painful energy wrack through her every synapse and nerve. She is locked, clit pushed hard against the scrape of his tongue, body trying to swallow his fingers, with her head thrown back as sensation wracks through her whole sense, intense like a knife edge and twice as sharp.
Below her, Luke is groaning too, his hips hitching, whole body jolting, warm hands holding her tightly in place.
She can’t see and she can’t breathe and then she can’t hold herself up any more, slumping forwards and somewhere off to the side.
She feels Luke vaguely extracting himself but she’s too boneless to move, her body still pulsing with glorious aftershocks, inner muscles twitching hopelessly for more.
She thinks she maybe blanks out for a moment, because coming round again feels like a distant surprise. She raises her head just enough to check Luke is still next to her and thinks the sight of him - flushed, deeply disheveled, blissed out and happy with a face full of her slick is a memory she will treasure for the rest of her days.
As she clumsily tries to stretch herself out beside him she notices a suspiciously tell-tale damp patch in the front of his trousers, and raises an eyebrow at him.
His flush of embrassment is a thing of beauty; that he can still feel it, even after all they’ve just done.
“Got hit with- uh…” he licks his lips - licks her taste from his lips. “-With your pleasure, in the Force. It kind of caught me off guard”. He screws up his eyes in a self deprecating wince.
She laughs and settles her head on his chest, drapes an arm over him.
“Happy to share, farmboy.” she tells him as she drifts off again. “And it saves me a job”.
[A/N: in the re-write it will NOT save her a job, because frankly what a waste!]
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