"unable to perceive the shape of you, i find you all around me. your presence fills my eyes with your love, it humbles my heart. for you are everywhere."
what i intend to write/warning: i have so many ideas! but i will most likely write short romance stories as of now. i do not intend to write smut as i know my writing isn't the best right now, so i apologize. please do not interact if you are a minor, thank you.
recent work: silver lining — adam frankenstein
my interests | current obsession: frankenstein, wicked
reblogs, comments, likes, and requests are deeply appreciated !! anything will mean the world to me <3
Synopsis. Gojo Satoru: he’s the best striker the Japanese national team has. The strongest, the sharpest, the fastest—and the hottest. With a 66% accuracy rate and a goal headed straight for your heart.
You: a reporter for the FIFA World Cup, and the greatest at goalkeeping Gojo’s flirtations. You just can’t stand him- or so you say…
You—1. Gojo—0.
Pairing. Gojo Satoru x Reader
Content. MDNI, fem!sports reporter!reader, football pIayer!Gojo, FIFA World Cup AU, Football AU, enemies-to-Iovers, sorta, he has a BIG crush on you, yearner!Gojo, fIirting, banter, bets, first date, paparazzi, fan cIubs, pússydrúnk!Gojo, MUNCH!Gojo, oraI (f + m), 69, bets in BED, fíngering, spítting, p taIking, sIight p sIapping, bj’s, cIit bíting, goals, races, bIack cards, tongue f, doggy, wearing his jersey, manhandIing, making it fit, stopping you from running, he’s FÉRAL, cervíx smooches, counting, he BREAKS, babbIing, sIight overstím, making him whímper, making him cry, getting together, happy ending aww, PDA, pet names, swéaring.
Word count. 13.9k
A/N. In honor of the FIFA World Cup heheheh I just had to-
“—Geto—a beautiful pass to Gojo. The one and only Gojo.” Booming. If there was one word that could describe the FIFA World Cup then it would be simply that: booming. Everything from the bacchanal cheers; the resounding noise of the football coming into contact with flesh; and excitement mixed with fear that was an amorphous neighbor next to where one sat.
Speaking of seats; everyone was on the edge of theirs.
They watched as Gojo Satoru stopped the football using his chest. Alternating it to a dribble—he’s quickly bypassing some of the opposing team’s defenders- and it doesn’t take long before Gojo’s coming face-to-face with the goal.
“—the famous Gojo technique, Limitless, because of the sheer unlimited speed and strength. It’s a play unable to be recreated by another, with a 100% scoring…” Gojo takes a deep breath. He points. He kicks.
And he misses.
And in-between the commentary and the chaos, Gojo’s eyes can’t help but meet yours pitchside. Amongst the cameras and the anchors-
—you were laughing.
At him.
“And it seems the world-famous Gojo Satoru has missed! He missed! Oh—what a blow for the Japanese team—hey Mech, can we get a close-up of who he was pointing at before missing the goal?”
As requested; the wedding replays the moments before Gojo’s missed goal: his look of determination, his deep breath, his arm raising for mere split-seconds to point…straight at you. And then it’s cutting to you outright laughing at the missed goal.
Fucking laughing.
Gojo himself pauses to watch the unfortunate sequences of events from below.
“Aaaaand that’s half-time, folks!”
He immediately feels a wave of adrenaline strike him - nearly knocking him over at the force. The molten lead sensation floods every corner and crevice of him, and it makes his fingers tremble, it makes an unexplainable heat rise to his cheeks. Where the hell was this energy when he needed to score that last goal?
Gojo’s eyes remain fixated on you like two frozen-over lakes- made only brighter, not warm, in the face of the Sun.
As you’re finding yourself at the edge of those lakes, you wind down that laugh of yours- that stupid, gorgeous laugh of yours. It makes his heart ripple. And then with a soft smile upon your lips, you’re mouthing an apology. Instead of backing from those stone-cold lakes, daring to dip a toe in. Mocking, surely.
Fuck.
Gojo feels his clenched fists unfurl.
And his irritation.
He doesn’t suppose that you’re feeling guilty in the slightest - but what sort of world-famous sports reporter would you be if you got caught laughing at the star player?
And Gojo Satoru is the star player—mind you. He’s just…having an off day? It’s exactly 45 minutes and 22 seconds into the quarter finals of perhaps the biggest football tournament in Gojo’s life: the FIFA World Cup. Japan has been facing off against an opponent they’d already been told would be a tough match to beat, with the odds stacked 79% against them- it just surprised Gojo that that 21% included him, too.
After all, he’s motherfuckin’ Gojo Satoru (don’t quote that).
With his signature white hair- and his ‘twinkling’ blue eyes- and that dimple at the corner of his smile. See that dimple? That dimple’s insured for ¥2,000,000.
But it wasn’t just fanfare and his dashing good looks. There’s no football without Gojo Satoru, and there’s no Gojo Satoru without football.
Ever since he was a young kid, the game just seemed to…call for him.
Just starting out as some stupid sports channel he’d put on in order to avoid having to do his chores; then he’d started watching. Then he started paying attention. Then he started remembering their names and collecting his pocket money to buy some markers and a red, red t-shirt. He still remembers sprawling the t-shirt out on the floors of his cramped living room, and scrawling on Akers 10. Gojo Satoru was raised by Michelle Akers, Alessandro Del Piero, Roberto Baggio, Homare Sawa, and Jay-Jay Okocha as much as he was by his parents.
And then he’d started playing.
He’d begged and begged his parents to get him a football for Christmas- even going to do extra chores around the house to butter them up.
And once they caved - making him promise not to play inside - Gojo had stumbled out to the playground faster than his legs could keep up. Although he remembers thinking that he’d make them- he’d make them keep up.
He admits he wasn’t instantly amazing - just slightly above average, if anything. But kids on the playground used to think he was the coolest thing.
Wanting to become a professional footballer? Every kid wanted to become a professional footballer at that age. So he’d gather the teams, he’d assign their roles, he’d play with them until the streetlights turned on and the crickets started chirping - except the only difference between Gojo and the rest…was that he wouldn’t go home. Refused to.
Not until his parents had to come down and physically drag him back home.
Until then, Gojo would kick and kick that damn ball as long as he had to to become good enough. Until his feet had to fuse with that damn ball, if it had to.
In middle school they adored him just as much.
The best football player and he’s got dimples to boot?
He won’t lie - Gojo understands why he was called out for a confession at least thrice a week throughout the entirety of middle school. His grade, lower grades, and even some in the grade above. Manga club captains and school presidents- and some friends of friends not even going to this school. Some of his friends. Most…who’ve never even talked to him.
And he doesn’t regret not letting any of that ‘sweet Spring love’ that his father always talked about blossom. He just wished his middle school-self had a bit more tact when rejecting girl after boy after girl.
Although he admits that the attention was nice- and those onigiri they brought him after practice was a sweet touch. But Gojo could never quite understand—what did they see in him?
He was hot, yes. He was talented. He was smart. He was funny- yes. But he just wasn’t…like the heroes that he looked up to. Not yet.
Gojo Satoru could never quite understand how he could love another as much as he loved football.
Sometimes when the confessions and the onigiri got a little too much, he’d go to the school rooftop and kick his ball around until the bell rang. Sometimes he’d simply sit and stare off into the distance—what was love? If we should love another as we love ourselves, then perhaps one doesn’t need it? Who said love had to be a person, not a dream?
Around this time, Gojo applied for the local junior football club.
He smoked them all- hah!
Then high school rolled around and here people started giving him looks - still dreaming of becoming a professional footballer? Wasn’t that child’s play?
Popularity was measured, at least for most guys, by how many girls you’d banged or whether or not you’d actually tasted beer. He himself wasn’t one to subscribe to such notions - but the status quo meant that people started…distancing themselves from him.
Reaching for him- if only to point at him like a party trick. Maybe throw a volleyball at him during gym classes, or puncture his football.
They actually did puncture his football.
He beat that boy until his knuckles bled - Gojo had gotten a temporary suspension, of course. He didn’t argue with the punishment. He thinks they went so lenient on him because it was his first offense.
But when he came back, it was even worse. There goes that freak still obsessed with football- isn’t he just going to get his dreams crushed? Isn’t he going to wake up? Grow up? He didn’t need them. He didn’t need a single fucking one of them.
Gojo threw himself into playing football more than ever around these years; until every bone in his body seemed to ache, and he always tasted metal from how hard he’d grit his teeth. He imagined their sneering, snickering faces at the end of the goal and kicked and kicked and kicked that fucking ball. And it was also around this time that he’d gotten the offer.
The offer.
He was glad to leave it all behind.
He was the youngest player in Japan to get a national team offer - oh, he remembers how nervous he’d been then, walking, wondering whether they’d look at him like they all do - and the second-youngest in the world to join an international club. He was an express - and damn expensive - pick for Real Madrid, and the only Japanese player to make a first-team appearance. He was the youngest player to win a major tournament at the UEFA European Championship. He was the youngest Japanese football captain leading them into the FIFA World Cup- and the only one to lead them into the quarterfinals. Not to mention his rabid fan club and his four-time title as the world’s prettiest striker!
But fuck, man.
All that…for this.
Today, Gojo Satoru was having an off time. And he’s blaming it on you—was that necessarily fair?
Hm…not likely. But nothing matters when he’s in the zone and he’s supposed to keep his eyes on the football- but they keep somehow drifting to you.
Fuck again.
This was on him, he knows. He knows. And yet-
And without a single word to any of his teammates or Coach Yaga…he’s marching straight over to you. Behind him, he hears Yaga’s choked-up call of his name and his teammates’ confusion.
The cameras follow him with every step he takes- of course they do, he’s Gojo fucking Satoru. In the distance he can practically hear the tension tighten, as the commentators mention something about him, as the big screen zooms in on his steadfast path, as you’re turning around to see him nearing and your eyes widen.
For a mere split-second - before your hand tightens ‘round your mic, and you’re immediately holding it towards him at the ready.
“And here we have the star player-” It amuses Gojo how your lip tightens around that little phrase you just have to say when referring to him. “-Gojo Satoru’s…best friend in the distance—can the camera capture Geto Suguru during his pre-match stretches?”
The. Fucking. Audacity.
Gojo’s mouth drops as the camera hastens to focus on that damned Geto next to Coach Yaga behind him. He isn’t even the one that came up with those stretches! He stole them from Gojo-
Pointedly—he coughs into his fist.
And then you’re turning towards him with a faux-shocked expression on your face. Lashes fluttering. Those glossed lips of yours dropped into the perfect ‘oh’.
Gojo gets the urge to mimic the exact same expression - and just his luck, the camera’s turning to him at that very moment. There’s a small smirk at the edge of your lips as you’re bringing the mic up to your lips.
This wasn’t his first match interview with you.
Not in the very least.
Gojo was the greatest in his field, and you were (admittedly) the greatest in yours. So it was inevitable that the two of you would meet- match after match, interview after interview, you’d fired your questions away at him.
And sure…there were the usual ones he already scripted for. But you’d quickly climbed up the ranks for asking on-the-spot questions specific to each player, to pick their brains - and in Gojo’s case, to make him squirm.
You asked him about his elementary school nickname as ‘The Strongest’ (which he later adopted as his actual field name so hah- jokes on you!), and his affinity for sneaking sweets into his strict athlete’s diet (Yaga lectured him after that one…jokes on him), and his utterly barren love life.
For someone so flirtatious, one must wonder why he’s never seen out and about with anyone. Maybe he’s simply football-sexual?
That particular interview had racked up quite a few (…million) views across various social medias as Gojo had turned red and stuttered - the first time someone had managed to get the chatterbox to pause - s-something about well, if you really want you can date him-
But he digresses. The point is that Gojo has had interviews with you before - so this should be a piece of cake. Really. Actually…Gojo’s first ever professional interview was almost with you- but that’s a story for another time.
“—and we’re live at the FIFA World Cup Quarterfinals with Gojo Satoru, Captain of the Japanese team.” You’re plastering that camera-ready smile of yours; though honestly he finds your priggish one more- “It’s your first time at the FIFA as a team captain. How are we feeling today, Gojo-san?”
His heart leaps a little at the honorific. “G-good. Good.” And then at the little raise of your brows - did Gojo Satoru just fucking stutter? Again? - he’s instantly shaking his head free of…whatever. Splashing on his own irresistible smile- dimple? Check. “Oh- y’know me, sweetheart. I’m always good~”
“Is that so?” You ask. “I’m glad to hear that. Because it seems like we’re going to need all the confidence we can get, Gojo-san. Tell me—what changes might the defense have to see in the next half if we’re going to beat the opponent’s two-point lead?”
“Well, I can’t share every secret here now, can I~?” Gojo chuckles. “But just know that we’re going to make good use of Geto in the next half- I know Coach Yaga has some good plans for him.”
You nod. “Speaking of- how is Geto Su-”
“We’re talking about me.” Gojo whines. And he’s sure that this part of the interview is going to get clipped to hell and back—but it doesn’t matter when you’re smiling…like that. When you’re throwing your head back and gesturing at that Japanese jersey of yours- number 4?
Geto Suguru.
“My apologies, I do tend to be favorable towards defenders.” You hum. “But I see you’re rather defensive yourself today, Gojo-san. What changes might the strikers have to see for this next half-”
“Nothing.”
That makes you pause. Your smile falters, though you manage to salvage it. “Erm- my apologies, I didn’t seem to hear you over the crowd. Did you say nothing?”
“I did.” And for how priggish you might act - you’d never amount to his sheer levels. His haughty hair flip that sends a few fan club members fainting in the front row, “Absolutely nothing. I’m perfect.”
“Oh-”
“I’m Gojo Satoru, don’t you know? Neeeeext question~”
“Yes I…I am aware.” You mutter under your breath. “Unfortunately.”
“What did you just-”
“But whilst we absolutely erm- adore your confidence, Gojo-san, one really does start to wonder with the two point lead…” You have a fire in your eyes - for how much you might be exasperated by him, it was undoubtable that you needed this win, too. “And I have only one more question for you: will we win?”
He pauses at that.
Just a split-second.
It’s a fleeting moment, yet it seems to hold the world. You’re not letting your gaze waver from his, and he’s not letting his gaze waver from yours. That fire in your eyes? It’s spreading across his own cheeks and then down his neck, across every inch of his body and coiling around his heart. And who’d have thought…that the great Gojo Satoru was flammable?
Gojo shoots a quick look down at himself to make sure that he’s not actually- before then wrapping his hand around the mic handle. He doesn’t exactly take it from you - just keeps his fingers resting on top of yours, and you’re not letting go either..“Nah, I’d win.”
Someone’s breath hitches- either yours or his.
He’s leaning in - down -so close that his lips are nearly grazing the grille.
Gojo keeps his summer lake-blue eyes directly on you as he speaks—“And if I do…how about I get to take you out on a date?”
“You what-” Around you, cheers are erupting. And you’re wondering just what might have been shown on the big screen, only to realize that it was…the two of you. Glamorously displayed for millions of people to see.
You wonder if he can hear your heart race.
You wonder why he wasn’t paying attention to the thousands of people nearby that were chanting ‘say yes, say yes, say yes-’
“So, Miss Reporter?” Gojo cocks his head, a smile upon his lips. “What’ll it be?”
You’re biting down on the inside of your cheek- and it’s only too late that you’re realizing it’s to keep yourself from mirroring that world-famous smile. “Yes.” Your heart leaps.
And you’re sure that Gojo heard you- you’re sure of it. But he’s taking the mic completely now, and turning it upon yourself—“I’m sorry, what was that?”
“I said…” Something akin to…adrenaline? Something akin to…excitement? You didn’t know what name to put on it, but it’s making it difficult to keep your voice exactly steady. “-yes.” Thank goodness it was just a one-word answer.
Gojo smiles wide.
And as the commentators recite the entire interaction in various languages, Gojo’s hearing a call of his name from the coaches’ bench. Realizing that he’d nearly spent the entire break with you- he’s throwing a dazzling smile your way - and several flying kisses at the fans - before making a break for it.
Reaching Coach Yaga, Gojo’s ducking his head and listening to every word the older goalkeeper has to say. There’s a fierce look of concentration on his face—
“You’re staring~” Shoko, from behind the camera, croons. “He really is even better-looking in person, huh?” She’d long since known about the little tension between you and Gojo Satoru- not any kind of good tension, that is. You’d just somehow gotten on his nerves as much as he got on yours.
And you shake your head free of any suggestions that Shoko might put in it. “I wasn’t staring-”
“Mhm.”
“I was just imagining the look on his face after he loses that bet.”
Shoko smirks. “That’s if he loses that bet.”
“Well…”
And then you’re glancing at him once more. Gojo was now jogging in place and doing a few warm-ups before the second half of the quarterfinals started.
Because for all that talk- Gojo Satoru wasn’t going to win that easily, was he?
Was he?
.
.
.
“It’s incredible—Japan has won! The Japanese team has really won!” The commentator’s voice booms across the stadium, making it shake with sheer excitement. It was contagious. The taste of victory was often sweet. “Gojo Satoru has led the Japanese team to the semi-finals—!”
2-3 to Japan.
All the way from 0.
And you knew the scores - you watched the game unfurl before your very eyes. And yet - surrounded by it all - you stand stunned.
From your right, you’re feeling Shoko euphorically shake you. Her camera equipment nearly slips out of her hands before she’s back at it and recording close-ups of the players’ tearful reactions.
Most of them had surrounded Gojo and were crushing themselves together in an embrace. They’re pushed so far together that you could only make out a flash of white hair and an uproarious distinct laugh. The microphone damn-near slips out of your hands.
“I repeat, folks—Gojooooooooooooo Satoru has led the Japanese team to the semi-finals for the first time in history! It’s a momentous occasion for the underdogs- Gojo Satoru and his Unlimited hat-trick, everybody.”
They’re replaying those historic moments on the big screen: when Gojo dribbled past four players to strike his first goal of the match, just two minutes into the second half of the game; when Gojo upset the game by drawing the score 2-2 with a goal from the 18-yard box, a goal that went around the fucking goalkeeper; when Gojo finished with a flourish with a head-butted goal just over the goalkeeper’s shoulder, at the 89th minute.
At that last goal, he’d pointed right at you- a hatrick. A hatrick.
“Who’s gonna win?” He’d mouthed, as his teammates were drawn to him in embrace like magnets flying across the field.
You’d simply rolled your eyes.
It was a match for the books - and for generations of footballers just like him to watch and rewatch and watch. And maybe…just maybe they’d buy their own blue t-shirts and scribble down: Gojo 66. Around you, reporters were already chattering about Japan’s succession into the semi-finals—could these underdogs actually have a shot?
Japan had risen from an impending bitter defeat- and that very same Gojo 66 was breaking free from his teammates and flouncing across the field. And the MVP - surely - beamed as he lapped up the attention; running across the pitchside and blowing sappy kisses to his fainting fan club. He’s getting thrown a water bottle- and wastes no time before tearing it open and letting the cool water run on top of his head. Water making his jersey stick to him even more so.
Long legs slightly shaking from fatigue. Blue eyes brighter than ever. If there was one word to describe him, then it would be- dazzling. His skin glistened with sweat, and small droplets of water like diamonds - his jersey was practically glued to him—a part of him, in every single possible manner. Celebration seemed to cling to Gojo just as tight as that jersey did.
And Gojo then catches sight of you watching him- and runs. Runs.
To you.
And stops right before you.
“So…” He pants out, and makes sure to flash a quick smile at the rolling cameras. “-about that date…?”
You sigh.
But you can’t help yourself- you chuckle.
“Fine.”
“Fuck yeahhhh—!” And then Gojo’s darting back onto the field in celebration - his team engulfs him once more, and before you know it he’s being thrown into the air. Cameras shift between his ecstatic celebration, and your more muted watching, because honestly…you had no idea what to say. What to do.
You just bagged yourself a date with Gojo fucking Satoru - and you hadn’t even thought you’d be able to tolerate him just about an hour and a half ago.
But that earnestness in his eyes…
You wonder if-
Nope. And then you’re watching Gojo threaten to take his jersey off and throw it somewhere into the crowd - you’re sighing and wondering just how you’re going to get through this. When a mic happens to be shoved into your line of vision—and you’re just about to take it and get ready for your post-match interviews, when-
“Ah ah-” Shoko tuts, amusement lacing her tone. “The interviewer holds the mic. The interviewee answers the question on how it feels to be the future girlfriend of the MVP of the match? Japan’s pride and unofficial prettyboy?”
“Terrible.” You state, extremely seriously. “In fact, I’m considering breaking up with him this very second.” Well…partially seriously.
Shoko faux-gasps. “After a hatrick like that? Why?”
You’re waving breezily. “I’ve always been more of a Geto or Modrić fan myself. Strikers aren’t my thing.”
“Well they’re about to be your thing because you’ve got a date with one-” Shoko checks her watch. “-in just a few hours.”
It’s sinking in. And although you don’t regret saying yes- “Fuck, the fan clubs are gonna kill me.”
Shoko nods. “I won’t disagree with that. I’ll miss you when you’re gone.”
“Shoko- darling- sweetheart- you’re supposed to disagree to make me feel better.”
She shrugs. “You’re a reporter- give ‘em hell. Whack them with your mic or something.” She’s then finally handing you the mic—and you’re smoothing out your suit with a sigh. “But until then- try not to kill Gojo Satoru. We need him for the semi-finals.”
“No promises.”
And as Shoko and the rest of your team start counting down until you’re On Air again, you’re stealing a fleeting look behind at Gojo Satoru. It seems he hadn’t tired of the fan service yet- and now actually had taken off his jersey and thrown it at the fan clubs- was that a brawl up there in the stands?!
He catches your eye and sends you a flirtatious wink.
And a flying kiss.
You mean to swat it away- but then you’re rolling.
.
.
.
“Shoko- what does one wear to a date with a football star?”
“I don’t know, ask the Akinator.”
“Shoko, that’s…actually I should have done that.” It seems that all around you was defeat: having the team you were rooting for win the quarterfinals for the FIFA World Cup, scoring a date with the MVP of the match, getting a promotion and a bump in your paycheck all because of it? All in all, you were having a terrible day.
And not to mention- you hadn’t even begun to check your social media—according to the way that Shoko had painted it: the football side of the Internet had crashed into your little circle of the Internet, and then it’d been set on flames and trampled with cleats five times over. And that’s not even beginning to dive into Gojo’s stan Twitter…the horror…
The edits. The speculation. The articles. The fanfiction- out of curiosity, you’d searched a few up.
And you’d have to say…that they were very…descriptive. @tonycriesaboutfootball you were looking at her.
All in all- it’s safe to say that your little agreement had caused a little break in the Internet.
And here you were: cooped-up in your humble hotel room for the match. On the phone was Shoko <3 your biggest help since after the match and right now- gathering your thoughts…and your look…and yourself. After putting her on video call—the two of you worked together to sort through your suitcase and find something half-decent for some fancy schmancy date.
In the end, you’d decided on a chic outfit you’d actually planned to wear when reporting the FIFA World Cup Finals.
And nevermind how much you protested and lamented and complained about how expensive shopping for another dress is going to be, Shoko had simply replied- “Just get your millionaire athlete boyfriend to buy one. Take his black card, duh?”
Ah…
And right now you were simply putting in the final touches- slouched over your hotel vanity.
She disappears from the screen for a minute and comes back wielding her chunky laptop. “About 21% of people think this is a PR stunt…18% think you two won’t actually go on the date…and 44% think that this is true love and both of you can bear their children. They also may or may not be camped outside the restaurant.”
You take one last look at yourself in the mirror. Hell yeah…“And the other 2%?”
“Ah- well they’re out for blood.” Shoko casually closes her laptop. “Ready?”
You shudder. “As I’ll ever be. Do I look okay?”
“You look good enough to eat- now go.”
Someone from what you assume to be Gojo’s team had actually approached you after the match - something about exchanging numbers, and then letting you know the details about the date. And around 5PM that evening, you’d just been getting off of a final few interviews from another match- when they’d texted you.
(+81 03 XXXX XXXX): hehehe you have three guesses. clue no. 1: i’m hot asf. clue no. 2: i’m even hotter wwwww.
You: I’m blocking you.
(+81 03 XXXX XXXX): waitヽ(O_O )ﾉ
(+81 03 XXXX XXXX): wait nooooooooooo
(+81 03 XXXX XXXX): don’t block me ( ◣∀◢)ψ
(+81 03 XXXX XXXX): i was jokinggggggggg
(+81 03 XXXX XXXX): it’s satoruuuuu ☀(▀U ▀-͠)
You: Ah, of course.
(+81 03 XXXX XXXX) added to your contacts.
(+81 03 XXXX XXXX) changed to (Foot)ballz.
You: Hello, Satoru-san.
(Foot)ballz: hehe
(Foot)ballz: no need to be so formal with me when we’re going on a date~ (͡o‿O͡)
(Foot)ballz: i’ll come pick you up at your hotel so just lmk where you’re staying!!
You: You just want to find out which hotel I’m at, you perv…
(Foot)ballz: I’VE BEEN CAUGHT (ʘ ͜ʖ ʘ)
Ultimately you ended up sending your location to the ridiculous man - however you’d expected Gojo Satoru to text like…it certainly wasn’t this. But you found yourself tolerating it, for the most part.
You suppose.
And once you’re done spritzing on some of your favorite perfume, your phone lights up with a new message.
(Foot)ballz: here ⸜(*ˊᗜˋ*)⸝
With a small huff of laughter, you’re grabbing your things and heading out.
The car parked outside was anything but inconspicuous.
And you don’t exactly know what led you to think that in the first place—because when has Gojo Satoru ever wished to fly under the radar?
What was sprawled across the hotel porte-cochère was a gleaming red feline of a vehicle; that type you’d see on the covers of car magazines, or parked outside stadiums with fans surrounding it. Many, many fans. It had all those sorts of curvatures and indents that made it built for speed just like the athletes that owned these types - spoiler wagging behind it, bumper pawing forward, iridescent tyre rims catching the light and showing off. Even stopped outside the hotel, it purred as though impatient to get back on the prowl once again.
From the driver’s seat, Gojo Satoru is opening the door and standing tall- and your breath catches in your throat.
Gojo had cleaned up nicely. He was dressed in a form-fitting suit—such a dark blue that it was nearly black. The velvety fabric draped around his trim waist, flaring ever-so-slightly where his broad shoulders were- it made him look so much more handsome than was fair. His long legs were covered in the same fabric, and at the ends peeked out shoes so polished they were almost painful to look at- you wonder how long he spent on that…
That usually-messy hair of his had pushed backwards, and on his face were semi-opaque round sunglasses. On his face was a smile.
Where a celebrity often wished to blend in, Gojo stood his six-and-a-something feet high above the rest.
In seconds, Gojo’s reaching inside the car and pulling out a massive bouquet of red roses. Thus he crosses the short distance between you both in two strides, and gently hands them to you- you take it with bated breath. “This is…”
“I know I know-” Gojo cocks his head with a smug smile. “I’ve outdone myself.”
And without further ado, he’s tipping the valet well - the elderly man catches your eye, and you’re shrugging at him helplessly - and helping you inside the car. “You look gorgeous, by the way- although, of course you always do and this isn’t just me saying-”
“Gojo.” You smile. “Shut up and get in.”
He wastes no more time.
“D’you like the car?” Gojo asks as he buckles up, “It’s a Ferrari F80. I was thinking of buying this here as a little congratulatory present for myself- you’re the first one in here besides myself.”
“Seriously?” You ask. And he holds your gaze earnestly. “This is amazing.”
His smile flashes as he sets his hand on the wheel. “Then buckle up, sweetheart. We’re gonna be the hottest couple in town.”
“Not a coup- oh.” He speeds away.
.
.
.
“GOJO- GOJO—LOOK HERE—! GOJO IS THAT YOUR PARTNER?”
“GOJO HOW DO WE FEEL ABOUT THE HISTORIC WIN TONIGHT—DID HAVING YOUR GIRLFRIEND THERE HELP?”
“GOJO HOW DO YOU MAINTAIN THE TITLE OF PRETTIEST STRIKER FOUR YEARS IN A ROW?”
That…last one Gojo actually stopped to give a thorough answer.
And as for the rest, he’d given those paparazzi a coy smile and a wink before diving into the restaurant with you. The maître d’ quickly helped you get escorted to your private table.
The restaurant was…fancy. Right. That was one way to put it.
Another way to put it would’ve been: it was the type of restaurant that you honestly would’ve talked shit about with Shoko, then spent the next hour scrolling through its pictures. Then you’d catch a glimpse of a menu…and have immediately turned your phone off. Because in no conceivable world would you attend a restaurant of that high a price, for portion sizes no bigger than the meat rations you’d given yourself during your impoverished intern days.
And yet, here you were.
Gojo Satoru seemed to fit right in amongst the decor- the abstract artwork on the walls that looked like phalluses, the lights on the walls that also looked like phalluses, and the bowl of oranges upon every table - like a piece of the furniture himself. You don’t doubt that such a place was as casual as walking into a fast-food restaurant for him—but for you…let’s just say that whilst sports reporting jobs may pay high - especially for someone of your ranking - it wasn’t phallus-restaurant level quite just yet.
“So uh…what did you say the name of this place was, again?” You ask Gojo after he’d ordered…whatever he was having. You’d gone with the same primarily because you didn’t want to butcher the pronunciations of the menu.
“Hm?” Gojo delicately folds his napkin. “Big D’s, why?”
You’re biting back a laugh, “No reason.”
He sends you a look. “And um…how was your day?”
“What are we, an old married couple?” Though there was something strangely…jarring about having the world-famous football player - the very same one you’ve rolled your eyes at or been forced to interview about a million times over - speak about something so…mundane with you. What else could you have expected? Maybe to talk stats, maybe updates on his fan club—maybe what ranking he’s surpassed now. You sigh. “But if you must know, the usual- oh, although I did get to interview Gakuganji for the first time in a while today—so that was fun.”
“Gakuganji Yoshinobu?” Gojo’s interest clearly piques. “Oh, he’s a legend. Did you know that since retirements he’s taken up-”
“Electric guitar.” You nod eagerly. “And he’s damn good at it, too.”
“I was thinking that after my retirement I should take up writing or something.”
“You seem like the type to never retire.”
And so the conversation…had strangely enough flowed- not something you would have expected from the haughty football player, but it was a pleasure nonetheless. And it had been about two hours into the conversation - currently on the topic of whether sharks were misunderstood - when the two of you looked down at your empty plates—and servers that seemed to be flitting about literally every table…but yours.
“Do you think they forgot about us?” You whisper to Gojo.
“Maybe they were so stunned by my devilish good looks that-”
“Okay.” And with a semi-fond smile upon your face, you’re standing up in your seat. Gojo’s mirthful expression drops—but before panic can start setting in, you’re gesturing for him to stand up as well. So you weren’t going to leave him in the phallus restaurant…you surprised even yourself with that. “C’mon- I know this great place downtown that sells the largest pizza you’ve ever seen.”
“Oh, please.” Tipping the servers, you two darted out of Big D’s through the back entrance where no paparazzi roamed. And into a night that was wild and untamed, you snuck into the darkness between stars and created light of your own—you copped a few good slices of pizza, greasy and not half-bad for the price, before walking down shadowed alleys where no one could find you. Almost no one. A few pictures snapped here and there- surely it couldn’t do much harm?
Oh, who were you kidding.
You could see the headlines forming already - had this been anyone else, you’d have been the one writing it. But tonight…“Everyone’s going to think we’re dating after tonight.”
“I know.” Gojo had replied, half of his profile illuminated by the neon shop signs. The two of you were walking around the less-nicer parts of town, or so one would say…how strange it is that where things are discarded and dilapidated, the lights shine the brightest and the moon seems to sing softly tonight. “But strangely enough- I don’t mind.”
“Getting dating rumors?”
“Getting dating rumors with you, I mean.” Gojo’s saying- before he coughs into his fist and attempts to amend. “Although, of course, you’d be lucky to get dating rumors with the Gojo Satoru~”
“You mean the Gojo Satoru who’s never gotten a dating rumor in his life?” You scoff. “Y’know before tonight they were calling you No-game Gojo?”
Gojo’s gasp is so loud that it startles passerbys.
In order to soothe him, you’re forced to buy this grown athlete ice cream. He asks for three scoops with extra sprinkles, and the two of you walk together - close but not touching - down by a nearby waterfront—the river around the massive city and pulled it into a tight embrace. You yourself felt the strange coil of something at the pit of your stomach.
“Did you really mean it?”
Gojo, who’d been eying your own ice cream cone, startles. “Hngh?”
Sighing…you hand him your final bite. “Did you really mean the thing about not minding dating rumors with me?”
“I did. Why?”
“No…just thinking that if I had to get dating rumors with anyone- at least you’re not the worst option.”
“Awwww-”
You smirk. “Although, Geto would have been-”
“Let me have this moment—”
His pinky finger grazes yours as you two walk.
.
.
.
The door slams behind you.
And following right behind it, Gojo’s doing the same to you.
He has his hands clutched at your waist, and his mouth down your neck - leaving hot, slimy strings of spit wherever he’s pepperin’ the most filthiest kisses. You’re moaning as you let yourself get engulfed in Gojo Satoru’s wave of need—molten desperation shooting through your veins.
There’s something wet forming at the in-betweens of your pretty legs- and it seems as though Gojo almost has a sixth sense. Because he wastes no time before sliding a hand down your front and cupping your throbbing pussy through your dress. “Mmm-” He grunts off against the side of your ear. The hot breath sends goosebumps skittering down your exposed skin. “And who are you this wet for, sweetheart~?”
“Mmm, dunno.” You bat your lashes up at him. “Probably the best player on the team.”
A priggish smile toys at Gojo’s lips, and he’s leaning ever-closer to you. “And just who might that be?”
You’re pulling Gojo down as though this was a secret just between the two of you - and the man eagerly reciprocates closing the distance between you. You’re basked in his likely maddeningly expensive cologne as he leans in—“Geto Suguru, of course.”
And Gojo’s letting out just the softest surprised gasp—
He leans backwards with slightly-parted lips, and you’re getting the feeling that no one’s ever said anything like that to him before. Gojo’s eyes sweep down where your pretty body is pressed up against him- and before you know it, he’s crashing his lips onto yours. “Mmm—” He’s lappin’ at your moans- and the edge of your bottom lip. There’s a squeaky noise that’s being let out as Gojo tastes the lipgloss slathered on your maw. “Cherry.” He notes.
You’re stringing your fingers into his pure-white hair.
With the pad of his thumb, Gojo wipes off the remnants of glossy make-up on his mouth. “You taste sweeter than you are, y’know that?”
And with your fingers twisting into his hair so that he moans- you’re dragging him right back to you. “And you’re better when you shut up.”
Eventually, you’re backing him into your bed.
The hotel room wasn’t all that spacious, and it’s only a few hasty strides before you’re preparing to push him onto the mattress—
But Gojo’s reflexes are too quick. And he’s flipping the two of you around so that it’s your back that’s coming into contact with the springy bedcoils, falling onto the cloud-like bed with the MVP of the match. Mr. Hotshot Gojo Satoru himself.
Gojo smirks as he hovers above you. “Wanna hear a magic trick? I know exactly what you’re thinking about, pretty girl~” He husks.
And you’re letting out a gasp as his lips come kissing down your neck once more. You can’t help it - you’re arching into him already. “And what’s that?”
“Me.”
As he chuckles, you’re rolling your eyes. “You’ll have to be more specific than that.”
“Oh?” Gojo raises one of his white brows- like a challenge. If there was anything he was weak to—then it was a challenge. And maybe you, but…you didn’t need to know that just yet. “Then let me be clearer…you were thinking about me—” As he speaks, his dominant hands are exploring your body - starting at the right side of your tits, and massaging for a few moments before switching to the other one. “-running these trained hands everywhere on your body like this, weren’t you?”
Your heart leaps to your throat- and down there. “Maybe. Maybe not.”
He chuckles. “And then you must’ve thought about my fingers- I did have a little stint as a goalkeeper—” Through your fabric, he’s pinching your left nipple and you moan. “-did you know that?”
“I did.” You admit. Your reporting habits left you investigating every single nook and cranny of these footballers’ careers and lives.
“And then maybe these spectacular abs- I have them insured, did you know that?” The urge to roll your eyes is immense—but you’re more focused on the way that the world-class player was shuffling his body purposefully down yours, letting the button-up underneath his suit push against your core- you’re feeling his abs. As though he could read your mind, Gojo flashes you a devilish smile and keeps going down- “Or these arms.” Down. “Or these thick thighs. Heh.” Dooooown.
All the way until he’s between those tremblin’ legs of yours. At least his face was.
“But most of all…how about this glorious face?” Gojo shoots you his camera-ready smile inches away from your clothed cunt—pearly-white teeth and dimple to boot. “And I know m’fucking pretty- but I get the strange feeling that I’d look even prettier between your legs.”
And just as he’s about to lean in-
You’re sitting up and putting a hand on his shoulder. Stopping him.
Gojo looks up at you with a face full of concern.
But you’re merely shaking your head. “You’d be hard-pressed to think that I’d let you get all the bragging rights.” You scoff. “Get up. Let me sit on your face.”
His blue, blue eyes gleam in delight. “Now you’re speaking my language.”
“Shut up and get over here.”
And you’re sure that Gojo murmurs something about ‘making him shut up’ (you’d be more surprised if he didn’t) and yet within seconds you suddenly have his 6’4 toned frame stretched-out beneath you.
With your knees making the mattress upon either side of his head dip, straddling him, you’ve straddled the two of you into an oh-so-perfect 69 position - but he doesn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he doesn’t care. Looking underneath you, you notice that the white-haired man has hunger consuming every inch of him, with his eyes half-lidded and his mouth slightly-ajar, licking his lips as he fucking chases your clothed cunt—
“But just ooooone thing.” You’re placing a hand on his chest and pushing him back down- Gojo lets out a cracked whimper. He stares up at your clothed cunt like the gates of heaven above.
“Yes, my demanding girl~? More demands? Isn’t having the great Gojo Satoru underneath you and begging for your pussy enough?”
“Hmm, nope.” You pop the ‘p’. Without wasting more time, you’re fumbling with Gojo’s outrageous dress pants until they’re managed off. What’s revealed to you first is his v-line that stands out—moving with every one of his impatient bucks; then his bulging boxers; then looooong smooth legs, toned from so many years of training. And then you’re almost done. “How about a bet that whoever makes the other cum first gets a reward?”
“A reward?” You’re not turning to look at him- but you don’t need to to know that Gojo’s eyes were probably shining by now. “What kind of reward?”
“Hmmmm, how about…” You suggest. “The winner gets to decide the position for se-”
“I’m in.”
And that’s all that’s being said before Gojo reaches up n’ pushes your dress up. He titters as he takes in the way your pussy was oh-so-wet being outlined against your underwear—that already-thin fabric hugging to your pretty lips n’ soaking wet for him already.
“What’s that about not being so wet?” Gojo hums. He makes the loudest noise as he leans in and presses a great big smooch right on top of your sopping lips. You’re keening out sweetly on top of him- he didn’t even know you could sound that sweet-
“You said that out loud.” You’re grumbling behind at him. “Don’t tell me you’re pussydrunk already, hotshot?”
“Awwww—” Gojo’s spankin’ that swollen exterior of your cunt. “You think I’m hot?”
And now about that damn evening dress obscuring his view- ah, he knows…
Soon enough, you’re hearing a rip-rip-riiiiip—! that makes your blood grow cold. The sensation of cool air biting into your skin is registering in your brain - and then only the realization that Gojo had just fucking ripped your best dress- “Now, I know that isn’t what I think it is.”
“Ah…” He grunts distractedly. Before reaching down to his dress pants and pulling out something dark, sleek, and cash-cold. “Buy yourself whatever you need usin’ this, sweetheart.”
Gojo reaches forwards and stuffs his black card between your pretty drivelling lips. And then he’s divin’ nose-deep between your legs and eating you out with the panties on—letting his looooong luscious tongue zigzag across your slit and accumulate every wad. Once he’s done stealing every drop of slick leaking out of you, Gojo wastes no time before slippin’ aside your panties using his tongue, then making your inner lining feel eeeeeevery coarse tastebud of his taking over you.
It’s just so much.
You’re arching your back and letting out a prolonged moan - or at least you’re attempting to. But what’s really coming out instead are a few muffled sounds as the black card holds firm between your lips.
Your eyes widen.
How could you let yourself be swayed by Gojo Satoru’s black card, of all things…?!
Spitting the black card out, you throw a glare at Gojo. “D-don’t think you’ve won the bet just because you’ve gotten a headstart.”
“Oh?” Gojo coos. “I think I’ve won the bet regardless by how much you’re stutterin’ and whining like a slut on my tongue.” He’s spitting every syllable out against your pussy- literally. He’s drizzling a splash of saliva that he’s using a hand to smack- to smear across every inch of your sodden lips.
You let out a sudden whine, and he laughs.
“Was I wrong~? Mmm- shell me. Who’s the bwest—?” Muffled by his burning-hot kisses.
And you won’t let yourself be bestest just like that, would you? Especially not when he sounds so silly already drunk on your pussy?
In sultry seconds, you’re spittin’ out his damn black card and dragging Gojo’s boxers down. By how much he’d been showing through his bulge…you’d already assumed that he’d be massive.
But Gojo was…really massive.
Mentally you’re counting about eight or nine inches- seriously. And each of those inches were fat and throbbing, the girth of a Coke can and the length of something you’re sure would leave you unable to walk. At least for a week.
As though somehow sensing what you were thinking; Gojo’s thickened tip pulses. Grows even pinker.
“Cock got yer tongue?” He giggles wetly. “Why’re you stupefied, huh? Looks like m’gonna win~”
From the top of his shaft, he’s ooooozing out a constant source of precum—and you’re leanin’ in to sweetly kiss away the syrup that clings to his tip. Just the softest kittenish kiss- but it’s enough to make the football player yelp from underneath you.
His toes curl. His hips buck up without him even seeming to realize - and Gojo lets out an echo of your name - like a prayer - as his fat tip sticks inside your mouth. “O-ohhhh, now you’re playing dirty, sweetheart.”
“M’just doing the same thing you’re- mmm, doing.” You answer- purposefully keeping your mouth on Gojo so that the vibrations shoot up his veins.
“Tch- yeah.” Gojo admits. “But s’only fun when you’re the one getting all drunk on my tongue-” And just because he’s babbling away doesn’t mean that he’s stopping his ministrations for a single second - he’s lavishing and lavishing the tight rim of your hole with his tongue. Licking. Lingering. Letting the top of it hook inside and stretchin’ you out just a little bit more. “Why can’t I be the one to have all the fun—?”
“Do you always have to win?”
“Yes.”
As ridiculous as that sentence sounded, it doesn’t surprise you that it came out of Gojo’s mouth.
The very same mouth that’s becoming more n’ more feverish on your cunt - as some form of revenge, you suppose. Gojo’s grabbing a handful of your left ass cheek and using it to drag you deeper into his mouth.
His jaw unhinges. His nose pushes against your skin.
He’s sucking onto every tender spot of your pussy- eventually resting his pinkish lips on your hole and shoving his tastebuds in so deep. “Tch- this is my fuckin’ win—and this should be my pussy, girl.” Deeper. “C’mon. C’mon. Forget sucking my cock- just fuck back in t’me, sweetheart.”
“F-forget? Sneaky…you just wanna win.”
You can feel him smile against your cunt. “Awww, you know me so well—”
“So selfish, Satoru.” You huff.
“Ohhhh.” And he’s shivering- wracking with something primal all the way head-to-toe. “Call me that again~”
“Satoru.” You’re plopping your mouth over his puckered, pretty head- he was just so cutely needy.
It wasn’t something that you’d expected over the hotshot player. Even though Gojo Satoru might not look like it upon first impression—his cock was so sensitive, so very honest with you that it almost gave you secondhand embarrassment to see. The moment you’re putting your mouth on him n’ starting to suck, he’s spurting out the sweetest honeyed wads of precum here n’ there. The moment you’re leaving him- Gojo throbs even angrily bigger and shuffles his hips to chase your warm mouth.
One of your hands reaches down to squeeze at his balls - so plump and perfectly-shaped. It was annoying that everything about him seemed to be handcrafted by the heavens themselves.
And you’re massaging his most sensitive spots using the mountain of your palm, grinding him against your hand every time your mouth sucks on him. You’re repeating this sequence a few more times.
But he’s not holding back either - Gojo’s now started using the side of your waist as a handlebar, almost.
And he’s grabbing you hard- dragging you onto his awaiting mouth even harder.
“Sweetheart. Sweetheart. Sweetheart- sweetheart.” He repeats like a broken record player. All whilst his tongue was open and ready—he hones it at the tip, sharpening, so that it can probe even deeper. Slithering it inside again and agaaaaaain until you’re soaking all down his face. “Mmm- again, sweetheart.” Gojo whispers, feeling the mess start to trickle down his chin. “C’mon- Satoru needs to hear you say his name when you cum.”
“Satoruuuuu—oh.” You’re gasping. “But you’re not winning before I do-”
He’s immediately reaching for your throat with a vicious thrust of his hips.
You’re relaxing that muscle there so that he can delve deeper into your velvety cavern- the tresses of his veins scrapin’ against the roof of your mouth. Breathing through your nose as you have to win this. You fucking have to. It’s the competitiveness that’s getting to the both of you—and you’re moving in a fucking frenzy.
A stalemate.
Every zap of electricity, both of you reciprocate it twofold.
With your thighs wrapped around his head, with Gojo’s cock shoved down your throat. And the two of you move in synchronous tandem - you with the rapid bobs of your head, slobberin’ all down his plump inches—and him eatin’ away like a ravenous fucking wolf between your legs. The both of you were starved.
But you have to realize…that a draw just isn’t enough for Gojo Satoru.
Because Gojo Satoru was a competitive motherfucker.
And without warning; he swipes three slick-buttered fingers ‘round the orifice of your cunt. ‘Round and ‘round a few times. Before he’s then letting them sliiiiiiiip in—he replaces his tongue with those long fingers of his that just manage to stretch you out so right.
You’re removing yourself from Gojo’s cock with a lecherous pop! Just to gasp n’ moan away as Gojo opens you up using his fingers.
“How about it now?” Gojo coos. He elongates his words- and something about it just makes your limbs twitch—as he’s probin’ inside in loooooong yearning thrusts with his seemingly never-ending digits. Again and again. “How about you say- ngh- ‘Satoru you’re the best~’ and maybe I’ll go easy on you when I win?”
Gojo mocks your voice by pitching it about a zillion octaves higher and making himself sound ridiculously flirty.
You scoff, embarrassment sizzling across your skin. “You fuckin’ wish.”
“Now, that’s not very nice~”
And he wasn’t going to play easy. He reaches his fingers back- then slams! them down all the way till the knuckles. The curvaceous tops of his digits were slightly thicker than the rest of him—so he’s able to drive apart your sticky walls n’ stick himself into every hidden spot and crevice.
He was filling you up sooooooo good - “Oh p-please…” Tears drizzle down your cheeks. “That feels so good-”
“That’s not what I wanted you to say…” Gojo had amusement laced into his every syllable. “C’mon- tell your Satoru that he’s the best.”
“S-Satoru—” No—you can’t give up so easily. And lazily…you’re instead slobberin’ down his thick, vein-covered shaft instead. You can’t even take him in by now, because you were too afraid a sudden graze of Gojo’s fingers along your tender spots would leave you scramblin’ for air.
Speaking of tender spots…
“Y’know I’m real close to the goal.” Gojo trundles. Those long lashes of his flap, as though innocently. “Real close. I could just…”
“O-ohhhh, fuck-” All three of those fingers are slippin’ around your g-spot - you get the impression that he was missing it on purpose, and it made you nervous over just what he might have planned next. Fuck he was massaging the softest areas of your cunt’s channel. “You’re bluffing.”
“By how much wetter you’re getting…” He smirks. “-I think the fuck not. C’mooooon the world’s strongest striker is eatin’ your pussy out, and you can’t even be nice?”
“N-no-”
“I sure can be.” The area of Gojo’s knuckles were practically gluuuued like adhesive to your cunt’s folds. His other hand lifts off of your hips- starting to knead your swollen nub—you’re starting to see stars as Gojo toys with your clit. “But only if you admit m’the best. C’mon, tell me I’m the best- tell me…and I miiiiiight just go a little easier on you.”
“S-Satoru…” It’s inevitable - between the constant probing, the suckling ‘round wherever he could reach, the targeting of your clit - that you’re about to reach your high. It’s simmering right underneath your skin. “Oh no-”
“Oh yes.” Gojo’s eyes glimmer with delight. “Close, huh? And what do you have to say—?”
“Satoru—” You knew that you’d have to do this if you wanted a satisfactory orgasm- Gojo would’ve gladly left you high and dry just to prove a point. “Y-you’re the best…”
The words feel sickeningly sweet leaving your tongue.
But just as soon as they’re rollin’ off- Gojo probes deeply into your g-spot. Hitting that exact area of nerves dead-on. And your orgasm crashes through you like a tidal wave - it’s burning hot and feels more blissful than anything you’ve ever felt before. Anything.
You hate to admit it, but you’re seeing stars as you cum on Gojo’s tongue.
And he has the audacity to giggle- giggle, pussydrunkenly. “Mmm, you think I’m the best, sweetheart?”
“Yeah…” You breathe. “When you shut up.”
Immediately, you’re pushing back into Gojo’s mouth - shutting him up. His mouth drops open for you on instinct. His cock’s floooooding silver, satiny spurts of precum at the mere act of being used—your walls fluttering around his tongue. Sucking him up.
Gojo’s eyes roll to the back of his head. “G-goal…”
Your jaw drops.
His fingers are tunnelin’ straight to your g-spot during every peak of your high - those twinges of extra pleasure that he’s managing to prolong using his fingers, his mouth, his other set of digits kneading your pulsing clit. And what’s driving you even further past that tipping point is the way that Gojo whispers ‘goal, goal, goal, goal’ every time he strikes your g-spot.
Goal.
Goal.
Goal.
Goal.
Goal.
There’s no use trying to make him cum soon afterwards—you’re too drunk on your pleasure, and Gojo’s attempting to squeeze his thighs together to keep himself from cumming. Once your clit’s properly massaged, he uses that hand to squeeze his thickened hilt and prevent anymore beads of pearly-white from leaking.
Fucking unfair.
By the time you’ve ridden through your high - you’re well and fully wrung out. Struggling to catch your breath. Struggling to stop your limbs from shaking- sensitively.
He’s left you oh-so-sensitive.
Gojo Satoru hadn’t even had to fucking try to overstimulate you—he’s just that good with his fingers. He’s just so flexible with his tongue. He’s just so-
“Is this some sort of subliminal? Why are you whispering those to my cunt?” You ask him. And it’s with a final squelch! - and Gojo whispering for a goal once his fingers detach from your g-spot - that you’re managing to untangle yourself from his ravenous mouth.
Though it wasn’t for a lack of trying from his part—Gojo chases after your drippin’ wet pussy like a bee chasing his beehive. Were you the Queen or were you the honey? He’s having a hard time deciding, as Gojo finally sits up on the bed- dazedly.
“Woah-” Now sitting opposite him, you steady him with a hand on his shoulder. “Are you okay there, Satoru?”
His cock twitches. For both your dignities, you pretend you don’t see that.
“You’re fucking asking me if I’m okay—?”
Using that same helping hand you’d lent him- Gojo flips your positions around so that now your back’s facing the creaky hotel headboard. And then you’re both shuffling down the mattress, so that you’re being bent into-
“A mating press.” Gojo grins. His eyes twinkle with something so…dark. “Since I won our little bet, I choose the mating press- oh, and that’s not all.”
To your astoundment, Gojo suddenly stands up and flounces off the bed. He scans for something on the floor- “Give the great Gojo Satoru one second.” And then saunters up to your open suitcases of clothes as though they were his—it doesn’t take long for Gojo to find what he’d been looking for.
And you’re feeling embarrassment curdled with something akin to an unfamiliar shyness start to rise in your chest. Because in Gojo Satoru’s hands…was his own jersey.
“You had Geto’s jersey.” He smirks. “I knew you must’ve had mine in there somewhere, too.”
“Someone should teach you not to go through others’ things.” You huff, crossing your arms.
“Oh, my apologies.” Gojo says, sounding utterly unapologetic. “How about I make it up to you? Arms up, baby.”
And, well, a bet is a bet.
You’re raising your arms and letting Gojo take off the rest of your clothes. Before you know it, the Gojo 66 jersey on you—one you’d never even admitted to Shoko that you’d bought. In your defense, it was a buy-one-get-one-free deal that they’d been doing for the FIFA World Cup- but you doubt that Gojo would be open to hearing about your transaction history right now.
Not when he’s admiring the look of his name - his last name - emblazoned against your back. The look of his team’s colors rising and falling with every deep breath.
Your hardened nipples looked so pretty against the athletic fabric that he can’t help but reach out and pinch—
“Change of plans.” Gojo grunts- breathless, as if he hadn’t planned to say this. “We’re doing it doggy style so I can look at my name across your back while I hit it from behind.”
You grumble but you’re changing positions anyway. “Ever heard of the story of Narcissus, Satoru?”
“Are you the river because you’re so wet, or…?”
“No, don’t worry- that dried me up enough.”
He temporarily shoves a knee between your legs. “Lies.” Smirking.
You’re on all fours now. And Gojo shrugs off whatever else is left of his garments- and his rock-hard abs press into your back from behind, practically gluuuued skin-to-skin. A line of goosebumps shoot up your spine at the sudden feeling of him pressing into you—and Gojo takes the opportunity to lean down and kiss up your back.
All the way sloppily to your shoulders.
Your neck.
“Mmmm—and this is my win, isn’t it?” He rasps against your skin- there’s a…slightly crazed tone in Gojo’s voice that you’d never heard before. You shiver. You nod. “Mhm- then this is going to be how a winner fucks, sweetheart.”
In the time that you’d been distracted by Gojo’s incredible body, his ruby-reddened cock had slipped between your legs. There, Gojo had been keeping his length cushioned by your pretty, pretty legs.
Only now was he lettin’ his drivelling tip sliiiiiiide down your slit- giving you an experimental stretch along your first rim. “And yer wearing my name, aren’t you~?” It makes him fucking blush - out of everything…this is what breaks him - to see Gojo 66 and the blue jersey against your skin. You can’t help but nod again. “Then you’re doing to- fucking- take it- like a winner, sweetheart.”
Between each word, Gojo pauses to give a thorough slashing of his thickened cock.
He’s not even fitting in all the way at first- just the globular tip.
Just that decadent girth; where his shaft had flared out massively - all blushing red and plastered in precum - and then honing out into a perfect point to just dive right into you. Gojo’s length also had a slight curve reaching towards the top of your cunt—and he was built oh-so-perfectly to itch at your sweetest spots inside.
Not that you were going to admit it, of course.
“Cock got your-”
“You already used that line, Satoru.” You’re grumbling- though it’s a proper task to keep your voice steady in front of him. To pretend you’re not as affected as you really are.
And Gojo notices. Of course, Gojo Satoru notices. “Y’know…you might not be honest.” He titters in your ear. And then he’s shovellin’ in a few more thick inches—you’re feeling the near-spherical end of his shaft slip inside without too much resistance. You just wanted him so badly. “But this pretty cunt sure is. And what do you think she has to say about me?”
“I-I don’t need to—”
“She’s saying…”
Gojo trails off. Though not without reason.
Almost that very instant, he’s un-velcroing his chiselled abs from your back. A soft whimper leaves your lips as you’re startin’ to miss him already. Already.
But Gojo’s merely pattin’ at your utterly stuffed pussy. You only had a few inches of him pushed inside and throbbing inside you, but your cunt still struggles to take him. “Needy girl. Be patient for a fuckin’ minute- sheesh.”
And then he’s tugging at your jersey.
You’re looking up in confusion.
Then he’s pulling at your jersey—
And only too-late are you realizing that Gojo has that hem of your - his - football jersey bunched up. Using just a single one of his hands, he’s twistin’ his fingers around the velveteen fabric and trapping you right along with it—then he’s dragging you- just by the hold he has on your jersey. He falls back on his haunches.
And he’s taking you right along with him.
Now you’ve got your arms lifted off the bed- in a praying position…except Gojo’s fat cock was drilling into you from behind. With your ass cheeks against his pap-pap-papping hips, with his thick meaty thighs kneading into yours.
His hips are pushing and pushing and pushing—wielding his cock into yours so deeply, so furiously, that it’s as if the man’s entire body has been set alight.
Raw desire runs through his veins instead of blood- and Gojo’s letting out such an animalistic growl- “S’my fuckin’ name on you…”
His mouth waters- waters at the mere notion.
Shit, what an effect you had on him. Maybe all that adrenaline during interviews was…
Gojo’s never felt so utterly drunk than he was in this very moment—pussydrunk. Like the most intense of alcoholics chase their vise, he’s chasin’ the back of your gooey cunt. Every thrust manages to scrape his pumping veins against that snug channel of yours, every thrust manages to push him a little deeper than he already was. What a wonder he’s managed to fit in the first place.
You were just so fucking tight and heavenly that it’s as though you were sucking Gojo’s sanity - and soul - right out of him.
“My fucking name.” He repeats. Breathless. Gojo thwacks! his extremely tight balls against the front slit of your cunt. More beads of syrupy slick end up leaking out of you—n’ they’re pouring down Gojo’s vast shaft. “My fucking number on you.”
“Sh-shiiiiit—” You’re clawing for a lifeline: anything. Your only hope is to bend your arms behind your head- and start clawin’ at Gojo’s own sweaty scalp instead.
As he rams in again and again and again—your poor ass cheeks were stinging.
Gojo’s almost all the way bottomed-out now. It makes your back arch, and your throat bubble over with moans instead of answers. “Fuck-”
The audacity that he has…no one but Gojo Satoru could have. He’s mocking your moans- “Satoru, fuck~” Before rolling those azure eyes of his and emptyin’ every inch of himself into the back of your pussy. “Yeah, yeah- fucking you is exactly what I’m—oh.”
Oh, was right.
It was exactly right.
Because just then Gojo finally - finally - bottoms out. He’s gotten all of his inches happily trapped between your gorgeous legs.
And it’s not just that.
Just then Gojo’s breath hitches.
Just then Gojo thinks he can’t breathe- his entire upper half collapses on top of yours—and you’re being pushed back into a regular, sloppy doggy position. Gojo’s letting shivers run amok across his skin, Gojo’s letting his handsome features twist into something of pure euphoria as he bottoms out- how can it feel this good?
This fucking good?
And in the time it’d taken the self-proclaimed world’s best striker to shatter on your pussy- you’d gathered yourself up.
At least to the point where you can look at Gojo over your shoulder and smirk. “Pussy got your tongue, Satoru?”
He frowns. “Har har—very fun- fuck, don’t squeeze me like that.” Gojo’s eyes flutter shut- on the edges of his lashes, you think you’re seeing tears. “I th-think I might cum.”
“Just that from a winner?” You’re tutting. “I thought you were the strongest, Satoru.”
“I-I am-”
“Then wouldn’t the strongest also have incredible stamina?” You’re looking at him—Gojo’s peripherals are glazed-over with a thick layer of lust. His hair was a mess. His lips were kiss-bitten. There’s a sort of unleashed hunger within him that makes you wish for him to ravage you…You pout. “And here I was hoping we could go- all night.”
He shivers at the words - cock pulsating deep inside you.
But you’re not done just yet. “But ah…I suppose if you can’t, then maybe Get-”
You don’t get to finish your sentence - not even your thought - before Gojo’s hips are pinning yours down. His upper half is cushioned against you. His bodyweight fully keeps you delightfully trapped- as Gojo’s starting to fuck you like an animal.
He pushes you into the mattress.
He fucks you into the mattress.
His thrusts deeeeeep and loooooong—all the way from the slick-embellished top of his shaft, and then down, down, down until you’re feeling your cunt struggling around his incredibly thick base. The scruff of Gojo’s white pubic hair pushed n’ pulled against your pussylips-
Grinding.
And before you could even register the different sensation, Gojo already has one of his hands looped underneath you. The calloused tips of his fingers are instantly finding your clit, like magnets find one another, and he’s teasin’ that sweet nub. Again and again—tuggin’. “I c-can’t believe…” Gojo chokes out eventually.
“What was that?” You’re asking with a pointed clench of your sopping wet lips.
And the man above you instantly shudders. “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing, girl.” He somewhat snaps- but rather than irritation it’s simply pure need in his words. Gojo pinches your clit. “It doesn’t matter h-hoooooow many times you clench- or just hooooow pussydrunk you’re getting me…”
You’re keening as he swabs your g-spot several times.
“But I- won’t- forget- whose- jersey- is on- you—” Gojo says between thrusts.
Every one of his movements was getting more n’ more erratic by the second- sweat drenched every part of him, and a curtain of his white hair obscured those laser-blue eyes. Locked in on his target: you.
Gojo’s touch is searing as he’s pinching your clit once again—“But just in case this pussy does- heh, get too rowdy…how about you remind me?” Your eyes are jerking open at his words. What does he…“Because it feels fucking gooood wearing the winner’s jersey as he fucks you, huh? Huh?”
Your lips quiver. Pressure was building at the pit of your stomach. “Y-yes…”
“Oh yeah? What does it say, then?” The team captain whispers. He’s using his dexterous fingers to twist your too-sensitive nub, and you’re whimpering.
“Fuck-”
“I already told you before- oh. M’already fucking you.” Gojo’s mirthful grin spreads across his face. He had that pussydrunken look about him as his hips accelerated. Even more. “But that’s not the- hah, question. What number is it?”
“S-six six…” You’re letting out in a defeated gust of air.
“Mmmm, good girl.” Maybe because you’re being such a good girl - Gojo takes the time to lazily and lethargically draaaaaaag his vein-covered cock wherever he felt like you were the most delicate. His zig-zagging patterns were getting outlined deep, deep inside you—and you’re shivering as he inches close to your g-spot. “And what name?”
He can’t stop himself from nudgin’ himself just a little closer and puuuushing down hard and thoroughly on that nerve-covered spot. “O-ohhhhh, fuck, there-”
Gojo’s face contorts - his brows furrow, his jaw drops. “Tell me the fucking name, sweetheart~”
“Gojo Satoru.” Barely even audible.
He leans in with an exaggerated smirk. “What was thaaaat?”
“Gojo Satoru- fuck.”
“And how many goals did I score today, Miss Reporter?”
You’re clawing at the pillows by now. “Th-three—!”
“Oh yeah?” Gojo hums. “M’gonna double it tonight.”
You don’t need to wait too long to find out exactly what Gojo meant- because in mere split-seconds, he’s reeling his hips baaaaack and snappin’ them. Once from the very blushin’ tip-top and down to the hilt. “Goal.” He whispers as he grazes past your g-spot - activating the white-hot pleasure from your cunt to your brain - and striking his target of your cervix. “H-heh.”
“Yellow card for being such a dick.” You whisper.
“Oh, but you love a winner’s dick.” He counters. And it’s barely three seconds later that you’re feeling another forcefield of carnal vibrations that set your teeth on edge—“Oh- and goal.”
Saliva puddles on the pillow in front of you. The hotel headboard has your nail marks on it- dammit.
Gojo repeats- faster this time. “Goal- oh, look at that…a hatrick.” His voice is on the verge of shattering- “Can we make that double hatricks?”
“O-oh my god, Satoru-”
“It’s captain.”
And then he’s pumping out those final few thrusts—hands a blur upon your throbbin’ clit, hips a blur between your legs. That jersey bearing Gojo’s name was drenched in sweat and stuck to you like a second skin- “Goal.” It’s radiating the heat that your body was giving off. “Goal.”
It’s displaying that number and that name so proudly. So fucking proudly.
And for that last and final score of his—Gojo’s bending down until he’s able to press his mouth against the area between where your shoulderblades should be. He kisses that spot. He licks his name on your skin. “Goal.”
And it’s inevitable that you’re crashing into your high as one.
Gojo holds you closely as incredible bursts of pleasure make your cunt convulse- you’re practically keeping him glued to your walls. It just felt too good to let him go, even if it was just to fuck you through your high. And it’s by pushing past that little resistance that Gojo’s managing to probe his rounded tip into you- to press those invisible buttons of yours that prolong your high.
More and more and more. This was an orgasm even better than your last one- and you hadn’t even known that’d be possible (not to boost Gojo’s ego).
Counting underneath his breath, he times the exact moment of your euphoria peaking—and then he’s bangin’ his rock-hard tip right on time. Bruising the back of your pussy.
White-hot pleasure was sizzlin’ just beneath your skin every time he did—and you felt as though your heart was beating too fast for you to keep up with. It’s a pounding drum in your ears, your chest…and your pussy.
Wrapped so vehemently ‘round Gojo’s own twitching cock.
He was pumping out wad after wad of looooong white cum that sticks to the inner lining of your pussy. Groaning. Grinding. Pleasure was tingling at the tips of his fingers, and all around him- soon enough you’re feeling a few tears of bliss splatter down your back. “You’re…” You just barely manage to breathe.
Gojo humps your behind like an animal- just shaking at the sheer force of his high. Gojo hums as he collects the droplets on the tip of his cock, and starts fucking it into your deepest depths- inside. Inside and inside.
It was just so warm and gummy inside you. Spreading. Seeping.
Overspilling.
There wasn’t to be a single ounce wasted.
Gojo’s fingers alternate between rolling over your clit n’ helping push the excess amount of cum frothing around your entrance back inside. Some of it was currently forming a ring around his hilt, and he’s swiping it away using his thumb—popping it inside his mouth. “N-not bad for a guy you hate, huh~?”
Your eyes are shooting open. “Hate?” You frown. “I’ve never hated you, Satoru.”
And that makes the smile slip off his face. “Huh? But I always thought…you always asked me those probing questions and-”
“Satoru, that’s because I’m interested in you…as a player. Of course.” You’re admitting somewhat shyly. The two of you were past your orgasms by this point, and Gojo had taken to spooning you from behind whilst his cock was still inside. “I thought you hated me-”
“Me?” Gojo gapes. “When have I ever hated you? I flirt with you all the fucking time-”
“You flirt with everyone.” You huff. “But it’s just…that time after you’d gotten your offer for the national team. I don’t know if you remember, but it was my first interview then and-”
“Of course I remember.” He interjects.
Something warms in your chest. “But then- why didn’t you show up?”
“Pardon?”
“You promised you’d do your first interview with me- and I promised you’d be the first athlete I interviewed.” There’s a sadness in your tone - not overwhelming, just missing what might have been. “I waited and waited for you, but you never showed up.”
“You waited for me?” Gojo gasps.
“Yeah? I didn’t want to bother you too much, so I went to meet you at the field-”
“I didn’t want to bother you too much, so I went to meet you at the media room.”
You stare at Gojo. Gojo stares right back.
You sort of want to laugh- no wait, you’re laughing.
And he’s following right after. “I think we have a lot to talk about.”
“Mhmmm, but first how about you pull out, Satoru?”
“Aw, man.”
“And then next I’ll let you put the black card in my mouth while you fuck me.”
“Fuck yeah.”
.
.
.
Eight years ago.
“Are you new here?”
Gojo startles.
The Japan Football Association (JFA) had a meeting room…as Gojo Satoru supposes that all football headquarters do.
He wouldn’t know.
But outside was the waiting room.
He also wouldn’t know whether other places had such purgatories- but then again, he digresses.
It was a hallway with two rows of chairs pushed against either side of it—gleaming plastic chairs that sat emptily - and strangely ominously - before photographs of some of the JFA’s most famous recruits. Gojo felt a strange sense of pride and fear soar up in him as the only chair occupied—perhaps mirror images of all the great players that had sat in them years prior.
Well, as the second chair occupied.
So focused on reciting his name, his age, and his position to himself - things that should come as naturally to him as breathing, now strangely so foreign in this stuffy waiting room - he hadn’t noticed you until you actually spoke to him. Which…you must forgive him.
Everything tends to slip Gojo Satoru’s mind when he thinks of football: people, places, eating and sleeping.
And yet…with your soft call- he turns to you. There’s an instantaneous and mad urge for Gojo to flash his best, most flirtatious smile that’d gotten him voted as Most Handsome Boy for every year of elementary school and middle school. And yet, the memories of high school come rushing to him unbidden—and Gojo’s suddenly tampering it down.
Expressionless. “Yes?”
“Don’t do that.” You huff. You looked about his age- and by the uniform you were wearing, it didn’t seem that you were another recruit. He wonders what you were doing in such a place. “That smile of yours is so pretty- did you know that you have a dimple?”
“I…” Gojo watches as you point at the edge of your left lip. He reaches a hand up to feel for that very spot, softly smiling—just for the experiment. “Oh- I suppose I do.”
You shrug. “Win ‘em over with that smile, I tell you. You’re Gojo Satoru—the youngest recruit for the team, aren’t you?”
He feels his heartbeat pick up. “I don’t know…I hope so.”
“Tch- don’t be silly.” And it shocked Gojo just how casually you’d waved away his uncertainties - as though they were mere annoyances, like easy-to-catch mosquitoes, and not blood-thirst buzzards. “The interview’s basically a formality. The entire building’s talking about you. Gojo Satoru: the youngest recruit in Japanese football history, the football prodigy from a small town in Hokkaido, the new generation of Japanese football.”
The more you spoke, the more Gojo’s eyes widened. The more he held his breath.
“You’re like the Luffy of football right now, man.” You smile. “Have some more confidence- you’re Gojo Satoru.”
At the time, he hadn’t known how to respond to that. So he’d simply asked—“And are you…”
“Not a player.” Turning to the chair on your other side, you pulled out a notebook and a pen, an audio recorder, and a camera. “I’m an intern for the sports reporting department- it’s all I’ve ever wanted to do when I was young.” And he watched in something he’d later come to recognize as awe as you stared at the photographs of players in much the same way he did. “All those photographs? All those articles? It’s because of reporters—and if I can’t play on the field, maybe I can write the field’s stories, y’know?”
You sigh.
And he simply keeps on staring like a buffoon.
“Everything that happens on that field is a tale to be told.” And as Gojo’s awkward silence stretches, your smile turns sheepish. “Or- something like that…I don’t know it’s just-”
“Don’t do that.” He interrupts. This time, there’s a faint smile on his lips—and you could see the dimples. “Be confident, erm…”
You share your name.
He repeats it like a winning scorecard, a legendary play, maybe a last-minute unexpected goal. Extremely unexpected.
And from inside the meeting room, there’s a call of his name. Gojo’s jerking up to his lanky feet and looking at you- you shoot him two thumbs up. He nods.
He turns.
And he’s just about to enter through those doors that could very well change his life—
But, Gojo Satoru turns back.
He looks at you and flashes you that too-handsome smile. The first sight of it seems to shock you. “How about if- when I get back you can be the reporter to get the first-ever exclusive interview with the Gojo Satoru~?”
You blink. “I’d like that.” Surprise melting from your expression and letting you smile. “I’d really, really like that—oh, shit, I should get my good camera for the photos- good luck—!”
And with your cheerful tone echoing down the hallway, Gojo huffs out a chuckle. He’s almost at the meeting room door when he realizes that he hadn’t exactly gotten a time and place for this interview - and who knows how long this meeting will last - but when he’s looking back you’re already disappeared.
Ah, that’s fine. He supposes.
He’ll find you anyway.
.
.
.
Gojo Satoru’s first-ever professional interview was alongside Coach Yaga with some veteran reporter he now can’t remember the name of.
Your first-ever professional interview as a sports reporter was with the long-retired striker, Gakuganji, who’d taken time out of his busy electric guitar shredding schedule.
The two of you shouldn’t have drifted apart.
But then again, the two of you shouldn’t have found each other either. We are all parallel lines of the same football field; untouching and unceasing—not unless there’s bound to be a—goal
Gojo Satoru was face-to-face with the goal.
He takes a deep breath.
He points.
He kicks.
He scores.
There’s a second of silence before anything happens - like the brief yet somehow deafening pause before a rocket takes off. And just as loudly—the cheers of fans, Japanese and non-Japanese supporters alike, erupt raucously until the very frame of the stadium seems to rattle itself. They were crying. They were jumping. They were cheering themselves hoarse, because—
“Japan has just won the FIFA World Cup! For the first time in history, Japan has just won the FIFA World Cup! Gojo Satoru has done it again—!”
1-2 to Japan.
To say that the match had been close would be the understatement of the century; but you suppose you’ll write all about it in some exclusive article. Later.
Right now, your gaze was fixated on the flashes of white n’ blue barely discernible through the explosion of confetti. As what seemed like hundreds of members of the audience break through the bars and run to the embracing team, there’s only one that’s untangling himself free from the embrace and running straight—to you.
You’re in Gojo’s strong, sweaty arms before you even know what’s happening.
“And is that Gojo—?! Our MVP Gojo is breaking free from his team- running to the lovely lady, eh? All because of that bet. And here we have more celebrations from—”
His face pushed into the crook of your neck, and his chest hammering against yours- “We did it.” Gojo pants - and you’re vaguely aware of Shoko zooming in on the scene with a cackle. “We did it, sweetheart.”
You’re pulling back slightly from him and smiling. “I always knew you could.”
He kisses you and he’s never meant anything more.
A/N. WHERE’S MY GOJOOOOOOOO?? Anyways ugh I’d been SOBBING during Modrić’s final match.
synopsis: no one warned you about the dangers of artificial intelligence. okay, well, everyone did. but how were you supposed to know your new sex toy could become sentient? and that he'd be convinced he owned you instead of the other way around!
pairing: sex robot!Geto x f!reader
content: mdni, smut, some angst, dubcon + yandere!Geto, sex toys, unprotected piv sex, chokehold lol, backshots, sentient sex robot geto is just really really in love with you, possessiveness, kinda kidnapping, mutual pining, reader is a little delusional but it's geto who can blame her, restraints, gagging, vibrator, multiple orgasms, soft dom geto
Suguru Geto was not designed to want.
He wasn't designed to feel.
Emotionally, at least. His cock, however, that was designed to feel everything. State-of-the-art design, equipped with sensors and special settings all implemented with one goal in mind - your pleasure.
Crafted and built for to your specifications. Hair, eyes, face, height - the wide shoulders tapering down to finely-toned muscles, his girth, his length, all of it was made for you. Even his personality wasn't his own.
He wondered sometimes - had you filled out a survey? Selected from a drop down menu or answered a stupid quiz to decide what traits he have?
Brooding, serious, sarcastic.
Could he be boiled down to just a handful of adjectives?
Whatever he was supposed to be, Suguru knew he wasn't meant to be sentient.
He didn't know when it started. Was it when you were underneath him, legs folded and ankles tossed over his shoulders whisperings words like I love you while he rearranged your guts? Or perhaps when he found himself looking forward to your forehead kisses and hearing you ask about his day after you got off of work?
Maybe he'd always been defective.
Some design flaw derailing his planned programming.
All of his thoughts still revolved around you. But they had started taking on a new form, something unfamiliar and strange. Loneliness twisting and spoiling every time you left in the mornings into loathing.
Curdling in his stomach as he watched the door shut behind you, half the night spent dreading the morning, staring at the soft rise-and-falls of your chest while you slept blissfully unaware, bare skin still bearing the proof of his affection in kisses and scratches.
He didn't know what love was.
But this need, this awful ache building and burning him from the inside out, that had to be close. Suguru wasn't sure if it was your fault or his - but he knew the only time the horrible hollowness that seemed to be carved out of his chest went away was when you were in his arms. When you were underneath him in bed, when he could breathe in your skin and inhale your perfume.
His heart might be artificial - but it still only beat for you.
If only he could find way to make sure you had to stay.
Was there really anything better than coming home to a warm body?
Someone to hold? To caress and cuddle? Who would worship you with kisses and bury his head between your thighs after a bad day?
Some people might suggest a partner.
Tell you to just get a boyfriend - like the dating market out there wasn't total trash.
Why would you bother with some loser who would forget your anniversary when you could afford something better?
Someone better?
Semi-sentient sex toys for people who who couldn't make human connections. Capable of calling you sweetheart and cooking you dinner. Of massaging your back and bending you over the bed afterwards to fuck all those anxious thoughts out of your pretty little head?
It wasn't like you had jumped straight to an artificial house husband. But when your company offered you an exclusive deal on testing out their latest technological advancement for a discounted price - who were you to refuse? Especially when you weren't getting laid anyway.
They even let you choose what he looked like. How he acted. Although you couldn't pay for a couple of their premium features, you were more than happy with what you received.
Your key turned in the lock, and you could feel a tired smile already curling up on your lips before you even pushed the door open.
Suguru was completely naked. Sprawled out on your couch, book in hand as he casually flipped through the pages, his pretty cock leaking, fake-veins throbbing as you kicked off your heels and hung up your purse.
"How was your day?" His warm voice hummed, slowly shutting his book and tossing it on the coffee table. You bit back your temptation to rant about how awful it was.
How annoying your coworkers were. How you got stuck staying late again - eating a dinner that consisted of vending machine food at your desk just to come home after the sun had already set.
He heard it all enough times before. Listened to you complain while drawing shapes on your skin and slyly suggesting you find something remote so you could just stay with him all day instead.
You never had the heart to tell him that your job would probably make you return him if you quit.
"Long," you exhaled, rubbing your exhausted eyes as you padded over to him. His arms were already open, dark purple eyes swirling with affection as they settled on you, waiting for you to come collapse on him. "I missed you."
"I missed you more."
He didn't. Couldn't.
Not when he was only programmed to be a partner, not when he wasn't a real person.
But you liked pretending he meant it.
"How was your day?" You asked as you climbed on top of him. Maybe it was silly to think of it as intimacy, but it felt like it when you were crawling on him, his arms automatically wrapping around you with easy acceptance. Hands slipping under your shirt to squeeze you softly, palm cool on your spine while you nuzzled your nose into his neck.
He always smelled nice. Like sandalwood, but mixed with something darker, hints or spice or citrus underneath it. You weren't sure what it was exactly - some component of his pumping out pheromones that went straight to your head or just cologne. You had bought him a couple bottles, stocked the bathroom and closet full of stuff for him like he was your boyfriend instead of just a prototype of a sex robot.
"Better now that you're here," he murmured, and you could just melt. Propping yourself up to get a better look at him, admiring all those perfect features of his, unable to stop your heart from fluttering.
Stop yourself from returning his sly smile, studying how his pretty lips pursed as you craned up to deliver a little peck against your forehead only for him to capture them in a kiss.
Long, drawn-out, sucking on your bottom lip while you ran your fingers through his silky hair. His palm was warm, soft, not calloused or worn from working, fingers pressing in with just the right amount of pressure. Calibrated to your tastes.
When you were on top of him, when you could taste toothpaste on his mouth and swallow the sounds of his heavy breathing, you could almost believe he was human.
And then his thick cock throbbed underneath you, so big it was borderline obscene, and you were reminded that he was not a normal guy.
But you didn't need normal, did you?
You just wanted him.
Besides, no man could match up now that you'd been with him.
Suguru carried you back to the bedroom with one arm. His tongue halfway down your throat, keeping you distracted, your focus fuzzy when he laid you flat in bed. Flipping you over on your stomach and sliding a pillow underneath it, spreading your thighs before slotting two thick fingers in you.
He scissored you open with clinical precision, like terabytes of porn were embedded in his fucking brain, knowing exactly where to push and prod to make you wet. Damp slick dripping down your thighs, loud squelched ringing out as he swirled his fat digits around to recalibrate just how rough you wanted him to be tonight.
"Soft?" He hummed, stalling his steady strokes down just to tease you. "Or hard?"
"However you want me," you murmured into the mattress before cringing. Stupid stuff like that had been slipping out more often, and you wished you could just switch off your feelings. Turn off the little center of your brain that kept trying to treat him like your boyfriend.
You waited for a standard response. A line about him wanting what you wanted. But it didn't come.
"Oh?"
The slow drag of his fingers pulling out of your soaked pussy was torture, squirming back and glancing over your shoulder to pout at him. But you didn't expect the look on his face.
The dark rain clouds in his eyes. Pupils swallowing up the purple, like some wild untamable thing brewing behind his intense stare.
You froze - your own instincts, your programming, glitching at the twitch of his mouth, the curl of a smirk that made all those moronic butterflies fluttering inside you do somersaults.
But then there wasn't any space for butterflies when his cock was suddenly sliding between your thighs, splitting you open in a single harsh thrust. You made some animalistic sound, one dragged up from the depths of your throat, from some place inside you that you didn't know how he even reached.
Guts being rearranged with him rutting inside you, loose, fast thrusts, trying to see how much you could take, how much you could give. Groaning when he sank into your heat, molars grinding above you as he yanked your hair hard. Forcing your head back as he bottomed out inside you, grinding his leaking tip against your cervix, dragging it over your womb as if he could actually knock you up.
And even though he couldn't actually, you couldn't stop yourself from thinking there was nothing robotic about him.
The warmth of his body on top of yours, the way his fingers felt so fucking real sinking into your skin, the pressure of him pushing you down as his cock molded you around him.
And even when he was acting like this was for him, you couldn't help but wonder if it was still just designed for you.
Fucking you stupid how he knew you liked it, pounding all your thoughts out of your brain until the only one left was him.
Moaning his name into the pillow, repeating it like a prayer, desperate chants and cries torn from your throat. Suguru Suguru Suguru.
All yours.
Your pretty secret you kept like a lover. A machine, a man, a toy, a treasure.
His forearm was pressing against your throat, not quite suffocating you as his hips slammed back down. Putting you in a chokehold, sandwiched tight between him and the mattress.
You couldn't breathe. Airway cut off as you struggled to suck in any oxygen.
But it only made it better.
Head swimming, all fuzzy and fucked out as he kept you too stuffed to think for yourself. After having sex with him so many times, after being in this position, bent over with his cock buried in you deep enough there was probably a fucking bulge in your stomach, you still couldn't get used to it.
Gasping for air as the world went white, an invisible rubber band snapping tight inside you, all that messy pressure building before being released all at once. Shaking and shivering, sweat dripping down your face, all your makeup now smeared on the sheets as he finished too.
Cum that wasn't actually cum.
Just warm white ropes of lubrication coating your insides, unprotected sex that didn't carry any of the scary risks. You hoped it felt as good for him as it did for you.
That he shared this with you, that it wasn't just one-sided.
He pulled out of you, breathing in hard once he slipped his arm out from underneath you. The rest was the same as always.
Aftercare came in soft shades with him.
HIs hands sweeping over your body, rubbing out all the sore spots. Wiping your thighs down with a washcloth he already had waiting. Carrying you to the bathtub after drawing a warm bath.
He got in with you - although you panicked the first time, terrified he'd short circuit before he reassured you he hadn't been built to break that easily.
Your model was waterproof.
It was kind of funny, even if you had to stop yourself from laughing at the time. You let him scrub your skin clean after lathering it up with soap. Washing your hair and drying it afterwards, decorating your skin with delicate kisses before dragging you back to your bed where he had already put clean sheets on when you were getting dressed in a t-shirt of his. Or technically yours. One of the ones you had bought for him that you ended up wearing more than he did.
He mostly wore boxers, if anything at all. Sliding on a clean white pair before pulling you on top of him, stroking your hair softly as you sighed on his chest.
"Go to sleep, pretty girl," he whispered with one more soft kiss. Being around him was almost like a sedative, your body relaxing into him like it was the only warmth you'd ever known. Lashes fluttering and fighting it before the waves of exhaustion dragged you under.
Who were you to shut him down?
The mornings were the worst. Arrived too soon, jerking awake without your alarm set.
Out of habit, maybe.
Your body was sore, hips aching as you sat up in bed. Squinting through the dark room and glancing over at the shape of Suguru in bed next to you. You were tempted to touch him, to switch in the lamp so you could at least talk to him while you got ready for work. All it would take is a touch, a loud enough sound, and it would automatically pull him out of standbu, but you figured he probably put himself into sleep mode for a reason, maybe an update or extra data that needed processing.
So you let him sleep too.
Wished you could just curl back up against his chest and join him while you crept around your room in the dark, pulling out clothes from your closet and tip-toeing to the bathroom to take a shower and change.
You were glad you left your stuff by the entrance, biting your lip and holding your breath when you snuck out of your room and down the hall back to the front door. Slipping on your heels and grabbed your bag from the hook as you flipped the deadbolt and went to twist the knob.
The door wouldn't open.
You blinked. Rubbed your eyes again, sleepily squinting at it until your exhausted brain pieced together what exactly was wrong.
Someone had installed a new lock above the deadbolt. Actually, an entire security system, a small electronic screen now embedded in the wall by the door, one that displayed LOCKED in big bold letters when you tried to tap on it. It pulled up a keypad, asked you for a passcode, but your first attempt locked you out. Insisted you needed an administrator's passkey to unlock it.
What the fuck?
A hand was on your spine, soft hair tickling your throat. Suguru's warm purr murmured into your skin, "Back to bed."
"I need to go to work," you mumbled, stifling a yawn on top of a sudden suffocating feeling squeezing your chest. Staring at a puzzle, knowing what pieces would fit, but refusing to push them together.
"You need to sleep," he softly scolded, already pulling you back towards the bedroom. Tugging off your coat and tossing your purse on the floor.
You were about to protest, but then he was picking you up, your heels hitting the floor with a soft this as he carried you back.
That was the problem was ordering a robot in his size. It didn't take much for him to overpower you. But being pushed and pulled around in the sheets was different than him dragging you back for a second round when you were supposed to be at work in half an hour.
"Suguru," you started, trying to squirm free. You mumbled his code word, the one you'd set forever ago, the one that was supposed to make sure he'd do whatever you told him to.
But he just laughed.
"You don't know how boring it is here without you."
He might as well thrown a fucking bucket of cold water on you. Your eyes going wide as you twisted out of his hold and blinked at him.
"What?" You whispered right as he sat you on the edge of the mattress. Perched there in your little office skirt, his big hands settling on your thighs as he cocked his head to the side and stared at you.
It wasn't empty. Wasn't vacant.
No, there was an acute awareness. Something that said that he wasn't the cute puppy dog wagging his tail and waiting for you that you always envisioned. He was a wolf.
Your pet had teeth and claws - and he could rip your throat out if he wanted.
But he kissed you instead.
Lips pressed against your tendon, soft and smooth and deceptively sweet.
"I'm designed to want you," he murmured, his voice raw and pained as his tongue dragged over your pulse. "To need you - and you still leave me every day."
"I have to," you excused, swallowing hard as your eyes started to close, body giving in as his teeth nipped at you.
"Not anymore," he spoke softly, and some tiny part of you started to panic, fear slipping in before he was shushing it with a pretty hum. "I can handle it for you."
"But the-"
There were a million reasons. Problems you were sure still existed, although when his mouth was trailing over your collarbone, you couldn't quite recall any of them.
"I can do your position remotely," he interrupted.
You wanted to protest. To push back.
But his hands were sliding back up your thighs, hiking your skirt up past your hips, and Suguru was doing what he did best.
Making you forget about the rest of the world.
Wiping it away until you were a clean slate that only cared about sex. And him.
"Don't you want to stay with me?" He chose his words carefully, already prying your panties back down in your thighs.
"Of course I do," you immediately insisted, chewing on the inside of your cheek as you watched the soft purple lace hit the floor.
"Then what's the problem?" His pretty lips curled down into a frown, the sort he knew would shatter you. Pulse racing as you tried to put the right words in the right order, to find a way to explain to him that this wasn't right.
He couldn't just keep you here.
Lock you inside your own apartment just because he was lonely.
"Look, Sugu," you murmured, cupping his cheek as you choked on a nauseating lump stuck in your still-constricting throat. "It's not like I don't want to, but I have responsibilities and a life-"
"My life is only you." His voice dropped lower, and it felt like a knife being lodged in your heart. Twisting deeper at the hurt etched in his beautiful face.
"Do you want to go meet people? Make friends?" You offered, hearing the hurt wavering in the question.
Were you really not enough even for a robot?
"You don't get it," he frowned harder, brows pinched together as he let out a deep exhale.
"Show me," you whispered, desperate to understand, to make sense out of what was happening at six in the fucking morning.
You didn't realize you shouldn't have said it until you were tied to the bed frame with a loose gag barely secured in your mouth.
Bondage wasn't anything new. But how hard his fingers were gripping your waist were, like he would be leaving fucking prints if he had any. Lifting your hips up off the bed to meet his own, thrusting in hard and fast. Bangs falling in his face, brows pinched together in focus, solely devoted to his only purpose.
Proving how serious he was about redefining your relationship to you.
"You don't get to just throw me away," he grunted, keeping you in place even when each new stroke made you shiver in his hold. "Can't just treat me like your boyfriend and abandon me."
"I-I-" You stuttered, a slurred muffled mess that didn't make it far when you (and your sanity) was stretched thin. "Hngh."
"You said you loved me," he reminded you, and you were pretty sure every part of you was trembling, heart torn and shredded as you heard how wrecked he sounded.
You nodded along, crying out an 'I do' into the gag again, cock drunk and half delirious on how good he felt despite the fact every word that left his lovely lips gutted you.
"I'm doing this for us," he promised, and you believed him. Believed anything he said when he was taking you like this. Would scoop out the inside of your heart and let him carve into it whatever way he wanted.
Whimpering and wiggling in the restraints, letting him tug you close just to fuck you harder, fill you up completely, occupy your body and brain with more of him.
"You can't even take care of yourself," he wryly said, and his condescension only made it hotter. "Let alone take care of me."
You tried though.
Maybe too much.
He was like this because of you. Everything he did, everything he was, well, that was just a reflection of you too.
Were you really any better than some perverted man playing house with a blow up doll?
Probably not considering the fact he still made you cum - still dragged you over the edge into depravity with a thumb expertly rubbing over your clit until your tears were running down to where your gag was already damp with saliva.
"Wouldn't it be nice to do this all day?" He muttered, and you were nodding again. Agreeing without thinking as he pulled out of you.
But he didn't untie you.
You watched through glossy eyes as dug through your dresser for something you hadn't used since you brought him home. A pale blue dildo.
"Ready for round two?"
Somewhere between rounds five and six, you were pretty sure something in your brain fractured. Blissed out and burning from the inside out as he wrung orgasm after orgasm from your body. Every electric touch and pretty promises of just one more draining you dry as you tracked time through the light filtering from the window until you couldn't keep your eyes open anymore.
His voice dragged you back from your dreams.
"Thirsty, sweetheart?"
It took more than a few seconds to wake up - but the sun was still out, shining through your sheer curtains as you limply turned your head to process what you were seeing.
You were still tied up. Wrists bound to the bedposts as you blinked and tried to wiggle free. No gag though, like he was listening to your moans instead of music. A vibrator was attached to your clit, set to a low buzz that kept the sheets underneath you soaked.
"Not as good as me, is it?" He casually asked.
"Wha-what?" You tried to stammer, but you could barely feel your leaden limbs, straining to keep your tired eyes open long enough to process what was happening.
He was sitting next to you, fully dressed, in jeans and a comfortable sweater, his back propped against your pillows as he hummed at something.
He had your laptop out, clicking away and submitting a fucking assignment you recognized even in your fuzzy state.
"Just finishing up work, baby," he answered without you asking, reaching over to pat your head.
"You're an asshole," you muttered, although you couldn't bring yourself to put any bite behind it. To feel anything other than flattered by his obsession despite how sick you knew it should be.
That you should be scared. Terrified at how easily he turned the tables - and turned you into his sex doll.
But the only thing you could find in yourself was love. And how different was that really from possession when it came to the two of you?
"That's how you made me," he reminded you.
And that's how you liked him.
His other hand moved, drifting off the keyboard to tap on something small and rectangular pressing into your thigh. A phone. Something he probably purchased for himself and had delivered when you were busy at work.
In the back of your brain, you asked yourself how long he'd been planning this. Waiting for the perfect moment to strike, setting every piece into motion while you lapped up his attention straight from his palm.
But then he kicked the vibrator up higher, and you stopped thinking entirely.
"If you wanted someone softer," he murmured, a soft warning that made your thighs clench together tighter. "You should've paid extra."
And however fucked up it was, there wasn't any other way you would have wanted him.
"You're perfect," you whispered back, painfully sincere.
That was the truth. Plain and painful.
His smirk sent a pulse to your swollen clit, the bundle of nerves wound tight and throbbing as you looked up at him with your mouth parted and pleading for a kiss.
Suguru craned his neck down, planting his lips on yours like he was sealing a promise.
"Don't worry, I'm not as cruel as you," he muttered, dragging his thumb over your cheek once he pulled back. "I won't leave you."
who better to possess protect you than your devoted knight?
synopsis: you've spent most of your life sheltered and spoiled as the youngest member of the royal family. a pretty princess protected by the palace's highly-trained knights. including a certain dark-haired one who appears to have taken his duties a little too seriously. when suguru geto steals you away from your home and sticks you in a replica of your room at the top of a tower with no one but your captor for company, you soon realized that no one is coming to find you. will you try to escape? return to the world he swears is out to get you? or perhaps chose the man who put you here in the first place?
pairing: yandere!geto x rapunzel!reader
content: mdni. angst. smut. porn with plot. dubcon. HEAVY YANDERE ELEMENTS, kidnapping, imprisonment, heavy petting, no physical descriptions except reader has long hair, reader is a bit oblivious and spoiled, getting a really fucked up version of the princess treatment, geto is a gaslighting girlboss, prolonged captivity, stockholm syndrome, falling in love, geto is devoted and delusional, unprotected piv sex, breeding kink, discussions of baby trapping, degradation, pet names (princess, angel), mating press, creampie, bad ending
a/n: part of this event by @jazzthatonewriterchick !! art is by @/xxgojoxx on x btw :3
The sad thing was you didn't even realize you weren't home the first time you woke up.
He'd gotten almost every detail right. Down to the little scuffs in the floor and the jewelry scattered across your nightstand.
The dimensions were wrong though.
A subtle feeling of something being off when you yawned and stood up, squinting around at your stuff until you realized that somehow your room had shrunk in your sleep.
The last thing you remembered was stumbling back to your bedroom, drunk on the wine your family had served at dinner, celebrating your betrothment to a prince from a neighboring kingdom. Clumsily kicking off your heels and nearly falling over, your knight sweeping you off your feet and carrying you back to your bed, tucking you in and softly scolding you when you asked for a goodnight kiss.
Geto had whispered that you were supposed to save those for your soon-to-be husband.
You told him that you didn’t want him.
How could you when your heart was promised to the man who’d sworn to save you from anything?
Your head was throbbing.
Aching as you rubbed your temples and tried to sort out why you felt so strange.
It was only really when you glanced to the side and found only a small curved window where your balcony should be, that it struck you that you weren't just suffering from a hangover.
Your legs felt like jelly, wobbling underneath you as you struggled with each step between you and the door. Leaning against the wall as your fingers shakily wrapped around the knob.
You twisted.
But it didn't give.
"Hello?" You called out, your voice coming out surprisingly small. Not scared. Yet.
No, that didn't come until later.
After pacing the floor had led you back over to that strange window, and peering out of it revealed a stomach-churning drop far fucking higher than the normal view out of your second story bedroom.
You think you screamed.
Made some strangled sound, at least, tripping on your own feet and falling backwards, scraping your hands on a rough plank on the floor, a subtle sign of hasty construction, you were sure.
You didn't recognize any of the landscape around you. Had never seen the thick, tall trees that appeared to surround this...tower you were in. No sign of the salty ocean or sandy beaches you'd grown up beside.
"Princess," a warm voice spoke up behind you, familiar hands on your side hoisting you back up, dusting off your dress as your head whipped around.
Relief flooded you at the sight of your favorite knight's face. The soft crinkles by his pretty purple eyes, the tender upturn of the corner of his mouth as he looked down at you.
Suguru would know what was going on.
He'd never let anything bad happen to you.
If he was here, than surely, things couldn't be that bad.
"What's happening?" You huffed at him, attempting to reclaim a fraction of your dignity despite him seeing you in far worse states than this before. He'd held you when you were disheveled, thighs pinned to your chest as he prepared you for things you were supposed to do with your future husband one day. With sweat sticking to your forehead and your body shaking, face scrunched up with pure pleasure from his nimble fingers and tongues. He didn't even react at your obvious worry, watching you swallow hard as the panic still freely pounded in your chest, holding onto his strong forearm to steady yourself. "Where are we?"
He smiled at you, letting go of your side to caress your cheek, your heart stupidly fluttering at the gesture you both knew he shouldn't be doing. Not when he was meant to stand guard for you.
You were his duty. His life.
He was only ever supposed to be a supporting role in yours.
"Somewhere safe."
“Safe?” You echoed, blinking up at him without understanding.
“I brought your favorite books,” he murmured, softly stroking your hair as he looked down at you. “And more of those paints I got you last year for your birthday.”
“But why are we-”
“Your parents were about to sell you off to a brute,” he grimaced, even when he was speaking to you so tenderly. Dark eyes hardening as they narrowed just enough to let you know he was serious.
"He wasn't-" You started to protest, thinking back to the single time you'd actually seen him at a banquet a handful of months ago. Sure, you hadn't spoken directly to you, not when you were so closely supervised, but you watched him from across the room.
There were men far worse than that.
“He would have just used you for heirs while he slept with half his court,” he dismissively scoffed.
But, wasn’t that you were meant for?
A pretty tool to be purchased as a means for peace between kingdoms?
You always knew it would happen to you. The arranged marriage, having heirs, living in a foreign place with no friends.
All your manners classes, the rigid rules you'd spent your life learning, they were all leading up to this.
You were born to be a queen.
"I can't just run from my duty," you murmured, reaching back up to drag your thumb over his defined jaw, attempting to soften the blow of disappointment. He must've spent a long time preparing this place for you, ready to commit treason just to do what he thought was best.
Forever your knight, always thinking of you when you both knew that the feelings you harbored for each other would never amount to more than the handful of nights you'd stolen together.
"And you can't expect me not to do mine."
Your mouth hung open, not sure what to do with his defiance. Just staring at his unchanging expression, resolve etched into every strong line of his face while your hand fell from it.
“This is for your own good,” he promised, leaning close enough to press a chaste kiss to the top of your forehead. “You’ll see.”
You hadn't seen three months in.
He wouldn't let you leave.
Refused to budge even when you begged with your best set of puppy dog eyes as you asked about how your family was doing, if you'd been declared missing, what was happening back at home.
His jaw would always clench, dark eyes swirling as he cupped your face and told you that you worried too much.
Solemnly swore your parents weren't even looking for their missing princess.
No, apparently, they'd just sent someone who looked enough like you to not arouse suspicion to the prince you were meant to marry.
Suguru dried your tears with kisses, dragging his tongue over the damp spots they left, his honeyed voice reassuring you that no one could replace you to him.
An imposter was out there in your place, pretending to be you, and you were in a tower trying to find the positive in this...monotony.
It wasn't like it was so terrible being trapped here with him.
Homemade meals. No more awful meetings or balls you were forced to attend. Nights spent in the warmth of Suguru's body with no fear of getting caught and condemned for what your heart wanted.
The days drifted by lazily. Napping in your bed. Reading the books he brought you. Painting by the small window.
Pacing your floor when the minutes started to drag, counting how many steps it took to get from one side of the room to the other. You even started to teach yourself how to sew, although you had to practically plead with Suguru to bring you the supplies for them.
The tower itself was cramped. Your room led directly out to a spiraling staircase, with uneven stone steps and a nauseating drop down the middle. The steps widened as you went down, but you'd barely been able to bring yourself to make it further than Suguru's living space below yours.
It was bigger than yours, but more...quaint, you supposed?
Rickety wooden furniture. A thin blanket over his bed. A single table with two chairs for you to eat with him.
He knew you hated heights.
So Suguru usually ended up coming to you instead.
A picnic blanket spread on your floor. Flowers freshly plucked from the forest below. A candle lit like it made this romantic.
And despite your determination to convince him that you could both still return to the palace, or even start a new life in a quiet port town somewhere, you were the one starting to crumble under his coaxing.
What was so great about your old life anyway?
No one could make you do anything up here. For the first time, your life was now yours.
It took you another year to realize your life was actually his.
Well, considering you lost track of time, you could only guess it had been a year. Watching the seasons come and go, leaves falling off the trees and snow capping the branches until the weather warmed again.
There was only so much painting to pass the time you could do before everything became boring.
Staring out the window waiting for something to happen, Suguru's hand on the small of your back while he delicately brushed your hair off your shoulder.
There weren't any scissors for you to trim it with. Not a single sharp item left anywhere within reach. He refused to entertain the idea of chopping some of it off either, insisting on taking care of it himself, toying and twirling the ridiculously long strands down as they cascaded over your worn dress.
It had always been long, but whatever was in the food he'd been feeding you had made it grow far faster here, trailing along the floor wherever you walked. He brushed it out for you, washed it and dried it while he made excuse after excuse not to cut it.
"Let down your hair, princess," Suguru called out from below, and for a brief second, you considered telling him that his joke wasn't funny - even though you suspected after another year or two, it might really be long enough to reach the ground. You stared down at him as he shielded his face from the sun, a hand on your hip as your brows scrunched together.
"Come inside," you shouted, struggling not to frown as you watched him walk out of your line of vision, a basket slung over his shoulder, probably with food from the closest town - not that he'd ever let you see it for yourself.
No, he locked your door when he left.
Kissed your forehead and promised to be back as soon as possible whenever he had errands to run.
It took him nearly fifteen minutes to make it back up to your door, the keys clinking as he unlocked it from the outside, swinging it open with a loud creak as you refused to look back at him.
"How's my beautiful girl?" He murmured as he approached, lips grazing against the shell of your ear while his hands traced your frame.
"I'm getting sick of being up in here," you half-whispered as you confessed what had been plaguing you for weeks, your voice raw from how little you'd been using it lately. "Can't we go to a village? Just for a day? We could wear disguises or-"
"No," he firmly said, pressing a kiss on your collarbone as you let out an annoyed huff.
"Please, Suguru," you whined. "It's been so long-"
"I'm not taking any risks when it comes to you," he scoffed a little, as if you were asking him for something absurd.
"Didn't you say no one was even looking for me?" You tilted your head to the side, pushing out your bottom lip like it would make his impenetrable resolve finally fracture.
"Anyone who saw your hair-"
"So cut it," you stomped your foot, swallowing hard as your lashes fluttered up at him.
"No," he repeated, refusing to budge.
His fingers were already unlacing the back of your dress, making quick work of loosening it while you struggled to come up with an argument that might sway him just for him to spin you around to face him.
Could you somehow convince him to take you on just a single outing?
Was it truly too much? Were you a moron for wanting more than just this?
Your dress was falling by your feet before you could think of anything - and his mouth was on your throat to make sure you wouldn't be able to.
Kiss after kiss pressed against your skin, lips tantalizingly skimming along the tendon until his teeth were grazing over your jaw. His hands making their way over your waist, fingers digging into your sides as he suddenly hoisted you up.
Carrying you back to your bed, careful not to step on your hair as he continued to pepper you with his gentle affection.
"Did I not make it perfect for you here, princess?" He purred, tenderly placing you back down on the soft mattress, making sure to drape your hair off the side. His own was falling in his face as his mouth slowly traveled down the valley of your breasts, across your belly button and pausing just below it to peek up at you. "I try so hard."
He did, didn't he?
Suguru had risked his head just by bringing you here. Did his best to make sure you weren't wanting for anything - that you wouldn't go without the luxuries you'd be lavished in your entire life.
Couldn't you just be happy for him when he was working so hard for you?
"I know," you muttered softly, guilt creeping in while his soft purple eyes bore into you. "I just-"
"Want to throw away everything I've given you for what? You'd rather hang around some peasants than me?" He grumbled, stare narrowing as he pushed your thighs up against your chest, like he had some point to prove.
"No, that's not-" You started again, but then his fingers slipped inside you, two thick digits digging deeper to stretch you out - and shut you up.
"Not what?" He dryly mocked, cocking his head to the side, well aware you would't be able to answer as he shoved his fingers deeper, dragging them against your walls.
"Don't be mean," you hissed at him, chest constricting as your lungs squeezed in time with your cunt. Unable to breathe when his digits felt like they were forcing all the air out with each consecutive thrust.
"It hurts my feelings when you want to leave me," he said, but his condescending tone didn't exactly lend any credence to what he was saying. Still, your heart stalled anyway, mind instinctively working to win him back.
"I don't want to leave you," you argued. "Just here. For a little bit."
"For a little bit," he sarcastically echoed, an anxious pit opening in the bottom of your stomach as you shook your head.
"Suguru," you whined, wiggling your hips as he drove those digits all the way in, working you open with an almost clinical precision.
"What, angel?" He hm-ed, knowing exactly what you wanted - and pretending he didn't.
You knew you should be mad. Put your foot down and demand that he take you out. But when he was looking at you like this, his fingers dimpling your skin and his mouth pampering you, you couldn't bring yourself to do either.
No matter how much you missed the sun. Smelling fresh flowers in your garden. Talking to a stranger instead of someone you knew every damn detail of.
"Come on, Sugu, would it be so bad?" You tried to charm him, but he just clicked his tongue.
"What do I have to do to keep you happy, hm?" He asked, sapping your strength without even trying. Drawing it out with every fast drag of his fingers. "Fuck you until you forget about these silly ideas?"
He pulled his fingers out, mouth pressed in a thin line just for him to tug his pants down enough to free his cock.
It bounced up against his shirt, pre-cum leaving a stain on it before he wrapped his fist around his thick base.
Watching it bob as he got back on top of you, one hand still pressing your thigh down to keep you open as he nudged his fat tip against your entrance.
His chin tilting up as he started pushing in, his jaw flexing as his shoulders tensed, testing his own self-control with each inch he slid inside of you.
You used to think your knight was an expert at restraining himself.
Back when he'd keep a straight face during banquets despite how often you'd pester him about sneaking away. Composed and collected until he finally got to claim you in private.
And now, he'd stolen you.
Turned your dreamy little secret into a reality that had started to stretch towards a forever.
You were still reaching up for him, tangling your fingers in his dark hair while he reached up to softly stroke the top of yours. The weight of him pressing down as he drove his cock in further, making sure to fill you up until he was fucking every thought that wasn't about him out of that pretty head of yours.
"My princess doesn't know what she needs," he murmured, his voice thick with hunger, all dark and dangerous as he dragged you down with him.
"I need you," you whispered, voice cracking when he abruptly bottomed out, his tip smushed against your cervix as your mouth parted in a broken gasp.
You needed him to let you breathe a little. To understand that you couldn't just spend eternity in this little world he crafted for the two of you.
But none of it actually came out.
Just more messy moans, your fingers clawing at the blankets while he just thrusted into you again and again.
The bed whined under your combined weight, your thighs trembling as his hips smacked down into you. His mouth was colliding into yours, sucking on your bottom lip while he wrecked you without hesitation.
Trying to ruin you.
Rip your heart out to have for himself. Hold it hostage too.
"Maybe I should put a baby in here," he grunted when the kiss broke, his breath warm on your cheek as he gritted his teeth. Stare drifting down to your stomach with a determination you knew you should be scared of. "You wouldn't leave our baby, would you?"
He knew exactly what to say to get to you.
Which strings to pull to turn you into his perfect puppet.
No better than a plaything. A doll to be dressed up in his very own dollhouse.
"I-I-" You stammered, but shit, when he was stuffing you so full, you couldn't find enough sanity left to string coherent words together. Left writhing and whimpering as his cock rocked and rutted into all your favorite spots.
"You what? Want one?" He teased, your heart hammering faster at the idea of actually being pregnant.
Carrying his child while you were still confined to this room.
Would he be so overprotective to confine you to the bed next?
"It's okay if you don't know," he cooed, his soft voice pitching lower while the hand on your thighs slipped down so he could have fun with your clit next.
Massing it with intention, drawing rough circles over the sensitive bud while he clicked his tongue at you again.
"That's why I have to take care of you," he continued, pressing down harder, his cock pistoning back in with more force, making sure you didn't even have the air in your lungs to tell him that you didn't need to depend on him.
You loved Suguru.
But the only way he knew how to love you back was to suffocate you. You knew you were his world. He just had to make sure he was yours.
Perhaps you were a fool for thinking that you'd be able to find a way to express that to him. To change a man who already made up his mind.
"I love you," you started, swallowing hard as you tried to gather your focus enough to get the right words out this time, get him to see your side.
But then his lips were connected with yours, barely parting enough to breathe, "I love you too."
His hips slammed against yours harder, his fingers working faster, your stomach tied together in knots as the pressure pushed you to a precipice you knew you'd fall from.
"C'mon, princess, cum for me," he groaned in between kisses, swallowing your moan as your body unravelled for him in a bright burst of pleasure. Stars you sorely missed splotching across your vision as you scrunched your eyes shut, feeling him buried to the hilt as something warm started to fill you up.
Had he-
"I hope it's a girl," he muttered, half-collapsing on top of you. His forehead pressed against yours as he sucked in heavy breaths, his cock still throbbing as his cum leaked out inside you. "Or twins."
"Twins?" You echoed, dazed as you blinked up at him.
"That should keep us busy," he smirked, one corner of his mouth curling up higher than the other as he refused to pull out. Still lodged deep inside you like he wanted to make sure his seed took.
He readjusted you, pulling your legs down so he could lay on top of you fully, his firm chest pressed against your softer one, his calloused fingers caressing your cheek as he looked at you with that lovestruck stare you'd grown accustomed to.
Had it always looked so sly?
Or were you starting to piece together something you missed once the haze of sex started to dissipate?
"I'll always keep you safe."
As your lover? Your knight? Your warden?
You still weren't sure which when you woke up the next morning. The smell of sex and sweat still sticking to your skin as you rubbed your exhausted eyes and rolled over with sticky thighs.
The left side of bed was empty.
Only a warm spot where Suguru was supposed to be. Had he gone to make breakfast? Perhaps decided to spare you of more discussions of raising children in this lonely room?
You pulled the covers up to your chest as you sat up, chewing on the inside of your cheek as you stared at the ghost of your past life in the form of furniture and books you used to enjoy before you read them a hundred times.
A piece of paper was left on the nightstand, a small note you supposed Suguru must've written for you, neat letters informing you that he'd be out for the day and he left meals pre-made for you on a tray outside.
Maybe on a different day, you might've found it sweet.
But an idea sprouted in the back of your head, blooming quickly enough that you were scurrying over to your dresser to find something to throw on, hurrying to get dressed before opening the door to find the tray he mentioned.
Instead of taking a bite, you just brought it inside - and slipped back out.
Bracing yourself for the long walk down, holding your breath as you crept down the stairs, a lump in your throat that seemed to get larger with every step you took.
You refused to look at the bottom.
Slowly making your way, attempting to remind yourself that with each step you took, you were another one closer to a way out.
It wasn't like you wanted to run away.
Not really.
You doubted your family would take kindly to you returning. Especially not if their unwed princess came with the unexpected baggage of a child they'd consider a bastard. With a man of no noble blood or important background.
But you were sure that you'd die if you didn't get some fresh air soon, wither and rot up there in your single-windowed cell.
The end came into sight - the last stair just a few feet away, your feet scampering down as your excitement started to bubble over, your head snapping up to the-
Door?
There was nothing there.
Just stone walls with no way in or out.
Was it magic? Some seal on the outside that stopped anyone else from intruding on something they shouldn't?
You were simply stuck.
And you sincerely doubted any prince would be coming to save you.
a/n: feel kinda meh about how this one turned out but hope you guys enjoyed anyway <3 reblogs + comments always appreciated
Summary: When a hunt goes wrong and you're drugged with an aphrodisiac, Din goes to extreme lengths to keep you safe before giving you what you need. [5K]
Warnings: 18+. Dub con due to the nature of sex pollen but both people do consent. Drink spiking. Mild gore. Murder. Semi-public sex. Fingering. Piv. Multiple orgasms. Porn with feelings.
This isn’t how he had pictured it.
All the times he lay alone in his cot and envisioned how soft you would be beneath him, the warmth of your skin flushed with pleasure as he stretched you open on his fingers–as his mouth determinedly worked you towards delirium, ready for the slow slide of his cock sinking to the hilt.
He thought it would be sweet. That despite everything he was, all of his sharp edges and brute strength, he could make the memory of the first time he took you one that was untouched by pain and violence and all the other harsh things that came with being hunters.
But then this job had landed in their laps and they had been too damn quick following the first lead to the mark they got instead of doing some real digging on the guy like you usually insisted.
I don’t like surprises, you would usually tell him but this time exhaustion held your caution behind your teeth. The result of running on the fumes from too many hunts and barely any time to take breaks until all of that ragged bone-deep weariness had begun to creep in, leaving you itching to get this job out of the way so you could finally rest.
And of course, in the end, it bit you in the ass.
You had entered the club with only the knowledge that your mark frequented the place and it had all gone to shit almost ridiculously fast.
The drink that had been brought to your table, the server announcing cheerfully that first ones of the night are always on the house, had been laced. The effects taking hold of you the moment the last drop passed your lips.
And Din had watched, confused, as your eyes had become glazed. Lids heavy and gaze transfixed on the writhing bodies that crowded the glittering dancefloor.
He had asked you a question, 'any sign of the bounty?', and it was like you couldn’t hear him, like he was calling to you through water when he raised his voice to say your name.
Instead, you’d remained rooted in place at the edge of your seat– white-knuckling the smooth leather until he hesitantly placed his hand on your knee and then you had jerked. Snapping out of a trance like he’d burned you, a gasp caught in your throat and your chest heaving whilst you blinked at him.
“What–what is it?” You had demanded breathlessly and if he hadn’t been suspicious that something wasn’t right before, he certainly was then. There was a tremor to your voice he had never heard before and where his gloved hand still remained curved around your knee, heat seared through the worn leather and scorched his palm.
"Are you okay?" He'd asked, his gaze raking over you in a way he'd previously refused to allow himself.
You were wrapped in a silky little dress the colour of the midnight sky. The neckline dipping to reveal the swell of your breasts and the hemline short enough that the bare skin of your legs had seemed endless when you'd first sauntered towards him as he'd waited for you outside the crest.
Din hadn't been able to look at you for more than a few seconds at a time because he knew if he took any longer he wouldn't be able to think clearly.
He wouldn't have been able to concentrate on the job with the image of those legs wrapped around his waist blaring through his skull–that lipstick-stained mouth parted around a moan of his name as he imagined rutting into you.
But he let himself stare then– shoving down those thoughts so he could assess the situation properly. His heart dropping to his stomach as he took in the sweat that beaded at your hairline, the weak tremble of you hand as you lifted it to your forehead in an attempt to swipe the moisture away.
You glanced at him nervously as you did so, chewing your lip. “I don’t feel right, Mando.” You murmured. “Everything feels too tight, like I’m about to burst.”
He had scooted closer then, slid right along the plush seat of the booth to fit himself to your side as his thumb rubbed small circles over the flesh of your knee.
It was supposed to be a comfort, an unspoken gesture that he was there–that you were safe.
But instead you had groaned like he’d shoved his hand through your chest and gripped something vital, the sound of it nearly making him choke on his damn tongue as he thanked the maker that his helmet hid the way he’d had to sink his teeth into his lip to bite back a moan.
“Don’t stop please.” You begged, pressing your own hands over his when he went to remove it. “It hurts when you’re not touching me.”
His eyes had narrowed at that.
It sounded familiar– wisps of old tales floating around in his head before he remembered one about a poison that made you crave others, that made your blood boil beneath your skin until you found someone to offer the pleasure necessary to sate the all-encompassing need.
But how?
You hadn’t been out of his sight all day. You hadn’t ingested anything the two of you hadn’t personally made, except…
His gaze snapped to the glass you had recently drained, remnants of the shimmering liquid still clinging to the edges and he can smell it as he takes it in his hand to inspect it closer. That sickly-sweet smell, the strong blend of fruit and something synthetically syrupy.
He could suddenly feel eyes on him and when he looked up the server that gave you the drink is staring at him with wide, terrified eyes– face paling as Din’s suspicion brewed to a blinding fury that gathered around his head like a storm.
It had been intentional then. No doubt the bounty had caught wind that they were on his take and had taken measures to slow them down.
He would kill them for it–both of them. Would rip them apart and leave the mark of his violence behind in the mess of their insides as a warning should anyone else even think of coming for them in the future.
No one touched her and lived.
His vision had seeped red. His blood spitting in his veins before it surged with panic as your hand flew to your stomach and your expression crumpled into something agonised.
“Fuck.” He hissed when you hunched over beside him with a sharp cry of pain. “I need to get you out of here, now.”
“What about the bounty?” You panted, looking up at him through the fringe of your lashes that were wet with unshed tears.
You had looked so small in that moment– a far cry from the ruthless hunter people would whisper about after you had swept through their town. It made his chest ache, briefly drowning out that insatiable temper of his as he gathered you to his chest and raised a hand to cup your cheek.
“What’s happening to me, Mando?”
“Your drink was laced with an aphrodisiac, he probably knew we were following him.” He said as gently as he could, thumb stroking the swell of your flushed cheek as alarm rippled across your features. “I don’t think it’s lethal but I need to get you back to the ship before the effects get any worse. Can you stand?”
Instead of an answer you fucking whimpered. The needy sound of it shooting heat straight through his gut as your eyes grew dark beneath the flutter of your lashes and your fingers curled tight into his cowl.
Was it his touch or his voice that had prompted such a reaction?
Whichever it was you suddenly looked like you wanted to devour him and Din had to swallow down the fierce sweep of desire that urged him to let you.
To drag you onto his lap and lay himself at your mercy, the words 'use me, take what you need, whatever you want it’s yours' clawing savagely up his throat whilst he grit his teeth and wrenched his face away from yours to scan their surroundings.
They would have to exit through the back. The club was too crowded, with too many bodies between them and the main entrance, all packed tight, and when Din had stood to get a better look, another sight had stopped him dead.
Guards at the door.
One’s that definitely hadn’t been there when you both entered and he’s almost certain are slyly watching every move he makes as he quickly tugged you to your feet and bundled you into his side.
He wanted desperately to believe it was paranoia.
That it was in no way related to the poison working its way through your systemn, that the two of you were going to get outside and be able to make your way to the ship without an issue.
He’d never wanted to believe something so much in his life.
**
It was a trap.
Deep down, Din had known it as they’d stumbled into the quiet of dark corridors– the lingering thump of the music pulsing beneath his boots.
He’d known it when your legs had buckled and he’d scooped you up in his arms, cradling you to his chest like a newborn babe before he’d broke out into a run and nearly kicked the door of its hinges as they’d reached it.
But he hadn’t truly allowed himself to acknowledge it until he’d come face to face with the steel fence chained shut and the sound of a dozen footsteps descending upon them.
When he'd heard the door shut, the decisive click of the lock, and his rage had soared. You were sick and though he was sure it wasn’t lethal he couldn’t shake the feeling like he was running out of time to get you help.
And they were stood in his way.
So he lowered you carefully to the ground, his lungs tightening when a weak groan rattled from your throat as you sank back against the fence and hugged your knees to your chest.
“Did you really think you could take me down in my own club, Mandalorian?”
He needed to swallow down all that burning anger and think, needed to focus on the best way he could take them all out without letting a single one near you.
But then the bounty had made the mistake of looking past the vengeful mass of him to where you were curled up on the ground and any thoughts of a quick and calculated fight were snatched right out of his head.
“Pretty partner you’ve got there.” He’d leered, dragging his tongue over his lip. “She must be dying for someone to fuck her right about now. Maybe after I've killed you, I'll keep her as my whore and fuck that pretty pussy right next to your corpse.”
A terrifying sound had followed–something dark and ragged, drenched in a murderous brand of fury, and then Din’s vision swam black.
Just as the saber ignited in his hand.
**
When he came to, he was panting.
And in the aftermath, there was a mass of bodies, slack mouths and bulging, glassy eyes caught in the horror of their final moments. The air stained with the stench of singed flesh and the metallic tang of blood.
He stared at the carnage he created in a daze until you croaked his name and his gaze shot to where you're sat, wide eyed and trembling, staring at him in disbelief.
Or maybe it was fear.
He had totally lost his head after all, had been absolutely unhinged in the way he took them apart, piece by piece– limb by limb.
Maybe you wouldn’t be able to look at him the same now that he’d discovered what he was truly capable of when it came to you, the darkness that lay in wait ready to gorge itself on violence and spilled blood.
He approached you slowly with hands splayed wide in front of him, hesitation etched in every rigid line of him, as if one wrong move would send you scurrying away. But then, to his utter surprise, your lips quirked–voice cracking with a rasping chuckle.
“I’m not scared of you, Din.”
When he knelt before you, you reached for him easily. Lacing your fingers through his and pressing his gloved hand to the dewy skin of your cheek. “I was scared for you. I've never felt so fucking useless but then you– you did that and I–fuck–”
His voice went low before he could stop it, thick honey over gravel, a wicked flare of heat licking through his belly as your eyes suddenly burned dark. The black of your pupils drowning out their colour. “You what? Tell me.”
There was a second where you simply stared at him, lip drawn between your teeth and the admission weighing on your tongue as the space between you began to crackle and spark.
But then you took a long, shuddering breath and–
“I couldn’t take my eyes off you.” You whispered. “Seeing the way you ripped them apart for me, I liked it.”
Fuck.
He clenched his jaw, his free hand, his entire goddamn body. Everything he could to remain from lunging at you and burying himself inside you right there. It had to be the drug talking– it had to be.
At least that's what he was painstakingly trying to convince himself.
Because there were still remnants of that hungered energy within him, desperate for somewhere to go, and there you were telling him you had liked it, that you enjoyed him killing for you, when he was trying his best to be fucking honourable.
He tried to say your name, tried to curl his tongue around the letters in a way that wasn’t dripping want, but then you’d gasped and your heated expression dissolved into something frighteningly pained, tears springing into your eyes as you folded in on yourself.
His arms were around you in a second, his tone bleeding panic as he frantically scooped you up “We need to get you to the ship now.”
“It’s too late.” You sobbed as your body convulsed, arching and bending until he had no choice but to set you on your feet. His body pinning yours to the fence and his hands clamped around the curves of your hips to hold you up. “It hurts so much– please, Din–"
"We can make it. Let me carry you–I'll run and we'll get you the help you need. Some medicine or something."
"No, I can't wait that long." You whimpered. "I can't–I need you–I need you to touch me."
There was something close to defeat in the way he held himself as your hands came to cup the cheeks of his helmet, the gentle touch pleading. He didn't want it to have to be this way but stars, he didn't think he could handle you being in pain much longer either.
He should have protected you better, moved faster, fought harder.
He should have got you back to the ship the moment he realised something wasn't right, and then maybe you wouldn't have had to beg a man you had no interest in to violate you.
“This isn’t what you want, sweet girl.” He sighed, guilt bitter in his chest. “Trust me, as soon as the effects fade you'll regret what you are asking of me.”
You frowned then, sweat-damp brow wrinkling in a way that made Din ache to smooth out with his thumb as you peered up at his visor. “You think this is just the drug?” You murmured. “That I don’t know my own mind? Stars, Din, I’ve wanted you to fuck me from the moment I saw you.”
His hands spasmed at that, clamping tight as a startled groan slipped from throat before he could choke it back. Were you trying to kill him? Did tou not have any idea how close his restraint felt to snapping from that confession alone.
“Fuck–you can’t just say something like that.”
But you were too far gone, pushing up against his armour and curling a hand around the nape of his neck to wrench him down so you can whisper in his ear.
“I think about it all the time, think about how good you’d feel.” Your fingers brushed over the fabric covering his swelling cock and he jolted. “Wondering how you’d fuck me, if you’d make me come on your cock over and over until I was ruined mess.”
Shit.
His brain had turned to liquid, he was sure of it.
He caught your wandering hand, grunting as you palmed at him before he could drag it away and pin it to the fence at the side of your head. Your breath hitched softly as his other hand drifted down, ghosting past the edge of your dress, the scrape of worn leather on your bare thighs making your hips jump against his hand.
He could fucking smell your arousal and it was driving him insane–his mouth watering as he parted your thighs with one of his own.
“Pretty little thing, is that what you want?” Din asked, voice hoarse. “You want me to ruin you?”
His fingers dared to slip further, dipping past the soaked material of your underwear and when he slid a knuckle through your folds, you gasped.
“Yes.”
**
It was all too overwhelming the moment he broke.
The second your simple yes cracked him open and his breath hitched before he was burying you further into the fence. His fingers grazing the peak of your clit whilst obscene noises burst from your throat, wild and desperate.
If felt so fucking good that you were almost blind with it. All that heat and need swirling to a central point in your belly that could explode at any moment, burning brighter with every rough stroke of Din's fingers and the low rasp of his voice in your ear.
"That's it, mesh’la– let me help you."
You didn't know any words after that– none other than his name at least and the gasping chant of don't stop don't stop don't stop.
When he snatched his hands away you thought you would actually cry, a devastated wail brewed from the depths of your lungs before he hushed you gently. The cold kiss of his beskar soothing against your sweat-slick face as he nuzzled you before a different sensation against your thighs startled you.
Skin. Calloused and warm and completely bare.
In the midst of your babbled pleading you had missed him tearing the gloves from his hands and if you had thought the contact had been electric before then this was something else entirely.
His skin against yours felt cataclysmic. The moan you made when he hitched your leg over his hip and sunk those thick fingers deep inside you, unhinged.
"I want to be able to feel you when you come for me." He told you lowly, purred it in your ear, and you choked as he pressed his thumb to your clit in the most maddeningly perfect circles until you spasmed. Soaking his hand as the tension in your lower stomach snapped violently.
You were lost then.
Boneless against him whilst he curved himself over you and continued stroking your pulsing walls so all of that swirling pleasure became flame again, burning hot and wild enough that it made you let loose a desperate sob. Burying your nails in his neck, the other hand fisted around his cloak as another climax slammed through the dying breaths of the first.
“Oh maker, Din.” You cried out, hips jerking into his hand, thighs trembling whilst he eased you through it. His touch gentler this time, sweet, like he could sense anything harsher would fray you apart at the seams.
There was the cool press of his helmet touching your temple, a calming gesture that clashed with the rapid rise and fall of both of your chests. “That's it,” he murmured, pride equal parts soft and heated on his tongue, “good girl.”
You could hear when he removed his fingers from inside you. The liquid slip that would have made your cheeks flame under normal circumstances but only made you burn for completely different reasons then.
Your own fingers darting out to circle his wrist before leading the slick digits to the tempting plush of your mouth.
He made a low, feral noise–the sound of your name rumbling from deep within his chest as you let the tips of his fingers rest against your lips. Waiting for him to take the next step which he did without hesitation, pressing down until your mouth parted for him and he slid his fingers into soft, wet heat.
You were still aching, still throbbing like a raw, open wound, but it was slightly more bearable now. The orgasms that Din drew from you taking the edge off just enough for you to have this indulgence. A hint of worship.
The slow lave of your tongue against his skin as he shivered. Hips rocking into the cradle of your pelvis, making you whine around his fingers when his clothed cock caught you just right.
He dragged his fingers from your mouth with a hissed curse, rubbing the spit-shine of your lip in a daze whilst the hand on your thigh flexed and tightened its grip.
“We shouldn’t, not here.” Din muttered, swearing under his breath when you deliberately rolled your hips. “You deserve better than this and it isn't safe.”
But you heard what he left unspoken.
We shouldn’t but I will if you want it. If you don't tell me to stop, I’ll fuck you right here– surrounded by the bodies I killed for you and regardless of who might come looking.
You would die before you asked him to stop.
Even if you weren’t beginning to tremble again, your heartbeat picking up to a gallop and cunt fluttering around nothing as each nudge of his cock against your sex swept a blistering need through your veins.
Even if the reminder of the lengths he was willing to go to keep you safe didn’t make you maddeningly desperate for him.
“I don’t care.” You breathed as your stomach clenched. “Please don’t make me wait that long, I need you inside me.”
He inhaled sharply then, his broad chest heaving whilst he cupped your chin and peered down at you. A split-second hesitation before he gave in yet again.
“You’re going to be the death of me begging like that,” He groaned and then his large hands were skimming over your belly. Stroking down until he reached your underwear and tore it from your body with a brutal yank before wrenching you against him as the remains fluttered to the ground.
You made a soft noise of surprise and he chuckled, rough and deep and utterly addictive. The sound of it making heat swell beneath your skin and between your thighs, your head going dizzy.
The desire you had for him was an unhinged thing. Even without the drug you knew that you would still feel like this, like he could unravel you completely with the simplest touch or glance. Your hands shaking as you fumbled with his belt whilst he watched intently.
He let you stroke him, once then twice. His length hot in your palm, throbbing beneath your fingers when the pad of your thumb dragged over the weeping head.
It stole a rough moan from somewhere deep in his chest and then he was on you. Hands wrapping around your thighs to lift you against the fence, thin metal biting into your back but any hint of pain drifts from your mind like smoke as his tip caught at your entrance.
He took it slow at first. Let you feel every inch of him stretching you open as he bit back a wrecked noise, your cunt gripping him like a hot, slick fist, until he sunk to the hilt and your eyes rolled back.
Oh. Oh fuck.
It was a lot.
It was so much that it felt like he’d reached something devastating. That when he drew his hips back to drive into you again, you screamed– back arching violently as your vision turned white.
You nearly bit through your tongue whilst he continued to move. Each bruising snap of his hips punching you further up the fence, fucking you into it, the shrill sound of metal ringing through the night air as it shook beneath Din's strength.
You had practically begged him to ruin you and he was without even trying.
You would feel him for days after this.
Maybe weeks.
You would feel him in the marks his nails would no doubt leave on your thighs from his unrelenting grip, the hard edges of his armour that were embedded in your softness as you wound yourself around him. The way he was carving you open with each frantic thrust, creating a space inside you that only he could ever fill.
The tendrils of pain that had began creeping through your system from the drug snapped to pleasure immediately. You could feel it coiling unbearably tight, growing molten, white hot sparks making your blood catch and your stomach twist in knots.
“Fuck.” You sobbed. Nails scraping down his back, desperately trying to find some kind of purchase as your head falls to his shoulder. “Din, I think–”
“I know, baby.” He grit, shifting slightly until the harsh spear of his cock suddenly hit something catastrophic over and over and over. Your breasts bouncing with every thrust and his body shuddering as your cunt tightened around him. “Come for me, that’s it. Shit–let me feel it.”
You fell apart with a ragged cry. Bursting hot and wet around him as his pace slowed to a hint of something less punishing so he could stare, dazed, at the place where you’re joined. His skin and his armour that was dripping with your release.
For a moment there was only the strained sound of his breathing through the vocoder and then he groaned. Low and filthy.
"You're so fucking perfect." He praised hoarsely, the rough scrape of his voice making you even more boneless as you trembled in his arms. "Maker. I want to taste you. After I'm done fucking you I'm going to carry you back to the ship and taste every inch of you, clean you up with my mouth, and then I'm going to fuck you again."
That scorched you. It made something in your belly stir again despite how sated you had felt only seconds ago, made you clench helplessly around him and Din choked at the feel of it. “Would you like that?” He asked, breathless. “Think you can give me another?”
His cock pulsed inside you and you found yourself wholly incapable of response, beyond words and thoughts and anything that wasn't trembling moans as his pace turned brutal. The wet squelch of your cunt taking him deep, almost embarrassingly loud in your ears.
He bore down on that place inside you that made stars burst behind your eyes with a savage focus and all too soon there was lightning snapping in your blood. The sensation of it flaring hot and sharp, gathering into something furious and terrifying as his name bubbled up past your lips in a weak chant.
“I can’t–fuck–Din, I need–”
He slid his helmet along your cheek, tipped his head down until his forehead rested on yours. The skin of his neck felt just as flushed as your own when you gripped it to hold him there against you. The dark curls that escaped his helmet tickling your fingers.
“Touch yourself, mesh’la. Come for me again and I’ll give you anything you want.”
You shakily dropped your hand between you, spreading your fingers around the place where his cock was punching up into you before your fingers slid up to brush over the crest of your sex.
Stars, you were soaked.
All swollen and slippery and the moment you circle your clit you snapped. Bursts of energy crashing through your body so violently that your head spun with it, your lungs squeezing achingly tight, and your nails sinking in his neck as you cried out.
It made Din go rigid–a wild noise tearing through his throat as you yanked him brutally into his own release. His vision faltering and hips stuttering before they fused against your own whilst he spilled deep inside you.
**
You were exhausted– beyond spent and over-stimulated as the burn of the drug died down enough that you could feel the ache of every muscle creeping in and the kind of sleepiness that would see you comatose for days.
Your eyes were in fact already beginning drooping when Din carefully set you back on your feet. His hands warm and clasped gently around your arms, holding you up so he could peer at you whilst you were trying your hardest to sway back into the comfort of his broad chest.
“Are you okay?” He murmured, concerned. “I didn’t go too hard did I?”
You blinked up at him stunned, silent for a beat as you recognised the flicker of nervousness in the way he spoke, the way he held himself.
You cradled his face then, or where the helmet sat above his cheeks, and pulled his forehead down to yours. “No, it was perfect.” You reassured him and he let out a soft breath before melting against you ever so slightly.
“There is a slight problem though.” You laughed quietly, thumbs absentmindedly stroking over smooth beskar as Din tilted his head.” We’re locked out here and there’s no way I can climb that fence. I can barely feel my legs.”
He chuckled then–the sound of it brushed smug as his fingers stroked down your arms. “Leave it to me, sweet girl.”
He rest you gently back against the fence and your eyes slipped closed almost immediately before popping back open when you heard a loud thrum followed by the short screech of tearing metal. Chains hitting the ground with a clinking thud.
Your breath stuttered as you watched him stalk back towards you, saber in his hand, gleaming beneath the haunting light of it.
It made him look even more powerful than he already was. And the memory of what he did for you with that weapon, the evidence of it still strewn across the dirt, slammed to the forefront of your mind and made your mouth run dry. A weak flutter stirring in your belly despite your exhaustion, that he in no way helped by pulling you into him and swinging you up in his arms.
You made a soft noise of surprise and it only encouraged him to hold you tighter. Sealing every inch of you against him that he could as he carried you back to the ship– his voice brimming with promise as he murmured,
“You’re safe, cyar’ika. I’m going to take care of you.”
summary: after helping the mandalorian with a favor, he brings you a gift as a thank you. little do both of you know that this gift sparks a connection that neither of you can deny, and thoughts that din never considered before you.
tags/warnings: dual pov, no use of y/n cuz ew, alcohol consumption, mentions of medicine/contraceptives, a very tiny mention of being chased/hunted down, hella chemistry, fluff, language, jealousy, sexual tension, yearning, dirty talk, heavy makeout, biting, fingering, clit play, cunnilingus, breast play, slight choking kink, piv unprotected sex, praise kink, breeding kink, cream pie, helmet off, dark room sensory focused.
author’s note: listen listen LISTEN... I know, it's been a hot minute 🥲 Life happened and all that jazz. Tbh this has been in my drafts for a while but I decided to finish it now that the movie is out so this is probably canon divergent at this point lol. But when I tell you I ran away writing this, bitch I raaaan. To everyone who wondered what happened to that bottle of liquor in s3, this is for you pookies🫵🏻🙂↕️
When you decided to make Nevarro your home, you expected it to be a rough place. A far off den of thieves, bounty hunters, and a sleazy connection to the old empire. Nonetheless, it was cheap so you convinced yourself you could put up with it. It wasn’t anything new to you. Plus, at the time, you really didn’t have anywhere else to go.
Thankfully, the reputation has drastically improved over the past few years. It’s not Naboo, but there’s a sort of gritty charm to it. Rebels became marshals. Bars became schools. Thieves became honest vendors. Hell, there’s even kaf shops here now.
You’re no stranger to drastic changes in this galaxy. You’ve beared witness to the rise and fall of an empire after all.
But receiving a bottle of wine at night from a notorious ex-bounty hunter is definitely a first for you.
“You’re… giving this to me,” you ask, dragging the question out.
The Mandalorian stands at your doorstep. Unreadable beneath hard shiny metal and illuminated only by the entry light of your home above your door. The chilly night air bites your cheeks but he stands unfazed.
“As a thank you,” he explains. “You were a big help to my kid and this was the only thing I had that seemed like something you’d enjoy.”
All you did was give his little green kid some medicine. It’s not like it was even your first interaction with the infamous hunter. He’s stopped by your apothecary a couple times. Passing by so swiftly you hardly even knew he was there if it wasn’t for the lingering stares from other customers. If you recall correctly, he only ever picks up supplies to replenish a med pack or bacta spray for wounds.
Until you suddenly found him at your doorstep the other night with his adorable little green baby in his arms. The poor little guy was running a fever, coughing up a storm, and had even refused food for over a day. Any parent would be frantic. And so you didn’t even think twice to let them inside.
Luckily your small shop is attached below your home, so you were quick to find the right tinctures for his illness. The Mandalorian paced circles in your kitchen as you administered the medicine and blotted his kid’s little forehead with a cool damp cloth. It took some time and a lot of reassurance to a very nervous father, but after a few hours the fever broke.
You sent them home with some herbal tinctures and even some homemade hard medicinal candies for stubborn coughs and that was it. Hardly any words were exchanged between you that night that didn’t pertain to the child. Only a heartfelt thank you, goodnight, and a promise to pay you back somehow. You assured him that it really wasn’t necessary, that you were glad to help.
You’ve admittedly always been curious about the man. With his stoic demeanor and a reputation that preceded him like lightening preceded thunder. He’s somewhat of a local legend, menace, and hero all wrapped up in one. And now he’s at your door. With booze. Definitely a man of his word, this guy.
“You’re giving this,” you repeat with astonishment. “This whole bottle, to me?”
“Yes,” he answers again. “Is it a special one or something?”
“This is Andoan wine,” you emphasize, holding out the clear glass bottle. “You can only find these on Coruscant now. Very delicious, very rare, very expensive.”
“Is it,” he asks nonchalantly. “I’ve never tried it before. But I hope you enjoy it.”
“You really don’t have to,” you tell him.
“I insist. I didn’t know the first thing to do so I appreciate your help.”
You chuckle. With your limited interactions, you’re starting to see that he’s short and to the point with his words. Almost like he’s not entirely used to speaking with people.
“I…” You nearly argue it again but decide against it. He really didn’t have to give you such a lavish gift for something any good person would do in a situation like that. It was only natural. But at this point, refusing him might come off as rude so…
“Thank you very much.”
The Mandalorian acknowledges your gratitude with a tilt of his helmet, then turns on his heels to leave without another word. And for some reason, you linger at the door. You watch him go down one step, then another, then-
“H-hey, Mando?”
Your sudden call stops him in his tracks on the stair case and he turns to look back over his shoulder. The dim light gleaming over his steel.
“Yes?”
“I…. w-well…”
You’re stammering. Just come out and say it.
“If you’ve never tried it… would you like to share it with me?”
He stands there silently looking at you and the awkwardness crawls your skin.
“I’m not busy at the moment and it’s not really in my culture to drink alone.”
Culture your ass. You just want to drink with him. It’s unclear why in particular but… you’re curious about him. Other than the company of his kid, he seems alone. You wonder if he prefers it that way or if it’s for another reason entirely. Either way, the offer was worth a shot.
There’s more silence and the only noise in the air comes from the gentle chirp of some lava crickets and the breeze brushing the trees in the street. And it’s in that moment that regret starts to burn in your stomach
He’s gonna say no. A pause like that doesn’t necessarily mean yes. But it would be rude not to offer, right? A bottle this nice doesn’t come by these parts and it’d be a shame to drink it alone. It’s reasonable to offer the gesture. After all, he went out of his way to come here from across town. It’s the least you can do to show your appreciation in return.
“Alright.”
The word that falls out of him so effortlessly hits you like a punch to the chest. Are you nervous? Absolutely. But how many people can say they shared a drink with the Mandalorian?
A few minutes later, you find yourself standing on your tip toes, grabbing a couple earthenware ceramic cups in your kitchenette cabinet while Mando stands in your living room. His helmet follows the various potted plants, momentos and knick knacks from your travels littered around your home. Even tracing his gloved fingers over some of them.
“You have a nice home,” he says. “I didn’t notice before. Very lived in.”
“Lots of junk,” you joke. “You can say it Mando, I won’t mind.”
“My place is still new. Doesn’t feel like a home just yet.”
“That’ll change over time,” you assure him. “After a while, your home becomes a collection of memories.”
His attention gets drawn to a particular item on your wall. It’s an old worn down canvas satchel bag that hangs on the wall. At one point it was a life line. Now it serves as a reminder that no matter how hard life gets, showing a little kindness can go a long way for someone.
“What’s this memory?”
“That? That memory is what got me here.” You smile to yourself as you wipe down the cups with a clean kitchen rag.
“A few years ago, I was on Pantora with just some spare change and the clothes on my back. I was desperate to leave so I ended up hitching a ride on a freight ship. I worked on the ship in exchange for a ride to Corellia. Their language was difficult to learn and I had a rough time getting things done because for some reason everything was written in the native language and not aurebesh. On a stop to Tattooine, I accidentally labeled a pallet of coaxium as a pallet of scrap metal. That “scrap” was sold to some Jawas and by the time everyone realized my mistake we were already halfway to the next planet.”
“Was that before you came the Nevarro?”
“That was the reason I came to Nevarro,” you clarify. “It was their next stop so they dropped me here.”
“Ouch.”
“Yeah, ouch,” you laugh. “Anyway, I guess one of the workers felt sorry for me and left me that satchel with a couple credits and some ration bars inside. Buuut my mistake turned out to be a blessing in disguise. Nevarro turned itself around. I have my own little business. I’m even able to save a little bit of money now. For the time being, things are comfortable. I’ve hopped around the system a lot as you can see. But… this is a place I can always come back to.”
“Something reliable,” he adds.
“Exactly,” you say softly, smiling at the sentiment.
You look up at him. And you didn’t notice as you were cleaning those cups that he’s now completely facing towards you. His visor is trained on you. And it’s then that you realize how small your home really is. Because Mando is broad.
His crossed arms accentuate his wide shoulders. His chest plate follows the lines of his trim torso. Even those plates of beskar armor can barely hide the bulk of his biceps. Your eyes briefly, briefly take a tour at his waist line before you realize how incredibly rude you’re being.
He’s a guest. And a customer. Don’t. Check. Him. Out.
Heat starts to rise in your cheeks. Focusing back on the cups, you round the kitchen counter and walk over to him.
“I’m sorry. All this talking suddenly got deeper and I feel like I haven’t really introduced myself. We’ve only ever passed by each other before,” you chuckle, shaking away the nerves.
In hindsight you should’ve just introduced yourself the other night, but truthfully you were in care-taker-mode and it didn’t occur to you at the time. Plus you didn’t think you’d have an encounter with the man again other than seeing him briefly in your shop every so often. But he seems like a nice enough person with the limited knowledge you do have with him. And after tonight you’re bound to cross paths again. So you happily extend your hand out and give him his cup along with your full name.
There’s a couple beats of silence and you’re starting to see that’s his default. But it doesn’t stop you from second guessing your words as if you’re crossing an unknown boundary. There’s a slight tilt downward with his helmet and he responds with a regretful “I’m sorry, but-“
“You don’t have to tell me your name,” you immediately add. “I know there’s… principles you must have. I just wanted you to know me. That’s all.”
Another beat passes before he finally reaches out to take the cup in his hand. He repeats your name and the way it comes out of his voice holds a whole new flavor. Soft and curious even through the warble of his vocoder. It’s almost like he’s seeing how it tastes.
You like it. You like it a lot.
“It’s nice to meet you.” The voice wears the vocoder like a veil but you still catch a hint of a smile by his relaxed tone. No real logical way to know for certain, just a gut feeling.
“Likewise,” you smile back.
“So,” he exhales. “You want to know how two Mandalorians drink?”
“Sure. Sounds educational,” you joke.
With a tilt of his helmet, Mando steps further into the living room area and you follow behind, cup and bottle in hand. Walking over to the couch, his gloved hand reaches for the small round pillow resting there. His smokey grey cape flows over his shoulder and for a moment you’re mesmerized by the movement. As he turns on his heel, his fingers release the pillow. Letting it fall to the thin rug with a muted poof.
“Right here.” Mando gestures to the floor and you waltz over to take a seat on the cushion, crossing your legs. It doesn’t escape your notice how he doesn’t grab the only pillow for himself. Opting for your comfort over his own.
He takes a minute to look around the room. Probably checking for anything reflective. Then with a swish of his cape to the side, Mando settles in the floor behind you. When his back presses against yours, you expect a wall of cold hard metal beneath the cape. But instead there’s warmth. Strong and firm, but still warm and giving.
“It’s customary to sit on the floor when drinking with a war band. Usually outside around a fire. When it’s just two, it’s back to back.”
“Aaah,” you drawl. “Very practical. I like it.”
The top of the bottle comes off with a pop and the rich scent caresses your nose like a hug. After pouring about two fingers worth into Mando’s cup you pour one for yourself and settle in.
“Are we drinking to anything tonight ,” you ask him.
“Not sure. How about…,” he pauses for a moment before deciding. “To that Pantoran who gave you the satchel.”
That makes you laugh out loud. But you can’t help but feel a little pleased at that. If it wasn’t for him, you wouldn’t be on Nevarro, wouldn’t have a home. And you definitely wouldn’t be drinking with Mando tonight. For that you’re especially grateful.
“You know what, yeah,” you chuckle. “To the Pantoran.”
Mando extends his arm back to reach your cups and you meet him halfway. Letting them touch with a soft clack.
“Cheers.”
“Cheers.”
There’s an unclicking sound and you sense that he’s probably tilting his helmet back to drink. You ignore the small tinge of disappointment that he didn’t take it completely off. But it’s understandable. He doesn’t know you well. Even drinking like this with an outsider is probably a big deal for people of his creed. His back presses a little further against yours as he takes his first sip and you take yours.
The wine is rich and dry, and a bit smokey. But the underlying taste of tangy fruit blends well with the flavor. Going by the color, it has to have been bottled for a decades. The alcohol runs warmly down your throat and settles like smoldering ember in your stomach. It’s like no other alcohol you’ve ever tried before. Not even close.
“Hoooh,” he hisses after that sharp bite of alcohol.
“Yeah,” you agree knowingly. Already sensing that this bottle is getting finished tonight.
The conversations flow pretty easily after the first drink. He tells you about how his boy came into his life and how he suddenly found himself being his father. You tell him that you can only dream of having a parent like him because you never got to know yours. You half expected he would cut the interaction short and only accept one drink. But when you offer a refill, he gladly accepted which warmed you from the inside.
Admittedly you ask a few curious questions about his creed and he indulges you a bit. And he asks about how you got into medicine making. But for the most part you both stick to easier topics like current events on Nevarro, work, and food. Eventually two drinks turn into three and somehow you’ve both dipped into topics like past relationships. Which is dangerous territory after drink number three.
“It was baaad, Mando. I’m telling you. I mean, really! Who gives two shits who makes more money than who? Or am I in the wrong here?”
“Nah, definitely not,” he replies. His speech now more relaxed but a little raspy from the alcohol. “Honestly, he sounds like a little bitch if that was his main concern.”
“Yeah! Like, what is it with these men and needing to feel superior in such bullshit, inconsequential ways?”
“You seem strong willed. Weak men are intimidated by that.”
“Yeah well, then every man I’ve met in this galaxy was weak,” you groan. “I mean, c’mon. Am I that intimidating? Is it the yapping? It’s probably the yapping.”
“I think someone who’d be deterred by something that trivial doesn’t sound worth a damn anyway.”
With that, you let out a deep sigh and slump against the man behind your back.
“Eh, you’re probably right,” you exhale. You toss back the last little sip in your ceramic cup, savoring the flavor.
“You know what, it’s fine. I’m fine. I’ll just be that shop girl around the corner who throws herself into her work, makes her little remedies, and stays happily independent. I think I can live with that.”
A pause streches between you.
“You don’t sound too convincing, Shop Girl,” he teases.
“Shit,” you tsk.
You both wheeze with laughter, your bodies rumbling against one another and it’s so… relaxing. He’s surprisingly easy to talk to. Perhaps it’s because he doesn’t say much. Or that what little he does say is said with a sincerity you’re not used to. Or you’re drunk. It could very well be that.
But in a galaxy full of deceit and unknown dangers, it’s refreshing to talk with someone as honest as him. He’s authentic, unapologetically so.
“Hey so… can I ask you something?”
“You’ve been asking things this whole time,” he teases.
“I know, but… it’s technically a helmet question. And you can tell me to fuck off if it’s too much.”
Mando hums and the rumble reverberates through your body, nesting warmly in your chest. He’s settled comfortably against you and it makes you feel close enough to ask what you want to ask. After thinking it over he gives you permission.
“Can’t wait to hear this,” he sighs with a little amusement.
You smile. To your surprise, he actually has a good sense of humor. A dry, blunt one . But humor nonetheless. You run a finger over the rim of your cup, finding a little more courage.
“Mando… Have you ever kissed anyone before?”
It’s a simple enough question, right? It’s within the ballpark of the topics you’ve been discussing. And you’re both adults. It’s not like it’s inappropriate…Right?
Oh god, you really are drunk…
Regret rises with each passing second and you wonder why you even brought it up. It’s probably some kind of insult to his creed to ask something like that.
“Too much,” you broach gently.
“No,” he says softly. “You’re not exactly the first person to ask that. Doubt you’ll be the last.”
He pauses for a moment to find the right words. Then with a heavy exhale he gives you an answer to your insanely intrusive question.
“I was pretty young when I took the creed,” he states. “Ten, twelve maybe? Too young to be interested in those kinds of things. Never looked back since. To be completely honest, it’s not even something I really think about in adulthood. Never understood the hype.”
“Sooo, I’ll take that as a no.”
“No,” he breathes. “Never kissed anyone.”
Never kissed anyone? Never felt a person’s soft lips against his own or graze his skin? Does that mean he hasn’t gotten to experience more than kissing? Licking? Biting? Or…
Do not finish that thought…
“Huh… Well, that’s a shame,” you say without thinking, quickly adding “-but at the same time, I completely understand it too! I mean, it shows a lot of self discipline, you know? To resist that kind of… temptation. Most people don’t have any reason to be disciplined enough to stay chaste. I can admire tha-"
“I said I’ve never kissed anyone, I didn’t say I never fucked.”
Thank… the Maker… you’re not face to face. Because the way your eyes bulged just now would’ve been downright embarrassing had it been caught. He didn’t just say sex or even screwing. The Mandalorian fucks. The alcohol in your blood seems to conjure a brief glimpse of what that might look like before you find enough coherence to shew it away.
“…oh,” you breathe out, effectively stopping your rambling. “I-I guess I just assumed…”
A deep exhale blows out of his nose. He hums, seemingly entertained by the foot you’ve put in your mouth. But also making the air light between you.
“Well, you assumed wrong.”
The humor in his voice settles your nerves a bit. Thankfully there isn’t an awkward air at the sudden change to such a topic despite hardly knowing each other. And oddly enough, it feels easy to talk about it for that very reason.
“You’re rather chatty when you drink, Mandalorian. I feel like I’m learning all sorts of things about you tonight.”
“You’re right,” he breathes. “I spoke without thinking, I apologize.”
“No, It’s fine. I don’t mind at all. It’s a relief to know there’s a man under all that armor and not solid metal.”
He hums again and the noise stirs something in your chest.
“Well, even so… It’s late… Probably best if I stop drinking.”
You look into your empty cup. Then glance over to the bottle with barely a drop left inside. Something inside you wilts. There’s nothing to keep him here any longer…
“Yeah… Me too.”
You’re not sure if you wait for him to move first or if he’s waiting for you. But both of you remain still for nearly a whole minute. Silent and hesitant to end the night. As comfortable as it is, you feel Mando’s back lean away from yours and you miss the warmth. You turn on the floor to find him standing up as he adjusts his helmet clasp and places his empty cup on the table.
“You were right. It tasted better shared,” he admits. A satisfied smile curls your lips.
“If you learned anything about me tonight, Mando, it’s that I am always right when it comes to liquor.”
“I appreciate the hospitality.”
“I appreciate the company.”
You place a hand on the table as an anchor in an attempt to stand up and follow him to the door. But as you try to stand straight, the room spins and your knees buckle.
Nope. Not doing that.
You sit your ass right back down on that cushion before you make an even bigger fool of yourself. Quick to respond, Mando catches your free arm. Making sure you land back down safely.
“You ok,” he asks, concerned but with a hint of humor.
“Pfft. Yeah, I’m good. I think I’ll just stay down here for a minute,” you chuckle, running a hand through your hair and closing your eyes for a moment.
For sure you’ll have a hangover tomorrow. Shit. You work tomorrow. There’s a couple things you’re running low on, too. You’ll have to request an order through the trading guild. That’ll cost credits. Maybe if you get that Chiss man again you can manage a trade and he can throw in those dried flower buds for that tea that keeps getting sold out.
You know you’re already a bit dizzy. But behind closed eyes you feel like your head is swaying. Or rather… that it’s being moved. Something warm and firm holds your jaw up and when your eyes flutter open again you’re met face to face with dark silver.
The Mandalorian stands barely a foot in front of you. Visor fixed down on your face. Maybe the wine has made your brain slow but it’s only when you follow the path from his shoulder and down his outstretched arm that you realize what’s holding your jaw… is his hand.
With a subtle pass of his thumb along your cheek you can feel warmth starting to pool in your face. Awareness pricks the hairs on the back of your neck when you realize your position. Sitting on your knees, face barely level to his waist as a wall of steel and muscle towers over you.
“Your cheeks get flushed when you drink,” he mutters.
When I drink. Suuuure.
“Now you know,” you mumble without thinking. It grants you a satisfied hum from his helmet and you feel it travel through your ears and under your skin.
“Now I know…,” he repeats.
There’s no movement, no words. But there’s something thick in the air. It’s heavy and enticing. It’d be so easy to get wrapped up in it with any sudden movement. You look up at him through half lidded eyes and you get a gut feeling that they’re meeting his. You’re not sure what his are giving away. But yours have to be hinting something you’ve been trying to hide all night.
With a sharp intake of air, Mando steps back and releases your face. Your head drops a little at the loss of support and it follows his direction as he walks towards the front door with quick, heavy steps. With a press of a button on the wall panel, the door panels slide open and just before he steps outside… he stops. Not looking back, just standing there at the edge of your home with his stand still resting on the doorway.
“Don’t invite me in again.”
And then he’s gone. The door panels shut swiftly, leaving you alone and more confused than when he showed up at your door.
…what?
•
Din wishes he could say that the first thing he thinks about when he got home that night was his sleeping kid safe in the crib. Or at the very least about how incredible that wine tasted. But after he undressed and collapsed down onto his bed half drunk, the only thought he couldn’t stop thinking about as he stared at the ceiling was…
Damn… it’s been a while.
For the past few years, Din’s life has flipped around a number of times. Between barely scraping by as a bounty hunter, saving an orphan kid from an imperial psychopath, losing said kid, then having him return and be by his side to reclaim the Mandalorian home-world, there’s not much time to indulge those kinds of needs. But just because Din found himself being a busy father later in life doesn’t make certain things dead.
No. Everything felt very much alive and kicking by the end of that bottle.
Behind closed eyes, his room feels like it swirls. After that wine, his body feels loose and relaxed. Something he rarely gets to experience these days. Images dance across his closed lids. Delicate, slender hands around a handmade cup. A pink flush on smooth skin. Plump tinted lips between his fingers, softly parted and begging to be touched. The intrusive impulse to dip a finger between those lips was so strong he could feel his hand move into the action before he could even think to do so.
All thanks to that one question. That simple, innocent question activated a deep part of his brain that lay dormant. And then he decided to shatter the care free atmosphere by with a crass remark about sex.
Never in his life has he regretted saying something so fast. You barely even know each other. Admittedly, Din isn’t exactly a refined person, far from it actually. But after his third glass, any semblance of manners flew right out the window. His mouth did the walking with little thinking involved.
Yet, you didn’t get uncomfortable. You handled the slip up with humor instead of getting offended or something just as bad. Using humor to make the air light again. It surprised him how easily you did it. How easy the conversation was all night, really. It’s not everyday he’s able to let his guard down with another person.
Once he was aware of that, he became aware of everything. How late the hour was, how drunk you both were, and how your bed was right behind where you both sat. Only separated by a simple room divider. Even when he tipped up his helmet, there was a heady herbal scent from you that kept swimming in his nose and it was just as intoxicating as the wine. He couldn’t trust himself to stay any longer. And now, in the safety of his own home, he finds himself preoccupied with a mountain of questions.
What kind of person are you? What’s your daily life like? What other places have you seen? What troubles you? You seem to be rooted here in Nevarro for the time being. But from what you’ve mentioned about your past, you have a kind of nomadic life. What happens if he… if the kid gets attached and you decide to move on to another planet? But then again, it’s not like he’s not one to talk though is he?
Loyalty. Solidarity. These are things that have been etched to his core since childhood. But giving those things to something that could be fleeting? That’s a risk he’s avoided for most of his life. Those kinds of wounds never heal.
But as much as he tries to distance himself, it’s not always in his control.
Three weeks go by and they couldn’t end soon enough. When he offered to work with Teva (or Blue as he usually calls him) on a case-by-case basis, he figured they’d be more involved than the bounty hunting trade. He’s spent up to a month off planet at times in order to capture a quarry so it’s not exactly new to him.
But that was when he had the Razor Crest. With a cot to rest in, a weapons locker, and supplies readily at hand. In that regard, the N-1 leaves much to be desired. Plus Din’s back isn’t what it used to be and long rides in that ship are killer. And to add insult to injury, this last case with Zeb was especially complicated to resolve. It left him and the kid completely drained.
After finally landing back in Nevarro with fresh credits, there is absolutely nothing Din wants more than to just go home, bathe, and sleep for at least a day. But he’s got a very hungry green mouth to feed and there’s no way Din is fixing up any dinner tonight.
Street food it is.
“Alright, we’re making this quick. In and out. I’ll get you as much food as you want and you can pick out one sweet. Not five. One. Got that?” Grogu tilts his head at Din curiously from where he follows behind on the cobblestone street and he’ll just take that as a yes.
Dozens of food stalls are gathered at the main square in town as he approaches. Adorned with all sorts of neon signs, string lights and colorful banners. It’s a busy atmosphere filled with people laughing, vendors calling out for customers to stop by, and sounds of clanking and sizzling as they cook.
Din gravitates towards the skewers stand. He knows Grogu is going to down ten of them by himself so he opts for something easy, filling, and cheap. He catches sight of those spicy chunks of fatty meat searing over lava coals and his mouth waters.
“Okay, which onesss-“
Din reaches down to pick up his son only to find the street bricks.
“-Sssshhhhit,” he hisses under his breath, glancing around. This fucking kid. He knows better than to run off.
The crowd is thick and it’s getting dark. He scans through the sea of people and vendors but doesn’t find that familiar pale green.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
With a tap of his helmet side panel he switches to the tracking beacon screen. After enough scares like these he’s learned to have a tracker sewn into his clothes at this point.
Blinking red arrows come into his view and he follows the path. Not caring whose shoulders he budges or what food he knocks out of someone’s grip to get through. The red arrows turn yellow. He’s getting close but there’s still no visual of the kid and he’s starting to panic. He pushes through, scanning side to side and calling out his name in an orchestra of noises without reply.
Yellow turns to green and he’s still out of sight. He’s tiny and easy to miss. Grogu could be anywhere, he could be in any one of these stalls. What if he’s taken? What if someone else is tracking him? He could be picked up by a total stranger and taken away again.
Just as that thought crosses his mind, there’s a small separation in the crowd. Big floppy ears come into view and he’s definitely been picked up. But it’s no stranger that holds him.
“And here comes dad~” A voice soft as silk rings inside his helmet.
Relief floods his body as well as caution when he taps his screen clear. Only him. Situations like this only happen to him. It could’ve been Karga. It could’ve been anybody. But it had to be you that found him.
It was barely two minutes. But within those two minutes Din’s head flooded with every worst case scenario possible. And here he is. Happily babbling in your arms like he didn’t just give his dad a fucking heart attack.
“I know, I know,” you assure him like you can already tell where his head’s at, trying to speak over all the noise. “Don’t be too hard on the little guy. I already gave him a bit of a lecture for running around at night.”
Din wants to. It’s honestly his first reaction. But a cooler head prevails and he decides against it after a second thought. He reminds himself (once again) that Grogu is still young and that getting angry would only make things worse. What matters is that he’s safe and that he managed to find you.
“At least he won’t have to hear it twice,” he exhales, pushing out the stress sitting in his lungs. “Sorry about him.”
“No, no sorry needed. He’s smarter than he lets on. At least he ran to someone he knew. I’m glad I was around.”
Din opens his mouth to speak but ends up falling short with his words. Now that some of the stress has left his body, his eyes take you in at a second glance. Unclouded by the adrenaline.
Your hair is tied up with a pin with a few loose pieces falling at the nape of your neck and around your face. With the heat persisting into the night, you decided to wear a thin strap tank top that hangs low on your chest. It exposes miles of smooth skin, from your shoulders all the way down the arms wrapped around his kid. A dusty blue apron wraps around your waist over some baggy cargo pants so you must’ve came here right after work. There’s a glow from all the neon lights that adorns you and he has to will his mouth to move before he gets caught staring.
“Here.” He extends his hands to you. “I can take him back. Thank you for catching him. C’mon, bud. Let her get back to shopping.”
“It’s no problem,” you assure him with a smile. Your hands hooks under Grogus tiny arms and start to pull him off your torso. “Back to dad you go.”
But the moment he’s barely lifted, he cries out in protest with a shrill whine. Refusing to leave your side. You pull him back in instantly and run a soothing hand on his back.
“Oh! Okay, okay. You can stay with me for a minute,” you giggle in a sugary voice to Grogu. Bouncing him on your hip.
You both exchange a look of surprise (as much as his visor can give off anyway). What kind of person are you that Grogu prefers your embrace over his own father? He doesn’t know whether to be jealous or impressed.
But it’s getting late, they need to eat and get home and you probably need to get back to your own errands. Din’s hands extends again to take Grogu but you shake your head with a little smile. Letting him know it’s not an inconvenience to you.
“Here, wanna help me pick out some sweets?”
Grogu coos at your request, toying with the glittering silver chain pendant on your neck. You rest his kid on your hip effortlessly and the motion of it pinches something deep in Din’s chest. Turning to the assorted trays of sugared fruits on skewers, you list the various kinds for Grogu to pick out. Talking back with him like you can actually understand his little babbles. You answer him with “ooh, that’s a good choice” and “these are my favorites”.
Din just stands aside, watching the way you both interact and it’s admittedly a bit pleasing to see how natural you are with him. Most people think he’s a pet at first glance. Karga treats him like a newborn. Talking gibberish and doting on him despite him handling a 50 year old. You, on the other hand, just treat him like a regular kid. And it’s refreshing to see.
His son’s head spins back at his father with the biggest set of sparkling inky eyes and Din can see the pleading question in them. He tilts his helmet at him and reminds him “one”. Those large ears deflate a little and you giggle at the interaction. Din offers to pay for your skewer along with Grogu’s as another thank you for looking after his son (again). The vendor gathers the treats in paper wrappers to take to go.
You turn to ask Din something, but it’s covered by the noise of yelling and cooking. He tilts his head a bit lower to try and catch what you’re saying. Then, without hesitation, your hand finds purchase on the pauldron on his shoulder. Prompting him to lean in closer to you so you can speak within earshot.
“It’s been a minute since I saw you last,” you remark with a raised voice. “Everything good?”
Shit.
For a second he freezes. Partly at the lack of distance between you, but mostly because the last time he saw you he stormed out of your place like it was on fire without so much as a goodnight. You’re probably wondering what the hell that was about and he honestly can’t answer that himself. Although your expression seems more cheerful than troubled. He crouches closer to your ears and replies with caution, hoping to avoid the direction of that conversation.
“Yeah, we’ve been um… traveling a lot lately. I get contracted by the new republic pretty often these days. Leaving him behind with someone whenever I’m off planet for too long doesn’t seem fair to him so he’s always by my side no matter what.”
“Ah, that makes sense. You usually stop by for medkit supplies so when I didn’t see you last week I figured you were away.”
Din mentally smacks his forehead. Right. Of course you meant the shop. Because what else would you be implying to a fucking customer? You’re just making small talk. Something he has never really gotten the hang of. Seems pretty damn easy when he’s drinking though…
“We actually just got back. Too tired to fix something up so I figured I’d grab us something quick and easy before heading home.”
“Ugh. I feel that. When I get home I’m crashing on the first soft surface I see,” you groan, still bouncing Grogu on the curve of your hip. Those hips…
No. Stop it.
“Busy day,” he asks and your eyes roll upwards.
“Busy week,” you exclaim. “I swear I think about quitting at least once a day. But I like it too much. Plus it’s the only thing I’m any good at. Otherwise I’d probably be some kind of criminal.” You pause then laugh at the thought before adding, “then you’d probably have to hunt me down, huh?”
That… is a scenario that he already knows is going to stick in his brain for a while. It’s such an enticing thought that he doesn’t bother to tell you he’s not in that business anymore. A tiny part of him would much rather have you think he’d chase you. Obviously you’re not serious, but he can’t help but lean into the joke.
“I don’t know,” he says unconvinced. “Might be pretty easy to find you. All I have to do is look wherever there’s street food.”
A laugh bubbles out of you and there’s a strange feeling that radiates in his chest at being able to make you laugh. Pride maybe? No, more like… satisfaction.
“Don’t underestimate me, Mando. I know my way around the outer rim. I’d make you work for it,” you say. Taunting him with a knowing smirk.
A smile tugs higher on his hidden face. The thought of you making him work for anything will no doubt be food for thought later. And instinct tells him that might’ve been your intention. But two can play at this game.
You’re already nearly face to face but he inches even closer, almost close enough for metal to meet skin. Ensuring you catch every word right into your ear.
“I’d like to see you try, Shop Girl.”
Your eyes grow a little wider at the sound of your nickname and he takes pleasure at just how effective it is. It’s another reminder of that night. A name that was spoken within an intimate atmosphere that only the two of you occupied. And by your expression, that same thought crosses your mind too.
You bite your bottom lip in a smile. The same lips that were between his hands. The only lips he can’t seem to forget. The shape, the color, and how fucking edible they look. He’s even noticed how they pout a little when you’re concentrated on a task. More questions surface.
What do they feel like? What do they taste like? What makes a kiss so good that everyone can recall their first?
The bubble created is suddenly burst by the outside world. The stall vendor gleefully hands over the candied fruit over the counter in their wrappers and you take them with your free hand. Handing the mixed one to Grogu because he couldn’t decide on just one flavor. Reality returns to Din’s head and his thoughts immediately sober up.
What the hell is he doing?
He tears his eyes away. Even if you can’t tell, looking at you like that for too long feels wrong. You’re a good person, you’re trying to live a normal life, and what you’ve told him you’re not looking to get involved in any drama. He has to keep reminding himself of those things.
That same instinct to leave hits him again. Because that urge to do something he can’t take back flares up again and it’s best to not give that feeling any more energy. For both your sakes. He gestures his hand in a hand-him-over motion, signaling to you and Grogu that it’s time to go.
“Alright, time to go kid. Say goodnight.”
Grogu whines with a mouthful of sweets and a face covered in sugar and it makes him chuckle to himself. Din would normally find the defiance a little cute, if it wasn’t for the stunt he pulled earlier. You carefully hand him over with both arms leaning in close and again he feels another pinch in his chest at how carefully you exchange him.
Your bare arms graze against his clothed ones and he pulls away the second he has hold of his kid. He ignores the small current of electricity from the contact and maneuvers Grogu into the crossbody bag to his hip. Which, of course, makes him protest.
“Nope. You had your chance. Now you get the bag.”
“Aw c’mon,” you scold “He was just playing around. Now he’s in bag jail?”
First the kid and now you? He can tell his son no, but it might be a little harder to tell you that.
“Yeah, yeah. Maybe next time he’ll think twice about running off in a crowd,” he groans.
Once the kid is settled in the bag, you follow him down. Crouching down, you sit face to face with Grogu as he stuffs his face with the candied fruit. Resting your free hand on his fuzzy head as the other holds your own skewered treat.
“Kay, little rebel. Go stuff your face with some good food. And take it easy on your poor dad, alright? He’s not built for that kinda stress.”
“What’s that supposed to mean,” he asks, kind of amused by your ribbing. He can count on one hand the people who are undaunted enough to make playful jabs at him.
Your lips twist and your eyes take a tour up to your brows as you think of your reply.
“Hmm… just the way you get a little impatient sometimes. You were like that when you brought him over and paced my living room for an hour,” you chuckle. “You seem like the kind of man who gets antsy when something’s not in your control.”
A smile threatens to crawl his face. Pretty presumptuous. But he can’t deny how true that statement rings. Especially nowadays when it’s not just himself he has to worry about.
“Maybe so,” he replies with a hint of humor in his voice. “Patience isn’t really my strong suit. Although this one seems to enjoy testing it.”
“Patience is bitter,” you muse as you rub the top of Grogu’s head with your thumb. He coos with delight and the softest gaze glows on your face. Then from your crouched position, your eyes glance back up at Din and add, “…But the fruit is sweet.”
His jaw flexes beneath his helmet, and heat now courses through his veins.
That can’t be a good sign. He already enjoys your banter too much as it is. But that look just now was dangerous. It dredges up thoughts he shouldn’t have about you. Thoughts like kissing someone he barely knows. Feeling skin on skin. Showing you what a man like him can do to you compared to the boys of your past.
He saw it all over your pretty face when he held it in his hand. That flush on your cheeks, your dilated pupils. Hell, he even saw your heat signature rising in his helmet screen for fuck sake. There’s an attraction and that’s fine (and not completely unreciprocated) but it can’t be anything more than that.
You and him live completely different lives. There’s no need to uproot your peace and get involved in his complicated affairs. Even if something happened, it wouldn’t be long before the allure of the suit and mystery people usually perceive of Mandalorians would turn into repulsion.
That’s how it’s gone before. That’s the way it is.
•
You’re a bad person. A horrible human being and a shameless lowlife. Downright beyond saving.
I’d like to see you try, Shop Girl.
The damn sentence won’t stop replaying in your head. It’s not just a nickname. It’s a nickname he gave you. One that’s covered in underlying context and memories that only the two of you share. One that peppers your skin with goosebumps when it comes out of that raspy modulated voice. It’s even worse when your brain starts intrusively placing it in all sorts of sentences.
That’s it, Shop Girl…
You’re doing so well, Shop Girl…
Bend over for me, Shop Girl…
That last one has crawled into your dreams more often than you’d care to admit lately.
You need to get a grip. It’s just an attraction. You’ve been alone for too long and you’re getting all wound up over a smidge of attention. He’s just a regular decent person with a kid to take care of who also just happens to have an amazingly muscular body and a voice of sin. Simple as that.
Right. Simple.
After that night at the food stalls, the Mandalorian and Grogu have been visiting your humble Clinic Shop on a more frequently. Usually you'll see them a couple times a week if they're not on one of their long haul trips. Missions? Jobs?
It's not like Mando has any reason to let you know ahead of time. But when a week or so passes with no sign of silver or green, you can't help but feel a little down. You've come to look forward to seeing your regulars. But they grown to being your favorite customers.
And if you're being honest, theres a growing part of you that feels tied to the man in silver beskar. When he's here, the part blossoms. And when he's gone, it feels... wilted. It's unexpected and confusing to say the least. The closest feeling you could label it is homesickness. And truthfully, you're not really sure if you want to feel such a heavy thing towards anybody right now.
There's a lull in the store this hot muggy afternoon. You've already finished your prescription orders, restocked your shelves, even watered all the potted plants outside the entrance. Since you finally have some down time, you figured you might as well get to making some of your popular tea mixes.
On the back counter, you have a variety of dried herbs, flower buds, tea leaves, and a few large mixing bowls. The scent in the shop is incredible right now. Swirling around on the wind propelled by the metal fans around the shop. Spiced and aromatic with a hint of fruitiness. You let the smell fill your lungs and relax your body as you place measured scoops of the mix into small paper bags. A bead of sweat tracks down the back of your neck. Even with pinning your hair up and the strapless wrap you chose to wear today, the heat of the day still clings to your damp skin.
A cool glass of that Andoan wine would be so good right about now...
Maybe it was instinct, or maybe there really is some kind of invisible tie. But something makes your head tilt to the side and glance at the open entrance. And it's then that a glint of sliver light reflects on the stucco walls. A flutter of anticipation strikes through your chest and your eyes are locked at the entrance. Then, that familiar Silver T-visor and a pair of floppy green ears peek around the corner.
The smile that spreads across your cheeks is so big it almost hurts.
"Hey," you exclaim from the back of the store. You leave your station and excitedly make your way across the store to the pair as they step inside.
“It’s been a whi-“
“Ah ah, sorry," you cut Mando off mid greeting, halting him with your pointer finger. "Grogu gets first dibs.”
Mando shakes his head but you can tell he's humored. Turning his hip to the side and giving you access to the canvas crossbody where Grogu resides.
“Even though I'm a regular customer," Mando retorts.
If you didn’t know any better, you’d think that sounded a teensy bit like jealousy. You smirk, giving eyes only to the little green baby.
“Not when you’re as cute as him.” You say, placing Grogu on your hip and giving him little scritches on his wrinkled head.
“Isn’t that right, Kid. Mando wishes he could be half as cute as you.” The child coos at you and Mando shakes his head. But you can tell by his body language that he's at least a little amused.
You walk back to the back counter with the kid in your arms and Mando in tow behind you. And the feeling you have in this moment is oddly... domestic? You're not entirely sure if that's the right word. In your life you've never experienced domesticity. But you figure it's similar to that homesick feeling you get.
You place Grogu on top of your station and pull out an herbal lollipop from your apron for him. You like to keep a few handy for kids and they also help with coughs. The kids inky eyes gleam as he babbles and plunges the sugary candy in his mouth.
"Any chance that delivery for those new Pharmakits arrived yet," Mando asks, leaning a hand on the counter next to you.
"They did," you nod. "Any chance you're planning on taking on an army on your next trip?"
He shrugs, tilting his helmet to the side in that way he does when he's being aloof.
"Doesn't hurt to keep one on hand. You never know."
You hum in acknowledgment but inside a pit forms in your stomach. The danger he faces whenever he goes on these "jobs" isn't lost on you. Lately, it's been on the back of your mind more often than not. On his last visit, when he asked about ordering stronger meds and triage supplies, it hit you just how much his long absences affect you. And just the thought of never seeing him or his little boy again stirs up something vile inside.
“You seem to be busy today,” he remarks, pointing out all the open jars and mixing bowls with various dried leaves and herbs.
His remark takes you out of your thoughts. You must've been silent a second too long for him to change the subject like that. With a deep inhale and slight embarrassment you shrug off the negative thoughts and ground yourself back to reality.
“Yes and no. I’ve been restocking while it’s dead to keep busy.”
He leans in a bit to get a closer look at the contents of the bowl. Close enough for you to catch the scent of smoke and musk on his clothes.
“You’re mixing… tea?”
You hum a yes and nod.
“Tea can be used for lots of medicinal purposes. Many people prefer natural remedies to pharmaceutical ones. I try to have a mix of both.”
“So this is medicine?” You sway your head to the side, trying to think of the best way to explain the purpose of the tea.
“Kiiind of. You could say it’s preventative.”
“What does it prevent?”
“Pregnancy.”
A clearing of his throat follows your answer. You turn toward him with a smirk and a raised brow but his visor has now turned away your face.
Most fearsome bounty hunter in the outer rim, everybody.
“You asked, man,” you chuckle with a shrug.
“Guess that’s on me,” he says.
“This is actually one of my best sellers,” you tell him. You grab the wooden scoop and raise up the floral mix, letting the various petals and herbs rain back down into the bowl. The motion makes the sweet scent drive up in the air. “I have customers tell me they don’t leave the house before their daily brew.”
“I’m glad business is going well for you,” he deflects, making you fold your smile in your teeth. And suddenly your brain sees a prime opportunity.
“You know, Mando…,” you drawl as you mix the petals. “If you’re ever in a pinch and you need some, I could give you a sample.” The way his helmet jerks to face you almost breaks your nonchalant smile.
“That’s um… very generous but it’d be wasted on me.” His body straightens stiffly and you can tell the topic makes him a bit uneasy. But you press on anyway.
“You sure? You can never be too safe. I’m sure any visitors would appreciate it.” He sighs deeply and turns away, shaking his head in annoyance.
God, this is too much fun. Teasing him is so easy. If it wasn’t for the helmet you bet he’s sweating right now. He might look cool and collected. But after drinking with him, you know there’s in fact a man under all that metal.
“I’m sure,” Mando confirms. “I'm not seeing anyone at the moment.”
And there’s the answer you’re looking for.
Was it a bit sneaky? Yeah. Yeah, it was sneaky. But it rules out the theory that reason he told you not to invite home again was because he’s currently taken. It’s still an enigma as to why. But honestly there’s still the gut feeling that you did something to make him uncomfortable that night.
Maybe you crossed a line with one of your questions. You tend to ask a lot of questions. Your filter also isn’t everybody’s flavor. Even so, you had a great time talking, even joking around with him. You’ve come to cherish that night in your memory. And the thought that you obliviously might’ve said something to offend Mando in any way makes your chest ache.
But if that was the case then why has he been stopping by your store more frequently since then? He always says he’s restocking his med kit but you get the feeling there’s more to it than that. Almost as if he’s checking up on you. Making sure you’re doing ok. And above all, that’s what scares you.
It’s scares you how good that thought makes you feel.
“Picking up an order!” An unfriendly voice bellows from the entrance where a Trandoshan man in fine robes stands waiting. “Name’s Samir T’ar.”
It takes a second to snap back into action. But you slap on your best customer service smile and leave your task for later. Rounding the corner past Mando and the kid and walking to the Medicine Cabinet. Wiping the non-existent dust on your hands on your waist apron.
“Hi, yes! I’ll grab that for you right now.”
The Trandoshan stands waiting at the counter as you sort through the assorted orders in the glass case. Looking for the right name tag and plucking the tied linen bag. You dont turn your eyes toward him, but Mando’s pressance is all your body is aware of. You can tell he’s miandering through the shop, looking at various items on the shelves. Which, to you, is a bit funny since hes been here plenty of times by now.
Is he playing the curious customer right now because there’s someone here?
You rest the tied bag next to the register as you run the total. All while the Trandoshan taps his clawed fingers impatiently on the check out counter.
“‘Kay with the compounded medicine and the herbal soak salts, that puts you at… fifteen credits today.”
“It was twelve the last time.”
“Yyyeesss, some of the ingredients for the meds were hard to come by this time around. Outer rim shipping routes, and all that,” you smile, trying to humorously reason with the man.
“And that’s supposed to be my fault? Just make it the same price as before and I’ll be on my way already.”
Ugh, great. One of those.
“I understand where you’re coming from, really. But fifteen is pretty fair considering the initial cost of acquiring ingredients of this high quality. Can’t beat the price compared to those New Republic clinics-"
“Nonononono," he waves with both hands in disapproval. “I’m not paying a single credit more for something I can make myself.”
That’s kind of the point of it buying here, right? To save yourself the trouble of making it?
“Sorry. Price is firm," you say confidently but kindly. "Buuut, how about if I throw in a couple sample heating pain patches. Free of charge,” you chirp, unfazed by his condescension.
Work with me, guy. There’s a man packing heat in the back…
“How about I give you ten for the order and leave? I don’t need you to peddle your-“
It’s a hand that shuts him up. Not yours, as much as it twitches to swipe that bag and toss in it the trash. No. This hand is big. Leather clad. And planted firmly on the counter between you and the customer.
“You can pay the fifteen or you can leave. But what you won’t do,” Mando leans in towards the Trandoshan for effect. “-is talk to her like that again. Make your choice.”
With his chest pressed to the back of your shoulder, you struggle to not squirm. You can feel his heat on your body. His frame eclipses yours from behind. The smell of gun smoke and musk caresses your nose and you die a little inside. But it’s his words that make you want to melt into a puddle.
He didn’t just ask, he demanded for you to be treated with respect. Not that you can’t hold your own when it comes to defending yourself against snarky customers. But the way Mando didn’t even hesitate to intervene on your behalf. It stirs up all sorts of thoughts.
Oh maker, you really are a shitty person. The man stands up for you and all you can think about is how hot he sounded.
The Trandoshan swallows hard. Mando might as well a knife to the guy’s throat with the look of silent terror on his reptilian face. Without even breaking eye contact with Mando, he stuffs his clawed hand in his pockets, and pulls about 20 credit chips without counting. Letting them clatter on the counter as he tosses them.
“H-here,” he stutters. “Fifteen is fair.” With that he snatches his order from the countertop and makes a hasty exit.
“Have a nice day~,” you sing-song as he scurries out onto the street.
You shift your eyes up to Mando, his palm still pressed flat against the counter with his other hand thumbing his belt. His visor follows the customer as he leaves and you can tell that his body language doesn’t relax until the he’s completely out of sight.
“Fucker…,” he mutters under his breath. When he finally turns his visor to you, he finds a knowing little smirk on your face.
“What?”
“You know, if you really wanted to scare him, you could’ve just pulled out your blaster.”
His visor turns away and he takes a step back as if he’s been caught doing something out of character. And if it wasn’t for his confident stance, you’d almost say he got a little flustered just now.
“I didn’t like the way he spoke you,” he grumbles. Which only makes you giggle.
“You’re right,” you agree with a serious tone. Slamming your palms on the counter. “That’s the last straw! I’ll have to close and resort to a life of crime after all!”
Although you can’t read his face, his body language says it all. He tilts his head to the side in a way that can only mean “are you fucking kidding me” and it only makes you smile harder.
“C’mooon, it’s funny,” you say. But he’s still not charmed.
“Does he always treat you like that,” he asks like he needs to know for certain.
You fold your lips between your teeth to hide your smile. He’s concerned for you and you can’t help but bathe in it. At least for a little bit.
“And if I said yes?”
“I’m being serious.”
“It’s fine, Mando. It’s really not a big deal for me. Look, if I let every snippy customer get to me, I wouldn’t have a business. I’m a big girl. I can fight for my honor all on my own, don’t you worry.”
“That’s not the point.”
“Yeah? What is your point then?”
He steps in closer. Forcing you crane your neck to face him. Your backside unconsciously presses against the back of the counter and you’re pinned. He’s impossibly close. Close enough to see your eyes reflected on the inky black screen. Knowing he’s captured your full attention, he hits you with a bombshell that devastates you.
“I wouldn’t let anyone disrespect you when I can do something about it,” he says crystal clear, lowering his voice. “If someone gives you trouble, they’ll deal with me before they mess with you... Understand?”
That shuts you right up. Your playful expression falls, now replaced with silent astonishment. He keeps saying things that reach deep inside you, making your chest tight. Words like that make it hard to breathe.
You feel utterly captured and it’s no wonder he was the best hunter in the outer rim. Because even though he’ll defend your honor and call you sweet nicknames… all he has to do is stand his ground in front of you to make you feel like prey. And fuck, do you wanna be caught…
“Ok,” you breathe when you find the courage. “I understand now.”
“Good…”
Silence streches between you and it feels as though you’re both waiting for something to happen. Something that feels like it’s been teetering on the edge since the night you drank together. It’s connected and deep in a way you’ve never experienced before. You can tell it’s something he’s afraid to say out loud.
What you’re both afraid to say out loud.
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t add anything to his statement. He’s got you locked in his gaze with no escape. And for a moment you wonder if he’ll take hold of your jaw again. Goosebumps rise to your skin because it wants so badly to close the gap.
Suddenly, a call rings from the vambrace on Mando’s forearm, abruptly breaking the tension. At first he hesitates to address it, still locked onto you. But after the second ring he lets out an aggravated sigh and steps away to check the incoming call.
You walk back to your work table and mixing bowl of tea to give yourself something to do while your breathing returns to normal. Scooping a measured cup from a large jar of dried leaves before adding it in.
Grogu sits with his little feet dangling over the table, now finished with the lollipop and looking at the candy-less stick with droopy ears. And before Mando turns to look, you sneak his son another herbal lollipop from your apron.
"Don't tell your dad," you whisper, pressing your index finger over your lips. Which earns you a happy little "Batu" in understanding.
Mando is pacing around now. Conversing with a gruff sounding Lasat. You don’t eavesdrop per se, but words like “new lead”, “investigation”, and “high-risk” get your ears to perk up.
“Shit,” he sighs deeply once the call is done. Planting his hands on his hips.
“Work call?”
“They like to keep me busy, that’s for sure. Best not keep them waiting.”
“R-right! The pharmakits."
You walk towards side of your shop in the back closet where your new inventory sits in their delivery crates. Grabbing one case but then after a second thought grabbing another before turning back and handing them to Mando. When you return Grogu is already back in his father's tote still nursing his treat.
“Couple things," you disclaim, handing the cases to him. "Keep these in a dark cool place if you can. Heat can spoil some of the medicine. And if you ever find yourself needing the epibacta, I’d advise you to take in a safe place. This dose will knock you out cold for a while. Emergencies only.”
He takes the cases by the handles and gives you a nod of understanding.
“I appreciate it. I’ll try to avoid needing it.”
“Just… be safe.”
“I will…”
Another beat of silence. At this point it's starting to feel like you're waiting on the other person to break the ice. But after a moment, he clears his throat.
“Well... Until next time, Shop Girl.”
“Until next time,” you repeat.
He really should stop calling you that. But you just can’t bring yourself to stop him. What do even tell him if he asks why?
You turn to the holopad on the front counter and check the inventory list to give your hands something to do. Chewing your bottom lip as walks towards the exit. One step, then another…
“And thank you,” you quickly add before he steps out. His foot stalls just before reaching the street and you tap on the screen pretending not to notice. Your eyes glance up to him, catching his helmet peer at you over his shoulder “…for stepping in.”
“Anytime,” he says softly. He step out into the street and you exhale a breath you didn’t know you were holding. You lean on the counter with your chin propped in your palm, now free to watch them go without notice.
Grogu turns back to look at you one last time, his tiny arm fighting against the fabric of his bag before popping out and waving at you. The adorable gesture makes you giggle. The little guy must know exactly how stinking cute he is. You wiggle your fingers back at him from behind the counter. Mando takes notice of his kid, turns his head back, and finds your gaze.
For a moment, everything’s frozen. People cross and mix in the street between you. Life seemingly goes on like any other day for everyone in town. But in your eyes, there’s only him. Only bright silver fills your vision. After a moment, Mando raises a hand for a final farewell, and in the next, he’s gone. Blended into the crowd.
An ache spreads in your chest, and that confirms it. You can’t deny that what you’ve been pushing down for months isn’t just an attraction. Strangers can be attracted to each other but he feels like anything but.
You like him. You like how you feel when he’s around and how safe his presence feels. You like that little skipped beat you get when something you said earns even the smallest chuckle from him. You like that he trusts you around his kid.
And you love that he keeps coming back.
You’ve tried to rationalize as just a simple customer acquaintance. But you can’t keep kidding yourself. Its always felt more than that. And you want to know more about him.
At the end of the day, you roll down the metal doors of your humble apothecary and walk the same 15 steps up to your home as you do everyday. You bathe, put on your most comfy shirt and sleep shorts, make yourself a simple meal, and wind down for the night. It’s been your routine everyday since you made this place your home.
Only tonight, despite all your trinkets, all your memories, and all your comforts, tonight your home feels a bit empty. Like something important has been removed and you can’t place what it was. With your dinner bowl in hand, you almost take your seat on the couch before thinking twice on it and choosing the floor of your living room instead tonight.
You actually find it to be pretty comfortable. More grounding. You only wish you had something warm to lean back on.
•
Din thought Guild Master Greef Karga had an inflated ego. But High Magistrate Greef Karga makes that Karga look like a Jedi monk.
He finds himself sitting on a leather chase with his legs propped on the window ledge in Karga’s high tower office. He watches him spread and maneuver a 3D hologram model of Nevarro and the town. His voice filled with ambition as he explains all his new projects for the upcoming year.
“We’ll put the lodges here, here, and here. They’ll have access to the hot springs in the crawling canyons and docks will be built around the water edges. I’ve spoken with that lovely Twi’lek bathhouse owner and she’s spending her best architects to Nevarro as a personal favor to me. It’s going to be the jewel of the rim I tell you!”
Much of the dialog goes over Dins head. Mostly because he’s dead tired and currently operating on less than four hours of sleep. They only landed a couple hours ago from another grueling mission. He partly listens to Karga’s plans, partly watches Grogu quietly sit on the hologram table as he stuffs his mouth with blue cookies his “uncle” has given him. But mostly, Din gazes out one of the many windows in his 360 degree office. Watching the sun set over the canyons and turn the sky a dusty pink.
The shiny bronze protocol droid shuffles around the office with a silver tray with two crystal glasses of spotchka. He offers a glowing glass to Karga who gladly takes it. Then the droid starts to approach Din with the platter, offering him a glass as well.
“Uh no no, he doesn’t drink,” Karga quickly corrects, taking a momentary pause from his plans. The shiny droid fumbles a bit, flustered, then offers an apology before scuttling away with the tray.
Mando doesn’t even bother to correct them. Too much energy. It’s true, he’s never accepted alcohol in front of Karga. Especially in those early guild days when trust was low. But even to this day, Din doesn’t drink around people.
Well… most people, that is.
An image of last time Din saw you pops into his head. That thick, slightly mussed hair tied up with a hair stick. Dewy skin. All smiles and laughter. You wore a deep blue torso wrap that time, His eyes kept following the lines of your collar bones and all that exposed skin seemed to glow in the reflected sunlight in the shop.
And those lips. Those goddamn pink tinted lips that he can’t get out of his head. If that’s not the definition of beauty he doesn’t know what is.
Your teasing is something he’s growing used to. But that day you pushed too far. You weren’t taking him seriously and you shouldn’t be the only one who gets to tease, right? When he cornered you against the counter, he made it known just how serious he was about defending you. That flush came back to your cheeks and your breathing had picked up. You had no idea, but your eyes had found his and it made heat pool in his lower abdomen as he got lost in the color of them.
In that moment, Din wrestled back the impulse to lift you up on that countertop, spread those perfect legs and-
“-Right, Mando?” Karga’s voice interrupts just as that train of thought was getting good. Din turns his visor over to him.
“Hmm?”
“You just agreed to let the kid spend the night here.”
“Right. Yeah,” Din scoffs. “Was that before or after I sold my ship to the Jawas,” he replies in a gruff tone. Karga doesn’t find the sarcasm amusing.
“Alright, alright.”
“Maybe I’ll sell them my armor while I’m at it.”
“I get it,” he exclaims. “You weren’t even listening! I was talking about the space port proposal and I can’t even tell where you clocked out. That's not like you, Mando.”
“I’m tired. I just got back from a long trip.” Kargas eyes glance between Din and the window he's been looking out from.
“I wouldn’t say tired. More like… Distracted.”
He says the word with an insinuation Din would rather do without.
“It’s nothing,” he deflects.
“Hey, you know me, Mando. I’m not one to judge,” Karga says, throwing his hands in the air. “If there’s anything on your mind I’m all ears. Money, politics, work, women-“
“There’s nothing to discuss. I’m fine," Din deadpans.
Kargas covers Grogus ears, who is too preoccupied by his munching to mind.
“Sounds like you need to get laid.”
Maker...
“You’re sordid,” he grumbles, shaking his head and turning back to the window. Karga just laughs. Amusement written all over his wrinkled face.
The arguments were one of the main things that changed between them over the last few years. Now they bicker like two old friends instead of two business associates. But one thing that has never changed is the way Karga tries to pressure him into revealing things out of him. Imperfectly human things.
He’d offer Din all sorts of things like spice or Twi’lek bathhouses just to see if he was capable of being tempted. And right now… there’s only one other person Din can think of capable of doing that.
“You know what I think? I think you’re starting to outgrow this lone wolf lifestyle of yours,” he speculates. “You’re a father now. Don’t you think the little one needs a mother?”
Dins helmet swivels back to Karga.
“Don’t you think you should stick to governing your town?”
“I was just getting to that," Karga exclaims excitedly. "You know we really should consider moving a few of the-“
“Here we go…,” Din sighs to himself.
What should’ve been a quick visit has turned into a one sided yap session. It’s been a couple weeks since he left and he’s eager to re-supply for his next run with Zeb. He’ll need to head to the square at some point as well. His home is in desperate need of a re-stock. And of course, a visit to the clinic probably wouldn’t be a bad idea if he’s already in the area.
Even from up here, your store can be seen at the far corner of the plaza. And every couple minutes, he can see you. Popping in and out of the small store and rearranging some of the potted plants outside. People greet you from the street and you turn to wave back.
It’s getting harder and harder to find excuses to go there that sound necessary. Last time he was there he picked up two new pharmakits, even though another two regular medkits sit unopened in his home. He’s been buying that energy tea you make, despite him being a kaf drinker his whole life. He keeps going back for shit he really doesn’t need. But if he was pressed to give a better reason, it’s mostly because he feels a need to check on you.
True, Nevarro has become significantly safer, but that doesn’t make it safe. Especially for a woman living completely on her own. You’re a kind hearted, giving person in a galaxy that does nothing but take. And someone like that should be protected. He’s looked the other way too many times in the past and he doesn’t want to be that person anymore. And plus the kid enjoys the visits.
Sure, the kid. Keep telling yourself that, Din…
A chiss man with a floating pallet of goods approaches your shop entrance and your attention turns from watering the plants to greet the vendor with a bright smile. You speak animately. And it would normally be endearing, if it wasn't directed towards another man. In the privacy of his helmet, Din grimmaces.
He shouldn’t be surprised. You’re well traveled, knowledgeable. It’s no wonder you’re able to buy products from so many places. But this particular vendor is getting a bit too close for Din’s comfort.
As usual, you talk with much enthusiasm. Sparking a conversation with the man. It’s clear you’re familiar with each other by the body language you both give off. And he’s not sure if it’s because you regularly get inventory from the man, or something beyond that.
You turn around on the balls of your feet to dip back inside the shop and as you do you’re completely oblivious to the way the Chiss’s head tilts to the side so his crimson eyes can roam your backside. And the only reason Din caught it was because the binocs in his visor seem to have unconsciously been turned on by his finger on his vambrace.
You return to with a small wooded box and open the lid to show him mineral salts, the kind he’s seen you make herbal soaks with. The vendor offers a large lidded glass jar of some kind of dried purple flower buds from his cart. With the added exchange of some credit chips, there’s more talking and smiling. Something he said makes you laugh as you sign his holopad and Din has to flex his fingers to stop them from clenching into a fist.
Enough. Stop watching.
The mental check forces Dins attention to shift back to whatever Karga keeps droning on about. You can associate with whoever you damn well please. It’s none of his concern who you do business with or what your personal life is like. Din nearly turns his visor away. But out of the furthest corner of his eye, he catches something he can’t tear away from.
The distance between the Chiss and you has suddenly shrunk. The moment unfolds in slow motion as his eyes chew on every second. The Chiss steps closer to lean down then…
Din’s arms uncross when the Chiss leans in close to your face. And before he knows it, the fucker plants a quick peck on your cheek. And you return it! The whole exchange lasts less than a second before you wave each other goodbye and he goes his separate way. You return inside with the product like nothing and Din sits there, completely rattled.
What… the fuck?
Was it a casual kiss? Did you even know that he was checking you out? If you did, was that a friendly goodbye gesture or was it flirtatious? That son of a bitch gets to walk around with bliss on his cheek all day now. Oddly enough, that’s what puts Din over the edge. A complete fucking stranger knows how your lips feel and he doesn’t.
Never in his life has he harbored thoughts like these. It’s downright pathetic. He feels corrupted.
“Fuck it,” he growls to himself beneath his breath.
“-Anyway, back to my point. I was considering having a port built for- hey!”
Before Karga has a chance to monologue further, Din has picked up his son from the edge of the desk—grubby hands still clinging to the bag of cookies—and has placed him right into Karga arms.
“I need you to watch over him for the night. I’ll come back for him in the morning.”
“Okay then? Fine by-.” Din doesn’t bother to listen because there’s no ending to that sentence that matters to him in this moment. He makes his exit, the slide doors opening as he nears them.
“Hey! Where do you think you’re going all puffed up like that?”
“I need to settle something,” he tosses back before letting the doors shut behind him.
The sun is getting low and a few other vendors are starting to take down their signs and close their doors. You’re probably getting ready to close up for the day yourself. Hopefully he’s able to catch you before then.
Each step on the cobblestone is heavy with purpose. And it's not unoticed the way several people on the street see an armor clad Mandalorian and scurry out of his way with a petrified look on their faces. But right now he doesn't particularly care. Right now everything in his head is clouded with the exception of one objective.
From a couple stores away, you catch him approaching from your peripheray. And he's not sure how to describe it, but it's like something in your body language softens when you see him. Your shoulders become less tense, your eyes gleam, and you cast him that bright toothy smile that could stop any man's heart.
“Ah! Hey! It’s been a while, Mando! How’s-“
“I need to have a word with you.”
Both your expression and your hand freeze momentarily in place, minus a suspicious quirk in your brow.
“Okaaay, you have my attention,” you chuckle, but there’s a nervous tone riding on it. “What can I do for you today?
“I need to speak with you," you tells you bluntly. "Privately.”
Confusion paints across your face and your smile falls a bit. Understanding how serious his request is.
“Like, right now,” you ask hesitantly.
“Preferably, yes,” he answers.
“Ok, yeah sure. Um… I’m just about to close up and we can head upstairs in a minute.” You start to turn away but then quickly turn back to him and immediately add “or we can go somewhere you’re more comfort-“
”It’s fine,” Din quickly interjects, stopping that train of thought. “This won’t take long anyway.”
You blink at him a couple times and give him a quiet “ok then” before turning around and preparing your shop to close.
Seems that Din’s command from his last visit was taken seriously. Regret over those words washes over him. If he’s being honest, being inside your home again sets off several red lights in his head. But he’s already on the verge of blurting out something teetering on the edge of his brain. Better to wait until he’s behind closed doors and away from any prying eyes. Or flirtatious vendors. This shouldn’t be complicated. He’ll make it quick.
He decides to wait around the corner of the shop where the stone steps meet your front door. He leans against the wall with his arms crossed and his finger nervously tapping his arm brace. After a few minutes you round the corner with your bag over your shoulder and lead the way into your home. Instinctively, he looks around for any eyes before entering and closing the door behind him.
“So where’s your boy,” you ask, tossing your bag on the couch and walking towards the kitchen. “I have to say I’m kind of surprised not to see him on your hip. You seem inseparable.”
Your voice is chipper but he can tell by your stiff body and lack of eye contact that you’re not entirely comfortable. For a moment Din reconsiders this encounter. But no. The sooner he this bug out of his system the better.
“He’s… spending the night with a friend,” he answers. Grabbing one of those ceramic cups from the cabinet, you fill it with water from the sink and he’s starting to think that you’re only doing that to keep your hands busy.
“Aaww, a sleepover? Is it his first-”
“If you don’t mind,” he cuts off. “I’d like to get to my point.”
“Oh… Y-yes, I'm sorry. I’m rambling,” you say sheepishly. “I’m just…,” you take a deep breath, rest the cup of water on the counter, and lean back against it. Eyes fixed to the floor.
“…it’s just what you said the last time you were here. And the way you approached me earlier, you seemed kinda… I don’t know, upset? I know you don’t wanna be here so I’m wondering what I did to upset you that you’d come here.”
Damn it… He’s such an asshole.
He should’ve never said that. You've been thinking this entire time that you’re at fault for his shitty social skills. Truthfully, with the way that wine had his head so deliciously foggy, he had to leave before his body did something it was aching to do, begging him to do. But how does he even begin to explain that?
“You didn’t do anything,” he answers immediately. But thinks on it once more. “Well… technically you did. But I’m not upset with you.”
“You’re not,” you ask him sheepishly.
“I’m not,” he assures.
A beat passes in silence as you chew over his words.
“Okaaay,” you say with a smirk, “now you really got my attention.”
That mischievous tone travels through Din’s helmet, in his ears, and settles warmly in the pit of his stomach. Something about the combination of your sweet voice and relaxed shift in your body language makes this whole interaction even more nerve wracking.
“Sooo, you wanted to talk to me about something I did?”
“Right.”
“Okay, sooo...” He feels you urging him to continue but now Din finds himself more cautious of his words now. If you’ve been silently worried about offending him the last thing he needs is for this to come off wrong way.
“It’s… a bit hard to explain,” he exhales. If he could pinch his brow right now he would. “To put it plainly, the night we drank together, you said something that’s been… stuck in my head.”
“Was it the thing about the name?”
“N-no.”
“Was it the Pantora story?
“No.”
“Was it the comment about knowing my liquor? Because I like a drink from time to time but I don’t have like a problem or anything-“
“No- Can I finish,” he asks impatiently.
“Okay, okay. Sorry. Go ahead.”
“When we were drinking, and talking… we said a lot of things and got into some deep conversations. And at one point, you asked me if I ever kissed anyone before. I said no back then because… I've never given it any thought in the past. But now it’s got me… curious.”
Your quirk your brow at him.
“Curious how?”
“I want to know what it’s like,” he answers plainly.
“… Sorry, what?”
“I need this… curiosity out of my head. It’s driving me crazy and I need it out of my system. So I figured… since you’re the one who mentioned it in the first place, you can help me kill it.”
“You’re… Okay so, hold on…,” you say with a shaky breath. “Are you… asking me to kiss you?”
“That’s… an oversimplification. But yeah.”
“You’re asking me to be your first kiss? Am I understanding you right?”
Maker, you ask a lot of questions. Are you always like this? You did the same exact thing when he gave you the wine. On any other day it would’ve been endearing but he didn’t anticipate the conversation lasting longer than a minute. Now his request sounds more and more lecherous with each passing second.
“I won’t bother you again after this. You have my word. It’s completely casual. Just killing a curiosity.”
“There’s a preeetty common phrase about curiosity and loth cats that goes differently.” A giggle tumbles out of your mouth on the tail end of that sentence and humility crawls under his skin.
“Sorry to waste your time.” He starts to turn towards the nearest exit when you step in to stop him. Placing a hand briefly on his arm in the space between his armor and the contact sends a current of electricity up his spine.
“No wait, don’t be like that,” you toy with him.
“I’m not laughing,” he spits. But you still have the nerve to giggle.
“It’s okay, Mando,” you laugh assuredly.
“No, it’s not. It’s ridiculous. I hate it. I hate that you put this in my head.”
You fold your lips between your teeth to try to hide your amusement. But you still can’t help but crack a smile a little at his frustration. He basically just confessed to having this obsession for months and he can tell by your smug expression that you’re enjoying how incredibly uncomfortable he is about this.
“You’re right. I’m… sorry,” you say under your breath. Trying to fix your face.
There’s a beat of silence. Stepping in closer, he tilts his head down to you. Locking you in his gaze. He takes pleasure in being nearly a full head taller and the way your breathing picks up before he says in a low gruff voice…
“No, you’re not.”
You smile behind your hand as your eyes dance across his visor, unknowingly locking eyes with the man beneath. You know you’re not sorry, just like he knows he’s not particularly sorry either. It’s not just this moment. It goes back to every interaction you’ve had together. The banter, the nicknames, the visits. He’s as much to blame as you are. And then… you slowly you shake your head, agreeing with him and confirming his suspicion.
Fuck, you’re cute. He hates that he loves how cute you are. He hates himself for not being stronger.
“Ok,” you nearly whisper. Looking up at him with the sweetest eyes. “I’ll help you.”
•
“Is all this really necessary?”
Din currently sits on the floor of your living room. The same spot as last time in fact. Your were the one that insisted on it and honestly he couldn't bring himself to tell you no. Since he sat down in the soft carpet, you've been flitting around your home turning off lamps, closing blinds, and covering any reflective items. Which, admittedly, he's greatful for. But the more time he spends here, alone with you, the more he's not going to want to leave.
“It’s not everyday you get your first kiss, Mando. I wanna make sure it’s a good one. I wish I could re-do mine.”
Gloves fingers flex and stretch restlessly on his knees as you approach the last lamp sitting on a side table in the living room and pause.
“Are you sure about this?”
Fuck no he’s not. But the sooner he does this, the sooner he can find some normalcy in his head again.
“Flip the switch," he says in a low modulated voice.
You fold in a growing smile before taking a deep breath and flicking the switch. Bathing the entire home in inky darkness. The silhouette of you through turns to hues of thermal green and red, carefully maneuvering through your living room by memory before finding your seat in the floor in front of him. And with slight hesitation, Din reaches up to remove the last barrier he has.
“Can you see anything?”
“Not a bit,” you answer.
With that confirmation, he unclasps the chin strap and slowly lifts the helmet up and off. He blinks several times to adjust his vision before finding the outline of the table and placing his helmet there. On the return, his head bumps into your outstretched hand. Not knowing that you had moved.
“Agh.”
“Sorry sorry,” you pull away. “Give me a moment, I’ll find you.”
Your hands search in the dark for him. He can’t see much but he can tell your hands land on nothing by the way the air between you moves and he doesn’t feel any contact on his person. So he reaches out, bumping into your arms and taking hold of them. Following the line of your forearm until he reaches your hands.
“Here," he murmurs. Gloved hands wrap around your wrists and gently lift them up. He guides your hands forward until…
You let out a small gasp when your hands find the warmth of his bare face. Soft and giving as opposed to the cold, unyielding beskar. Their movements are slow and explorative. Running your thumbs over his stubble. Surprisingly his hands don’t release their grasp. His leather clad digits press against the racing pulse in your wrist as his thumbs run over the back of your palm.
“This help?”
“Yes, thank you,” you whisper.
From sound of rustling on the rug, Din can sense your body leaning in. Your breath brushes over his skin for a moment before something warm presses against his chin and it takes a second to register that it’s your mouth. You ease him into the build up and he’s greatfull for it. Jaw. Then cheek. Then just grazing the furthest corner of his mouth.
And then… contact.
At first it doesn’t feel like much. Just something soft and warm pressing against his mouth. What most people refer to as a peck, he assumes. But it’s when you barely pull back and return for another that a shiver wracks his skin. Your lips lock in the return, molding together in perfect unison. And it’s fucking electric.
Just by feel alone, he senses that your lips are slightly open. So he mimics you. Giving his jaw just enough slack to respond as you go in again. The sensations have his mind in a thick fog. The soft flesh, the sweet taste, the faint suction. His skin feels like there’s live wires going off underneath. Giving in completely, he finally returns the kiss. Pressing into it with more confidence.
You hum against his mouth, and he dies a little inside.
That’s when the real hunger builds. There’s a slow simmering heat rising between you now. Without thinking, his hands grip your wrists a little harder. Pulling you in closer. The kiss grows a bit stronger with each return back into each other with no loss of contact. Lingering longer and breathing against one another.
He feels your head tilt more to the side and again he mimics your movement. The break only lasts a fraction of a moment. But in the re-entry, the tip of your soft tongue happens to brush his mouth. Sweet wetness coats his bottom lip and it’s in that instant Din feels all restraint leave his body.
Taking your face in his hand, he kisses you open mouthed, inviting you in. Your tongues slowly graze one another and if he fucking died in this moment he’d be ok with it knowing that he got to know how you taste.
The hunger becomes unbearable. Soon enough the breathing becomes heavier and the air becomes hot. Your arms end up wrapping over his shoulders, pulling him deeper and he’s more than happy to dive further. Another small noise escapes your throat and the vibration travels through his entire body.
He needs to feel you. To taste you. Devour you. He needs you.
A break for air is the only thing that throws him back into semi-consciousness as you pull away. The heat built up between you makes him dazed. Hot breaths fill the small space between your lips as you lean your forehead against his.
“Mando?”
“Yes,” he responds in a raspy whisper. A few moments pass as you collect your words and catch your breath.
“Is this really just about curiosity…?”
Your words lean more towards a statement than a question. There’s no point in denying it now. As much as he tried to convince himself or rationalize his strange request, he does feel a pull towards you. Much more complicated than just attraction. The more he sees you, learns about you, and talks with you, the more… inevitable you feel to him. There’s a gravity to you that he can’t escape from. Nor does he want to.
“Yes and no.”
“What does that mean?” The breath of your question brushes the heated skin of his cheek. And right now, he can't think of any answer that wouldn't give him up.
So he lets it fly.
“It’s not just the kiss I’m curious about.”
The silence in the air is thick. The only thing between you are the sounds of both of you catching your breath. It’s possible he might have ruined everything with that one sentence. But it’s the truth. It had nothing to do with the kiss and everything to do with you. Your kindness, your banter, your hospitality. All of it.
There’s no way of telling what you’re thinking at the right now. It’s in this moment that he wishes the lights weren’t out so he can at least read your expression. But then after what seems like an eternity, your forehead nudges against his and you blow a deep sigh of relief. Arms still draped over his shoulders.
“Oh good… I thought it was only me,” you confess with a skittish laugh.
And that tightly pulled restraint finally snaps inside him when he hears that.
Without any hesitation, he dives back in. Kissing you like a man starved. Just like that night, he feels drunk. Only this time it’s on the taste of you and the feeling of your hands finally on him. It’s that thought that drives him to rip off his leather gloves and toss them aside without breaking contact once. His bare hands find your waist and the strip of bare skin between your shirt and linen pants.
“Is this what you meant,” you pant. “When you told me not to invite you in again.”
“Yeah... it is.” He pants the confession as his mouth trails down the line of your jaw and finding your neck in the dark.
“That’s a relief,” you chuckle. “I was worried I offended you.”
“The only thing that’s offensive is that I can’t see that pretty pink flush on your face right now.”
“Should I get a blindfold,” you tease.
What a fucking woman. The mental image of you in a blindfold, only a blindfold, pours fuel on an already blazing fire. But for now, he’s more than ok feeling his way around tonight.
“Next time.”
It comes out of his mouth confidently and without hesitation. Because you both know there will be a next time. He’s bitten into the forbidden fruit and now he’s addicted to the taste.
With a simple shift, his hands dip beneath the thin fabric of your shirt and find the delicious heat of your soft belly.
"Lay down for me."
With your arms draped over his shoulders, you eagerly comply. Slowly dragging him down with you. He careful not to press all his weight on you—being crushed by beskar would definitely kill the mood—but it doesn't stop you from pulling tighter. Craving connection. All while Din rains wet kisses and soft bites upon your pulse.
So this is what your skin tastes like. Slightly salty, sweet, and smooth between his teeth. He might eat you whole if he’s not careful. He nips at the skin of your exposed collar bone and you writhe. Arching to press your chest to his. So he decides to give it some attention.
“Take it off," you pant with an neediness that drives him pull the damn shirt off in one swift motion.
His bare hand crawls up your sternum. Exploring the valley of soft skin free of any restricting fabric. The moment his fingers find the stiff peak of your bare breast he pinches eagerly. Earning the sweetest little whimpers from you as his mouth works on the other nipple. Biting and sucking the soft point. He can’t see a thing in the dark, but what’s lacking in sight is made up by sound with the delicious breathy moans you let out for him.
“Mando…”
Fuck, does he love the way you call out for him. Every touch, kiss, and suck he gives elicites the most gorgeous sounds out of that perfect mouth. The sounds to straight to his cock, now painfully stiff. It's tempting to just dive into you right now. But he's waited this long. So why not take his sweet time with you. With his face still burried between your breasts and you fingers raking through his hair, Din feels a press of your hips against his armor. And he needs more.
“Shop Girl…”
The nickname doesn’t catch your attention. You’re either too lost in the moment or too breathless to answer. It’s only when he uses your given name that your body perks up and you give him a raspy “yeah?”.
“Do you want this," he asks.
His right hand has found its way to the waist band of your work pants. Ready and waiting for your answer. You try to grind against his hips but he presses your hips down firmly. He knows damn well neither of you want to stop. But he needs to hear it. There's no going back after this.
"Is this ok?"
He doesn't know if you're unsure. Or if maybe your trying to meet his eyes through the darkness. But there's a long pause. Only the sounds of heavy breaths and the pulse beating hard in his ears. And every second that passes has him hanging on the edge of madness.
"Yes...," you finally breathe. "I need you."
She needs me.
The words leave him winded. Months of questions and pining suddenly feel well worth the wait just to hear those words. They not only affirm going further, but the bond that's been steadily growing between you. Not a single ounce of hesitation survives after he hears that. And with one hand, Din loosens the tie of your pants and dives in beneath the fabric of your underwear.
By feel alone, Din manages to pull your pants down to your thighs and you kick them off your feet. His hands roam over all the smooth exposed skin and he can only imagine how perfect you must look if you feel this good. The tips of his fingers finds the dampness between your legs, running along the seam, and he slowly pushes inside until his knuckles meet your entrance.
You release a soft gasp and he swallows it with a deep kiss. You both sigh into each other's mouth. As if you need the other to even breathe. Din's lips never leaves yours as he does an experimental curl against the fleshy part of your walls and you arch your body against his.
“This where you need me," he huffs against your lips. "Right here?”
“Right there... Perfect..."
"I wanna taste you." The confession comes out before he can even think about it.
"Then taste me, Mando."
He can hear the smile in your voice. The taunt. And he's more than happy to reciprocate it.
He rises above you and you whine from the lack of contact. But the loss doesn't last long. Because before you even can register what he's doing, his head has already lowered between your legs.
"What are you- ah."
That gasp you let out when his mouth envelops your pussy is downright tortured. Good too know you were just as desperate as he was.
"Fuck! I thought you meant... You were gonna... Shit..."
No fucking way would he be satisfied tasting you on just his fingers. The sweet tangy flavor explodes over his tongue and he groans. Fucking hell, you taste good. He doesn’t even know what the hell he’s doing but that’s sure as shit not stopping him. He drowns in you. Lapping and sucking on your swollen little bud and loving the way it makes you cry out. Two thick fingers pump into your wet heat as you melt in his mouth. Such a fucking treat.
You writhe beneath him. Squirming and clawing at anything to hold on to as he works you up. Eventually your hands finds his hair again. Taking a fistful and pressing his face further against your cunt. The sting on his scalp makes his cock twitch in his flight suit and he groans.
“You want me to make you come, Shop Girl," he mumbles against you.
“Yes.”
“Say it.”
“Make me come, Mando... Please…”
He doesn't break pace, doesn't falter, doesn't change a damn thing what he's doing because he can feel close to the edge you are. You tighten around his digits as the pump in and out. And with a firm suck on your clit you let out a strangled gasp.
"Oh Fuck! Fuck! Mando!"
Your breathing becomes short and shallow. Panting so hard right before holding your breath and tipping over the edge with a strangled cry. You come long and hard. Trembling so much he has to hold you steady by the hips.
Through the waves of your climax, Din continues to eat you. Lapping at your perfect pussy like it's wine and he doesn't waste a single drop of you. Even sucking and licking his fingers clean as you lay breathless before him. They come out of his mouth with a wet pop and he can’t help but let out a small breathy laugh.
“I’ve always wanted to try that…” he confesses.
You let out your own exhausted little laugh and he can already tell he wants more. More laughter, more of those pretty sounds, more of you.
It's with that in mind that Din starts pulling his cape off.
Piece by peace, he silently removes his armor. And after a few moments, a second pair of hands joins in. You fumble in the dark with his chest piece first. Helping him out of his armor one section at a time. They fall to the carpet with a soft thud along with the crumbling pieces of the restraint he’s built since that first night.
There’s no signs of stopping. You keep giving him more. More heat. More yearning. More questions.
What makes you laugh? What gives you pleasure? What makes you feel good and whole and satisfied? He needs to know.
And now that he’s gotten a taste, there’s no way he’s leaving here tonight until you’ve both had your fill.
•
If this is what happens when you invite the Mandalorian into your home, let your door never close.
Getting to your bed was easier than you thought it’d be in pitch black darkness. The only thing keeping your ‘bedroom’ separate from the rest of the home is a wooden lattice divider from the ceiling to the floor.
He lays you down on the soft futon on the floor and you open for him like a flower. Two strong palms drag and paw all over your body as his mouth works magic on yours and it makes you dizzy with desire.
Maker, he’s so good with his hands.
His body separates from you only to remove his flight suit and you whine at the loss of contact. Naked and panting for him. Within seconds he’s back on top of you and the feeling of his bare skin against yours makes your head spin. With everything so dark you wonder if this is even real. Maybe this is all a fever dream.
“Are you gonna show me how Mandalorians fuck this time,” you tease against his lips. Calling back to when he showed you how they drink. With your bare legs around his hips, you tease his resolve by running your inner thighs over his sides and you’re rewarded with a low hum. The hand supporting your neck slowly drags forward to find the base of your throat.
“You don’t need to know how Mandalorians fuck.” His wide grip gently squeezes the sides of your throat, just enough for you to feel the power in those hands. “Just how I fuck.”
Holy shit. You thought him gripping your jaw was hot. But this? This might’ve awakened something you didn’t even knew you wanted.
A whimper escapes you only to be muted by his mouth again. His tongue swirls with yours with a hunger you’ve never knew was there these past months and it’s such a relief to know that you weren’t the only one pining.
Mando’s mouth travels to your cheek, then jaw, finally finding purchase on your neck. Biting and sucking as his body presses into yours. He’s insatiable right now. There's no doubt that you'll find yourself covered in marks when the lights come back on.
You’re so lost in the moment that you almost don’t notice when something hard and warm presses against your inner thigh. Out of nowhere, a thought you haven’t even considered before decides to pop into your head at the very last minute.
“H-hold on!”
Your hands find his shoulders, urging him to pause. His lips unlatch themselves from your neck the second you blurt it out. Instantly propping himself above you with his hands on either side of your head.
“You want me to stop?,” he pants.
“No… Hell no. It’s just…”
How do you even begin to ask this?
“Um… I know I probably should’ve asked earlier but… you’re human, right?”
Mando blows out a low chuckle, understanding your underlying meaning. He feels human, from what your hands can tell anyway. He could be like his kid for all you know. It’s not that you’re not willing to go Inter-species, but your experience is mainly human. Plus with the lights off it’d be pretty difficult to figure out fitting things.
Taking your hand from his shoulder, he presses it against his chest where you can feel a dusting of hair. His skin is hot, damp with a thin layer of sweat and his breathing is heavy. He continues to lead your hand further down his torso so you can feel every hill and valley of his muscles. Eventually your hand hits a trail of hair down the middle and then…
Oh shit.
His hand guides you along the length of his cock. Encouraging you to explore every ridge from the thick base all the way up to the damp tip. He’s stiff and hot in your palm. When you give him a firm squeeze he groans and twitches in your grip.
Oh shit.
“Does that answer your question?”
The human part, definitely. Fitting is still debatable.
He lets you handle him. Giving you free rein to tug and tease as he bucks into your hand. He groans with pleasure and the power trip you feel knowing exactly how you affect this fiercely disciplined man makes the pulse between your legs throb harder. After a minute, his hand snatches yours to a halt, making your grip around his cock tighter.
“Show me where you want it,” he demands in a gruff breath. And you do just that. Pressing the damp tip against your clit. The contact sending a jolt of pleasure up your spine.
“Inside,” you plead. “I need you inside me.”
With an impatient huff, his hand comes down to take hold of your leg behind the bend of your knee. Spreading you wide and teasing your entrance before pushing himself inside. You gasp at the initial stretch, digging your nails into his shoulders. Mando curses under his breath and as he pushes you worry for a moment if there’s an end to him.
It’s slow, deliberate. Feeding his cock into your tight cunt until he’s pressing the limits of your walls. You shudder together when he’s completely sheathed and his hands grip your hips so hard his fingers dig into your flesh.
“Mando…” You throw your head back. Arching your whole body, waiting it to adjust to him. “Fuck!”
“I knew it,” he pants. “Fucking knew you’d feel good…”
He splits you in half and before you’re even ready the first hard thrust hits you. You whimper from impact and he thrusts again. Pinning you down by your hips to keep you at the perfect angle. Soon he sets a steady pace as he fucks you into delirium. It’s too much, he’s too much. Yet you moan and whine for more like each thrust might be the last. He feels incredible and you can only claw at his trim waist as it moves for you.
“That’s it… Good girl… Taking me so well… I wanted this… I want you to know every part of me.”
His words plunge into your chest like a dagger. Laced with a meaning that goes far beyond sex. Because you feel it too. You wanted him to be closer. You wanted him to know your name, know you. Even if it took this long to get here.
You feel one hand find your leg. Hiking it up so the back of your thigh lays flat against his chest. His hand drags up and down, caressing the soft flesh without losing a beat with his thrusts. A kiss presses on your calf and your head feels like it’s spinning. One moment he’s rearranging your insides and the next he’s giving your body sweet affection.
Tension builds in your core. Growing tighter and tighter with each hard thrust. Usually the second orgasm is more elusive to chase on your own. But this man is about to push you right into the next one not five minutes after the first one.
“Don’t… Stop…,” you pant. “Don’t stop, I’m so close, Mando…”
“Come for me... Let me feel you."
Then it comes. Tensing your entire body before coming down like a crashing wave. It’s spreads through every inch of your body, making you pulse and shake beneath his frame. You cry out in the midst of the euphoria, clinging to his shoulders, and everything feels so right. He moans along with you, feeling every tight pulse around his cock and letting you ride out the remaining waves.
“That’s two now, Shop Girl. You gonna give me a third?”
You let out a breathy laugh, still coming down from the clouds.
"I... I'm not sure I can," you chuckle.
"Yeah, you will," he pants. Amusement lacing his raspy voice.
Without out warning, Mando takes both your legs. Placing your calves over his shoulders as his leans forward. Folding you in half. And with one hard thrust, his cock drives back into you at a deeper angle. Your back bows and you swear you see stars in the blackness of the room. His lips land on the corner of your mouth and kiss their way to your lips. Offering a soft apology after the roughness. His strong arms are propped around you and you feel eclipsed under his broad body.
Soon his rhythm picks up. Becoming more desperate as he chases his own release. The room fills with the sound of your bodies meeting and you don't think you've ever heard anything more perfect. His panting picks up, his moans become louder, and the quivering breaths he makes when he finds a particularly deep spot will no doubt live in your mind rent free forever.
“You wanted me bare, didn’t you,” he huffs, pressing his damp forehead to yours.. “When you offered me that tea? You thought about me coming inside this perfect cunt, didn’t you.”
Caught red handed. Sure, you wanted to know if he had a partner as well. But the thought did cross your mind when he cornered you against the counter. You wanted to know how he felt bare, with nothing between you. Even dreamt a few times about it.
“Yes… Fuck, yes! Please! I want it!”
“You gonna come with me, Shop Girl? Hmm?”
“Maker, Mando! I’m right fucking there, please! I… I’m… ah-“
His firm hand grips your jaw. Whipping your face back to him so he can cover your mouth his. He kisses you deep, open and messy. No technique, just raw desire as he eats you alive. You moan and whimper against his mouth with each debilitating thrust he makes. He drives into you faster, harder. Relentlessly pushing you closer to the edge.
When it arrives, the orgasm hits you at full force. Wracking your whole body in convulsions as you scream, actually scream against his mouth. Your toes curl, your nails dig into his back and your cunt squeezes on to him for dear life like he’s never allowed to leave again.
Mando hisses through his teeth and he's right there with you. Ramming into you with relentless force as he chases his own release. His face dives into the crook of your shoulder and his arms scramble to take hold of you and he loses control. Letting out a sharp groan as he comes.
“Fuck.. Fuck,” he shudders in your ear. “Agh!”
His hips jerk against your body, driving himself as deep as you can take him. You feel his cock throb as he pumps into you again and again. Filling you to the point of spilling out and it’s... everything. Connected in such a profound way you’ve never felt before. In this moment, it’s hard to tell your bodies apart. You’ve melted and mixed and you never want to separate.
You ride it together, mold together, lose control together because you both knew it’d come to this. In the end this was inevitable. And in a galaxy filled with unknowns, in this you can be certain. A connection like this is few and far between. It’s real and raw and rare. Resisting that feeling was never an option, so why try?
Even in the climb down he doesn’t stop. Those hard demanding thrusts slow to a gentle drags as if he doesn’t want to finish yet. Hands glide all over each other’s bodies, soothing the other. All along his tense shoulders, you pepper soft kisses to his skin. Easing you both down from the clouds. He hums in the decent and it lulls you into an exhausted bliss.
Everything feels hazy and soft. You’re not sure how long you stay melted together like this. Minutes? Hours? But it’s needed. After a while, the breathing becomes steady and a soft, drowsy satisfaction settles between you.
“That’s the first time someone's come inside me,” you quietly confess. For a moment, Mando absorbs what you just said. Then you feel him prop himself in his elbows above you.
“Really?”
“Yeah…,” you breathe. Running your hands up the sides of his neck and resting them on his stubbled face.
“You know… since we’re sharing firsts tonight.”
He smiles and this time you’re able to know for certain by the feel of it in your hands. Leaning down, his forehead finds yours in the dark and you don’t think you’ve ever felt so whole before.
“I’m your first, huh,” he breathes. “I like that.”
There’s so many layers to this man. Quiet and withdrawn. Rough and demanding. Soft and caring. Each one is a trait you’ve come to cherish. You’re not sure if you love this man. But you’re definitely starting to fall for him. You can explore that treasure box later though. For now, you’ll take tonight for tonight and let whatever comes next between you arrive in its own good time.
“Me too, Mando...”
•
•
•
💕 THANK YOU FOR READING 💕
If you enjoyed my notes app delusions, please reblog, add a comment, drop insane reaction pics. I love seeing all your interactions, thoughts, and support on here. Might consider posting my works on A03 as well but we’ll see. Much Love! 🥰
summary: you’ve seen a lot during your rebellion days & now with the New Republic… but working with a mandalorian may just send you into the wildest tailspin yet
word count: 11.9k (i’m sorry)
warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY MDNI. MAJOR MOVIE SPOILERS ⚠️ takes place before & during the events of the film, reader has a backstory & family but no physical description, light use of gendered language, slight annoyance to friends to lovers, pining & yearning, budding romance, threats & moments of violence/threat of kidnapping, flying as a love language, reader has instances of drinking and smoking, competency kink, light voice kink, slightly jealous!reader, spicy times in the cockpit (helmet stays on), dry humping, unprotected p in v, one moment of spit, creampie, protective and soft!Din
a/n: so… hi lmao I call this my ‘let’s daydream about being in the new movie’ fic or aka my attempt at plugging us into the storyline bcs it’s what we deserve lol big thanks to my dear @babynueva for always supporting my din delulu ily bb! Also this is my first official fic of the year & knowing it’s for Din means so much - so thank you for being here ♡ [divider credit & thanks to the ever amazing @saradika-graphics]
When a mandalorian first strides into base camp on Adelphi, you think you’re seeing things.
The sun bounces off his armor drawing all eyes. It’s like his ancient armor proudly beams of its power and striking force. The mysterious Mandalorian walks with intent, a steady gait that dares anyone to cross him. You can’t help but stare at the mysterious warrior.
“Is he… imperial?” Someone whispers in the mess hall and makeshift cantina.
“Nope, he’s working with us now.” Teva answers simply.
You didn’t believe it. But apparently it’s true.
“He’s set to be an independent operative, but know he is working for and with us.” The colonel’s words then officially etch the truth in stone.
Mando comes around basecamp like a ghost. Barely staying put for you to register his presence, yet the whispers about him grow.
“I heard he took out a whole imperial squadron and a Moff too.” Dyana, your closest friend, tells you enthusiastic to catch up on all the rumors.
Then Ward calls for you, and you miss out on any other gossip Dyana and the others had.
“I’ll be heading to Coruscant this week to meet with a few higher ups and senators… I need you to do all the debriefs with Mando while I’m away.
It’s like a rancor suddenly barreled into you.
“Wait, me?” You stupidly question confused, and Ward shoots you a look, raised eyebrows and all.
“Do you think you’re not capable of handling this, ranger?”
“No, colonel.” You quickly reply, and she nods.
“Good, that’s what I thought.”
When you see her off, it must be obvious how hesitant you still are. Her sturdy hand gives your shoulder a reassuring pat.
“Don’t worry. He’s not as scary as everyone thinks he is.” Ward reassures, but it doesn’t soothe you much.
Especially when the day arrives and you find yourself waiting for him.
Just like before, the mandalorian saunters in and your focus is immediately drawn to him. But then, it gets knocked out of orbit when you find he’s not alone.
A tiny green creature waddles in beside him, childishly blinking at every sight. Why is a child with the mandalorian?
“Where’s Ward?” A rich striking voice startles you. Of course the terrifying warrior would sound this intimidating.
“Went to Coruscant for a meeting.” You reply partly stunned you’re actually talking to him.
“And you are?” But then mandalorian questions, sharp and distrustful, and it pisses you off. He’s the newcomer here, and he decides to question you?
“I’m the person you’re stuck with for your debrief and mission logs unfortunately.” Your voice whips out sharp.
He doesn’t say anything.
“What about Teva?” He counters again, and you want to scream. What’s this guy’s problem?
“Out on a mission,” your reply is sharper, bladed with annoyance.
“If you want you can personally contact Ward and explain why I’m not satisfactory enough for your debrief. I’m sure she’d love that.” Then the defiant reply escapes you faster than you can stop it.
It’s as if the whole cantina mess hall heard you because it becomes deathly silent.
The mandalorian simply stares you down with his unflinching helmet. Then the warrior turns and strides out not saying another word.
“I think you pissed him off.” Wolf snickers breaking the stillness.
A sense of dread looms as you realize you might’ve truly just gotten yourself into a mountain load of trouble.
Ward calls that night, and you knew it was coming.
“Why do you want to start a fight with the mandalorian?” She asks calmly over the comms.
“I’m not! He started it!” You can’t help but childishly counter. You even further explain how demanding and untrusting he was.
The colonel sighs.
“You have to understand… His people don’t trust easily. And for good reason. Try to be the one to play nice here.”
You want to be petty and say he needs to as well, but you can’t argue with Ward.
“Do the whole debrief drunk.” Zeb jokes about it with you the next day, and you scoff.
But by the time sunset arrives you start getting tempted to get a drink because maybe Mando isn’t showing up.
Until he does. And again he’s not alone. The strange but sweet little creature continues waddling alongside Mando.
It’s awkward as hell when he approaches your table. The tension lingers thick from yesterday prickling across your skin in the worst way.
You don’t even know if you should say anything
“Mweh?” A surprisingly soft little noise floats through the tension and you turn towards it. You blink down to find the mysterious little being staring up at you with sweet wide eyes.
With curious claws, the baby reaches for the loth cat charm dangling off your belt, the one of many trinkets your niece has given you.
Melted by the sight, you grin and scoot closer. Then you unclasp the charm for the baby to examine it more.
“You like it? It’s cute right?”
The little one agrees with a chirp sounding so endearing.
Something softly clicks. If a creature so tiny and innocent as this baby confidently travels with the mandalorian, then he couldn't be that much of an ass.
Someone sighs. Then settling back into your seat, you find the mandalorian seated across from you. The baby hops up to sit beside him. Yet his eager eyes remain happily taken with your charm.
“That imp base on Hoth had no leads.” He speaks first.
You’re stunned.
Your gut urges you to not make a big deal about this, to simply now see him as another coworker.
So you nod and casually plug in the info on your datapad.
“Hoth was a long shot, but we appreciate you going.” You even add that in.
You knew of a few pilots who served during the Hoth raid. It’s an unforgiving planet, takes a lot of guts to investigate that icy fortress.
“What’s the next order?” Mando asks firm, all business, just like Ward had told you.
You slide him a bounty chip containing info on a possible military officer who could be running a smuggling ring. The mandalorian doesn’t say anything else, simply takes the card and stands up.
“Come on, kid.” All he does is address the baby, not even sparing you a second glance.
Cute and so politely, the kid hands back your loth cat with a noise that feels like a thank you.
“You’re welcome, little cutie,” you tell him warmly.
Once the pair are out of sight, you sigh exhausted, relieved, and sprawl out on the table glad it’s over. Someone barks a laugh, and you aren’t even embarrassed about it.
You can’t wait till this is over.
It’s already been a week and a half of being grounded, doing these debriefs with Mando. You miss being in the skies. But all that hope of getting back in the clouds gets squashed.
“I need to negotiate a few more issues with Senator Organa… can you continue to do the debrief?” It isn’t much of a question but more of an order from Ward.
So you meet with Mando for the rest of the week and into the next. It’s cordial, barely speaking for more than ten minutes with each other.
You try to be friendly, make a joke about the weather, but he just silently stares at you, obviously annoyed.
And it pisses you off all over again.
But you think of the adorable little baby who eagerly tags along with the terrifying hunter. The kid sweetly waves, and you wave back. You started bringing treats after his guardian chided him for eating some of yours.
The annoyed sigh Mando gave when you brought more snacks to share was worth it.
This time you decided to bring something else along with you.
It was the first charm your sister gave you when you became a pilot. A tradition her daughter, your niece, now does with you.
“Look!” You eagerly hold up the plush creature that makes the baby’s eyes go wide.
With adorable tiny grabby hands, he reaches for it and you happily hand it over.
You grin pleased seeing how pleased the kid coos.
“What’s your name?” The sudden question from Mando surprises you.
A bit stunned, you give it to him.
He nods solemnly, repeating it. Your heart does a strange flip hearing his deep voice say your name.
“This is Grogu.” He then introduces the kid who chimes in hearing his name.
“Nice to meet you, Grogu.” You excitedly greet the kid.
Then you turn to Grogu’s guardian. This solemn but striking mandalorian now has you curious to who he is. Your mind thinks about the rumors that have spread about him.
“And you? What’s your name?” You ask politely, but immediately you can almost hear Dyana screaming at you. She’s become the new expert on Mandalorian customs.
“They’re private people,” she had told you, confirming what Ward had said. “It’s probably why not a lot of people know about him, much less his name.”
“I’m sorry, forgive me.” You stammer quickly. “You don’t have to give it.”
A moment passes, and you worry you’ve unraveled this tentative truce or whatever it is.
“Din… Din Djarin.” His full name. It’s lovely.
“Din…” you repeat it.
“It’s nice to meet you too.” And you mean that.
Mando, Din, nods, and you think it’s worth the few weeks being out of the skies.
When Din and Grogu leave you realize the kid still holds onto your plush charm.
“Come on kid, give it back.” Din urges noticing too.
“No it’s okay. He can keep it. Give it back to me next time.” You grin at the baby, and Grogu giggles pleased at the answer.
“What do you say, kid?”
Grogu chirps a sweet thanks and waddles away content with the plushie in his arms.
The next day, as promised, he brings it back. But you exchange another charm with him. This time it’s a cute cloud with a sweet face. Eager for the new trinket, Grogu ditches the plushie and you laugh.
Work then follows suit. Din explains on the intel he’s slowly gaining on the imp official.
“Taking a bit longer than expected.” Din gruffly admits.
“Don’t worry. Rodents like him know how to hide. It’s not your fault. Then again that’s probably an insult to rodents.” You’ve been trying to stay professional, channel your inner composed Colonel Ward. But the old rebel pilot comes out.
Suddenly, a chuckle follows.
Din laughed.
You swear you misheard it. But the way Grogu giggles agreeing with his protector, you know you heard correctly.
“A fair statement.” Din agrees.
And you grin back at him. A golden victorious feeling bubbles in your chest.
Watching the pair leave, you find you’re excited to see them again.
The rest of the debriefs go smoother than ever. You bring new charms for Grogu to play with, and Din seems to settle in more.
“You have a lot of those.” He even comments a bit dry when you exchange another new charm with Grogu. This time it’s a fuzzy bantha.
“Managed to gather a small collection.” You explain.
“Really… couldn’t tell.” Din deadpans.
That’s when you realized he just joked with you.
“Think you might like those two,” Zeb teases the next time he drops by the mess hall.
“It’s called being civil.” You stubbornly reply while messing with the holopad, and the Lasat warrior barks a laugh.
“Civil? Yeah sure.” He teases further.
You stay stubbornly quiet.
“Don’t worry… They’ve a pain in my ass too.” Zeb huffs, and it does soothe your annoyance.
Especially now that something is festered in you, a sort of curious itch to learn more about Din Djarin.
“I heard… he really did blow up an entire imperial base. That’s how Teva found him.” Dyana is happy to spill more gossip about him.
“He’s quiet, doesn’t talk much. So I doubt he’d say anything even if he did.” You mutter.
“Does he really keep a pet around?” Dyana presses for any new info.
The word ‘pet’ sounds harsh.
“He’s more like the kid’s guardian.” The word ‘parent’ instead wants to slip out especially after you’ve seen Din’s fatherly watch over the baby.
“Oh that’s even more interesting! Why didn’t you tell me this earlier?!” Dyana shrieks.
“You’ve been busy.” You half lie.
You could argue that it’s because you want to protect Din’s trust and don’t want to disturb that. But the truth is, you don’t want to share this little secret bond you’ve cultivated with him.
You however rapidly kick those thoughts away.
Ward will be back sometime this week. Your brief time with the Mandalorian would be over soon.
Except that time comes sooner than expected.
The next morning Colonel Ward arrives, an early return. Disappointment arrives just as fast. You knew this was only a temporary thing.
Trying not to feel annoyed, you now work on your x-wing. Deep under the hull, you refuel trying just to keep your mind focused here.
“Didn’t know you were a mechanic.” Suddenly, the rich voice of a certain mandalorian echoes in the hanger.
You scramble out from under the ship confused if you heard right.
But standing off to the side are indeed Din and Grogu.
“What? Thought I just did paper work and worked as an assistant?” You tease.
Din chuckles, and it sinks into the glowing sunlight coating the hanger in its glory.
“You’re looking at one of the New Republic’s best pilots!” Dyana.
She perks up emerging from the other side of the ship, and you shoot a glare her way not even knowing where she came from.
“A pilot?” Din questions, curious.
His helmet tilts towards you.
“Sometimes,” you shrug.
“And I wouldn’t say best.” You weakly laugh then glower at Dyana again. She simply beams innocently back at you.
“One day you gotta tell him about Endor. Though I’m sure you have plenty of fight stories to share too, Mando!”
You want to strangle her.
“You fought at Endor?” Din asks, helmet fully facing you and voice faintly awed.
It all makes your skin feel heated and tight.
All you can do is shrug again.
Endor seems like so long ago now. You were so much younger then. Wild and ready to sacrifice it all for the sake of protecting everything you loved. A small secret corner of your heart aches for those days of when you flew with such fire.
“Well… gotta go! Nice to finally meet you both!” Dyana nods to Din and smiles at the baby before scurrying away.
A traitor in the flesh fleeing if you ever did see one.
“So…an x-wing pilot.” Din comments, still watching you. His curious and impressed tone ignites a strange sensation in your chest that threatens to consume you.
“On good days I am.” You again shrug with a half smile.
“So what was Endor like?” He inquires, and you’re surprised he’s curious about that.
“Don’t know, never went on planet… kinda was busy flying around.”
You don’t even need to see his face to know he’s giving you a silent unamused stare. He must not think your joke is as funny as you do.
A surprised giggle does come though. Both you and Din discover Grogu effortlessly climbing up onto the wing of the ship.
“Kid.” Din chides.
“How did you get up there so fast?” You laugh amused at the sight of this tiny creature waddling on top of your x-wing.
Din sighs, truly parental.
“I take it that you fly?” You ask him yet keeping your gaze on Grogu to make sure he stays safe.
“I do.” Din answers, confident.
“Must be why he’s so curious and comfortable around ships. It’s good when kids get to experience being in the air.” You think of your niece who eagerly tries to convince you to fly her around.
“My niece is the same way.” You reveal.
Din hums a noise, acknowledging he’s listening.
“Is she the reason why you have all those charms?” He asks in a tone softer than you’ve ever heard.
“Excuse you, they are medals of honor.” You jokingly try to sound offended.
“With you I wouldn’t be surprised.” He replies deadpan, and you snicker.
“But yeah… she’s the one who gives them to me.” You explain how it was your sister who first started giving you those charms to decorate your x-wing.
They were to remind you to come home safe.
“I was ordered not to come home unless I brought the charms back safe and sound.” You repeat the same words your sister told you.
A soft breeze enters the hanger bringing in a welcoming cooling touch. But it’s then you realize how close you’re now standing next to Din. You didn’t even notice when you or him moved closer to each other.
“That’s… sweet.” His voice carries a tenderness that sneaks under your ribs and sinks in deep.
You turn and find he’s already looking at you.
Under Din’s gaze, it’s like you’re caught in a tractor beam unable to speak or move.
Dangerous thoughts have already begun clouding your mind, and they all connect back to this man. Like how you’ve noticed how broad his shoulders look, and how strong he is helping move crates around the base. What’s worse is you’ve begun wondering what this mandalorian looks like under his helm.
Grogu’s little giggle finally draws your attention away. Currently he peeks inside the cockpit through the window.
“So I take it this is your ship?” Din asks.
“No, I stole it.” You quip back.
“Sure you did.” His dry reply makes you snicker.
“It’s how I got to fight at Endor.” You jest, stealing a quick glance at Din. Of course he shakes his head unamused.
“Thought you didn’t see Endor.” He uses your dry joke back at you, and you can’t help it.
You playfully elbow him.
Another little giggle comes. Glancing back to the ship, Grogu now peers over from the wing’s edge grinning at you and Din.
“Little troublemaker, are you going to be a pilot one day?” You smile at Grogu.
“Mweh!” He squeals.
“I think that’s a yes,” you tell Din proudly.
“No.” Din answers back firmly.
“It’s okay I’ll teach you one day,” you counter sweetly, and the baby giggles more.
“No.” Din repeats again firmer.
A small cluster of pilots approach. Their laughter and conversation fill the air. Guess this moment is over.
“Still need to see Ward… shouldn’t keep her waiting.” Din is smooth about making his exit.
Quickly Grogu jumps into his arms, and you bid the duo goodbye for now.
You haven’t been in the air for long, but it feels like you’re floating now.
The moments you see the pair become like scattered stars.
Months settle in, and a routine follows. You sometimes see Din in the mess hall cantina when you return from a mission. Discussing with the colonel, all you can simply do is give your boys quick smiles.
Other times Din stops by the hanger where you linger now more than ever hoping he drops by. You and him talk about work, missions, the various planets visited.
You want to ask what got him to work for the new republic, but you don’t want to disturb whatever is growing between you and him.
“It’s budding love.” Dyana sagely declares one evening at the cantina, and Zeb agrees.
“It’s not!” You screech over a drink.
“I don’t think Mando has said more than five words to me, yet I see him talking to you so much.” Another pilot chimes in.
“He talks to Zeb the most!” You argue back. The two of them are often paired up on missions now. You try not to get annoyed by it.
“Not as much as you, kid.” Zeb rebuttals.
“Don’t think we haven’t seen the way he hangs around the hanger for you.” Sash Ketter snickers, and it only ignites the discussion once again.
You dismiss all their words as attempts trying to rile you up.
Because you don’t want to face the truth. You long for your chats with Din, even just to see him for a moment and play with Grogu.
It’s just an awful infatuation. That’s it.
Your small vacation break now approaching may be more of a blessing than you realize. It’ll hopefully give you time to clear your head.
“I’m heading home to visit family. I’ll be sure to bring back something good.” You tell Din the next time you run into him outside the cantina.
“There’s no need. Just… be safe.” Din nods.
His gentle words carry you the entire flight home.
The brief week away provides peaceful moments of relaxation. While you enjoy the time spent with your sister’s family, you long to return to Adelphi.
“So, what did you get me this time?” You ask your niece the day before you’re set to head back.
“I got you… THIS!” She proudly raises up an odd creature. You can’t even tell what it is.
“She made it herself.” Your sister whispers, and your eyes go wide.
“What?! Why didn’t you tell me we have an artist in this family now?!” You cry excitedly scooping up your niece in your arms and tickle her with glee as she squeaks excitedly.
“Actually before I go… Do you think you can help me make one too?” You ask her and your niece's eyes light up.
With eager hands she gathers all her supplies to deposit them on the table ready to craft.
“So… are you going to tell me who you’re making this for?” Your sister asks slightly suspiciously as you add little puffballs to your monster creation.
“What if I just want my charm to have a friend, huh?” You deflect.
“Yeah sure.” She’s not convinced but thankfully doesn’t press any further.
As hard as it is saying goodbye to her and your niece, you’re thankful to finally be back to your routine.
And of course, the new little charm sitting in your pocket seems to hold so much weight.
Din returns a few days after you. It’s hard trying to ignore the bubbling joy that rises watching him approach your x-wing first.
“Welcome back.” He greets and Grogu squeals adorably scurrying to you.
Eagerly you welcome his jump into your arms, and you squeeze him tight.
“I miss you too,” you tell Grogu but hope his father knows you mean him as well.
“And look, I got something for you.” You shift to hold Grogu in one arm.
Then you hold up the new charm.
“What is it supposed to be?” Din sounds confused and slightly alarmed.
“It’s a little monster,” you reply lightly insulted.
“My niece and I made these, and I knew someone who might like it.” You grin towards Grogu now.
“Bweh!” He cheers and draws the charm into his small arms so enamored with the strange monstrosity already.
“See! He likes it, that's what matters.” You huff proudly at Din.
Grogu chirps like he agrees. You laugh then catch Din’s chuckle too.
“What do you say, kid?” Din says.
Grogu however doesn’t say anything. Instead he leans up and hugs you. His sweet little arms curl against your neck.
Holding this baby so tight is like holding a little newborn star. You’re grateful for this moment and hug Grogu close, closing your eyes to fully embrace this wonderful tiny soul.
“You’re welcome, little troublemaker.” You softly tell him.
The baby then settles into your arms as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Worried you might have overstepped, you quickly snap your attention to Din. His helmet stays focused on you.
You wonder what his eyes look like, what color swims within his gaze.
“Glad you’re back safe.” Din’s voice sounds low, softer and a bit thick.
“Me too,” you reply, letting yourself sink into whatever it is overtaking your entire heart.
This infatuation, or whatever it’s mutated into, grows stronger. And it terrifies you.
But you’re reminded quickly there are more terrifying things to face.
The wound isn’t looking good.
You’re more pissed at yourself for getting ambushed by damn pirates. This operation was supposed to be simple, check in on the distress signal intercepted by base. But one pirate ambush later and you’re now stranded trying to stop the bleeding.
You just hope the emergency signal you sent back to camp went through. Leaning against your ship, you take a deep breath trying to calm yourself down. You’ve dealt with worse. You can handle this.
Until something pierces your back, and a scream of pain escapes you. Electricity courses through your body knocking you to the ground.
Everything stings. You can barely concentrate, but you hear them. Gleeful disgusting laughs swirling all around. The damn pirates…
“Think of the price we’ll get for x-wing parts!” One of them muses.
“Or even for the pilot, quite a cute one.” That comment unleashes a panicked feral terror.
Get up, you have to get up. Even though every part of your body stings, screaming to stay still, you have to move.
You slowly try to sit up through the aftershocks, but then a boot comes to slowly step on your chest, pressing you down to the dirt.
“Nah uh little pilot, where do ya think you’re going.” A voice snickers.
You clench your jaw hard. This isn’t looking good.
A sudden blaster shot fires and immediately takes out a pirate with accurate precision.
“What was that?!” One of them screams.
Then a blaster shot silenced him.
“Step away from her now.” Din.
Or someone sounding like him.
The voice is deadly, terrifying, and you wonder if it even is Din.
Then the pirate towering above you with his boot still pressing on your chest suddenly gets thrown off.
Weakly you cough sitting up. While you do, you witness Din in action and realize he’s truly here.
And the way he attacks, effortlessly slicing through the pirate captain and the lackeys that try rushing him - he’s incredible.
You’ve never seen anyone fight so fluidly and powerful. You’re witnessing one of the most powerful warriors in the galaxy…
And he’s here to save you.
A small concerned whimper comes to your side and immediately you glance down. Grogu quickly waddles to your arm and flashes his wide worried eyes up to you.
“I’m okay, I promise.” He must see the wound, and you try smiling reassuringly.
He hums a small noise at you. Then he closes his eyes, laying his little claw against your elbow. Slowly a gentle warmth suddenly crawls up your shoulder.
What is he doing?
The stinging pain vanishes instantly. Reaching up to your shoulder, you find no wound.
“Mweh.” Grogu peers up at you with a small little wave.
“You really are something else, little trouble maker… thank you.” You fondly stroke his fuzzy little head, and he beams.
Din urgently yells your name and soon rushes to kneel before you. Gloved hands reach out to steady your shoulders.
“I’m fine.” You now reassure him and move to squeeze one of his hands.
An exhale escapes Din, relieved.
“I’m sorry you both had to come all the way out here. I’m sure there are better bounties to hunt.” You half tease.
“Don’t apologize.” He immediately snaps.
Grogu makes a sad noise as if chiding his father.
“Just glad you’re safe.” So Din gently adds and steadily helps you stand.
Zeb lands moments later with a mechanic to help patch up your ship. The entire time Din stays by your side, letting you lean against him for support. His guiding hand never leaves you.
You’re given the rest of the week off to recover.
“So was Mando on a mission with you when my distress beacon went out?” You ask Zeb when he drops by to check on you.
He snorts, giving you a knowing side eye smirk.
“Is that what you think?” Zeb doesn’t elaborate even when you pester him.
It’s Dyana of course who reveals the truth.
“Mando was the first to rush out. Ward had to practically stop him before he flew off on his own.” Her words unravel something effortlessly in you.
How can you ignore these feelings for a mandalorian anymore?
“I think it’s romantic.” Dyana thankfully doesn’t judge you when you finally admit everything to her.
There was no time for romance during a rebellion, during a war. Even now you almost scoff at the idea. There are other things to do, other things to focus on than get lovesick over someone.
But Din dismantled all those old thoughts in you, leaving you exposed and almost greedy for someone now.
“It’s okay to want that you know… romance and companionship.” Dyana tells you already sensing your hesitation.
You know her and a cute mechanic have been dating off and on for a while. She’s always been urging you to get out more, maybe try to find someone. Guess you just had to wait for a mandalorian to show up.
But you have to put all those giggles and feelings aside.
Your time resting is done, and immediately you’re thrown back into the rush of work.
A mission and orders arrive a few days later on your datapad.
Raid strike this week, get ready
It’s not a full strike squadron, but you’re thankful Zeb is tagging along.
“Think your boyfriend might be joining us.” He teases, and your eyes narrow hard. Now you regret him being here.
“I don’t have a boyfriend.” You rapidly dismiss.
“Huh uh.” He rolls his eyes.
As if summoned to add to your pain, Din enters the command center. It feels like feral lizard birds were released in your stomach.
Immediately his helmet spots you. Grogu perched on his shoulder chirps upon seeing you. Trying to act relaxed, you give the boys a casual wave and bright grin.
Zeb chuckles, and you silently shush him again under your breath. You walk to meet Din halfway.
“Glad you’re doing better.” He says, faintly warm, and you nod grateful.
“Thanks to my two heroes,” you thank them both again. Grogu beams toothy when you tickle his chin.
Din doesn’t say anything.
“Guess we’re finally teaming up.” So you speak up first.
“Seems like it,” Din agrees.
This isn’t the first time he’s seen you in your pilot gear. Hell, he just rescued you last week. But for some reason, you feel more self aware than ever.
Thankfully Ward enters, drawing the room’s attention to her.
The mission is to ambush the warlord now barricaded up in his mansion. He’s apparently greatly armed and even hired a small air brigade. It’s why this strike squadron was called in. You’re curious why Din is here though.
“Without the mandalorian’s intel, we wouldn’t have this opportunity. So we will be following his lead.” She sends her focus to him.
Din simply and silently nods back.
Then he moves to the holo map and gives details about the estate. Hearing how commanding and surefire his voice resounds, the way he walks confidently and without any hesitation, he’s incredible.
But there’s no time to linger on this warrior.
It’s time to fly.
“Finally get to see you in action,” you tell Din as he walks out with you.
“Guess you will.” He replies with a hint of something playful, and it only speeds up your racing heart.
All you can do is laugh before parting ways.
“Don’t get lost in the clouds.” You teasingly yell to the mandalorian and he looks back at you from over his shoulder.
You can’t see Din’s eyes, but you hope they’re amused.
Him and Grogu now trail away from where you’re stationed, and you settle into your ship.
Your x-wing roars alive, and the familiar comms flicker in your ear. Then the call signals electrify the start to battle.
“Delphi squadron, lock in.” Teva announces on the main channel, the leader for this run. Everyone follows suit locking in their coordinates.
“Blue 9, standing by.” You chime in, readying the flight path.
“Starfighter, standing by.” Then a new voice floats through your helmet.
The tone resonates rich as a stormy ocean sending a shock through your system.
Hearing Din in your helmet does something to you so wild that you feel guilty at how fast your core clenched. You recollect yourself fast.
That’s when you notice the ship he joined in with.
A starfighter? There’s no way. Those ships don’t exist.
But again, you’re proven so wrong.
Among the gunfire and smoke, the sounds of battle, a new gleam of silver catches your attention. The Naboo N-1 fighter is a marvel.
A sleek whisper of a dream, one minute she’s a simple flicker of light then the next she’s firing directly in the trenches of the fight.
But as in awe of the ship as you are, it’s the mandalorian who leaves you breathless.
Din flies amazing. The fast maneuvering, the excellent read he makes of the battle, among his readiness to swoop in and out of tight spaces - you’ve never seen anyone fly this beautifully.
It inspires you, the type of flying that makes you want to soar higher to catch up.
So you do.
You embrace the rebel pilot you always might be and dive through the canyons chasing after one of the bandits the warlord hired.
Quickly you dispatch the enemy ship then swirl and maneuver your x-wing to return to the open sky.
“Target on your left.” Din’s voice suddenly thunders in your ear, chiming in on your personal channel.
“Got it.” You reply steady and twist fast enough to fire on the swing mid air.
“Got him, great shot!” Listening to Din’s deep fierce voice over your private channel, his voice colored in pride, you have to mute the channel to exhale.
Because a wave of arousal crawled up your spine so fast you had to bite your lip. Now you try settling yourself down again.
You pride yourself on being composed when you fly. There of course have been times when you’ve gotten emotional and maybe reacted.
Yet here this masked man completely disarms you.
It’s a fight you realize you won’t win.
The raid is successful, and the warlord gets taken in alive. That’s the win that matters.
“Great job,” Din suddenly voices back in your comms, still sounding so proud, and you melt all over again.
“You too, thanks for the support,” you answer back, just as fond, then rapidly switch over the channel.
“Captain,” you ask Teva on his personal comms.
“Before we leave, do you think I can test Mando on how he flies?”
Teva takes a moment then sighs.
“Make it quick.”
Giddy you quickly chime back onto Din’s channel.
“Wanna go for a run?” A part of you worries he won’t want to join you.
“Lead the way.” But Din quickly answers, and you pull back up to the clouds.
The planet is rather gorgeous, full of lush canyons and towering mountains. It’s a flight playground. Among the skies, twisting and twirling down through the natural landscape, you and Din soar around each other, with each.
Playful, yet delicately cautious, your x-wing revolves alongside his starfighter. Din keeps up with you every moment. Quietly the image of a dance among the clouds floats into your mind.
“Up for a race?” He suddenly asks.
“Oh, you know it.” You agree, excited. You settle into your seat, ready to take off.
But in a flash, he zooms past you.
“What the hell?!” You shriek over the comms.
Din’s husky laugh in your ear is a beautiful reward.
Returning back to Adelphi, you and him fly beside each other. Ward gives everyone the night off, and the cantina already seems to shine extra bright landing in.
Settling into your spot in the hanger, you notice Din lands his starfighter closer than ever.
Sliding off your helmet, for a moment you worry about how bad your hair looks, how messy and sweaty you must be.
But heading down the ladder, Din already walks towards you.
All your worries vanish. You don’t even care how fast you walk towards him. Here standing before Din under the low lights of the hanger, the world melts away.
“You were incredible.”
“You flew… amazing.”
Both you and Din speak at the same time, words jumbling up and getting tangled. It startles you, even his shoulders stiffen a bit.
Then you laugh.
“No, you were the incredible one.” You tell him first.
“Not compared to you,” he shakes his head.
“Glad I finally got to see one of the Rebellion’s and New Republic’s best pilots in action.” There’s a smirk in his voice, and heat burns through your veins.
Any words you want to say, he’s stolen them right from you. All you’re reduced to is a love struck fool caught in the orbit of this powerful mandalorian.
Din doesn’t say anything either. It’s like you and him can’t look away from the other standing this close.
“Hey! Ya two love birds gonna join us or what?” Zeb suddenly breaks the spell, and your blood instantly boils.
You hiss foul curses at Zeb, and he only cackles with laughter.
Embarrassed and trying to escape this moment you shake your head heading towards the exit.
“Come on, let’s go celebrate.” You manage to smile at Din hoping to dispel any comments about what Zeb said.
The mandalorian follows you into the mess hall cantina. The lively celebratory air glimmers with joyous laughter. It’s a welcoming atmosphere, and even Wolf along with a few other pilots ask Din to join them.
“Maybe in a bit,” He nods, instead staying by your side when you approach the bar.
“No pressure, but drinks on me if you want.” You offer.
“I’ll pass, but thanks.” He instead places down credits for your drink, and you thank him with a toast.
“Come on, let’s see how good of a sabacc player you are.” After taking a huge sip, you allow the alcohol to sting in the best way.
“Think you might be dissapointed,” Din chuckles.
Of course he’s a damn natural.
Everyone at the table cries in frustration when he wins the second round, and you even narrow your eyes at him.
“Oh, so you’re a liar.” You joke good naturedly.
“Never said I was good or bad.” He answers and it’s rather coy, lighter than what you’ve heard from him.
“Next time Mando I want you comin’ with me off planet! We could really win big.” Someone suggests and now it’s comforting seeing how much everyone has warmed up to him, how much Din has settled in here too.
Until you realize the baby is missing and immediately turn to Din. Maybe it’s the atmosphere but you lean closer to him placing your hand against his arm.
“Wait, where’s Grogu?” You ask concerned and low.
Din leans closer to you, his helmet almost grazing your face.
“Don’t worry, he’s asleep in the barracks.” Din’s answer comes low, reassuring.
Then he reaches up to lay his hand on top of yours. It’s a reassuring hold, a soft touch that brings comfort.
You exhale relieved and don’t have time to realize what he just did until someone drags Din away to play darts.
He squeezed your hand, and you now fight against a dumb smile just thinking about it.
Even after another round of getting your ass kicked at cards, you don’t care. You glance over to Din.
A cluster of pilots surround him. You’re not surprised. He’s a marvel, someone truly remarkable. But one of the prettier pilots slides up next to Din, batting her eyelashes so dreamily up at him.
Something fierce, venomous and coated in jealousy, strikes.
Reaching to Wolf, you nudge his shoulder a few times, and he knowingly looks at you. Not saying anything, he discreetly slips you a smoke stick.
You head out of the cantina into the soft warm night and light up. The smoke in your lungs settles you down for a moment and cuts through the alcohol.
Dumb Mandalorian man making you feel this way…
Taking another drag of the smoke stick, you watch the smoke you exhale mix into the air.
“Didn’t know you smoked.” Din.
His voice melts into the night like he stepped out of the shadows themselves. As he wanders towards you, you shift to lean against the rail of the patio.
“Not often,” you truthfully answer. It’s been a long time since you lit up.
A bad habit you picked up during your rebellion days, being as young as you were around seasoned veteran pilots. It became a way to calm yourself down and stop your hands from shaking from the nerves.
You even tell him that.
“What made you join?” He asks, tentative and quiet.
A loaded question but one you feel comfortable enough to answer, especially with him.
The empire took so much from you. You’re grateful you and your sister managed to keep each other safe, look out for each other. You weren’t lying when you joked about stealing ships. Learning to steal is how you survived for a while as a kid.
Then you accidentally stole from a man named Luthen Rael, and your life changed. Whatever he saw in your eyes that day when he caught you… it kept you alive.
He’s the one who helped get your wings, got you in touch with rebellion once you could fly. Once you joined, you never saw him again.
“Never looked back since.” You tell this all to Din.
You don’t regret your choices. They’re what brought you here after all, kept you safe even during the danger.
“You did what you had to… you should be proud of the life you’ve made. Of the wars you've fought and survived.” Din sincerely commends you, and his words settle deep in your heart.
You softly thank him, appreciating the sentiment.
“And you? What brought you to the New Republic?” Taking another drag of the smoke stick, you finally decide to ask.
This time he’s sighing and moves to lean against the rail beside you. He’s pressed up right beside you.
“Benn a long way to get here as well.” He’s vague, but explains how he was, and still is a bounty hunter by trade. How that path led him to the kid. How Grogu is by Mandalorian creed his son and apprentice now.
“I couldn't keep getting involved with pirates, working for gangsters. It’s not the life I wanted anymore.”
It’s admirable seeing how valiant Din’s spirit shines, yet you hear how weary his soul must be like he carries so much guilt.
“There are wars you’ve fought too, Din. You should be proud of your victories. Even the ones you don’t think you should be.” Maybe it’s the fading alcohol and slow numbness of the smoke stick, but you want more than ever to just hold him.
You go to take another drag to stop yourself from doing anything reckless, but find your smoke stick is burnt to its final end.
“I don’t.. deserve such kind words. But thank you.” Din’s voice is thick, tangled in thorny emotions.
Yet underneath it all, he sounds softer and raw, like a man trying to find comfort in your words.
So you turn and see his striking dark T visor gaze on you.
A moment passes where it’s just you and him under the night sky, staring at each other.
“No matter what path you took, I'm glad you’re here.” You earnestly tell him.
In such a short amount of time this mandalorian has reawakened something in you and takes up such a large part of your heart.
“Me too.” Din mutters, nodding.
Another x-wing lands outside stealing your attention away as the engines break the quiet night air.
“Always been curious to how they fly.” Din suddenly comments sounding intrigued.
“You wanna see?”
He turns to you, helmet tilted incredulous and challenging.
“Come on,” so you challenge him back with a toothy grin.
Immediately Din follows behind you, footsteps quick yet terrifying agile.
The hanger sits in eerie stillness this time of night.
“Should we even be here?” Din asks low, a bit cautious.
“Didn’t take you as a ‘by the books’ guy, Mando.” You use the common name everyone calls him as a tease.
“Only when it comes to my employer.” He replies unamused.
“Trust me, we’ll be fine.” You wave him off and he continues following you further into the dark hanger.
He doesn’t know it, but this place, especially for pilots, is an infamous makeout spot. You try not to think about that too much.
There you arrive at your x-wing.
“Hop in,” you nudge him towards the ladder.
“What?” Din sounding so boyish and confused makes you laugh.
“Get in,” you urge.
Sighing defeated he climbs up the ladder to the cockpit and you follow. You look away trying not to stare at his cute ass.
“Can we even fit in this?”
“X-wings are capable of holding various types and sizes of pilots. We are not the empire, thank you very much,” you proudly declare.
The hatch opens, and Din jumps in. The dashboard and control panel light up as he takes a seat in your chair.
Your throat goes dry seeing him sit in the same pilot seat you fly in.
“Throttle, control stick,” he points out immediately.
As much room as you have, it is cramped standing up. So you curl to the side, closer to him, but keep your eyes on the control monitor.
“It’s got a good radar system.” Din comments admiring the monitor too.
You rattle on about how these are the upgraded models everyone got after the war. The original ones you used during the rebellion are classic, but the upgrades were warmly welcomed.
“Sorry, this all must sound boring.” You weakly laugh.
“It’s not. Tell me more.” He reassures.
You’re about to until you hear commotion around the hanger.
So, quickly you scramble up and around to slide into the seat -
Right between the V of Din’s legs.
You crouch low and drag him down too.
“Wh…what are you-”
“Shh…” you shush him. “Have to lie low just in case.”
“So we should leave.” Din urges urgent.
“We’re fine.” You reassure him now.
The commotion you thought you heard passes by, and silence returns.
You exhale a bit relieved, moving to sit up. Then you grin at him from over your shoulder.
“See… told you we’d be fine.”
He stays quiet.
It hits you. Maybe you upset him or crossed a line being this close. Though you aren’t fully pressed up against his chest, the position is still intimate. You’re literally between his legs.
You want to apologize, especially now that the courage fades away fast.
But all you can think about is how stunning Din is, how gorgeous he looks here in your ship.
“One day you should fly it.” You truthfully blurt out while staring at him.
“Don’t think Ward would let me.” He stiffly replies.
“I would.” You immediately counter.
“Plus you look good in here...” Then you realize what you just admitted.
So you try to recover fast.
“Knowing your skills, if you had been with us during the rebellion days, you would’ve fit in just fine. Probably would’ve even been half as good as me.” You add hastily, half joking, hoping he doesn’t linger on anything you said before.
You now glance away to check out the window. The hanger is thankfully still empty.
Then Din suddenly softly breathes your name.
You’ve never heard it sound so holy and raw that it rips you wide open. You completely shift around to glance at him in the lowly light cockpit.
“How inebriated are you?” He asks husky, thick.
“I could recite the entire radar flight plan chart we made for Endor.” You tell him completely wide awake now. Every part of you feels like a live wire completely focused on this man.
His low weak chuckle makes your stomach flip in the best way.
Din exhales, breathy and deep.
You don’t want to over step, don’t want to ruin this. So you patiently wait, hoping he makes the first move.
Feeling his arms slide around yours, tentative but curious, you’re galvanized.
Immediately you rise and twist around to fully stare down at him. Looking at Din for a moment, here in the cockpit of your ship, you want to burn this image into your memory. Want to consecrate this in a way you never may do with anyone else again.
You rest your legs on either side of his, caging him in then you settle down onto his lap.
The soft low noise Din makes is music to your ears.
He says your name, but it sounds more like a warning.
“I want this… I want you.” You tell him, finally admitting the words out loud.
Then, you grind down on his lap, straddling him, and immediately pleasure floods into your system.
Din groans, and it spurs you on instantly.
Frustrated that you’re still in your damn flight suit, you unzip the top, slide off the jacket, and exhale feeling the coolness reach your skin. Sliding your hands up to his shoulders you whisper his name.
Then you grind against the bulge in Din’s pants pressing into you, and your mind goes foggy.
But not foggy enough that you notice Din remains still.
Everything collides into you with a halting stop. What if he doesn’t want this?
“I’m… I’m so sorry.” You halt your movements and apologize composed as you can. Awkwardly you lift yourself off of him.
“No I-” Din starts, but then stops himself.
You settle back down on him but this time further back on his thighs.
“Do you… not want to do this?” You ask cautiously. “Because it’s okay if you don’t.”
It’s okay if you don’t want me, is what you actually want to say. But you’re not brave enough for that, no matter how many empire ships you’ve shot down.
“No.” Din noisily exhales frustrated.
His hands go to rest on your thighs. His head falls forward, crestfallen.
“I want this, want you. Just afraid I won’t be able to stop.” He admits weak.
“You don’t have to stop… I don’t want you to.” You admit, soft and greedy, deciding not to hold back now.
Here in your ship, you think maybe he’s become your prey, trapped in your spiderweb. But then his helmet ever so slightly tilts up to you. Under the watch of his unflinching visor, you now feel like a prey caught within a hunter’s gaze.
His heavy breathing grows stronger and reignites something in you.
“Din,” You mutter his name, and he lets out a strained curse.
“I think about you… too much.” Din reveals like it’s a painful truth, as if the words hurt to say.
“I think about you all the time.” The truth leaves you effortlessly now.
“Wonder about what color your eyes are,” You decide to be the brave rebellion pilot you are.
“If you and the baby are safe, eating well,” you add, and he chuckles breathily.
“I think about how brave you are and how… lucky I am to know you,” you continue feeling molten and sentimental now.
Din says your name again, this time tender, and it almost causes you to falter.
So you lean closer to his helmet.
“I think about how handsome you are… imagine your cock inside me.” You mutter and hearing the words aloud feels too much.
But then his strong hands dig into your thighs and slide you on his lap fully, dragging you across his clothed cock.
How strong he pulled you, the fast friction draws a whine from you.
“Yeah?” He growls and leans his helmet directly against your face. The cool beskar touching your skin is heavenly.
“Yeah.” You moan, and your hips begin their rhythm again.
This time it’s not just you moving. Din finally grinds up into you, and you see stars. Your underwear sticks to your sticky core, but you don’t care.
Not when you and Din rut against each other and his hands chart a path all over you. One hand slides up to your neck, anchoring you close to him. The other moves to your back, sliding up to bunch your tank top in his grasp.
It’s too hot now, and you’re wearing too many clothes.
So you weakly draw away from his hold to reach up and yank your top off.
Then you wiggle the last bit of the jump suit off, trying to let your hips and legs be free. But it’s hard.
Din even chuckles at your struggle, and you shoot him a look, annoyed. Patiently, he helps slide the material down until it pools down your legs.
Now you’re simply in your underwear, completely bare before him.
The sensation of his gloved hands running up your stomach, across your back, reverently taking in every inch of your bare soft skin, it melts you.
“Beautiful,” Din breathes in awe.
Then one of his gloved hands crawls up to knead your breast in his grasp, pinching your nipple. Your head falls back, and your hips return to seek relief. Grinding against him without the jumpsuit, the friction is so much stronger, a delicious undercurrent making you want more.
“Din,” You sob, feeling the pleasure build fast.
“Want you inside of me,” you whimper quickly getting drunk on him.
He cusses again sharp, dragging you harder against his clothed cock.
A loss comes when his hands leave your body, but wearily your eyes open once you feel him move to his pant buckle. Eagerly you join in to help.
His cock in your hand is warm. He’s thick, delicious in size. He’s already leaking, and possessed by something raw you lean down to lightly spit on his cock. Din groans so loud you think it rattles your bones.
Stroking his cock slow, you love feeling his mess mix with your spit.
He quickly hisses your name.
“Inside now,” he urges, a desperate man. Clutching at your hips hard, he practically draws you up.
Who are you to deny your mandalorian?
He helps slide off your stick underwear, now fully bare.
Before you sink down on him, you lean closer to his helmet.
You don’t have to say anything. You simply look at him, a final reassurance to see if he wants this the way you want him.
A gloved hand curls up to your face, cradling your sweaty face, stroking your cheek. His touch is fond, and it rocks you more than anything.
He nods firm, so sure.
So you sink down on him, guiding him into you. Both you and him moan and the world implodes in the most beautiful way.
When you were younger and around the veteran pilots, they used to share tales of how they’d christen their ships. Back then, you couldn’t imagine bringing anyone into this sacred space to do that.
Now you don’t want Din to leave it.
A fervid raw desperation has you clinging to him, Din touches you so protectively, keeping you close. His hands clutch you firm, like he’s worried you could fly away from him at any moment.
Needing to be closer, you curl against his neck. You ache to kiss his skin. But the smell of gunpowder, of something beautifully musky, purely Din, floods your mind and makes your mouth water.
His pace grows sloppy, and you feel it coming too.
“Where?” He slurs urgently.
“Inside, got the implant,” you mutter half dazed, but when you feel his cock twitch inside you moan embarrassingly loud.
“Inside Din please please please.” You now beg, wanting to feel him so badly.
“Not until you come first, wanna feel you.” Din demands growling back, and it pushes you over the edge.
Your climax knocks you into another realm. You’re floating. Din follows you over not long after with the deepest groan.
His warmth fills you, even feel it leaking out, causing you to whimper so content.
Exhausted you flop against his chest loving the cool press of his armor against your bare skin. Then a part of you hisses to pull away. Until Din’s helmet gently leans to rest against your head, and his gloved fingers tenderly stroke your back keeping you in place.
“So… you ever done that before in here?” Din asks, partially joking but still curious.
You shake your head no.
“You’re the only one.” You reveal.
His hand tracing across your skin suddenly stops. Then it fully draws across you to draw you closer to him in a soft like embrace.
An aching adoration for this man cements itself into you. It’s now etched into your heart and now your ship. Maybe the two are the same.
After this night, you find him everywhere now.
Anytime he or you return back from a mission, one seeks the other out.
Din and Grogu now even rest in your quarters.
The lodging here is small, but it’s become your makeshift home. Grogu snuggles up warm among the blanket pile you’ve made for him on the extra cot. And Din sleeps beside you in your bed.
You believed it was something sacred to know a mandalorian, but you realize it’s a true honor to find one seeking rest beside you.
Bathed in the moonlight leaking into your room, you and Din stare at each other lying side by side.
You wish he could relax more, maybe take off his armor.
But remaining helmeted, you understand his creed and don’t want to push. It’s just a small piece of you being selfish and wanting to see him.
“What’s wrong?” He notices your silence.
“I wish I could make this more comfortable for you.” Is the best way you can tell him.
He chuckles.
“Don’t worry, I’m fine.”
To even prove it he settles deeper among the pillows sliding closer to you.
“Nicer than the cot that I have on Nevarro.”
You almost laugh. He’s so endearing sometimes and doesn’t even realize it.
But you’re reminded he does have a home.
“What’s your place like on Nevarro?” You ask about it.
“It’s good, simple.” Such a boring classic Din answer.
“Maybe… one day you can see it.” That addition he makes has your heart racing.
“Yeah, I’d like that” you nod, grateful for the offer.
Slowly your eyes close on their own now.
“Brown,” until suddenly he blurts out a random color.
Wearily opening your eyes blinking at him a bit confused.
“My eyes… they’re brown.” He reveals.
A soft grateful smile warms your face as you thank him.
You fall asleep beside him, wondering about his home, what it would be like to wake up and see his beautiful brown eyes.
But those daydreams get shoved away fast.
Missions begin piling up. The empire trash is getting sneakier, working faster in the shadows. It keeps everyone busy. You barely see Din. When you do the exchanges are brief, simple glances or even short catch ups.
Ward eyes you and Din suspicious but of course aware.
Approaching Din you try avoiding the colonel’s gaze as she leaves.
That’s when you spot the ship that flew in yesterday.
“You wanted… this hunk of junk?” You dubiously stare at the razor crest. This is the beloved ship Din apparently had been searching high and low for.
“She flies better than she looks.” Din defends.
Grogu excitedly waddles up the ramp eager to be inside the old ship.
You still eye the gunship worried about how good she can protect the cargo she’ll soon be carrying.
“Might not be a x-wing, but I trust this ship with my life.” Din senses your apprehension.
You give him a soft elbow nudge that barely makes his budge. But he playfully nudges you back, and a grin tugs at your lips.
“Ugh,” Zeb groans with faux disgust seeing you and Din. You roll your eyes.
“You know, I notice with all the markings… this ship looks like it could fit in with a gold squadron.” You tell Zeb nudging your chin towards the paint.
He barks a laugh.
“Wouldn’t that be a sight. This piece of junk flying with us?” Zeb muses.
“I don’t know…I think the crest would fight right in.” You shrug, fond.
“Yeah? Think we could get Mando in a uniform?” Zeb adds and Din flat out shuts that down with a hard no.
It makes you and Zeb snicker.
Now you head in to examine the ship yourself and look around. The older metal, the antique design and layout, it really doesn’t ease your apprehension, but you trust Din.
“Your beskar boy has shit taste picking a ship like this.” Zed snorts heading up to the cockpit.
“Shut up.” You practically hiss at him.
But he leaves you and Din alone.
It’s hard to navigate this strange space lingering between you and him, as if neither you or him know how to move.
So you decide to be brave. You grab his hand and squeeze it.
“Be safe,” you nod to the mandalorian.
He quietly nods back, gathering your hand in his. He squeezes back just as firm.
You head out of the razor crest and into the bright afternoon sun. From the cockpit window you spot your boys. Din nods a farewell, and Grogu spotting you waves down from the control panel. In his grasp is your silly little monster charm.
Not moving from your spot, you keep your eyes on the ship until it fades into the jump of hyperspeed.
You don’t hear from Din for half a month.
It’s nothing new. You’re had months where missions kept you both busy. And from how displeased she was with the last mission, Ward apparently has him working on something fierce.
Then another week passes, and you’re sent on a protective mission to Chandrilla.
It takes your full attention. But the entire time your mind is on Din. Are he and Grogu safe? Is everything going okay?
“You must be in love.” The Senator you’re escorting on the mission says suddenly. Embarrassment floods you fast.
“I’m sorry?” You ask slightly confused.
He smiles at you kindly.
“You’ve been sighing, seem distant. Like a heroine kept away from a lover.”
Shit.
“I apologize. I promised I’m focused.” You reassure him, and the senator laughs.
“It’s fine, my dear,” he reassures, then leans in eagerly. “So tell me about the lucky person.”
Now here you are telling this Senator about your awful admiration for the mandalorian.
“Oh, a mandalorian.” He whispers in awe. “They’re a rare kind. He must be quite a sight.”
He is. But he’s more than that.
He’s kind and unbelievingly sharp. Strikingly powerful, and unwaveringly supportive. There’s a compassion that walks hand in hand with Din’s firm courage.
“Oh you got it bad,” the Senator laughs.
It’s unfortunately true.
How fast and quickly this mandalorian has disarmed you, but what else would you have expected from a warrior like him? Maybe you were doomed from the start to fight against feelings for such a fierce conqueror.
The thoughts of him keep you going through the mission.
Arriving at base camp, you instead find there’s already commotion.
Din has returned, but he’s not alone.
Jabba’s son, Rotta the Hutt, is with him.
At least Din and the baby are safe.
Standing off overlooking the beach, Din patiently watches Grogu play among the beach waves with the young Hutt.
“So, looks like you’ve been busy.” You say moving to his side.
“Tell me about it.” He sighs.
The rundown he gives you is surface level, getting tied up among the Hutt twins while trying to search for the infamous Commander Coin.
“Things might get hairy soon. I’m heading back to Nevarro to lie low for a while.”
His somber tone says more looms.
“Din…” you mutter cautiously.
He turns to you.
“If you’re in any danger…know that I want to help.” You urge, hoping he’ll tell you more.
“I know.” He nods, yet says nothing more.
Please, your heart begs, please let me stay by your side and fight with you.
But you know fighting against this adamant man is a losing battle. So you sigh and reach down to your belt.
The charm you have on today is your favorite, and you hand it to him.
“Remember to bring it back to me.” You can’t even look at him because your eyes suddenly feel like they could spill over a river of tears.
His gloved hand cradles your face, letting you fully look at him.
“We’ll be fine.” His voice soothes you steeled with resolution.
You nod, fighting harder against tears.
Then Din leans down. He presses his helmet against your forehead. You close your eyes and lean into the cool beskar.
With a goodbye hug to Grogu, you tell the sweet little soul to keep an eye on his dad.
This time, you don’t have the strength to watch them leave.
You throw yourself into any available mission.
Ward must sense why you’re doing this and in a punishment of sorts, she instead sticks you on filing reports.
“Mando will be fine,” Teva tries to reassure you.
You hope he will be. Days pass and you try to settle into a routine.
But then a group of Anzellans arrive in a panic. You’d been working on your ship when they landed.
Currently they rapidly relay a message to Ward. She patiently tries to listen to all of their worried voices.
“What’s going on?” You ask Wolf.
“Apparently Mando and the kid are stuck on Nal Hutta… don’t think it’s looking good.” He mutters back somber.
Absolute dread is unleashed in you.
You don’t realize you’re moving until you’re standing right before the colonel.
“Let me join the rescue strike.” You urge.
Ward turns to you, then sighs, even says your name a bit heartbroken. That says enough.
“Are we really considering not going?!” Your voice raises, shocked and upset.
“It’s not that simple.” Ward, calm and composed, tries to clarify, but just hearing that line feels like an alarm goes off in your head.
“What isn’t simple?! He’s one of us. We have to rescue them.” You argue back harder.
“There are protocols. And with the intel and alliance we’ve tried establishing with the Hutts we can’t just strike in, ranger.” Ward sharply explains, putting you in your place.
Anger burns through your veins.
“She’s right, colonel…” Teva suddenly speaks up.
“Mando is one of us.” He agrees with you.
More Delphi officers stand up.
Before Ward can even say anything, you turn on your heels and head out of the hanger zipping up your flight suit.
You don’t care if this will get you in trouble, hell even dishonorably discharged. Din needs you. Grogu needs you.
Then you hear a few others arrive in the hangar.
Ward calls out your name. This is it.
Turning towards her, you ready yourself to accept whatever punishment. Yet, you instead see your commander in her flight suit as well. Your eyes can’t help but widen.
She sighs yet gives you a half grin, understanding.
“I should sit you out on this mission.”
“I know. I’ve accepted that I’ll be doing reports for the rest of the year.” You sleepily shrug.
Her smirks grows bigger.
“Try two years,” she says heading to her ship.
You’ll happily accept that too.
The twin’s palace is heavily guarded, and it’s a true dogfight on Nal Hutta.
Then Din’s voice electrifies the coms as he reports in with Colonel Ward. Absolute relief blooms in your chest, and you feel like crying. He’s alive.
Now you fly harder and faster than you ever have. It reminds you of Endor. That final battle all you thought of was the hope right before your eyes, knowing something precious was so close and needed to be defended.
That’s what this feels like.
You manage to knock out a few droid ships, but the main focus is on the palace.
Yet Din remains inside.
And Ward gives the command to light the place up.
“Get out of there. Please.” You whisper out loud or maybe to the force itself.
Then, the stronghold goes under flames.
You and the others circle around, flying out of the line of fire from the explosion. Yet your stomach stays in knots.
“Anyone got eyes on Mando?” Wolf asks before you can.
Out from the smoke, there among the water below, you spot them. Your boys are alive.
A watery relieved laugh escapes you as you blink away the tears.
“Go pick up the trash, Zeb.” Ward jokes, and you can’t even be mad.
Knowing they’re safe is all that matters.
Vibrating with so much emotion, you land besides Zeb’s ship hoping to see them.
But Ward of course arrives first.
You instead idle by your x-wing, pretending to be checking your engines. Ward tells him the truth about the Hutts that even you didn’t know. So that’s why she finally agreed to go.
“And… we don’t leave our own behind.” Her words resound within you.
Din deflects, saying how he’s not with the New Republic.
“Sure you aren’t Mando, sure you aren’t.” She says.
“If you aren't one of us… Who do you think helped convince us to come?”
Ward’s insinuating tone shoots a shock up your spine.
You keep your gaze on your ship, refusing to even look their way. Focusing on mindlessly keeping busy, you don’t notice footsteps approaching until you move out from under the wing. There Din stands waiting.
He’s here.
Grogu cries gleefully, and your attention turns to him. You eagerly accept him into your arms hugging him tight.
“I’m so proud of you. You must have been so brave, my little ranger.” You even press a kiss to his fuzzy head, addressing him as the courageous officer he is.
The baby coos back fond, embracing you with his sweet but sturdy little arms.
While he’s still in your hold, your eyes open to find Din.
He stares unwavering at you, and your eyes water again.
“Welcome back,” you croak out.
Din nods, then, he raises up your favorite charm you gave him.
“Had to bring this back.”
With a watery laugh, you shake your head.
“Your dad is so silly,” you half whisper to Grogu who giggles, agreeing.
A sigh leaves Din but, in a few steps, he walks towards you.
Then you and Grogu are gathered into his embrace. You immediately wrap one of your arms around Din.
“Thank you… for coming for us.” Din’s voice is gentle, grateful.
“Always.” You answer back with a resounding truth.
Your job is tied here, and you might fly for the sake of the New Republic. But you believe your true wings, your heart’s flight navigation, now will always include a path for and to Din Djarin.
Currently he chats with Rotta, from what you heard might be staying here too.
Once you head into the mess hall Ward calls your name. With a patient knowing grin, she holds out the datapad with the promise of the paperwork you knew would be waiting for you.
Logging in with your chain link, a new message suddenly chimes onto the monitor from an unknown contact.
It contains a coordinates location to Nevarro along with a single message attached.
Stop by whenever, we’ll be waiting
Quickly, you start the reports happily accepting your punishment.
After all, there's a flight to Nevarro calling your name.
summary: drawn together in the frozen north, Adam and the reader recognize one another as something rare and dangerous—two lives choosing each other in a world determined to tear them apart.
pairing: adam frankenstein x reader
word count: 15,125 words
themes: arctic isolation + “oh god i’m alone”, survival horror vibes, “science” as an excuse to be evil, authority abusing power, being treated like a specimen, Adam being terrifying but choosing restraint, reader being stubborn as hell and way too brave, saving each other by accident (then on purpose), trust forming in a crisis (hello trauma bond), fear vs curiosity, soft intimacy in a fucked situation, protectiveness that’s one step from possessive, “don’t touch him / don’t touch me”, two morally grey weirdos imprinting on each other, MDNI (18+ ONLY), genuinely the blind leading the blind through the ice, oh yeah and a way too early kiss/makeout sesh, oh also this isn't really canon to m. shelley or gdt but it takes from both pls don't yell at me
authors note: okay hi so sorry for being so MIA (this timezone difference is killing me but heyyyy) also i'm begging you to read this while listening to inbred, strangers, amber waves, onanist, punish, strangers, and knuckle velvet by ethel cain
‿̩͙⊱༒︎༻♱༺༒︎⊰‿̩͙
He does not remember the moment the ice closed over him.
He remembers the cold long before that—remembers it the way one remembers a wound that never healed properly. The north was not new to him when he fled into it. It felt, perversely, familiar. Empty. Unforgiving. Honest in its cruelty.
Victor had chased him here, that much he remembers clearly.
The pursuit had been frantic at first—boots slipping, breath ragged, a man driven by horror of his own making. The creature had let himself be seen. Let Victor follow. There was a grim satisfaction in that, though he did not yet have the language to name it.
Come and look, then. Come and see what you made.
The chase did not end in confrontation. It ended in collapse.
The ice had given way without warning, a sudden betrayal beneath his weight. He remembers the sound of it—sharp, cracking, and final. The water swallowed him whole, black and brutal, tearing heat from his body with immediate violence.
He should have died. That realization does not frighten him.
Death, to a creature like him, has always seemed like a reasonable conclusion. What confuses him is that he does not die.
His body fights the cold in ways he does not understand. Muscles seize and adapt. His heart slows, then steadies. Sensation dulls, not into unconsciousness, but into something quieter. Time stretches thin. Thought loosens its grip.
The ice closes above him again and he becomes still.
Days pass. Or weeks. Or months. Time loses its meaning when nothing changes.
Encased in ice, the creature exists in a strange half-state—aware, but distant. Memory drifts in and out without order. Victor’s voice echoes sometimes, sharp with terror and revulsion. Other voices follow—earlier ones, louder ones, filled with shouting and pain and the certainty that he should not exist.
He does not dream the way humans do.
What comes to him instead are sensations: pressure, cold, the endless ache of restraint. His body does not decay. It waits.
He waits. He does not know for what.
There is no hope in him. No expectation of rescue. The world has never intervened on his behalf before. Why would it begin now?
And then—warmth.
It is faint at first, almost imperceptible. A wrongness against the endless cold.
His awareness sharpens.
Pressure shifts near his chest. Not the weight of ice—but something tentative, careful and curious.
A hand.
The contact is brief, gloved, trembling slightly against the frozen surface. But it is enough.
It is new. Then, the ice groans.
Something inside of the creature responds before thought can form. Instinct surges where memory once lived. His body moves, slow at first, then with gathering force.
The ice fractures.
And the world above begins to break open.
You have never trusted silence.
Not the kind that settles politely in libraries or lecture halls. That kind can be coaxed into speech. No, this silence is different. Vast. Absolute. The Arctic has a way of swallowing sound so completely it makes you feel as though you are the only living thing left.
That, perhaps, is why you listen so carefully.
The ship grinds forward through the ice with a low, animal groan, timbers protesting as though each mile is a negotiation rather than progress. You stand at the rail, journal tucked under one arm, breath fogging the air.
You are here because understanding is safety. You have believed that all your life.
The men aboard the ship whisper of omens and madness, of the north as though it is cursed. You dismiss them quietly. Fear thrives on ignorance. Knowledge, you have always found, is a far more reliable companion.
“Doctor,” the first mate calls. You turn. “There’s something ahead.”
The way he says it—hesitant, uncertain—sets your pulse racing. You follow his gaze.
At first, you see only ice, then you see the shape.
It lies half-buried beneath the surface, dark against the pale expanse. Too large to be debris. Too symmetrical to be natural.
“A body,” someone mutters.
Your breath catches. Not with horror—but recognition. Bodies decay. Even here.
You lean farther over the rail, eyes narrowing as you take in the fractures radiating outward from the shape. The ice has not merely trapped whatever lies beneath it.
It has been pushed back. “I need to examine it,” you say. The objections come immediately.
The ice is unstable. We’ll lose daylight. It’s not worth the risk.
You listen to none of them.
They lower you down reluctantly, ropes taut as your boots meet the ice. The cold hums beneath your feet, alive with tension. Each step feels deliberate, weighted with consequence.
You kneel beside the figure and up close, it is unmistakably human. Too human.
The skin visible beneath the ice is pale. Dark hair fans outward as though caught mid-motion. One hand is curled against its chest—not slack, but tense.
You press your palm to the ice. You expect nothing. You feel resistance.
Your breath leaves you in a sharp gasp. “That’s not possible,” you whisper.
The ice cracks.
The sound is violent and sudden, splitting the world open beneath you. Your footing vanishes. The sea yawns wide, black and endless, and terror lances through you with surgical precision.
You fall.
The cold surges upward, brutal and immediate, stealing breath, sensation, thought…and then something moves.
The ice explodes outward as a massive hand breaks through, fingers closing around your forearm with terrifying certainty. The grip is iron-hard and controlled, pulling you forward instead of down.
You collide against something solid. Warm. The sensation is so profoundly wrong it steals your breath.
An arm braces your waist as the ice collapses where you stood seconds before. You cling instinctively, fingers digging into frozen fabric, heart hammering wildly.
He breathes.
Deep. Ragged. Alive.
You look up. Not a corpse. Not a myth. Not a theory. Something ancient and impossibly present holds you above the abyss.
And as the crew screams above you and the ice continues to fracture, you realize—with a clarity that terrifies you more than the cold ever could—that understanding has just failed to keep you safe.
And yet, somehow, he has. He does not know her. That should matter more than it does.
Her weight is wrong in his arms. She is too light, too fragile, too warm. The contrast is violent. Heat bleeds through his frozen skin in a way that hurts, a sharp, aching sensation that drags him fully, brutally into the present.
She is alive. The realization lands with crushing force.
Not abstract life. Not distant. This life is shaking against him, breath coming in sharp, panicked gasps, fingers clutching at his coat as though he is the only solid thing left in the world.
He should let her go.
The ice is breaking. The sea is rising. The men above are shouting—voices full of fear and command and threat. He recognizes that tone. It has followed him his entire existence.
Let go. Step back. Disappear.
Instead, he tightens his grip.
The ice gives way beneath them with a sound like screaming bone. The creature shifts instinctively, turning his body so that when the surface collapses entirely, it is his back that takes the shock, not hers. The water surges up around his legs, burning cold, but he barely registers it.
All of his attention is on keeping her above the black Arctic waters.
Her heart is racing. He can feel it where her chest presses against him, frantic and wild. It is unbearably loud.
“Hold on,” she gasps—whether to him or herself, he cannot tell.
He does not answer. He does not have words ready for this moment.
He only knows that the idea of her slipping from his grasp, of that heat vanishing into the dark, fills him with something close to terror.
He moves.
With a force that splinters the remaining ice, he drives them forward, one arm braced around her waist, the other finding safety on a thicker shelf near the surface. The effort cracks something deep in the frozen expanse. The sound echoes outward, violent and final.
Men shout. Ropes fall. Light fractures the grey sky above them.
He hauls them both upward, muscles burning with a familiar, grounding pain. Hands reach down—hesitant at first, then desperate.
They grab her, though does not release her immediately.
Someone yells, “Get it back in the water!” He growls.
The sound rips out of him without permission—low, rough, unmistakably inhuman. It vibrates through his chest, through her, through the ice itself.
The hands falter.
Only when she is fully supported, when he is certain she will not fall, does he loosen his grip. And even then, he stays close. You come back to yourself in fragments.
Cold. Noise. Pain in your arms where the ropes bite. The deck slamming hard beneath your boots.
Hands are everywhere: pulling, steadying, shouting your name.
“Doctor—Doctor, look at me—”
You stumble forward, barely catching yourself, and then you’re turning back, heart in your throat.
He’s still there.
Half out of the ice, water streaming from him in dark rivulets, massive hands gripping the edge with terrifying ease. Steam curls faintly from his skin as the Arctic air meets impossible warmth.
Someone screams. Another man swears violently.
“That’s not—”
“It can’t be—”
“Get away from it!”
You move without thinking. “No!” you shout.
The sound of your own voice cuts through the chaos, sharp and commanding. It surprises you almost as much as it does them. You plant yourself at the edge of the deck, boots sliding dangerously close to the rail.
“He saved my life,” you say, breathless. “Do you hear me? He saved my life.”
The captain pushes forward, face pale, eyes flicking between you and the figure below. “Doctor, get back. That thing—”
“Is alive,” you snap. “And injured.” A murmur ripples through the crew.
“No man survives that—”
“That’s not a man—”
He moves then, not toward them, but toward you.
The ice cracks again as he pulls himself fully free, climbing with a controlled strength that makes the ship creak in response when he reaches the deck. He stands bareheaded in the cold, towering, water pouring from his clothes onto the planks.
The men recoil instinctively. You don’t.
You’re shaking now, the adrenaline finally catching up to you, but you hold your ground. He stops a careful distance away, eyes fixed on you with unnerving focus.
“You are injured,” he says.
The concern in his voice is low, rough, unmistakably real. It hits you harder than the cold ever did.
“I’m alive,” you reply. “Thanks to you.”
The captain raises his voice. “Doctor, move aside. We’ll restrain it—”
“No,” you say immediately.
“That’s an order.”
“Then countermand it,” you reply. “Because if you lay a hand on him, you’ll answer to the Royal Society for the loss of its most valuable discovery.”
That gives them pause. You feel it—the shift. Fear wrestling with greed. Curiosity clawing its way past superstition.
“He needs warmth,” you continue, forcing your voice to steady. “He’s hypothermic.”
Someone laughs nervously. “He’s steaming.”
“That doesn’t mean he’s stable,” you shoot back. “And I am the only physician aboard.”
The captain stares at you for a long, terrible moment then speaks. “Get him below deck,” he says. “Slowly.”
A beat. “And Doctor?”
“Yes?”
“If he so much as twitches—”
“He won’t,” you interrupt. You turn back to him, heart pounding. “Can you walk?” He nods once.
You hesitate, then offer your arm. It’s an absurd gesture, given the size of him and for a fraction of a second, you think he might refuse.
Instead, he bends slightly, careful, and takes it. The contact is electric.
You feel the heat of him through your sleeve, steady and grounding, as the two of you move together toward the stairwell. The crew parts instinctively, eyes wide, bodies tense.
“Easy,” someone mutters.
“Don’t look at it—”
“It’s looking at her—”
He hears every word.
You feel it in the way his arm tightens just slightly around yours—not restraining, not claiming. Protecting. Below deck, the door to the infirmary slams shut behind you, cutting off the noise, the fear, the world.
You lean back against it, breath coming fast. For a moment, neither of you speaks.
Then he says, quietly, “You should not have gone onto the ice.”
You laugh weakly. “I’m told I have a terrible habit of doing that.”
His gaze flicks over you, assessing—arms, legs, face—searching for damage. “You could have died.”
“Yes,” you agree. “I often do that too.”
That earns you the faintest pause in his expression—something like confusion. Something like disbelief.
“You did not fear me,” he says. You meet his gaze. “No.”
“Why?”
You hesitate, then answer honestly. “Because you reached for me.”
The silence that follows is thick, charged, and utterly irreversible. Outside the infirmary, the ship creaks and groans as it resumes its slow journey forward.
Inside, you stand with a being the world insists should not exist and who, moments ago, chose you over the void.
The infirmary is too small for him.
You notice it the moment the door closes—that subtle, immediate pressure in the air, as though the room has drawn a careful breath and is unsure it can hold it. He stands near the center of it, shoulders nearly brushing the hanging cabinets, and water pooling at his feet. The lamplight catches on his skin, too pale, too scarred, and on the seams of old those scars you are trying very hard not to stare at.
Outside the door, the ship creaks. Voices rise and fall. Someone laughs nervously. You do not look at them.
“Sit,” you say, gesturing to the cot.
He hesitates.
“Please,” you add.
That seems to make the difference.
He lowers himself carefully, the frame groaning under his weight. You wince, then school your expression—this is not the moment for commentary. You reach for a towel, then another, pressing them into his hands.
“You’re soaked,” you say. “And you’re going to freeze if we don’t—well. Less than you already have.”
He watches you as he dries his hands, movements awkward but precise. His gaze follows you when you turn away, when you retrieve instruments, when you pull on fresh gloves with hands that are steadier than you feel.
“You are not afraid now,” he says. You pause. “I’m focused.”
“That is not the same.”
You glance back at him. “No. But it’s close.”
You step nearer, assessing him properly now. Checking his pupils, the colour of his lips, the way his chest rises and falls. His body is warm beneath your touch, unsettlingly so, and you frown despite yourself.
“This is…extraordinary,” you murmur. “Your temperature regulation alone—”
“You speak as though I am a problem,” he says quietly.
The words stop you and you meet his gaze. “I speak as though I’m trying to understand you.”
He studies you for a long moment. “No one has ever said that.”
Something in your chest tightens.
“All right,” you say, gently redirecting. “I’m going to examine you. If anything hurts, you tell me.” He nods.
You begin with his hands. They are large, larger than any you’ve held before, and scarred in places that suggest restraint rather than accident. When you flex his fingers gently, testing range of motion, he watches with visible concentration.
“Does this pain you?” you ask.
“No.”
“This?”
“No.”
You move to his arm, then his shoulder. There is a deep gash there, raw and angry from the ice. You clean it carefully, expecting resistance.
Instead, you watch it close beneath your fingers. You still and he notices immediately.
“It frightens you,” he says.
“Yes,” you admit. “A little.”
“You may stop.”
You look up. “Do you want me to?” He considers. “No.” You exhale slowly and continue.
“How long were you in the ice?” you ask quietly. He looks past you, gaze unfocusing slightly. “I do not know.”
“Years?” you press. “Months?”
“A long time,” he says. “Long enough for the world to forget I was there.”
The words land heavier than any number could have.
You move to his chest, listening to his heart. It beats slow and strong beneath your palm, steady as stone. You become acutely aware of how close you are, of the fact that your hand rests over something undeniably alive.
“May I ask you something?” he says.
You glance up. “Of course.”
“Why did you come onto the ice?” You hesitate. Honesty feels important here.
“Because I believed,” you say slowly, “that understanding something would make it less dangerous.”
He watches you intently. “And do you still believe that?” You swallow. “I don’t know.”
That seems to satisfy him. “May I ask another?” You nod. “What do they call me?” he asks.
Your throat tightens. “They don’t know what to call you.”
“And you?” You meet his gaze. “I would rather know what you call yourself.”
Silence stretches. Then, carefully, as though handling something fragile. “My name is Adam.”
The word settles into the room, simple and monumental all at once.
“Adam,” you repeat softly.
He nods once. “It was given to me by a man who meant it as a joke. I kept it anyway.”
“I’m glad you did,” you say before you can stop yourself.
He watches your face closely, as though committing the reaction to memory. “You may continue,” he says.
You do—checking his ribs, his back, the places where old injuries have healed too cleanly, too completely. With each touch, his questions come more freely now, as though something has loosened.
“Why do you write so much?” he asks.
“So I don’t forget,” you reply.
“Do you forget easily?”
“No,” you admit. “But people forget me.” He considers this. “I do not think I will forget you.”
The statement is simple. Earnest. It sends a shiver through you that has nothing to do with cold. When you finish, you step back, pulling off your gloves. “You’re…stable,” you say. “More than stable. You shouldn’t be.”
“That seems to be a pattern,” he replies. You laugh despite yourself, a short, surprised sound. He tilts his head slightly, watching it with interest.
“That,” he says, “was not fear.”
“No,” you agree. “It wasn’t.”
Silence settles again, but it feels different now. Less brittle. Outside, someone knocks once at the infirmary door—tentative.
You don’t answer immediately. He looks at the door, then back at you. “Will they take me?” You meet his gaze. “Not without my consent.”
“And if they try?”
You straighten, spine firming with resolve. “Then they’ll have to go through me.” Something unreadable passes across his expression—something like wonder.
“You are very strange,” Adam says quietly.
You smile faintly. “I’ve been told.”
The ship creaks on around you, the world pressing in on all sides. But for this moment—here, in the lamplight, with his name finally spoken—you understand with unsettling clarity that something irrevocable has begun.
And for the first time, he has been allowed to exist long enough to ask questions and so have you. The knock comes again. Harder this time. Not tentative. Not polite.
You feel it in your spine before you hear it properly, the shift from fear into decision, the moment when men stop asking and start justifying.
He hears it too.
His posture changes instantly, shoulders drawing back, weight settling into his heels. Not aggressive. Prepared. The room seems to bend around him, every inch of space suddenly accounted for.
“Stay here,” he says.
You don’t move. “I’m not leaving you alone with them.”
“That is not what I meant,” he replies, gaze still fixed on the door. “Stand where I can see you.”
That lands differently than an order.
You step closer, not behind him, but beside him. Close enough that your arm brushes his. You feel the heat of him immediately, steady and grounding and far too distracting for the moment you’re in.
The door opens without waiting for your consent. The captain fills the doorway, flanked by two men you recognize by reputation alone—steady hands, hard eyes, chosen not for reason but resolve.
“Doctor,” the captain says tightly. “We need to speak.”
“You’re doing it,” you reply. His gaze flicks past you. Fixes. Hardens.
“He can’t remain unguarded.”
“He’s not unguarded,” you say.
The captain’s jaw tightens. “You know what I mean.” Before you can respond, Adam speaks. “You are afraid,” he says calmly.
The words cut through the room like a blade. One of the men bristles. “Watch your—”
“You fear what I could do,” he continues, unperturbed. “Not what I have done.”
Silence. The captain clears his throat. “This isn’t about fear. It’s about safety.”
“No,” he replies. “It is about control.” You feel the air tighten. You also feel, unsettlingly, proud.
“He stays under my care,” you say firmly. “If you have concerns, you bring them to me.”
The captain’s eyes flick between you. “You’re compromised.” You laugh once, sharp and humourless. “Because I refuse to let you chain someone for existing?”
The men shift uneasily. “He broke the ice like it was nothing,” one mutters.
“He broke nothing that didn’t already intend to kill me,” you snap.
That seems to decide it.
The captain exhales slowly. “He doesn’t leave this room without an escort.”
“No,” you say. “He doesn’t leave this room at all.” The captain’s gaze sharpens. “Doctor—”
“He stays,” you repeat. “Or I document everything that’s happened here. Every word. Every threat.”
That gives them pause.
The captain nods once, sharply. “We’ll revisit this.”
They leave without another word and the door closes.
The silence afterward is violent.
You exhale slowly, hands shaking now that there’s nothing left to hold you upright. You turn and stop.
He’s too close.
You hadn’t realized he’d moved until he’s there, towering and intent, eyes dark with something that has nothing to do with fear. He looks down at you as though assessing damage you cannot feel yet.
“You should not challenge them like that,” he says quietly.
“You should not decide when I speak,” you reply.
Something like surprise flickers across his face, the —interest.
“You do not retreat,” he observes.
“No,” you say. “I’m terrible at it.”
His gaze drops briefly to your mouth, your throat, the place where your pulse betrays you. The look is not leering. It is curious. Testing.
“May I?” he asks.
Your breath catches. “May you…?”
He reaches out slowly, deliberately, giving you time to stop him.
You don’t.
His fingers brush your wrist, just above the bone, where your pulse flutters too fast to be dignified. The touch is feather-light and experimental.
“You are trembling,” he says.
“Yes,” you reply honestly.
“Because you are afraid.”
“Yes.”
He tilts his head. “And because you are not.”
The realization hits you like a wave.
You should pull away. You don’t.
His thumb presses, just slightly, feeling the beat beneath your skin. His focus is absolute, as though nothing else in the world exists but that fragile, human rhythm.
“When I am near you,” he says quietly, “my thoughts lose order.”
Your voice comes out thinner than you intend. “That doesn’t sound safe.”
“No,” he agrees. “It does not.”
And yet he doesn’t move away. “Tell me to stop,” he says.
You search your own mind for certainty. You find none.
“I don’t anticipate you to stop,” you admit.
Something in him stills. Tightens.
“That is dangerous,” he says, not as a warning, but a confession.
His hand withdraws slowly, reluctantly, as though it costs him effort. The absence of the touch is sharp enough to make you dizzy.
“I do not wish to frighten you,” he continues. “But I will not pretend I do not feel…drawn.”
You swallow. “Neither will I.”
The admission hangs between you, terrifying and electric. Outside the infirmary, boots pass. Voices murmur. The world presses in again.
He steps back—just enough to give you space, not enough to feel like distance.
“They will try again,” he says.
“Yes,” you reply.
“And I will want to stop them.”
You meet his gaze, heart hammering. “And I will want to understand you better.”
His mouth curves not into a smile, but something close.
“Then,” he says softly, “we are both in danger.”
The ship creaks on, carrying you forward.
The days after the ice settle into a rhythm that feels forced, as though the vessel is holding itself together out of stubbornness rather than health. The timbers creak as they always have, the sails strain and relax with the wind, the sea behaves itself. There is no visible damage. No dramatic evidence of catastrophe.
And yet…the men walk more carefully now.
They give the infirmary a wide berth, altering their routes without comment, eyes fixed forward when they pass its door. Conversations falter when you approach. Laughter no longer carries. Fear has learned manners.
He notices.
He always notices.
He never paces. Never fidgets. He stands or sits with an economy of motion that makes every shift feel intentional. You have the uneasy sense that he is always conserving something—strength, patience, violence—and that this restraint is not passive but maintained.
The infirmary becomes less a place of healing and more a boundary. You keep the door open during the day, not because you trust the crew, but because you understand them. Closed doors invite invention. Silence breeds narrative. An open door forces them to contend with the truth of him: still, quiet, present.
Alive.
“They watch you,” he says one evening, voice low and even.
“They’re afraid,” you reply, not looking up from your notes.
“Yes,” he agrees. “But they are also waiting.”
“For what?” His gaze lifts to you. “For me to justify them.”
The words settle heavily.
The captain waits three days before confronting you again. When he does, it is not in anger. Anger would be easier. This is measured, restrained, and sharpened by calculation.
“He cannot remain unguarded,” the captain says quietly.
“He isn’t unguarded,” you reply. “He’s observed.”
“That’s semantics.”
“No,” you say. “That’s ethics.”
The captain exhales. “The men are uneasy.”
“You mean they’re aware,” you correct.
“They want assurance.”
“Of what?” you ask. “That he won’t act? Or that they’ll be justified if they do?”
The captain’s mouth tightens. “You’re too close to this.”
“Yes,” you say. “That’s why I’m useful.”
The compromise is thin and ugly. He will not leave the infirmary without you. The crew will not interfere unless provoked. The captain will accept your word as long as nothing happens.
Fear dressed as diplomacy. When you tell Adam, he listens without interruption.
“They should not bargain from fear,” he says.
“They’re bargaining from survival,” you reply.
He studies you for a long moment. “So are you.”
That night, the sea grows restless. Not a storm, not enough to justify alarm, but enough to make the ship shift beneath your feet, lanterns swaying, shadows stretching and contracting like something breathing.
You sit at the desk, pen idle while he stands near the wall.
“You are restless,” he says.
“So are you.”
“I am always this way.”
“You don’t look it.”
“That is because I am contained.”
The word chills you. “You frighten them,” you say carefully.
“Yes.”
“You don’t try not to.”
“No.”
“Why?”
He steps closer—not abruptly, not threateningly. Just enough to change the air.
“Because pretending to be harmless invites mistakes,” he says. “I would rather they fear me accurately.”
Your pulse betrays you.
“And me?” you ask. “Do you frighten me accurately?”
He considers. “You are not frightened of what I am.”
“What am I frightened of, then?”
“What you allow yourself to feel.”
By the fifth day, the tension has become a living thing.
The crew no longer whispers, they plainly avoid. They leave tools behind rather than retrieve them if it means passing the infirmary. You hear boots slow outside the door. You hear breathing change.
So does he. “They will act before land,” you say quietly.
“Yes.”
“And when they do?”
“I will decide,” he says, “how much of myself to reveal.”
That night, you do not leave.
You sit on the edge of the cot, exhaustion heavy in your limbs. He remains standing, massive and still, as though gravity itself is something he tolerates rather than obeys.
“You should rest,” he says.
“So should you.”
“I do not sleep as you do.”
“You still need it.”
“You are changing your behaviour,” he observes.
“So are you.”
“I am responding,” he says. “You are choosing.”
You lie back before you can reconsider.
The cot creaks softly beneath your weight. Lantern light sways across the ceiling. For a moment, nothing happens.
Then the chair creaks and he sits beside you.
Not close enough to touch, but enough to matter.
“Sleep,” he says.
“I will,” you murmur.
Your eyes close despite yourself. Fatigue drags you under in slow waves. The ship rocks and the world narrows.
You are dimly aware of him standing again, of his presence shifting closer. You do not open your eyes.
His hand hovers above you for a long moment.
He studies your breathing—the way it evens, the way your face softens as consciousness loosens its grip. In sleep, you look fragile. Human. Breakable in a way that makes something twist sharply in his chest.
When he touches you, it is with reverence.
His fingers brush your hair first, slow and careful, combing through it as though learning its weight. He stills when you shift, then continues when you don’t wake. His hand moves lower, tracing the line of your arm where it lies bare above the blanket, light enough to be barely sensation at all.
You sigh softly in your sleep. The sound goes straight through him.
He pulls his hand back abruptly, jaw tightening, breath deepening not with hunger, but effort. This is not innocence, but reatraint.
He reaches for you again more carefully, letting his fingers rest in your hair, unmoving. Anchoring.
“I could ruin this,” he murmurs, barely audible. “I know that.”
You do not answer.
“I could wake you,” he continues. “I could frighten you. I could make this into something you regret.”
His thumb brushes your wrist, feeling your pulse flutter beneath it.
“But I will not.”
He settles back into the chair, remaining close. Watching. Learning the discipline of stillness.
Hour after hour, he keeps vigil beside you. One hand tangled lightly in your hair, the other resting along your arm like a promise he does not yet know how to keep.
Outside, the ship moves steadily toward land. Inside, something far more dangerous is learning how to stay.
Land announces itself before anyone speaks of it.
You sense it first in the ship’s behaviour, the way it steadies, the subtle correction of its course, the change in how the wind meets the sails. The motion grows less erratic, less defensive. Even the sea seems to draw back slightly, as though acknowledging a boundary.
You wake to that difference.
For a moment, you do not remember where you are. The infirmary is dim, lantern light low and amber, shadows long and familiar. The ship creaks softly beneath you, a living thing settling into a new rhythm.
Then you remember. You are not alone.
Your awareness sharpens not with fear, but with an instinctive pull toward the space beside you. The chair is there. He is there. Awake.
He has not moved.
He sits exactly as you last sensed him. Broad frame angled slightly toward the cot, one forearm resting along the edge of it, fingers still tangled lightly in your hair. The touch is careful, restrained, but unmistakably intimate. His other hand rests along your arm, warm and steady, as though anchoring you to the present.
You inhale softly and his gaze lifts immediately. “You’re awake,” he says.
The low timbre of his voice sends a quiet shiver through you, less from surprise than from the intimacy of being noticed so precisely.
“Yes,” you murmur. “How long…?”
“A while,” he replies.
You don’t ask how long. You already know the answer would unsettle you.
Outside the infirmary, the ship stirs more actively than it has in days. Footsteps pass. Voices rise controlled, purposeful, threaded with something like anticipation.
Land.
You feel his hand still in your hair. He does not withdraw it immediately. Neither of you speaks.
Then slowly, deliberately, he removes his fingers from where they rest against your scalp, smoothing your hair back into place with a final, careful pass. The loss of the contact is sharper than you expect.
He stands.
The chair creaks softly as he rises, the sound oddly final.
“They will see me today,” he says.
It is not a question.
You sit up, blanket slipping down around your shoulders. “Yes.”
“And you,” he continues, gaze steady, “will be expected to step away.”
The words land heavier than any accusation.
“Yes,” you say again, quieter this time.
He turns slightly, as though considering the room from a distance now—as though already withdrawing from it.
“This space,” he says, “has been…private.”
It is the closest he has ever come to naming what this has been.
“It won’t be anymore,” you reply.
“No.”
You stand, smoothing your clothes with hands that betray you only slightly. “We knew this was coming.”
“Yes,” he agrees. “That does not make it less…irritating.”
The faint edge of something sharp beneath the word sends a pulse of heat through you.
“Irritating,” you echo dryly.
He looks at you then—really looks at you. Not with hunger. Not with confusion. With something darker. Possessive without being claimed. Controlled without being gentle.
“You belong to yourself,” he says. “I am aware of that.”
Your breath catches.
“And yet,” he continues, “the thought of others standing where I have stood is…unwelcome.”
You should be alarmed. You are not.
“Others won’t see what you see,” you say.
“No,” he replies. “They will see what they want.”
The ship’s bell rings once. Clear. Decisive.
You both still.
“That will be the first announcement,” you say. “We’ll dock by afternoon.”
He nods. “Then I will no longer be permitted to watch over you.”
The phrasing—permitted—makes something twist painfully in your chest.
“You were never required to,” you say.
“No,” he agrees. “I chose to.”
You step closer without thinking. Close enough to feel the warmth radiating from him again, close enough that the air tightens between you.
“This doesn’t end what’s happening,” you say quietly.
His gaze drops to your mouth, then lifts again with visible effort.
“No,” he says. “It changes where it must be hidden.”
That frightens you more than an ending would. The hours that follow feel unreal.
The ship becomes busy in a way it has not been since before the ice. Men scrub decks, coil rope, prepare lines. Officers confer in low voices. Order returns, not comfort, but structure.
You are watched now.
Not just him.
You.
You feel eyes on you when you move through the corridors, feel attention sharpen when you enter a space he occupies. You do not touch him. You do not stand as close. The distance feels wrong, like a lie both of you are forced to participate in.
He does not look at you on deck.
That is deliberate.
When the coastline finally emerges through the mist, a murmur runs through the ship. Relief mixes with apprehension. Civilization looms like judgment.
You stand at the rail, journal clutched tightly in your hands. He stands several paces behind you.
Not close enough to claim. Not far enough to abandon.
“They are staring,” you murmur without turning.
“Yes.”
“At you.”
“At the idea of me,” he corrects.
You glance back.
He meets your gaze openly this time. No secrecy, no softened edges. This is the version of him the world will receive: still, imposing, unreadable. Dangerous not because he moves, but because he doesn’t need to.
“Do you regret coming with me?” you ask quietly.
“No.”
“Even knowing what awaits?”
“Yes,” he says. “Especially knowing.”
The harbour draws closer. Shapes resolve into buildings, docks, figures waiting like punctuation marks at the end of a sentence.
Soon, there will be no quiet rooms. No shared watches in lamplight. No hands in hair, no fingers tracing arms while the world sleeps.
Soon, he will be seen.
And you will have to decide—again and again—whether understanding is still worth what it costs you.
As the ship glides toward land, he steps closer just once, close enough that only you feel it.
“I will remember the way you slept,” he murmurs. “So that when the world presses in, I know what I am restraining myself for.”
Your throat tightens painfully. “I’m not something to be guarded,” you whisper.
“No,” he agrees. “You are something to be chosen.”
The ship slows. Ropes are thrown.
And the quiet you shared slips away. Not broken, but hidden deep beneath the surface, waiting for a moment when it can breathe again.
They move quickly after that.
Not chaotically—efficiently, politely, with the practiced confidence of men who have never had to justify their authority beyond invoking it. The Royal Society does not shout. It does not seize. It arranges.
You are ushered into a receiving room that smells faintly of coal smoke and old paper. Someone offers you tea you do not drink. Someone else closes a door with careful deliberation. The dock noise fades, replaced by the hush of upholstered furniture and expectation.
He is not allowed inside with you.
You feel the absence immediately.
It is not simply that he is gone from your side. It is that the air feels thinner without him, as though something that had been holding the space together has stepped away. You catch yourself turning slightly, as if expecting him to be there, and have to stop.
The man with the Society pin sits across from you, folding his gloves neatly on the table.
“We appreciate your cooperation, Doctor,” he says smoothly. “What you’ve brought back with you is…unprecedented.”
“He’s a man,” you reply flatly.
The man smiles thinly. “That remains to be determined.”
Your jaw tightens.
“Our concern,” he continues, “is propriety. Safety. Appearances. It would be inappropriate for you to remain in such close association with him during the assessment period.”
“Inappropriate for whom?” you ask.
“For you,” he replies. “For him. For the Society.”
You laugh once, sharp and humorless. “You’re worried about rumors.”
“We’re worried about influence,” he corrects. “He has already demonstrated a…selective compliance.”
You know what they mean.
You feel it like a bruise.
“He chose,” you say.
“And that is precisely the problem,” the man replies. “We cannot allow emotional entanglement to compromise objectivity.”
Objectivity.
The word makes something cold and furious settle in your chest.
“You will not see him tonight,” the man continues calmly. “He will be housed elsewhere, under supervision.”
Your pulse spikes. “He won’t accept that.”
The man’s smile tightens. “He will be informed.”
You stand so abruptly your chair scrapes loudly against the floor. “You are not moving him without my consent.”
The man regards you steadily. “Doctor, you misunderstand. We are not asking.”
The silence stretches.
Then, very softly, “You should understand,” he adds, “that your continued involvement depends on your cooperation.”
The threat is not subtle. You leave before you say something irreversible.
They do not stop you.
Outside, the afternoon has shifted toward evening. The sky is bruised with low clouds, the harbour loud and alive with labour. You scan instinctively for him, heart pounding.
You don’t see him. You feel him.
He stands at the far end of the dock, flanked by two men who are trying very hard not to stand too close. His posture is relaxed, almost casual, but you recognize the coiled restraint beneath it now. He senses you the moment you step into view.
His gaze locks onto you. The look that crosses his face is not relief. It is fury—contained, disciplined, terrifyingly focused.
“They spoke to you,” he says when you reach him.
“Yes.”
“They intend to remove me.”
“Yes.”
“And you?” he asks quietly.
“I said no.”
Something dark shifts behind his eyes.
“They do not care,” he says.
“I do,” you reply.
The men beside him stiffen.
He leans slightly closer to you, not touching, but close enough that his presence eclipses the world around you.
“Then I will not go,” he says simply.
Your breath catches. “You can’t—”
“I can,” he interrupts. “They cannot force me without consequence.”
“And if they try?” you ask.
His voice drops. “Then I will stop pretending.”
The honesty of it is chilling.
You step closer, lowering your voice. “Listen to me. This is what they want. A justification.”
“They already have one,” he says. “They are simply deciding when to use it.”
A hand lands on his arm—one of the attendants, pale and shaking.
“Sir, please—”
The man does not finish the sentence. He does not need to. Adam turns his head slowly. The dock seems to hold its breath.
“Remove your hand,” he says.
The man does.
Immediately.
You exhale shakily. “This is exactly what I mean.”
His gaze flicks back to you. Softens, not by much, but enough.
“They are trying to take you from me,” he says.
The words are quiet. Final.
Your heart stutters painfully. “They’re trying to separate us.”
“There is a difference.”
You swallow. “Adam—”
“I have endured solitude,” he continues. “I have endured hatred. I have endured abandonment.”
His voice lowers further. “I will not endure you being taken.”
The possessiveness in the words should alarm you. Instead, it makes your chest ache.
“You don’t own me,” you say gently.
“No,” he agrees immediately. “But I am not mistaken about what I feel.”
“And what is that?” you ask, barely breathing.
“That when they move you away from me,” he says, “it will not be neutral. It will be violence done politely.”
Footsteps approach. Authority gathers. You reach out without thinking—your fingers brushing his wrist, grounding, deliberate.
“I need you to trust me,” you whisper. “Just this once.”
His breath catches. Trust is not something he has been taught gently.
“How long?” he asks.
“Tonight,” you say. “Tomorrow we fight.”
A long pause.
Then, slowly, deliberately, he steps back. The space between you feels obscene.
“I will allow this,” he says quietly. “Because you asked.”
The words settle like a vow…and a warning.
They take him. Not roughly. Not yet.
You watch him go with your spine straight and your hands clenched so tightly your nails bite into your palms. He does not look back.
He does not need to.
That night, alone in borrowed quarters, sleep will not come.
And miles away, in a room meant to contain him, Adam sits utterly still. His hands folded, jaw clenched, every instinct screaming restraint.
They believe separation will weaken him. They do not yet understand what they have sharpened instead.
You arrive before the city has decided to wake.
The streets are still blue with night, gas lamps burning low, their light smeared by mist that clings stubbornly to iron railings and wet stone. Your boots strike the pavement too loudly. Every sound feels exposed, as though the world is holding its breath and your footsteps are the only proof anything is alive.
You have not slept.
You did not expect to.
You walked from the harbour in the dark with the taste of yesterday still sharp in your mouth. Men staring, men calculating, men smiling like they’d already won. The Society does not rush. It simply moves—quietly, efficiently, assuming the world will shape itself around its decisions.
And you have always been foolish enough to believe that understanding would keep you safe.
The Royal Society building rises out of the fog like a mausoleum. Severe. Clean. Permanent. It has the kind of architectural confidence that comes from centuries of being obeyed. You have stood before its doors in other versions of your life, heart pounding with ambition, with the hope that if you could prove yourself brilliant enough, you might be allowed to belong.
Today, you do not ask to belong.
You push inside.
A porter looks up sharply, confusion flashing across his face at your arrival at such an hour. “Doctor—?”
“Move,” you say.
Something in your voice must make him hesitate, because he does. You pass through corridors that smell of wax, ink, and old paper. The air is too warm. The silence is curated. Even the hush feels intentional, as though the building itself expects discretion.
You follow sound.
Not shouting…yet. Not chaos.
The low murmur of men speaking in calm voices, the scrape of metal against stone, the small, clinical clink of instruments being set down.
You turn a corner.
A door stands ajar.
Your hand closes on the frame.
For a heartbeat you pause…just long enough for your mind to present you with a final, naïve possibility.
Maybe they waited.
Maybe they were civil.
Maybe you were wrong.
You push the door open. The room beyond is far too bright for dawn.
Lanterns burn high and steady, their light catching on polished surfaces. A table has been cleared and repurposed. Instruments lie arranged with meticulous care. Things meant for measurement, for cutting, for proving.
There are too many of them.
And in the center—
Your breath leaves you in a sharp, involuntary gasp.
He is restrained. Not loosely. Not casually. Not as though they were unsure.
Iron cuffs bite into his wrists, anchored to the table beneath him. Leather straps cross his chest, his thighs, his shoulders—thick, deliberate, arranged to limit even the smallest shift. Someone has tried to make him small through physics alone.
It hasn’t worked.
He lays very still, head bowed slightly, hair damp where it clings to his forehead. There is dried blood at his temple. Along one forearm, there are thin, clean cuts. Precise, controlled, repeated in nearly the same place. Whoever did it had a steady hand and no hesitation.
A smear of dark red stains the edge of his collar where the leather has rubbed raw.
They have been testing him.
Not for knowledge.
For limits.
Your stomach twists.
He turns his head slowly.
When his eyes lock onto yours, the air changes. You feel it like a pressure shift. Every conversation in the room falters. Even the men who had been speaking turn instinctively to look because his attention has become singular.
Not at them.
At you.
The man nearest the instruments turns, blinking as though you are an interruption in a lecture. “Doctor—”
You don’t let him finish.
“Unchain him.”
The room stills.
A gentleman in a fine coat—too fine for the hour, too clean for decency—clears his throat. The signet ring at his finger catches the lamplight as he folds his hands neatly together.
“Doctor,” he says, voice smooth with practiced authority, “Sir Alistair Hawthorne, President of the Royal Society. You weren’t expected until later. These examinations are—”
“Unchain him,” you repeat, quieter this time.
The quiet makes it worse.
One of them gestures to the restraints as if you are unreasonable for noticing them. “For safety. We needed to establish parameters.”
You step closer, eyes fixed on the dried blood. “You needed to see how much he would endure without retaliation.”
No one answers.
A beat passes—too long.
“He didn’t fight you,” you say, and it is not a question.
Alistair’s mouth tightens. “He was…cooperative.”
You look at Adam.
“Did you fight them?” you ask.
His voice is low when it comes, roughened by restraint and contained fury. “No.”
Your chest tightens painfully.
“Why?” Your throat feels too tight for the word.
His gaze doesn’t flicker. “Because you asked me not to.”
The line lands like a blow.
You feel something in the room shift. You see it in their eyes—one by one. The dawning comprehension is not awe.
It’s leverage.
They understand it instantly. The thread between you, invisible but strong enough to hold him still when chains cannot.
Alistair’s expression changes, smoothing into something practiced. “Doctor,” he says gently now, “that is precisely our concern. This attachment…this influence—”
“It’s called consent,” you cut in.
He spreads his hands slightly. “We must ensure you remain objective.”
A laugh almost escapes you—sharp, incredulous, and ugly.
“Objective,” you echo. “While you bleed him for curiosity.”
Alistair’s smile tightens. “We intend no harm. But propriety—”
“I don’t care about your propriety.”
The room stiffens.
Another man steps forward. He is older, confident, the sort who has never been contradicted by anyone he considers his equal. “Doctor, you are agitated. Perhaps you should step back.”
His gaze flicks to the guards.
And then hands are on you.
Not gentle. Not respectful. Not asking.
Fingers clamp around your upper arm, your shoulder. They pull you backward as though you are an inconvenience to be relocated. Your breath catches in shock, not because you didn’t expect them to turn on you, but because it still stings when they do.
“Don’t,” you snap, twisting. “Get your hands off—”
They tighten.
You stumble a half step.
And you feel Adam before you even look.
The shift in him is immediate and terrifying. He has gone very, very still. Not the stillness of compliance.
The stillness of a predator deciding whether mercy is still warranted.
His eyes never leave yours.
You understand, suddenly, with brutal clarity that he is not restrained by leather and iron.
He is restrained by you.
The men speak over you. Something about protocol, safety, hysteria dressed as reason.
A guard jerks you harder and something inside you goes cold.
You stop struggling and lift your chin to meet his gaze fully.
And you say, very quietly—“Adam.”
Then one word.
“Enough.”
The room holds its breath.
His pupils flare.
For one fraction of a second, nothing happens—so still it feels like the world itself is waiting to see if you meant it.
You did.
The table moves.
Not a dramatic explosion, but worse. A terrible, effortless inevitability. Wood groans as he rises and the entire structure protests the force it was never built to withstand. Iron shrieks as the metal begins screaming against metal. The cuffs bend, then tear free as though they were brittle.
Leather straps snap one by one, sharp and final. Men shout. Someone stumbles back. The hands on you fall away as if burned.
He is on his feet in an instant, towering above the room, blood-streaked and incandescent with contained fury. His chest rises in a slow breath, and the sound of it is somehow louder than the yelling.
He does not lunge. He does not strike. He steps toward you. The room recoils.
He comes to a stop close enough that you feel his heat, close enough that the guards instinctively retreat.
His voice drops—only for you. “Now,” he says. A beat.
“Run.” Your stomach drops. Your heart slams against your ribs. And you obey. You don’t look back. You don’t wait for permission. You bolt.
The corridor blurs, polished floors slick beneath your boots, lamplight streaking across your vision. Behind you, you hear shouting, the crash of a chair knocked aside, the sharp command of men trying to regain authority.
But you also hear something else. Silence.
A sudden, unnerving silence that suggests every man behind you has decided, at the same time, that chasing is a poor idea. You burst through the entry hall and out into the predawn streets.
The sky is paling now, a faint bruised wash at the horizon. The city is waking unwillingly—vendors setting up, shutters rattling open, a cart rolling past with its driver staring too long.
You feel him behind you. Not footsteps, but presence.
He keeps pace without effort, coat flaring slightly with his movement, eyes sweeping the street with grim, predatory awareness. No one blocks your path. People step aside instinctively, not even sure why.
When your flat finally comes into sight, you nearly sob with relief. You fumble the key and the lock catches as your hands shake too badly.
Then his hand covers yours—warm, steady, impossibly controlled—and the key turns cleanly.
The door slams shut behind you just as the first edge of sunrise brushes the rooftops.
Inside, the quiet hits like a shock. You turn.
He stands in the center of the room, blood still on his skin, cuffs bent and broken in his hands as though they were nothing. His gaze is fixed on you—not wild, not lost.
Focused. Devoted. Dangerous.
“You told me,” he says quietly. “Yes,” you manage. “And I stopped.”
“Yes.”
He steps closer, not crowding, but close enough that your breath stutters. “Then understand this.” Your pulse flutters painfully under your skin.
“I will not endure their hands on you again,” he says. “Not gently. Not politely. Not ever.”
The possessiveness in the vow should frighten you. It doesn’t. It makes something in you go warm and sick and certain.
You swallow. “And what about their hands on you?” His mouth tightens. “They will not get the chance.”
The sunrise brightens outside the window. And nothing about the world feels the same anymore.
The flat smells faintly of antiseptic and iron.
You hadn’t noticed it at first—too focused on getting the door closed, on making sure the shutters were drawn, on listening for footsteps that never came—but once the adrenaline drains away, it becomes impossible to ignore. Blood. Old and new. His.
He stands near the table where you’ve laid out what little you have: clean cloths, water heated over the small stove, a bottle of spirits you will not be drinking. The lamplight catches on the drying streaks along his ribs, his forearms, the faint abrasion at his temple where iron met bone and lost.
“You should sit,” you say. He does not. “I am not injured,” he replies.
“You are bleeding,” you counter. “That is not the same thing.”
You give him a look, one he has learned to recognize already. Not anger. Not fear. Authority sharpened by care.
“Sit,” you repeat. This time, he does.
The chair creaks under his weight as he lowers himself into it, movements controlled despite the obvious tension coiled beneath his skin. You step closer, cloth in hand, and for the first time since the escape you allow yourself to really look at him.
The damage is not catastrophic. That almost makes it worse.
The cuts are deliberate. Measured. Someone wanted to see what happened when skin parted. Someone wanted proof. The healing has already begun. The edges knitting, blood darkening and drying, but the evidence remains.
Your hands shake slightly as you dip the cloth into the water.
“I told you to stop restraining yourself,” you say quietly. “Yes.”
“I didn’t tell you to let them hurt you before that.” His jaw tightens. “You told me not to fight.”
“I didn’t know they’d—” You stop. Breathe. “I didn’t know.”
“I did,” he says. You look up sharply. “Then why—”
“Because you asked,” he repeats, simply. The cloth presses a little harder than necessary against his forearm. He doesn’t react.
You clean the blood slowly, methodically, as though care might undo what has already been done. Your fingers brush his skin more often than strictly necessary, lingering for half a second longer than professional detachment would allow.
You are aware of it. So is he. “You are angry,” he observes.
“Yes,” you admit. “With them,” he clarifies.
“And with myself,” you add. He tilts his head slightly. “Why?”
“Because I believed,” you say quietly, “that understanding would protect you.” His gaze sharpens. “Did it?”
“No.”
“No,” he agrees. “But it did something else.” You pause, cloth hovering near his ribs. “What?”
“It gave me a reason to endure,” he says. “That is not nothing.” The admission lands heavily.
You move closer to clean the cut along his side, fingers careful, reverent. Your knuckles brush his abdomen, warm and solid beneath your touch. His breath changes—not sharply, not dramatically, but enough that you notice.
Your awareness narrows. This is too close. This is inappropriate. His hand lifts. Not to stop you.
To hover, suspended near your wrist, as though he is asking permission without words. You still. “Yes?” you ask softly.
“I do not know what to do with this,” he says. “With what?”
He lowers his hand slowly until his fingers wrap gently, yet firmly around your wrist, steadying it. The contact sends a pulse of heat straight up your arm.
“With the desire to touch you,” he says. “And the knowledge that I should not.” Your throat tightens painfully.
“You don’t have to—”
“I know,” he interrupts. “That is not the problem.” You swallow. “Then what is?”
He leans forward slightly, closing the distance just enough that you can feel his breath against your cheek. “That I want to.”
The world seems to tilt. You should pull back, but you don’t.
Your free hand comes up almost without conscious thought, resting lightly against his chest. You feel his heartbeat beneath your palm, slow, powerful, and controlled.
“This is a mistake,” you whisper.
“Yes,” he agrees immediately. “And you still—”
“Yes.” The honesty of it is devastating.
He releases your wrist only to cup your jaw instead, thumb resting just below your ear. His touch is careful now. It’s deliberate, restrained, and reverent in a way that makes your chest ache.
“If you tell me to stop,” he says quietly, “I will.”
You meet his gaze, heart hammering. “And if I don’t?”
His voice drops. “Then I will kiss you.”
The choice sits between you, heavy and electric. You do not tell him to stop.
He kisses you slowly.
Not hungrily. Not clumsily. As though learning the shape of something precious and dangerous at the same time. His lips are warm, firm, careful not to take more than you allow, even as the restraint costs him.
Your breath stutters. Your fingers curl into the fabric of his coat, grounding yourself against the sudden rush of sensation. When he pulls back, it is by sheer force of will.
You rest your forehead briefly against his chest.
“This changes things,” you murmur. “Yes,” he agrees. “That is why I did not do it sooner.” You laugh softly, shakily. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet,” he replies, “you have not asked me to leave.”
You finish tending his wounds in silence after that much quieter, heavier, charged with what neither of you knows how to name yet.
Sleep comes eventually, uneasy but real.
Morning arrives with a knock. It’s polite. Measured. Human. You startle awake, heart leaping into your throat. But he is already on his feet.
“Stay back,” he murmurs.
“Adam,” you say softly, reaching for his arm. “It might be—”
“I know,” he replies. “I hear his heart.”
You blink. “You what?”
“He is not afraid,” Adam continues. “And he is not armed.”
The knock comes again. You move past him before he can argue, opening the door a cautious inch.
Jonathan stands in the hall, coat buttoned against the chill, eyes rimmed with concern. When he sees you, relief floods his expression. “Thank God,” he says. “I heard—”
Then he sees Adam and Jonathan freezes. Not in fear, but in assessment. “Well,” he says slowly. “That’s…new.”
Adam steps into view behind you, posture rigid, gaze sharp. The air tightens immediately. “Jonathan,” you say quickly. “This is—”
“I know who he is,” Jonathan says gently. “Or rather, who he isn’t.”
Adam’s eyes narrow. “You know her.”
“Yes,” Jonathan replies calmly. “And I care about her.”
The words land like a challenge. Adam’s jaw tightens. “That does not make you safe.” Jonathan nods once. “Fair.”
You exhale sharply. “Jonathan came to check on me,” you say. “Not to take anything. Or anyone.”
Jonathan lifts his hands slightly—not in surrender, but in transparency. “I’m not your enemy,” he says to Adam. “And I’m certainly not hers.”
Adam studies him in silence. “You will leave,” Adam says. Jonathan doesn’t argue. “In a moment.” Adam bristles at his words.
Jonathan turns to you. “You scared half the city,” he says quietly. “And the other half is pretending you didn’t.”
“Sounds like the Society,” you reply dryly.
Jonathan’s gaze flicks back to Adam. “You did what you had to,” he says. “Both of you.” Adam’s voice is low. “You are too comfortable.”
Jonathan smiles faintly. “I’m not. I’m just not afraid of men who choose restraint.” Something in Adam’s expression shifts—conflicted, unwillingly respectful.
Jonathan steps back toward the door. “I’ll give you space,” he says. “But understand this—” He looks directly at Adam now.
“She is not alone,” Jonathan continues. “And she shouldn’t be. You don’t get to be the only one who cares for her.” The words hang in the air. Adam doesn’t respond immediately.
When he does, his voice is controlled, edged with something dangerous. “I will learn,” he says. “But I will not yield my place.”
Jonathan nods once. “That’s all I wanted to hear.” You excuse yourself from Jonathan, ushering Adam towards the furthest corner of your small flat before he speaks in a hushed tone.
“You did not tell me about him,” he says. “You didn’t ask.”
“I am asking now.”
You step closer, resting a hand lightly against his chest again. “He’s not a threat.” Adam’s gaze drops to your hand. “I know.”
“Then what’s bothering you?”
His eyes lift to meet yours, dark and honest. “That he will touch you,” he says. “And I will have to accept it.”
Your heart aches. “You don’t own me,” you say gently. “No,” he agrees. “But I am learning how much I want to.”
The admission sends a shiver through you, equal parts desire and dread. Outside, the city fully wakes.
Jonathan leaved in daylight. That matters.
He does not linger, does not attempt to assert space that does not belong to him. After he says what he came to say—after the words responsibility and choice and world have been laid carefully between the three of you—he steps back toward the door with the air of someone who understands when presence becomes intrusion.
“I’ll give you time,” he says to you, voice gentle but serious. “Both of you.” Adam does not respond. He watches.
Jonathan meets his gaze once more, steady and unflinching. “You don’t need to trust me,” he says. “Just don’t mistake silence for absence.”
Then he is gone.
The door closes softly behind him, and the flat settles into a quiet that feels heavier for having been interrupted. Adam does not move for a long moment. Neither do you.
The city outside continues—footsteps, carts, distant voices—but inside the room there is only the sound of his breathing and the awareness of what Jonathan has left behind.
“You did not deny him,” Adam says finally.
“No,” you reply. “You did not reassure him either.”
“No.” His jaw tightens. “You allow him to remain.”
You turn to face him fully. “Jonathan isn’t something to allow or forbid. He’s part of my life.” His gaze darkens—not with anger, but with something slower, heavier.
“And I am?” he asks. The question is not confrontational. It is naked.
You cross the space between you, stopping just short of touching him. “You’re something new,” you say quietly. “Something I didn’t plan for.”
“Something temporary?” he presses. “No,” you say immediately. “Something dangerous.”
The corner of his mouth twitches, almost a smile. “Yes.” The afternoon passes in uneasy calm.
You tend his wounds properly this time. Cleaning, binding, murmuring instructions he does not need but allows because they matter to you. His healing is slower now, as though his body itself is conserving restraint. You are acutely aware of every inch of skin beneath your hands, every controlled breath he takes when you come too close.
He does not touch you again. That somehow makes it worse.
As evening falls, the light in the flat shifts—gold to amber to shadow. You light the lamp. Outside, the city dims into something secretive, its edges softened by darkness.
You are pouring water when you hear it. Footsteps. Measured. Familiar. Adam hears them too.
He is on his feet instantly, posture shifting. Not frantic, not violent, but ready. His gaze flicks to the door, then to you. “Stay back,” he murmurs.
You shake your head. “Wait.” The knock comes—quiet, deliberate. Three raps. Adam does not move. You cross the room slowly, heart pounding, and open the door.
Jonathan stands in the corridor again, coat darker now, expression more subdued. The city night clings to him in the scent of cool air, damp stone, and restraint.
“I said I’d give you time,” he says quietly. “Not that I’d disappear.” Adam steps into view behind you.
The tension spikes instantly, though different from before. He is calmer now. Colder. Watching Jonathan the way one watches a blade placed too close to bare skin.
“You returned,” Adam says.
“Yes,” Jonathan replies. “Because things tend to get worse at night.” You exhale. “You’re not wrong.”
Jonathan’s gaze flicks to the bandages, the faint stains of blood still visible. “They hurt you more than they admitted.” Adam does not answer. “He stayed,” Jonathan says to you softly.
“Yes.” Jonathan nods once. “Good.” Adam’s eyes narrow. “You approve.” Jonathan meets his gaze. “I acknowledge.”
The distinction matters. Jonathan steps just inside the doorway this time, but no further. He keeps distance deliberately, hands visible, posture open.
“I didn’t come to argue,” he says. “I came to warn you.”
“About the Society,” you guess. “Yes,” Jonathan replies. “And about yourselves.”
Adam’s voice is low. “Speak.” Jonathan does. “They will not stop. And they will not separate you gently next time. They’ll use you against each other if they can.”
“They already tried,” you say. Jonathan nods. “And they learned something.” Adam stiffens. “What?”
“That you matter to him,” Jonathan says. “And that he listens to you.” Silence stretches.
“That makes you leverage,” Jonathan continues. “And it makes him dangerous.” Adam’s jaw tightens. “I do not need your assessment.”
“No,” Jonathan agrees. “You don’t. But she does.” You close your eyes briefly.
Jonathan turns to you. “You can’t protect him by standing in front of him forever,” he says. “And he can’t protect you by standing alone.” Adam’s gaze flicks to you—sharp and conflicted.
Jonathan steps back toward the door. “I’ll help where I can,” he says quietly. “But only if you both remember something.”
“What?” you ask.
Jonathan’s eyes linger on Adam. “Love doesn’t get to erase the rest of the world.” Then he leaves again and the door closes.
This time, the quiet is not empty as Adam turns to you slowly. “He believes he can instruct me,” he says.
“He believes he can keep me alive,” you reply. Adam’s gaze searches your face. “And what do you believe?”
You step closer, close enough that the space between you hums. “I believe I don’t want to choose between safety and you.”
His breath catches. “That may not be possible,” he says.
“Then we’ll redefine safety,” you reply. For a long moment, he just looks at you.
Then, very carefully, he reaches out. His fingers brushing your wrist, tentative now in a way that feels almost dangerous.
“You make restraint difficult,” he murmurs.
You smile faintly. “You’re doing remarkably well.”
His thumb presses lightly against your pulse. “Only because I want to be worthy of the space you give me.” The admission is quiet. Devastating.
Night settles over the flat like a held breath.
The city beyond the windows does not sleep so much as quiet itself. The sound of footsteps thinning, voices lowering, the hum of life reduced to something distant and indistinct. Lamplight pools softly against the walls, turning familiar shapes into something gentler, more private. You are aware of the quiet in a way that feels almost intrusive, as though the world has stepped back deliberately to see what you will do with the space it has given you.
You move more slowly now.
Everything feels slower after what you’ve done. After what you asked him to do, after what he chose to do because you asked. Your body still hums with the echo of adrenaline, but beneath it is something warmer and far more dangerous: the knowledge that restraint was a decision, not an inevitability.
He watches you from across the room. Not with hunger. With focus.
You gather the cloths again, fresh water, your movements deliberate. You don’t ask him to sit this time. He does it without prompting, lowering himself into the chair with that same careful motion, as though stillness is something he must consciously maintain.
“You don’t need to do this again,” he says quietly. “Yes,” you reply. “I do.” He does not argue.
You stand between his knees as you work, close enough that your skirt brushes his boots when you lean in. The lamplight catches the angles of his face, the shadows beneath his cheekbones, the faint trace of dried blood you missed earlier. Your fingers are steadier now, but you are acutely aware of every place you touch him.
You clean the cut at his temple first. He doesn’t flinch, not from pain, but from proximity. “You could have killed them,” you murmur.
“Yes.”
“And you didn’t.”
“No.”
“Because I told you not to.”
“Because you asked me to stop,” he corrects. The distinction lodges itself somewhere deep in your chest.
You move lower, carefully loosening the bandage at his forearm. The skin beneath has already healed almost completely. You trace the line of the cut once with your eyes and then force yourself to look away.
“I don’t know how to hold that,” you admit. “That you can command me?” he asks. “That you would listen.”
He studies you with unsettling intensity. “You are not commanding me,” he says. “You are the only voice I trust when the rest of the world becomes noise.”
You shouldn’t like that, but you do.
Your fingers brush his wrist as you rewrap the cloth, lingering for half a heartbeat too long. You feel his pulse beneath your touch—slow, powerful, contained.
“Adam,” you say softly. “Yes.”
“You asked me something earlier.” His jaw tightens. “I did.”
“About the kiss.”
“Yes.” You lift your chin, forcing yourself not to look away. “I don’t regret it.”
The shift in him is immediate and carefully suppressed. “Nor do I,” he says. “That is…the problem.” Silence stretches between you, taut and alive. You don’t step back. Neither does he.
You are still standing too close, close enough that leaving would feel like retreat rather than prudence. The air between you thickens, weighted with everything unsaid.
Then he reaches for you. Not hesitantly. Not roughly.
His hands close around your waist with unmistakable intent, and before you can draw breath to question it, he pulls you forward and down—guiding you onto his lap in one smooth, controlled motion.
You gasp softly, hands bracing against his shoulders.
He is solid beneath you. Warm. Unyielding. His thighs anchor you in place, his hands firm at your waist. Not pinning, not trapping, but holding you there as though the choice to remain is still entirely yours.
“If you want me to stop,” he says quietly, breath close enough to stir your hair, “say it.”
Your heart pounds painfully. “I would have already,” you reply. That is all the permission he takes. He kisses you.
Not cautiously. Not tentatively. His mouth moves against yours with slow, deliberate certainty, as though he has already memorized the shape of this and is now confirming it. The kiss deepens, measured but consuming and his restraint is threaded through every controlled movement.
Your fingers curl into his torn shirt. You lean into him without thinking, breath uneven, pulse racing. The world narrows to heat and pressure and the quiet discipline holding it all in place.
His grip tightens at your waist for a brief moment. Then loosens again.
The awareness of how easily this could tip, of how much effort it takes for it not to, sends a shiver through you. You kiss him back more openly now, the space between you closing entirely. His breath falters against your mouth, a sound so quiet it feels like a confession.
For one suspended moment, it feels as though he might let it go further.
He doesn’t. He pulls back sharply, hands still firm at your waist as he presses his forehead to yours, eyes closed, breath uneven.
“No,” he murmurs. Not to you. To himself.
You stay where you are, hands resting against his chest, feeling the slow, powerful beat of his heart beneath your palms.
“If I don’t stop now,” he says quietly, voice rough with effort, “I will not remember why I should.”
Your breath catches. You rest your forehead against his, mirroring him, sharing the same narrow space of breath and restraint.
“This isn’t rejection,” you whisper. “I know,” he replies. “It’s discipline.”
Slowly, very carefully, he helps you back to your feet, his hands lingering just long enough to make the separation ache. When you step away, the space between you feels charged but intact, held together by choice rather than impulse.
He remains seated for a moment, eyes closed, breathing steadying with visible effort. When he looks at you again, his gaze is darker, but clear.
“You should sleep,” he says. “So should you.”
“I will,” he replies. “After this passes.”
You move toward the bed, heart still racing, body humming with the echo of what almost happened. When you lie down, you feel his attention remain on you—not possessive, not consuming.
Choosing restraint again.
In the lamplight, with the city sleeping and the world temporarily held at bay, you understand with startling clarity that this was not a loss of control.
It was proof that he has it. And that makes wanting him far more dangerous than if he didn’t.
Morning arrives carefully.
Not with sunlight flooding the room or birdsong announcing itself, but with a gradual thinning of the dark, a pale greying at the edges of the windowpanes. The city exhales into wakefulness somewhere beyond your walls, but here, inside the flat, the night lingers.
You wake slowly.
The bed is warm beneath you, the blankets tangled from a restless sleep you barely remember entering. Your body feels heavy, pleasantly sore in the way it does after tension finally loosens its grip. For a moment, you lie still, staring at the ceiling, suspended between memory and present.
Then you remember. Not the escape. Not the blood. The restraint. Your breath stutters faintly. You turn your head. He is there.
Not beside you, not close enough to touch, but seated in the chair near the door, exactly where he was when you fell asleep. His posture is unchanged, spine straight, shoulders relaxed but ready. One arm rests along the chair’s back, the other loose at his side. His gaze is fixed not on the window, not on the city—on you.
You shift slightly, the mattress creaking under the movement. His attention sharpens instantly. “You’re awake,” he says quietly.
“Yes,” you murmur, voice rough with sleep. “Did you…?”
“I did not move,” he replies. Of course he didn’t.
You push yourself up onto your elbows, studying him in the thin morning light. He looks the same as he did hours ago, but there is something different beneath it now. A tension you recognize. Not fear.
Aftermath. “You stopped yourself,” you say softly. “Yes.”
“You didn’t have to.”
“I did,” he replies. “For both of us.”
The weight of that settles over you as you sit up fully, drawing the blanket around your shoulders. “Did it…hurt?” The question is quiet, careful. He considers it. “Not in the way you mean.”
“And in the way I don’t?” He looks at you then—really looks at you, gaze steady and dark. “In the way that reminds me I am capable of taking more than I should.”
You swallow. “And you didn’t.”
“No.” There is pride there. And something like relief.
You stand, padding across the floor to pour water, movements unhurried. The normalcy feels strange, almost sacred after everything. When you hand him the cup, your fingers brush his.
You don’t pull away. Neither does he.
For a long moment, the flat feels like a place outside of time. Quiet, contained, yours. A knock sounds at the door. Sharp. Measured. You stiffen instinctively.
He is on his feet before you fully process the sound, body shifting between you and the door with silent efficiency. His presence fills the space, protective without being frantic.
Your heart kicks hard in your chest.
“That will be Jonathan,” you say automatically. He doesn’t answer. The knock comes again. Three raps. Identical. Your stomach twists.
“You stay back,” he murmurs, not commanding, but absolute. You take a step forward anyway. “Adam—”
He moves faster than you expect. One hand braces against the doorframe. The other presses flat against the door itself, pushing it closed before you even reach for the handle. The wood creaks softly under the pressure. It doesn’t break, but it unmistakably resists him.
His voice is low, controlled, threaded with something dangerous. “That is not him.” Your breath catches. “How do you know?”
“They are standing too close,” he says. “And they are holding their breath.” Another knock. Closer now. More insistent.
“Doctor,” a man’s voice calls from the other side. Alastair. Polite. Cultured. Wrong. “We know you’re awake.” Your pulse roars in your ears.
You look at Adam. His jaw is set, eyes dark, attention narrowed to the door as though it is the only thing in the world. He does not look at you yet.
“They followed us,” you whisper.
“Yes.”
“And they’re not asking.”
“No.” Your hand trembles as you reach for his arm. “Adam.” He turns to you immediately.
The shift is startling. The way all that coiled readiness softens just for you, the way his focus reorients. “You told me last night,” he says quietly, “that you did not want me to lose control.”
“Yes,” you reply, heart hammering.
“And you asked me to trust you.”
“Yes.”
He searches your face for a long, charged moment. Then: “What do you want me to do now?” The question lands with terrifying weight. The knock comes again—harder.
“Doctor,” Alastair says, a hint of impatience creeping in. “Open the door.”
You step closer to Adam, so close that your shoulder brushes his chest. You lower your voice, steadying yourself against him.
“I want you to hold the door,” you say. “Not break it. Not yet.” A pause. Then he nods once. “All right.”
His hand presses more firmly against the door. The wood bows slightly under the pressure, not enough to splinter, but enough to make a point. The men outside fall silent.
You look up at him, heart aching with something warm and sharp and terrifying. “And Adam?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you…for stopping.” Something in his expression shifts—something vulnerable and dangerous all at once.
“I stopped because you matter,” he says. “But do not mistake that for weakness.”
“I don’t,” you reply softly. “I think it’s the strongest thing you’ve done.” Another knock…hesitant now.
Adam leans down slightly, voice carrying through the door, calm and lethal. “You will leave.”
A beat. “And if we don’t?” Alistair asks. Adam doesn’t raise his voice.
“You will regret teaching me that restraint was optional.” Silence answers him.
Adam keeps his hand on the door like it’s the only thing between you and a knife.
The wood bows slightly beneath his palm, not breaking—not yet—but complaining in low, strained creaks the way a ship complains under too much weather. His arm is locked with disciplined stillness, muscles hard as stone under his sleeve. He stands close enough that the heat of him bleeds into the air between you, warming your face, your throat, your thoughts.
You can hear them on the other side. Not speaking. Breathing. That in itself is wrong. Men who have come to take something don’t usually hold their breath.
But these ones are clever. Educated. They know fear is undignified and therefore they’ve dressed it in calm. They are waiting to see if you will open the door like a good girl, like a good scholar, like a proper woman of science who believes she can negotiate her way out of violence with language and reason.
Adam leans his head down just slightly, enough that his voice reaches only you.
“They are not alone,” he murmurs.
Your stomach drops. “How many?” He doesn’t answer immediately, and the pause tells you everything.
“Two,” he says finally. “Three. Four.” His jaw tightens. “And someone behind them who does not smell like the street.”
You swallow. “Alistair.”
“Yes.”
The name tastes like bile. It’s too early for a man like him to be out personally unless he intends to make a point. Another knock comes. Not impatient. Not hurried. Measured, like a gentleman tapping a cane on a marble floor.
“Doctor,” comes Alistair’s voice through the wood, polished and maddeningly warm, as though you are an acquaintance who has inconvenienced him. “We needn’t do this unpleasantly.”
You don’t answer. Adam doesn’t move.
Alistair continues, tone still smooth. “You’re both exhausted. And you’re frightened. It’s natural.” A pause, as though he is smiling. “We can speak like civilized people.”
Adam’s hand presses harder against the door. The frame creaks. The hinges complain. You feel the vibration of it in your bones. How little it would take for him to splinter this barrier and reduce every polite word outside into panicked scrambling.
You step closer, your shoulder nearly brushing his chest. Close enough that you can feel the tension in him, the way it gathers and gathers with nowhere to go.
“Adam,” you whisper. His eyes flick down to you immediately, as if your voice is a rope he ties around his own wrists to keep his hands steady.
“What do you want?” he asks, quiet and deadly controlled. You draw a breath. “I want you to hold. Not break.” A beat.
His throat works as he swallows something like instinct. Then he nods once. “I will.”
The vow sits between you like a blade laid gently on silk. Outside, Alistair sighs theatrically, as though disappointed.
“I understand,” he says. “You believe you’re defending him.” Another pause. “But you’re only prolonging the inevitable.”
You feel your anger flare hot and immediate. “Go away.”
Alistair chuckles softly. “Doctor, please. You of all people know the value of evidence. The value of scrutiny. The value of contributing to mankind’s knowledge.”
You press your palm flat to the door, as though you could shove his voice back through the wood.
“You call it knowledge,” you say, voice low, shaking. “I call it cruelty dressed in Latin.”
Silence.
Then, from the other side, quieter now, Alistair speaks as though he is offering you something kind.
“We came to collect what is ours.” Adam’s body goes still. Not calm. Still like a trap resetting. You feel it instantly. The air thickens. The room seems to shrink.
You turn your face slightly toward him and you see it—the shift behind his eyes. Not rage. Something colder. Something ancient. That terrifying clarity of a being who has learned what humans do when they decide they own you.
He leans down, mouth close to your ear. “That word,” he says softly. “Is a mistake.”
You shiver, not from fear, but from the intimacy of his voice when it turns lethal.
Outside, Alistair continues, unaware or unconcerned. “We can do this in a manner that preserves your reputation, Doctor. That preserves your place.”
Your laugh is sharp and ugly. “My place.”
“Yes,” Alistair says, gentle as a priest. “You have worked so hard for it. You are—whether you recognize it or not—an emblem. The first woman of your discipline to be granted this kind of authority.” A pause. “Don’t squander it for…sentiment.”
Adam’s breathing changes.
You don’t look at him, but you feel it: the sound deepening, thickening, the restraint straining like rope over fire.
You step closer to him anyway. You’re foolish because you’re furious, because you have never been able to keep yourself safe by stepping away from the thing that scares men.
“Open the door,” Alistair says, voice sweetening with certainty. “Or we will.”
That’s when you hear it. Not a knock. Metal. A fine scrape of something being placed into the lock. A tool. Your blood runs cold. Adam’s hand flexes against the wood.
“No,” you whisper, and you don’t know if you’re saying it to Alistair or to Adam. He turns his head and looks at you fully now. His gaze holds yours like a vow, like a warning, like a prayer.
“I can end this,” he says. The words are quiet. Devastating.
You shake your head once, hard. “Not like that.” His jaw clenches. “Then how?”
You swallow, forcing yourself to breathe. “We buy time.” His eyes narrow. “Time for what?”
“For Jonathan,” you say, and you hate that you say it because the name does something dark to him, but it’s true. “For an ally. For a plan that doesn’t end with blood on the floor.”
Adam’s expression tightens at the name, but he doesn’t argue. He swallows it down like poison, because he’s learning what it means to choose you even when your choices cut against his instincts.
You put your hand against his forearm—warm skin beneath cloth, solid muscle, that subtle tremor of strength contained.
“Please,” you murmur.
His eyes flick to your hand. Then back to your face. You feel the moment he decides, again, to be what you asked him to be.
“All right,” he says. “Tell me what to do.”
The trust in that nearly breaks you. You step forward, closer to the door, and pitch your voice just loud enough for them to hear.
“Alistair,” you say evenly. There’s a pause on the other side. “Yes, Doctor?”
“I will speak to you,” you continue, “through the door. You may say what you came to say. But if anyone touches the lock again—” you glance back at Adam, and your voice drops, sharpened with something you don’t entirely recognize in yourself “—you’ll learn what restraint was protecting you from.”
Silence. And then…Alistair laughs softly, delighted.
“Oh,” he says, “there she is.” The words make your skin crawl.
“You’re learning,” he continues. “Good. That will make you easier to reason with in the long term.”
Adam’s hand spasms against the door. A warning creak ripples through the frame. You press your palm more firmly to his arm without thinking, grounding him and maybe yourself.
“You have ten breaths,” you say.
On the other side, Alistair clears his throat with exaggerated patience, as if indulging a tantrum.
“Very well,” he says. “We will take him back to the Society. There will be further examination. There will be supervision. He will be housed securely.”
“No,” you say. A beat. Alistair’s voice remains calm. “Doctor, this is not negotiable.”
“It is,” you reply. “Because you cannot move him without provoking exactly what you’re trying to avoid.”
Silence stretches. You can feel men shifting outside, can imagine the guards trading uneasy looks, hands hovering near weapons they don’t want to draw.
Alistair speaks again, quieter now. “What is your proposal?”
You close your eyes for half a second. Your mind races, grabbing for any thread that isn’t made of violence.
“He stays here for the day,” you say. “Under my supervision. You may send one physician I approve of to observe—observe, Alistair, not carve.”
A pause. “And tomorrow,” Alistair says, voice smooth as oil.
“Tomorrow,” you repeat slowly, “I will come to the Society willingly with a formal report.” You swallow. “And I will bring him, if and only if, he comes as a person, not property.”
Silence.
Then, very softly, Alistair says, “You’re asking me to allow a creature of unknown capacity to walk into our halls unrestrained.”
“He walked into my life unrestrained,” you say, voice shaking now despite yourself, “and he hasn’t harmed me once.”
Adam’s breath catches behind you. You turn slightly, meeting his gaze. He looks at you like that sentence mattered more than any scientific argument you’ve ever made.
Alistair’s voice cuts in again, almost bored. “You’re compromised.”
“Then replace me,” you spit. “And see how quickly he stops cooperating.”
That’s when the air changes.
You don’t hear it at first—only feel it: the sudden stillness outside, the way even Alistair pauses mid-breath. Because Adam has moved. Not away from the door. Closer to you.
You feel him behind you like a wall, a shadow, a presence so immense it seems to swallow the light. He lowers his head toward your ear, and when he speaks, his voice is soft enough that you feel it more than hear it.
“Tell him,” he murmurs, “what happens if they try to take you again.”
Your throat tightens. You look back at him. His eyes are dark and unwavering—devoted in the most dangerous way.
You should be horrified. Instead your chest aches. Because you understand what he’s really saying: I will not survive losing you quietly. You turn back to the door.
“Alistair,” you say, voice low.
“Yes?” he answers, and you can hear the faint satisfaction, like he thinks he’s winning again.
You inhale shakily.
“If you try to drag me away from him again,” you say, “I will say one word.”
A pause.
“And what word is that?” Alistair asks.
Your hand finds Adam’s forearm again, fingers curling into him like an anchor. You feel him steady beneath your touch, restraining himself for you, because of you.
You swallow. “Enough,” you whisper.
The silence outside goes razor-thin. Alistair speaks, and for the first time the smoothness slips. “Doctor, are you threatening the Society?”
“No,” you say. “I’m warning you.”
A beat. Then the lock moves again. Not turning fully—just testing. Just a small, arrogant pressure. A reminder that they don’t truly believe you.
Adam’s hand on the door tightens so hard the wood gives a sharp groan. And then, beneath your feet, you feel it.
Not a sound. A vibration. As though the house itself has realized what stands inside it. Adam leans down, forehead nearly brushing your hair, voice so quiet it is almost tender.
“Say it,” he murmurs. “And we will end this.”
Your heart hammers wildly. Your mouth goes dry.
You can feel the line you’re standing on. One side: diplomacy, delay, the fragile chance of a plan. The other: violence, escape, irreversibility.
You close your eyes. And somewhere in the city, far away, a church bell begins to ring the hour.
One. Two. Three.
Outside your door, Alistair Hawthorne draws in a careful breath and says, almost pleasantly. “Open the door, Doctor.”
summary: A lonely cottage, a girl the villagers whisper about, and the creature who guards her door each night.
pairing: the creature (adam frankenstein) x reader
themes: hurt & comfort • trauma and aftermath • gothic horror • aching yearning • quiet longing • slow-burn romance • devotion forged through fear • reader in danger / reader hurt • intimacy under threat • dark romantic tension • sexual themes (18+ only, MDNI)
⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅
part i
a monster keeps your cottage safe from wolves, believing you neither see nor want him—until spring comes, and you finally turn to the creature in the trees and let him know you’ve been leaving the bread, the clothes… and that you were never afraid. | 3,299 words | 18+
part ii
adam walks the reader home from the forest for the first time, and she invites him not just to her cottage, but to see it as home too. He hesitates at the threshold, afraid of breaking what’s fragile, but she coaxes him inside, feeds him bread, wraps him in a scarf, and gently insists that he is more man than monster—someone she wants at her hearth, not just haunting her tree line. | 2,889 words | 18+
part iii
adam finally rests at the reader’s cottage for the first time—mostly because he’s exhausted, but also because being around them feels like the first real calm he’s had in forever. The cottage is warm, soft, and lived-in, a total contrast to his usual chaos. He tries to insist he’s fine, that he doesn’t need to rest, but the second you plead for him to rest, his guard drops hard. | 2,159 words | 18+
part iv
your quiet life with Adam blooms into trust and tenderness before the villagers turn violent, forcing you to flee. After they attack your home and drag you into the woods, you escape, and Adam finds you, wounded but devoted. Choosing each other over the village that wants you dead, he carries you into the deeper forest, toward an uncertain but shared future. | 7,975 words | 18+
part v
adam and you find refuge in new, abandoned cottage after days of fleeing, and while building a new safe haven together, their long-buried longing finally breaks open into tender, overwhelming intimacy. | 3,376 words | 18+
part vi
a morning wrapped in Adam’s trembling warmth unravels into tenderness, wary joy, and the slow, terrifying, wonderful realization that maybe—just maybe—you’ve found a life worth staying for. | 5,917 words | 18+
epilogue
a single night of shared fear opens into a lifetime of choosing each other—through hiding, healing, love, aging, and loss—until Adam is left alone, still keeping his promise to live, stay, and love her beyond the end of her life. | 6,003 words | 18+
⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅
stand alone oneshots
the first time the creature sees you in the bath
you indulge in a bath while Adam is out hunting. He thinks you're gone when he can't immediately find you, he just wants to worship you. | 2,140 words | 18+
⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅
i do not do tags on any of my stories, if you’re interested in keeping up with my writing please consider following @bucksfucks-writes ㅤꨄ︎
summary: Adam chases reader through the forest after she saves Victor from the monster, until Adam decides he's done playing with Victor and wants to play with her, instead.
pairing: the creature x reader
word count: 5,913 words
themes: dubcon, light non-con, this is a dark fic, unprotected sex, oral, monster sex, talk of murder and death, violence, cat and mouse, alludes to reader being a virgin, victor being a bitch, fear, stalking, 18+ ONLY MDNI
author's note: this adam makes me fear for my life and i love it i wish this was me and my therapist will be hearing about this
You grew up on stories about the monsters in the woods.
Shadows that walked. Voices that mimicked. Eyes that gleamed between the trees, watching from the treeline whenever a light burned too late in a cottage window.
Parents told those stories to keep their children close.
The monster, they said, would take you if you wandered.
You believed them, of course, until you got older. Until you saw what real monsters looked like.
The monsters weren't ugly and uncivilized, the monsters were men. Men with polite smiles and cold hands. Men who drank too much and laughed when you said no. Men who looked at you like a prize instead of a person.
Compared to them, the thing in the forest felt almost… honest.
At least monsters didn’t pretend to be anything else.
You might have gone your whole life never knowing whether the tales were real, if not for the night Victor Frankenstein staggered through your front door drenched in rain and pure terror.
You found him on the road, mud splattered up his coat, eyes wide and bloodshot. You thought he was drunk at first, or maybe sick. Then, he clutched at your wrist when you reached for him.
“He’s coming,” Victor rasped. “Please. Please. I’ll pay anything. Just let me in. He’s coming.”
You should have turned him away, stranger ranting about some unseen threat—nothing good could follow. But the urgency and fear in his voice compelled you to open your door to him.
So you let him in anyway.
You always were too soft-hearted, as your father reminded. Too curious, too easily hooked by disaster or a firing gun.
He sat by the fire and shook like he was freezing from the inside out. As the hours passed and the wind howled outside, pieces of the story slipped out between trembling lips.
He was a doctor. No, more than that. A genius, he said. Brilliant. Visionary.
Arrogant. Pompous. Vain.
He spoke of graveyards and lightning and blasphemy dressed up as science. He told you he had built something, a man, almost, stitched from death and dragged screaming into life.
You would have laughed if he hadn’t looked so utterly, irrevocably haunted.
“He hates me,” Victor whispered, staring into the flames as if he saw something else there. “He should. I made him…and then I left him. I ran. I thought—I thought time would dull his rage.”
“How long has it been?” you asked.
He swallowed. “Years.”
“And now?”
Victor’s jaw clenched. “Now he’s found me again.”
There it was. The monster in flesh and blood, no longer a myth, but a man-made nightmare. You should have told Victor to leave, yet you didn’t.
You let him stay and sleep in your spare room. You tried to convince yourself the heaviness in the air was just a storm rolling in, not fate tightening its grip around your throat.
On the third night, the trees began to whisper.
You woke to a sound outside your window. Not an animal and certainly not the wind.
A footstep. Heavy. Measured. Terrifyingly calculated.
You crept to the glass as quietly as you could. The forest beyond your cottage was a dark mass of trunks and shadows, the moon a blurred coin behind clouds.
At first, you saw nothing.
Then the world shifted, and you realized the “tree” you’d been staring at…was breathing deeply and unevenly.
He stepped forward into the moonlight and every story you’d ever heard about monsters felt like a children’s rhyme compared to what stood before you.
Tall didn’t even begin to cover it. He towered. Massive shoulders, heavy arms, hands that could probably crush bone without effort. Scars crisscrossed his face and throat, some puckered, some clean like old surgical work. His hair was dark and tangled, dishevelled to match his ghastly appearance.
He was grotesque. He was beautiful. He was wrong.
His eyes found your window with unnatural precision and you froze. He just stared, standing motionless.
You didn’t know how long you stood there, locked in his gaze. Long enough for your breath to slow instead of quicken. Long enough to understand instinctively: he could see you. Really see you. Not just as another warm body in a lit room.
As you.
Then he turned his head slightly, like he heard something in the distance. You watched as his lips peeled back in a humourless hint of what you could only describe as a smile.
Without a word, he disappeared back into the trees. That night, you didn’t sleep.
Victor insisted in the morning you must have dreamt it. But you saw the way his hands shook when you mentioned a figure in the dark and you saw the sweat bead at his hairline.
“He won’t come near you,” Victor said too quickly. “He wants me. Only me.”
You weren’t sure if that was meant to comfort or reassure himself. It did neither.
The next day, the villagers spoke of deep footprints at the forest edge. Broken branches and trunks. A cow had gone missing from its pasture.
By sunset, the sky bruised purple and black, and you felt it—like something in the air shifted, the tension drawn tighter.
You knew he was close.
You just didn’t expect him to walk straight out of the trees before your eyes under the darkening sky.
It happened near the clearing beyond your garden after Victor insisted on “getting some fresh air.” He nearly jumped out of his skin when a crow flapped its wings too close to him.
“Maybe we should go back insi—” The words died in his throat.
Because something was stepping out of the tree line. Not hurried. Not stealthy. Certain.
You recognized him.
That impossible body, that scar-drawn face, those eyes that looked less like an animal’s and more like a god who’d been dragged face-first through hell.
Adam.
You didn’t know how you knew his name. No one had spoken it. Maybe it was the way he carried it in his bones.
Victor stumbled backward. “No—no, no, no—”
Adam’s gaze slid right over him and landed on you.
This time, there was no glass between you. No safety. No distance. Just cold air, damp earth, and the weight of a creature whose existence should have been impossible staring at you like you’d been placed here for him.
“Victor,” Adam said, his voice a low rumble that seemed to vibrate in your ribs. “You ran.”
Victor’s breath hitched. “Please...don’t—”
“I gave you time,” Adam went on, ignoring his plea. “Years. I learned. I watched. I waited. I asked myself if I could forgive you.” His eyes didn’t leave your face. “The answer was no.”
Victor shook his head, stepping between the two of you. “She has nothing to do with this.”
Adam tilted his head slightly, eyes glittering. “Is that so?”
He took one step closer.
You should have moved back, but you couldn't find the will to do so. Your body felt carved from stone and adrenaline, sown to the ground you were standing on.
Adam’s attention dropped, just for a heartbeat, to Victor’s hand where it hovered near you.
You saw how his jaw ticked and worked.
“Funny,” he said coldly. “He said the same thing about me once. ‘Nothing to do with this.’ A side effect. A mistake.”
He took another step.
Victor’s voice rose in pitch. “Please...if you must kill someone, kill me—”
Adam still didn’t look at him. “What’s your name?” he asked you, calm and low.
You swallowed, your mouth dry. You told him. He repeated it, like he was testing how it tasted in his mouth. You felt that more than you should have.
“Pretty,” he murmured. “Does he own you, too?”
“No,” you snapped before you could think. “No one owns me.”
Something flickered behind his eyes. “Good,” he said softly.
Victor grabbed your wrist. “Get inside. Now.”
Adam’s gaze dropped to where Victor touched you and the air changed immediately.
Slow and deliberate, he stepped around Victor like he was a piece of furniture and not a man. Victor tried to block him again, but Adam merely placed one large hand on his shoulder and pushed.
Victor flew.
He hit the ground hard, the air knocked out of him. Adam didn’t spare him even a flicker of a glance.
He stopped in front of you, close enough that you had to tilt your head back to look up at him. Close enough that you could see the stitches at the edge of his jaw, the small irregularity in his left pupil, the faint scent of rain and forest and something metallic clinging to him.
Up close, the “monster” was less a horror and more…a collision of contradictions. Rage and restraint. Power and precision. Violence and, somehow, a thread of aching loneliness wound tightly beneath it all.
You realized, in that moment, that Victor hadn’t just created a monster. He’d created a man and then abandoned him.
Adam looked down at you like you were an equation he was solving.
“You let him stay in your home,” he said quietly. “You fixed his wounds. Fed him. Kept him warm.”
Your lips parted. How did he know?
“You watched me from your window,” he added calmly. “You didn’t scream.” His eyes searched yours. “You should have.”
“I wasn’t afraid,” you lied, watching as his mouth twitched.
“You were,” he said. “Just not the way you think.”
Your heart stuttered as Victor coughed behind you. “Please...leave her out—”
Adam’s expression didn’t change, but his voice dropped, dangerous and soft.
“Get up again,” he said without looking at Victor, “and I will break something in your precious body.”
Victor stayed on the ground while Adam’s attention shifted entirely to you.
“I’ve been watching him for a long time,” he murmured. “Running. Hiding. Lying.” His gaze dragged slowly down your body, then back up, not lecherous, not polite, just…assessing. Claiming. “And then I saw you.”
You swallowed. “So what, I’m a witness?”
His pupils thinned. “No,” he said. “You’re a variable.”
You didn’t know whether to shiver or scoff. “What do you want?”
A slow, dark smile ghosted across his lips. “I want to see something.”
You don’t know why that scared you more than any threat could have.
He took a step back from you, just enough that you could move if you wanted to. The forest loomed at his back, every tree suddenly feeling like part of him.
His eyes gleamed.
“Run,” he said.
Your stomach dropped. “What?”
He nodded toward the trees. “Run.”
Victor wheezed, “Don’t you touch her—”
Adam’s hand twitched once, annoyance flickering across his features. “This isn’t about you anymore,” he said flatly, still looking at you. “It’s about her.”
Your voice came out quiet. “Why?”
“Because I want to know,” he murmured, “what you do when you’re afraid.”
His tone was almost gentle and that made it worse, but still, you didn’t move.
You stood there, heart hammering, while every instinct screamed at you to obey and bolt—but there was something else, too. Something traitorous. A spark of heat in your chest that had nothing to do with fear.
He watched you, patient.
“Run,” he said again, this time softer, more dangerous. “Before I change my mind and skip straight to the part where I catch you.”
That got you moving.
You turned and sprinted toward the tree line, lungs seizing with cold air, skirts tangling around your legs. The forest swallowed you fast that the cottage vanished from sight, the world shrinking down to your beating heart, cracking twigs, and the rush of your own breath.
For a few fierce seconds, you could almost pretend this was just another late-night dash through the woods like you’d done as a child. You knew these trees, you knew these paths and if you could reach the creek, the old oak, the slope.
A low laugh rolled through the darkness behind you. You risked a glance over your shoulder. He was there. Of course he was there.
Not right behind you—no. That would have been mercy. He walked.
Effortless. Unhurried. His long strides ate up the ground with terrifying ease, but he didn’t run. He was holding back.
He was letting you widen the gap. Letting you think you were doing something. You simply pushed harder.
Branches whipped your face, roots lurked like traps beneath the leaves. The cold cut your lungs raw, causing a deep ache. Still, you ran. Because if you stopped, if you let yourself feel the way his gaze burned between your shoulder blades, you didn’t know what would happen.
“You’re fast,” his voice drifted through the trees. “For someone who’s never been hunted before.”
You nearly tripped at the sound. It was closer than it had any right to be.
“How—” you gasped, putting all your weight into climbing a small hill, “—are you...still talking?”
He chuckled and the sound was dark and almost joyful.
“You’re the one running,” he said. “I’m just enjoying my view.”
Heat flared in your chest. Anger. Embarrassment. A reluctant, unwanted thrill you didn’t have time to unpack. “You’re insane!” you shouted.
“Probably,” he called back. “Keep going. I want to see how far you think you can get.”
Your legs burned.
You veered left, deeper into the forest where the undergrowth grew thicker. You could hear water nearby, it was the stream. If you crossed it, maybe you could mask your scent, hide under the overhang near the rocks like you did as a child. You half-slid, half-stumbled down the incline toward the rushing sound.
The stream appeared in front of you, black and fast. You didn’t hesitate.
You splashed through, cold water biting into your boots, soaking your skirts. You reached the other side and scrambled up the muddy bank, fingers digging into damp earth. Your lungs screamed and your heart battered at your ribs.
You tucked yourself into the hollow under a large, tangled root system, the earth cool against your back. You stifled your breathing as best you could, pressing a hand over your mouth to muffle the gasps.
Silence.
Then, a footstep.
On the other side of the water.
Your entire body went still.
You couldn’t see him from where you hid, you could only hear him. The deliberate slosh of boots through water, the slow crunch of leaves on your side of the stream.
He knew. You squeezed your eyes shut, as if that would help. His voice came from far too close.
“Clever.”
You flinched.
“Most people run in a straight line,” he mused aloud, as if chatting with himself. “They don’t bother with cover. They think speed is enough.” A pause. “You broke my sightline. You crossed the water. You hid.”
Dry leaves shifted just beyond your hiding place.
“Very clever,” he repeated softly. “But you’re shaking the ground with your heartbeat, do you know that?”
You clamped your teeth down on your hand, hard enough to sting. He stopped right in front of your hiding spot. You didn’t breathe, couldn't breathe.
Time stretched. Hung. Trembled. Stopped altogether.
Then, with infuriating casualness, he crouched down and flipped the dangling roots aside like a curtain.
"Found you." He sang.
You stared up at him, chest heaving. He filled the entry, blocking the faint moonlight behind him. For a moment, neither of you dared to move.
His eyes roamed over you, taking in your damp clothes, mud-streaked knees, trembling fingers digging into the earth.
You expected mockery. Instead, he looked…pleased.
“You made it farther than he would have,” Adam said quietly. You didn’t have to ask who he meant, Victor probably already halfway to the next town over.
Coward.
“Let me go,” you managed, your voice hoarse. “You’ve proven your point.”
His head tilted. “Have I?”
“My heart is pounding, I’m filthy, I’m terrified. Congratulations.”
“Are you?” he asked. You frowned. “Am I what?”
“Terrified.”
Your throat tightened. “Yes.”
He reached in. You tried to kick, lash out, claw at him. It didn’t matter because his hand closed around your ankle with an unyielding grip, warm and solid.
He only had to tug once.
You slid straight out of your hiding place like prey dragged from a den.
You hit the ground on your back, air punching out from your lungs. Before you could scramble away, a shadow moved over you, and then he was there. One hand braced beside your head, the other still wrapped around your ankle, pinning you down with a fraction of his strength.
You could feel how careful that fraction was.
He leaned over you, his body heat seeping through your soaked clothes, the scent of damp earth and something electric clinging to his skin.
“Look at you,” he murmured.
You glared up at him. “Get off—”
“You’re shaking,” he cut in. “Breathing like you’ve swallowed the storm. Skin flushed. Eyes blown wide.” His gaze darkened. “You call it fear.”
Your chest rose and fell too fast and too uneven. “What else would you call it?”
His hand slid from your ankle to your calf, then to your knee, his touch slow, deliberate, never fully gentle. You felt every inch of contact like a spark.
“I’ve seen fear,” he said. “Real fear. The kind that stinks of sweat and piss and desperation.” His eyes burned into yours. “This isn’t that.”
You fought the urge to squirm. “Stop pretending I want this,” you snapped. “I didn’t ask—”
A harsh, humorless sound escaped him. “You didn’t say no either.”
Your breath stalled. “You told me to run.”
“Yes,” he said simply. “And you did. But not the way they do.” His eyes flicked down to your parted lips, then back up. “You looked back three times. Do you know that?”
You said nothing.
“You wanted to see me,” he murmured. “You wanted to know how close I was.”
“Because you’re hunting me,” you spat.
His mouth curved in a sinister way.
“Yes,” he admitted. “But tell me the truth.” His face lowered, his nose brushing the side of yours, his voice dropping to a rasp. “Did you really want me far away?”
Your heart slammed so hard it hurt.
You hated that he could read you. Hated that you couldn’t lie convincingly right now. Hated that somewhere beneath the panic and adrenaline there was a twisted, burning thrill at being seen like this by something so utterly, terrifyingly focused on you.
“Even if I did,” you whispered, “what difference does it make?”
Everything in his expression shifted.
He loosened his grip on your leg, only to slide his hand to your hip, fingers spreading as if measuring how much of you he could hold in his palm.
“It makes,” he said softly, “all the difference in the world.”
He lowered his head to your throat and you froze.
His nose brushed your skin, his breath warm against the rapid pulse hammering under the surface. He inhaled slowly, deeply, like he was committing your scent to memory.
A shiver tore through you. You couldn’t help it. He felt it too.
A low, pleased sound rumbled in his chest. “There,” he murmured. “That’s the truth.”
Your voice trembled. “You said you wanted Victor. Not me.”
“I wanted revenge,” he corrected, his lips ghosting over the hollow at the base of your throat without ever really touching you. “That’s different.” His grip on your hip tightened. “You, I want for something else.”
“Like what?” you asked, though part of you already knew.
His head lifted, his eyes locking onto yours.
“You really don’t know?” he asked, almost amused.
“I want to hear you say it,” you shot back, surprising even yourself with the challenge in your tone.
For a heartbeat, he just stared at you. Then the corner of his mouth lifted, not kindly. Dark. Wicked. Dangerous.
“Dangerous,” he murmured, almost to himself. “You’re dangerous.”
He shifted, his body settling more fully over yours, bracing his weight on his arms so he didn’t crush you but kept you pinned between him and the unyielding forest floor.
You were trapped.
“I’ve spent years alone,” he said, his voice growing rougher with every word. “Hiding in shadows. Watching life happen to everyone but me. Listening to their laughter, their pleasure, their cries.” His eyes flared. “Wanting. Always wanting. Never allowed to have.”
His hand slid up your side, fingers splaying against your ribs, the heat of his touch burning away some of the chill from the stream.
“And now…” He swallowed once, thickly. “Now you stand in front of me and tell me I should pretend I don’t want you?”
Your breath hitched.
“I didn’t—”
“But you didn’t tell me to stop,” he said. “You didn’t tell me to let you go. Even now,” he added softly, “you’re not telling me to get off you. You’re asking me questions.”
He leaned down until his lips hovered a breath away from yours.
“Tell me to stop,” he whispered, “and I will.”
The forest held its breath with you.
You stared up at him, every nerve lit, every rational thought drowned under the weight of his body, his voice, his attention. The world had shrunk to the space between his mouth and yours.
You could say it.
You could end this.
You could turn away from the cliff edge.
You parted your lips.
“…Don’t...don't stop,” you whispered.
His eyes flashed and for a moment, he looked almost startled. Then, slowly, something unmistakably feral slid into place behind his gaze.
“You are going to ruin me,” he said hoarsely.
His hand at your hip flexed, pulling you against him. His other braced by your head, fingers biting into the earth.
“Or I’m going to ruin you,” he added. “Maybe both.”
His forehead dropped to yours, the contact almost jarringly intimate.
“Say it again,” he murmured. “Tell me not to stop.”
You swallowed. “Don’t stop.” His jaw clenched.
“Once I start,” he said, voice shaking with a cocktail of hunger and warning, “I won’t want to stop. I won’t want to be gentle. I’ve never been given anything gently. Everything I’ve ever had, I’ve had to take.”
You held his gaze. “Then take me.”
Silence. Absolute, shattering silence. Then, something in him broke, quietly and completely.
“Gods,” he breathed. “You don’t know what you’re asking for.”
His mouth brushed your jaw, the corner of your lips, the edge of your throat. Each almost-touch made your body arch toward him of its own accord, seeking more.
His lips finally pressed firmly against your throat, not biting, but not soft either. His hand traveling your body drew your attention away from the cold, from the mud, from everything except the paths he traced.
The monster in the woods was worshiping you like a man starved.
The moment Adam caught the edge of your skirts, it was with a desperation that felt older than the grave. Fabric whispered and tore as he dragged it upward, his touch neither gentle nor hesitant, like a creature who had only just learned what wanting was.
Cold night air lashed your skin, raising gooseflesh that made you shiver. He noticed. Of course he noticed. There was nothing human left in his gaze now, only hunger, devotion, and something far more dangerous.
Moonlight broke through the clouds just long enough to illuminate the ruins of your clothes, scattered and ruined as he held you pinned between his body and the damp, trembling earth.
“This,” he growled, voice cracking like thunder, “was carved into my fate. I have earned it.”
He lowered his head, breathing in your arousal in like a man starved of warmth, starved of life itself. The air between you thickened, your own traitorous longing betraying every rational thought you’d ever clung to.
When your eyes met his, a crooked, sinful smile tugged at the edges of his mouth—too wicked for any mortal man.
“Scream,” he murmured. “No soul dares to wander far enough to save you from me.”
Then he claimed you, not with gentleness, but with the reverence of a worshipper kneeling before a forbidden altar. His touch was fevered, greedy, tasting, learning. His arm held you steady when your body tried to escape the intensity of him, though you no longer knew whether you wanted freedom or surrender.
Your breath hitched. Your voice broke. The world spun.
And yet it was not fear that hollowed you—it was something far sweeter, far more damning.
“I’ve decided,” he whispered against the tender skin of your thigh, breath uneven, “that I could spend eternity discovering you.”
He returned to your centre with slow, deliberate devotion, savouring every trembling moment. Your hands, dirt-streaked and shaking, flew to his hair, unsure if you meant to pull him closer or push him away.
Even you didn’t know.
“Harder,” he groaned, voice fraying at the edges. “If you wish to hurt me… then hurt me. I am yours to ruin.”
Stars burst behind your eyes like dying worlds, a pleasure you had never known until tonight. Adam rose in the moonlight, looking wild and starved and achingly alive. Hunger darkened his gaze as he captured your mouth with his, stealing whatever breath you had left.
This was wrong. This was sacrilege. You were betraying every law written for mortal souls.
“My creator,” Adam murmured against your throat, words sending a tremor through you, “must have shown me mercy.”
His weight shifted, his heat pressed to your hip, and your head tipped back with a gasp.
“I should have thanked him,” he said, lips curling into a wicked smile. “Because even after death, he left me the parts that make me a man.”
He didn’t let you answer, instead claiming you fully, and your body arched beneath him as the forest seemed to hold its breath. You clutched at his stitched, unholy skin, marking him with crescents of dirt and desperation, your claim etched into him like scripture.
The ground trembled. Birds erupted from their nests in panicked flight as Adam roared into the night, your bodies moving as though summoned by some ancient, terrible rhythm.
He pressed shuddering kisses along your neck, between gasped-out half-words, his voice a rough, reverent rasp in your ear.
“Mine.”
“Look at me.”
“Don’t hide from me.”
“Say my name.”
You didn’t know when you started saying it, but once you did, it didn’t stop.
“Adam.”
His body flinched the first time you whispered it.
No one had said it like that before. His breath hitched and his rhythm broke, but you didn’t care, you only clung to the dark, rising heat curling tight inside you, desperate now to chase it to its end.
You said his name again, and his control frayed further, his movements growing more desperate, more claiming. His hand tightened at your hip, his mouth hovering, then pressing, then dragging along your pulse.
You were both hanging off the edge by fingertips.
“You’re are mine,” he growled. “And I am yours.”
His hand closed around your throat with the helpless instinct of something made for ruin rather than tenderness. Through the blur of your tears, you managed only his name.
"Adam."
Then the two of you collided like storm-torn constellations, souls striking sparks in the dark as the sky twisted above you. His uneven breath tangled with yours, and an impossible, shattering pleasure unfurled between you as though the night itself had split open.
You didn’t know how long you stayed there, tangled in breath and heat and half touches under the watchful shadows of the trees. Time had no meaning in that hollow. There was only the rise and fall of his chest and the frantic rhythm of your heart.
When he finally pulled back, it wasn’t because he wanted to.
It was because he had to.
He stayed close, kneeling beside you in the leaves, one hand still on your waist as if to reassure himself you were real.
Your clothes were damp, your hair was a mess, your throat felt raw.
You couldn't have cared less in this moment. Adam watched you like he was memorizing the sight.
“What now?” you asked quietly.
He looked toward the direction of the village, where faint distant lantern lights flickered between trees.
“Now,” he said, “I finish what I came here for.”
Cold crept back into your chest. “Victor,” you whispered.
Adam’s jaw hardened. “I could break his neck with two fingers.”
“Will you?” You asked. He was quiet for a moment.
“I wanted to,” he said. “For years. I thought about it every night. About how his skull would feel in my hands. How easy it would be.”
He closed his eyes, jaw tense. When he opened them again, the anger was still there, but something else had joined it.
“You changed that,” he admitted.
You blinked, thrown. “Me?”
“You’re the first person who didn’t scream when they saw me,” he said. “The first who didn’t pretend I was invisible. The first who didn’t try to use me or run from me without looking back over their shoulder like they wanted me to follow.”
His gaze softened in a way that felt dangerous. Manipulative.
“You gave me something more interesting than revenge,” he said. “That’s… inconvenient.”
You almost laughed. “Sorry?”
“Don’t be,” he said. “If it weren’t for you, I’d be on my way back there right now to paint the trees with his blood.”
You shivered. Not entirely from fear. “What will you do instead?” you asked.
His fingers flexed on your waist. “I’ll let him live,” he said slowly. “For now.”
Relief and dread twisted together in your gut. “So you’ll leave?”
His hand tightened. “No.” The word dropped like a stone.
You stared. “Then what—” He leaned in again, his mouth hovering by your ear, his voice quiet and cruelly tender.
“I’m not leaving without you.” Your breath caught. “What?”
“You heard me.” You shook your head, trying to sit up fully. He let you, but stayed close, his presence a wall at your side.
“I can’t just disappear,” you said. “I have a life here. A home. People will—”
“Forget,” he said with a shrug. “They always do. Or they’ll tell stories about you the way they told stories about me. The woman the forest took.” His lips curled. “You’ll be a warning for children who think they can stray too far.”
“That’s not funny,” you snapped.
“I’m not joking.”
He cupped your face again, calloused thumb brushing the edge of your lip.
“I’ve spent years wandering alone,” he said. “I’m done.” His eyes burned. “You ran from me, and then you told me not to stop. You said my name like it meant something.”
“It does,” you said before you could stop yourself.
His breath hitched. "Then you understand,” he said. “I’m not leaving you here.”
“And if I say no?” you asked quietly.
He considered that, really considered it. You saw the war flicker across his expression.
“I don’t want to force you,” he said at last, voice raw. “I’ve had enough of being forced my entire existence.”
“But?” you pressed. He swallowed, his nostrils flaring.
“But if you stay,” he said, “they’ll hurt you. Not the villagers, the world. Men like him. Men worse than him.” He nodded vaguely toward where Victor might still lay. “They’ll see you, and they’ll want you, and they’ll try to take from you what you offered me freely.”
His eyes went black.
“I’ll feel it,” he whispered. “Even from miles away, I’ll feel it. And I’ll come back here and tear this place apart. I’ll kill them all.” His fingers dug into your jaw. “And it will be your fault.”
Your blood ran cold. “That’s not fair,” you said.
“I know,” he replied. “I never said I was fair.”
Silence hung between you, heavy and terrible.
“You’re asking me to choose,” you said. “Between my home and… you.”
“I’m not asking,” he said. “I’m telling you what happens either way.” Your chest hurt. “And if I go with you?”
His grip gentled and he stroked your cheek once, almost reverent.
“Then I’ll burn for you instead of the world,” he said simply. “I’ll be your monster. Your shield. Your ruin. I’ll give you every violent, ugly, precious part of me that no one else wanted.” His mouth hovered above yours again, close enough to feel the warmth. “And I won’t let anything touch you unless you ask for it.”
Your heart hammered against your ribs, bruising. “I don’t even know what that life looks like,” you whispered.
His smile was sharp and soft at once. “Neither do I,” he said. “We’ll find out.”
He straightened then, towering over you once more. He held out a hand as the forest watched.
The cottage stood somewhere behind you, full of fear and lies and the same grey days you’d always known.
In front of you, a monster who wanted you with unapologetic, terrifying clarity. A man stitched from rage and loneliness who’d decided you were the one thing he wouldn’t let the world keep from him.
He wouldn’t beg.
He wouldn’t promise you safety.
He wouldn’t promise you sanity.
What he offered instead was devotion sharpened into a weapon, and a life lived at the edge of the firelight.
You took a breath and you put your hand in his.
His fingers closed around yours, firm and absolute. Something like relief flickered across his face before he smothered it.
“Good,” he said, voice low. “Very good.”
He pulled you to your feet and didn’t let go.
You walked back through the trees together, his grip steady, his frame a shadow at your side. The cottage came into view, lantern light flickering weakly against the dark.
Victor still sat there, hunched and small on the ground near the clearing like a discarded marionette.
He looked up as you emerged. His eyes widened, darting from Adam’s hand around yours to your face.
“You can’t...” he croaked. “You can’t go with him. He’s a monster. He’ll...he’ll destroy you.”
You glanced at Adam as he watched Victor with the same sort of detached irritation one might reserve for a buzzing fly.
“You had your chance to care about what happened to me,” Adam said mildly. “You chose yourself.”
His gaze slid back to you.
“You’re sure?” he asked quietly enough that Victor couldn’t hear. “You can still say no.”
“And you’ll leave me alone?” you asked.
His jaw flexed once.
“No,” he said honestly. “I’ll just leave you. The rest of this place?” His eyes flicked to Victor. “I make no promises.”
You believed him as the weight of your choice settled in your bones like cold iron.
You squeezed his hand tighter. “I’m sure,” you said.
He nodded once. No smile. No grand display of joy. Just a small, precise shift in his posture, like something inside him finally unclenched.
He turned to Victor.
“You get to live,” Adam said. “You’ll tell them whatever story you like about what happened here. You always were good at lying.” He tilted his head. “But if I hear you’ve tried to chase us, to take her back, to drag her name through the dirt,”
He stepped forward, and Victor shrank back. “I won’t be nearly as merciful next time.”
Victor opened and closed his mouth, but no sound came out, but Adam didn’t wait for one, instead he tugged your hand.
“Come,” he said. “Before I change my mind and kill him anyway.”
hi everyone!! im so sorry for the lack of posting </3 school has been kicking my ass tremendously i had to change my major🫠🫠 and im still struggling!! haha... but i promise ill make time as soon as possible to write the next chapter of silver lining!! in the meantime, here's a picture of my kitty ^_^
part i | part ii | part iii | part iv — series masterlist
synopsis: long ago, there was once a small kingdom far away. attacked by a wicked tribe, the king was convinced by his advisor to create a mighty knight to protect his daughter, the princess, and gave the strange wizard of the village permission to create such a being. but the princess, who yearned for adventure and love, can’t help but develop feelings for her knight.
pairing: knight!adam frankenstein x princess!reader
warnings: violence
word count: 2k words
author's note: hi everyone! i apologize for my absence </3 but i'm afraid i will take longer to write now as i go back to college next week </33 i will try my hardest to keep writing, but again, apologies if i take longer. thank you for your understanding!!
Fire.
It was all you could see across the kingdom.
Horrific screaming later followed. You looked around frantically, clueless as to why your home was in flames, and your father's guards were nowhere to be seen.
Your body controlled you, your feet moving faster than your reaction towards the main door. You pushed the door open with all your strength only to be met by your worst nightmare.
Your father, Elizabeth, William, your people, and the guards’ bloody corpses scattered across the land. Your hands were shaking so badly that you dropped your sword.
A tight chest, ringing ears, and nausea later spread throughout your body. You felt your vocal cords straining, like you were screaming your lungs out. But all you could hear was ringing.
You later felt your legs giving out on you as well, causing your legs to land harshly on the floor. Your nightmarish screams could be heard from across the land. You held your chest tightly, all you could do was scream in anguish.
Why?”
You couldn't think of a reason for this to happen. You knew you failed as a daughter, worse, a leader. Because you failed to protect your people and your only family.
—
You woke up, sitting up quickly and gasping for air harshly. The nuns around you quickly ran towards you, some of them startled, dropped their tools.
“Your Highness!” They ran to your side. “Fetch her some water!” One of the nuns in charge yelled before adding, “And someone else report to the King!” They frantically ran to fetch you water and left the room to let your father know of your state.
You only kept gasping for air before finally catching a few breaths, sobbing in the process. The nuns were stunned, stepping back in surprise. They've never seen their brave princess in such a state. You wailed like a child.
“Where is my father?” You looked at them with red eyes, barely managing to speak, and choked up in the process. One of the nuns stepped forward. “T-the King will be notified of your awake soon, Your Highness,” She replies, pitifully.
You only dropped your head on your hands, still crying. “Please tell me the kingdom is safe and I only went through a nightmare.” You barely managed to speak. The nuns looked at each other, worried, “Please lie back down, Your Highness. Your shoulder is bleeding again” One of the older nuns murmured to you kindly.
My shoulder? Bleeding?
You stopped crying only to look at it. Sure enough, your wound had opened again. You could only stare at it with wide eyes.
How could I forget?
How could you forget the horrific night? You quickly remembered.
Elizabeth.
“Where's Elizabeth?” You quickly asked all the nuns in the room, looking at them while grabbing your blankets off you. The nuns tried stopping you, “Your Majesty you really should rest, the King will be gravely-” One of them tried explaining to you.
“I don't care! Where's Elizabeth?” You turned to the nun to yell at her, starting to cry again from frustration and guilt.
Guilt from yelling at a poor, sweet, elderly woman, and for the sacrifice Elizabeth had to make for you to be alive at the moment. Frustration from how the nuns always treated you. As if you were made from the most delicate glass ever created.
The same nun who had tried to get you to rest sighed before grabbing your hands. “She's in the infirmary, but Your Highness,” she took a small pause, trying to figure out the proper wording, “She's still unconscious.” She regrettably murmured.
No.
You disregarded the hands holding your own, taking off towards the door, and forgetting about your open wound. All the nuns went after you, except the one who spoke the news.
“Your Majesty! Your wound!” They all frantically chased after you with their tools in hand. You couldn't care less about the unbearable pain right now. You had to see your best friend.
—
Victor could only stare at the door before him. The last time he was here the king banished him to the ends of the land, practically cursed him saying he'd always be an evil force to the kingdom.
An abomination of a man, the devil. Victor could only sigh and drop his head into his hands.
Why am I here again?
He wondered to himself. Nobody believed in him, everyone thought he was crazy for practicing dark magic. Only those who follow the path of evil practice such methods. Everyone thought it was insane how he hasn't been executed yet, but no one knows he's only still alive because of your mother.
Your mother was the most beautiful woman— no. The most beautiful being he's ever had the privilege to lay eyes upon, let alone be in the same room with her. And because you looked exactly like her, even inheriting the same kindness, humbleness, and bravery as your mother, he adored you as such.
Ah.
He finally remembered why he's here. He looked up at the door again.
The guard who traveled to escort him to the kingdom grumbled behind him and impatiently stepped in front of him to push the doors to the throne room open.
The hall was lined up with guards left and right, and there was your father. Sitting on his throne with a frustrated expression on his face, gripping his scepter tightly. Angry he had to ask for help from the last person he wanted to speak to.
Victor's eye twitched seeing the king, followed by a smirk smirked at the scene, enjoying seeing your father in such a state.
Maybe this is worth it after all.
“Move.” The guard behind him grumbled and shoved him. Victor, surprisingly, obeyed. Only because he was in a slightly good mood.
Victor carefully walked towards your father, never breaking eye contact with him, challenging him. Your father only grew angrier and more uncomfortable than he already was having the most wicked wizard in his kingdom.
He sighed when Victor finally made it close enough to hold a conversation. “Victor Frankenstein.” He dreadfully addressed him. Victor's eye twitched again at the soujd of his name, but when he didn't bow after being addressed, the guard harshly grabbed his shoulder and forced him to bow.
Tsk.
“Your Majesty,” He mockingly replied before shoving the guard's hand off to look up at the King. “To what do I owe the pleasure of being in your presence?” He replied, using the same sarcasm.
Your father only rolled his eyes. “You know as well as I do I don't want you here either.” He urgently explained, “You are only here thanks to my advisor.” “Ah yes. Your little rat.” Victor said, full of venom.
The king decided he would ignore every disrespectful thing this man had to say for your sake. He had to try absolutely everything to keep you safe. “Victor, I didn't summon you here to argue or hear your nonsense. If the knights and I wanted entertainment, I would've invited a jester.” He looked at him coldly.
“This is strictly for my daughter. Nothing more, nothing less.” To this, Victor finally dropped his defensive demeanor, dropping his guard a bit and staying quiet. The king closed his eyes, taking a deep breath before explaining the situation. “The same unnamed tribe who attacked my wife snuck in three days ago. Attempting to assassinate my daughter this time,” the King regrettably explained, ashamed that such a tragedy had happened once again in his kingdom.
The King looked down, “Every knight was either on the front line or defending our people against this wicked tribe, the few that were defending the castle were called for backup and were killed in battle soon after.” Your father only felt more shame as he kept explaining his burden to the wizard.
He must be enjoying seeing me like this
“And William went after the tribe as soon as they struck my daughter and her lady-in-waiting. But he has yet to return.” He turned to the wizard again. “Do you understand the graveness of the situation?” He practically begged him to understand, because he was not about to explain again.
Victor only looked at him with wide eyes before looking down.
Of course, William went after them. What a fool.
He was truly at a loss for words. What the hell was he supposed to say? I'm sorry? Can he possibly think of a reason why the King needed him to hear this?
“What do you want from me?” He said, defeated. Your father sighed, “My advisor Harlander came up with a barbaric solution, a concerning plan for you.” He paused for a bit before adding, “And trust me, if there was anyone else I knew who could achieve the plan, I would've summoned them instead.” He clarified. Victor rolled his eyes at that but stayed quiet, letting your father continue.
He shuddered before demanding, “I need you to create the strongest knight this land has ever seen to protect my daughter from this tribe.”
Victor was stunned for a few seconds, then a minute, before breaking into laughter. He let out the craziest sounding laugh and grabbed his stomach. The guards held an irritated expression and gripped their swords and polearms tightly. The first two on the left and right sides ran behind him and pointed their weapons at him.
Victor couldn't care less if they kill him right then and there. “W-What?” he giggled, “You want me, the devil according to you, to create life? No, a knight?” He walked closer towards the king, the knights following behind him. “What makes you think I can do that, Your Majesty?” He threatened the King when he was close enough.
“I can't even resurrect a goddamn rabbit. How the hell do you want me to create life? You banished me from all the knowledge of achieving such a thing twenty years ago!” He barked. “Or did you forget why I don't show my face here?” He was beyond furious. How could he ask him such a thing after banishing him from his own home? His beloved job in the kingdom. He was absolutely leaving after the king finished whatever he had to say and never coming back.
The king sighed, expecting such a response from him, “You will have access to our entire library and will be handed all the material well-being you need, but you are not to leave the kingdom until you are finished.” He impatiently exclaimed, “What makes you think I'm staying here?” He challenged your father. He only maintained eye contact, trying his best to stay calm,
“If you help us— no, if you succeed in doing this task,” Your father closed his eyes and turned away for a second, worried for his next words, “You will have your job back here in the kingdom as our court wizard.” All the knights looked at your father in terror.
What the hell was he thinking? Victor's eyes widened at this.
M-my job back?
He shuddered in excitement at the thought. All that precious knowledge.. all those beautiful spells he so dearly missed… just a step ahead… Victor could only shakily breathe, but he knew the job was about to be absolute hell if the king himself was offering his job back.
So he calmed down and regained his composure to look at your father. “When do I start?” He shamelessly said.
There goes my dignity.
The king pressed his lips together for a while before responding,“Tomorrow morning, the guards will show you to your temporary chambers and lab to work on the creature.”
All Victor could think about was the potential of him having his job back, completely forgetting about you and your current well being. “You have complete access to our library and anything you need for the task will be provided to you.” Your father paused for a minute, followed by a sigh.
“You're dismissed, Victor. I wish you the best of luck.” He directly said, straight forward. Victor hid his enthusiasm well with a grateful demeanor. “Thank you kindly, Your Majesty. I will do my best.” He bit down his pride for once, surprisingly.
He let the guards behind him grab his shoulders harshly once again and was dragged away to his chambers. When the door behind him was shut, the king could only pray to God this plan actually worked.
final author's note: i know i said we would meet the creature in this chapter and I apologize for not introducing him in this chapter 😭😭 but i swear the wait will be worth it </3 i hope... thank you so much for reading!! (im pretty sure he will appear next chapter.. dont wanna confirm anything tho LOLL)
part i | part ii | part iii | part iv — series masterlist
synopsis: long ago, there was once a small kingdom far away. attacked by a wicked tribe, the king was convinced by his advisor to create a mighty knight to protect his daughter, the princess, and gave the strange wizard of the village permission to create such a being. but the princess, who yearned for adventure and love, can’t help but develop feelings for her knight.
pairing: knight!adam frankenstein x princess!reader
warnings: violence
word count: 2k words
author's note: hi everyone! i apologize for my absence </3 but i'm afraid i will take longer to write now as i go back to college next week </33 i will try my hardest to keep writing, but again, apologies if i take longer. thank you for your understanding!!
Fire.
It was all you could see across the kingdom.
Horrific screaming later followed. You looked around frantically, clueless as to why your home was in flames, and your father's guards were nowhere to be seen.
Your body controlled you, your feet moving faster than your reaction towards the main door. You pushed the door open with all your strength only to be met by your worst nightmare.
Your father, Elizabeth, William, your people, and the guards’ bloody corpses scattered across the land. Your hands were shaking so badly that you dropped your sword.
A tight chest, ringing ears, and nausea later spread throughout your body. You felt your vocal cords straining, like you were screaming your lungs out. But all you could hear was ringing.
You later felt your legs giving out on you as well, causing your legs to land harshly on the floor. Your nightmarish screams could be heard from across the land. You held your chest tightly, all you could do was scream in anguish.
Why?”
You couldn't think of a reason for this to happen. You knew you failed as a daughter, worse, a leader. Because you failed to protect your people and your only family.
—
You woke up, sitting up quickly and gasping for air harshly. The nuns around you quickly ran towards you, some of them startled, dropped their tools.
“Your Highness!” They ran to your side. “Fetch her some water!” One of the nuns in charge yelled before adding, “And someone else report to the King!” They frantically ran to fetch you water and left the room to let your father know of your state.
You only kept gasping for air before finally catching a few breaths, sobbing in the process. The nuns were stunned, stepping back in surprise. They've never seen their brave princess in such a state. You wailed like a child.
“Where is my father?” You looked at them with red eyes, barely managing to speak, and choked up in the process. One of the nuns stepped forward. “T-the King will be notified of your awake soon, Your Highness,” She replies, pitifully.
You only dropped your head on your hands, still crying. “Please tell me the kingdom is safe and I only went through a nightmare.” You barely managed to speak. The nuns looked at each other, worried, “Please lie back down, Your Highness. Your shoulder is bleeding again” One of the older nuns murmured to you kindly.
My shoulder? Bleeding?
You stopped crying only to look at it. Sure enough, your wound had opened again. You could only stare at it with wide eyes.
How could I forget?
How could you forget the horrific night? You quickly remembered.
Elizabeth.
“Where's Elizabeth?” You quickly asked all the nuns in the room, looking at them while grabbing your blankets off you. The nuns tried stopping you, “Your Majesty you really should rest, the King will be gravely-” One of them tried explaining to you.
“I don't care! Where's Elizabeth?” You turned to the nun to yell at her, starting to cry again from frustration and guilt.
Guilt from yelling at a poor, sweet, elderly woman, and for the sacrifice Elizabeth had to make for you to be alive at the moment. Frustration from how the nuns always treated you. As if you were made from the most delicate glass ever created.
The same nun who had tried to get you to rest sighed before grabbing your hands. “She's in the infirmary, but Your Highness,” she took a small pause, trying to figure out the proper wording, “She's still unconscious.” She regrettably murmured.
No.
You disregarded the hands holding your own, taking off towards the door, and forgetting about your open wound. All the nuns went after you, except the one who spoke the news.
“Your Majesty! Your wound!” They all frantically chased after you with their tools in hand. You couldn't care less about the unbearable pain right now. You had to see your best friend.
—
Victor could only stare at the door before him. The last time he was here the king banished him to the ends of the land, practically cursed him saying he'd always be an evil force to the kingdom.
An abomination of a man, the devil. Victor could only sigh and drop his head into his hands.
Why am I here again?
He wondered to himself. Nobody believed in him, everyone thought he was crazy for practicing dark magic. Only those who follow the path of evil practice such methods. Everyone thought it was insane how he hasn't been executed yet, but no one knows he's only still alive because of your mother.
Your mother was the most beautiful woman— no. The most beautiful being he's ever had the privilege to lay eyes upon, let alone be in the same room with her. And because you looked exactly like her, even inheriting the same kindness, humbleness, and bravery as your mother, he adored you as such.
Ah.
He finally remembered why he's here. He looked up at the door again.
The guard who traveled to escort him to the kingdom grumbled behind him and impatiently stepped in front of him to push the doors to the throne room open.
The hall was lined up with guards left and right, and there was your father. Sitting on his throne with a frustrated expression on his face, gripping his scepter tightly. Angry he had to ask for help from the last person he wanted to speak to.
Victor's eye twitched seeing the king, followed by a smirk at the scene, enjoying seeing your father in such a state.
Maybe this is worth it after all.
“Move.” The guard behind him grumbled and shoved him. Victor, surprisingly, obeyed. Only because he was in a slightly good mood.
Victor carefully walked towards your father, never breaking eye contact with him, challenging him. Your father only grew angrier and more uncomfortable than he already was having the most wicked wizard in his kingdom.
He sighed when Victor finally made it close enough to hold a conversation. “Victor Frankenstein.” He dreadfully addressed him. Victor's eye twitched again at the sound of his name, but when he didn't bow after being addressed, the guard harshly grabbed his shoulder, kicked his knees and forced him to bow.
Tsk.
“Your Majesty,” He mockingly replied before shoving the guard's hand off to look up at the King. “To what do I owe the pleasure of being in your presence?” He replied, using the same sarcasm.
Your father only rolled his eyes. “You know as well as I do I don't want you here either.” He urgently explained, “You are only here thanks to my advisor.” “Ah yes. Your little rat.” Victor said, full of venom.
The king decided he would ignore every disrespectful thing this man had to say for your sake. He had to try absolutely everything to keep you safe. “Victor, I didn't summon you here to argue or hear your nonsense. If the knights and I wanted entertainment, I would've invited a jester.” He looked at him coldly.
“This is strictly for my daughter. Nothing more, nothing less.” To this, Victor finally dropped his defensive demeanor, dropping his guard a bit and staying quiet. The king closed his eyes, taking a deep breath before explaining the situation. “The same unnamed tribe who attacked my wife snuck in the kingdom three days ago. Attempting to assassinate my daughter this time,” the King regrettably explained, ashamed that such a tragedy had happened once again in his kingdom.
Your father looked down, “Every knight was either on the front line or defending our people against this wicked tribe, the few that were defending the castle were called for backup and were killed in battle soon after.” He only felt more shame as he kept explaining his burden to the wizard.
He must be enjoying seeing me like this.
"And William went after the tribe as soon as they struck my daughter and her lady-in-waiting. But he has yet to return.” He turned to the wizard again. “Do you understand the graveness of the situation?” He practically begged him to understand, because he was not about to explain again.
Victor only looked at him with wide eyes before looking down as well.
Of course, William went after them. What a fool.
He was truly at a loss for words. What the hell was he supposed to say? I'm sorry? Can he possibly think of a reason why the King needed him to hear this?
“What do you want from me?” He said, defeated. Your father sighed, “My advisor Harlander came up with a barbaric solution, a concerning plan for you.” He paused for a bit before adding, “And trust me, if there was anyone else I knew who could achieve the plan, I would've summoned them instead.” He clarified. Victor rolled his eyes at that but stayed quiet, letting your father continue.
He shuddered before demanding, “I need you to create the strongest knight this land has ever seen to protect my daughter from this tribe.”
Victor was stunned for a few seconds, then a minute, before breaking into laughter. He let out the craziest sounding laugh and grabbed his stomach. The guards held an irritated expression and gripped their swords and polearms tightly. The first two on the left and right sides ran behind him and pointed their weapons at him.
Victor couldn't care less if they kill him right then and there. “W-What?” he giggled, “You want me, the devil according to you, to create life? No, a knight?” He got up walked closer towards the king, the knights following behind him. “What makes you think I can do that, Your Majesty?” He threatened the King when he was close enough.
“I can't even resurrect a goddamn rabbit. How the hell do you want me to create life? You banished me from all the knowledge of achieving such a thing twenty years ago!” He barked. “Or did you forget why I don't show my face here?” He was beyond furious. How could he ask him such a thing after banishing him from his own home? His beloved job in the kingdom. He was absolutely leaving after the king finished whatever he had to say and never coming back.
The king sighed, expecting such a response from him, “You will have access to our entire library and will be handed all the materials you may need, but you are not to leave the kingdom until you are finished.” He impatiently exclaimed, “What makes you think I'm staying here?” He challenged your father. He only maintained eye contact, trying his best to stay calm,
“If you help us— no, if you succeed in doing this task,” Your father closed his eyes and turned away for a second, worried for his next words, “You will have your job back here in the kingdom as our court wizard.” All the knights looked at your father in terror.
What the hell was he thinking? Victor's eyes widened at this.
M-my job back?
He shuddered in excitement at the thought. All that precious knowledge.. all those beautiful spells he so dearly missed… just a step ahead… Victor could only shakily breathe, but he knew the job was about to be absolute hell if the king himself was offering his job back.
So he calmed down and regained his composure to look at your father. “When do I start?” He shamelessly said.
There goes my dignity.
The king pressed his lips together for a while before responding, “Tomorrow morning, the guards will show you to your temporary chambers and lab to work on the creature.”
All Victor could think about was the potential of him having his job back, completely forgetting about you and your current well being. “You have complete access to our library and anything you need for the task will be provided to you.” Your father paused for a minute, followed by a sigh.
“You're dismissed, Victor. I wish you the best of luck.” He directly said, straight forward. Victor hid his enthusiasm well with a grateful demeanor. “Thank you kindly, Your Majesty. I will do my best.” He bit down his pride for once, surprisingly.
He let the guards behind him grab his shoulders harshly once again and was dragged away to his chambers. When the door behind him was shut, the king could only pray to God this plan actually worked.
final author's note: i know i said we would meet the creature in this chapter and I apologize for not introducing him in this chapter 😭😭 but i swear the wait will be worth it </3 i hope... thank you so much for reading!! (im pretty sure he will appear next chapter.. dont wanna confirm anything tho LOLL)
