Notes to Self

I like Star Wars. If you know me IRL, no you don’t. 18+ Only | Minors DNI. There be smut here.

[ladypunz]

Unhinged Thrawn Thot:

Thrawn has the body of Yushito Itoi. I want to commission an artist to make this happen.

Think about it!

With Yoshio Itoi’s physique in the battle rope challenge!

I need this viscerally.

[noxdle]

Crosshair sketch before I attempt at rendering

[dr-rylandgraces]

#33 - "I thought you said it was a one time thing" - Brett Richards

You know what's a bad idea? Sleeping with your interim Battalion Chief.

You know what's an even worse idea? Continuing to do so.

It had stopped occuring to you that it might be a bad idea the first time around precisely two minutes before he sank to his knees and buried his face between your thighs.

A one time thing, he'd said after. A one time thing, you had stubbornly agreed, even if he had made you cum so hard you'd almost forgotten your own name. Not his, though. No, you'd had no trouble at all remembering his name as you'd moaned it into his ear.

Yes, you were both adults, but it broke half a dozen rules. There was the morality issue besides the hierarchy that was in place for a reason.

And sure, you'd originally planned to agree to that.

Except now, you're sitting in his lap in the back seat of his truck, sucking on his tongue and moaning into his mouth as his hands grab the plush curves of your ass, pulling you back and forth against the sizeable bulge in his cargo pants.

Your own shorts are somewhere in the footwell of the truck, along with your bamboo cotton underwear.

The upside of that is that you're pretty sure you're leaving a wet patch of your slick over his navy blue cargo pants.

That, and you can feel everything. Can feel his cock - which you know firsthand is thick and just the right length and perfect - throbbing against you.

"Please-" you beg, hands sliding down his chest, over the slight softness to his abdomen that covers muscle; you know that, remembered that, from the one and only time you were close to him without his shirt on.

You remember vividly how his muscles feel under your hands, soft and worshipful, because Brett Richards may be your Battalion Chief, but he's also a work of fucking art.

"I thought you said it was a one time thing?" Brett hums, which you think is pretty fucking funny coming from him, considering he's planting wet, open mouthed kisses down your throat, helping you get his belt undone.

"Mm, you actually said that first, Chief," you counter, and he groans softly against your skin.

You file that reaction away for later; it's not necessarily a surprise that he's into it, the little reminder of the power imbalance between you.

The gentle clink of his belt buckle coming undone, the zip of his pants hastily being tugged down, prevents any further commentary.

He wraps his hand around his thick, pulsing cock, frees it from the almost painful constraints of his pants and underwear.

God, he has such a pretty cock; you tell him as much as he rests his free hand on your hip, guides you closer so he can line the fat head of his cock up with your drooling cunt.

He notches just the tip, just enough to tease you, to make you both inhale sharply, lets you ultimately decide when and how you sink down onto him.

You choose immediately, impaling your tight walls with his thick length, head tilted back and moaning shamelessly at the feeling of him.

Brett drags the pad of his thumb across your kissed plump lips, eyes slightly glazed over as your pussy constricts around him, adjusting to his size.

"Another one time thing?" You query, deliberately cheeky, teasing.

He has the air of a brat tamer, and you'll be damned if you don't test that theory.

"Mm," he responds, doesn't take your bait, instead smoothly rolls his hips up, getting deep inside you and making you mewl.

You're so wet that your slick drips down the length of his shaft, over his balls. Brett doesn't remember the last time anyone got this wet for him.

He's been with people since his wife passed, and they've always been enthusiastic and consenting participants, but you... You're something else.

You cling to him as you grind against him, the coarse greying curls at the base of his cock stimulating your clit and only adding to your slick.

He's just enjoying that when you tug his shirt up over his head, gently rake your nails up and down his chest, making him purr.

You remembered that he liked that; that surprises him a little, but the surprise doesn't stop him from rutting up into you, feeding your greedy, sopping cunt every single inch of his cock until you're mewling, the windows of his truck all fogged up from the desperate, heavy breaths leaving both of you.

"Oh fuck, yes, oh my god, fuck me, please!"

You moan and plead and there's a small part of him that feels like he's doing something perverted; he's higher in the chain of command than you, he's older than you, even if it isn't by much; he shouldn't be entertaining even the thought of this, let alone acting on it.

But the fact is, you feel too good wrapped around his cock, held in his arms, running your fingers through his soft, messy curls and whimpering as he fucks you.

He isn't rough; you ride him and he rolls his hips up to meet you, steady, deep, controlled.

You feel safe with him, safe enough to just let go. To just focus on the sensations and the pleasure as you bounce on his cock.

So maybe it's a bad idea, given the circumstances, but it's the furthest thing from your mind as he works you up to your release. His thrusts are becoming erratic, and you know, instinctively, that the moment you let go, he will too.

"Mmnn, o-ohhhh, oh~"

The moans fall from your parted lips, uncontrolled, breathy and high pitched as he gets you right to the edge, has you tumbling over it with a series of heavy thrusts and thick groans into your ear.

His warm, strong arms wrap around you, holding you close as he fucks you through it, grunting softly on each impact of his hips against your ass as your cunt tightens around him, milking his cock and sending him over the edge, too.

You whimper, still in the throes of your own release, as you feel the hot stickiness of his spend fill you, grind down against him and whine as your clit gets rubbed deliciously, prolonging your orgasm.

Slowly, slowly, you both come down, his arms around you and yours looped around his neck.

Breathing heavily, panting, sighing, before finally laughing softly, looking at each other in vague amusement.

"A one time thing, huh?" You laugh, look at his mess of just-fucked curls where you've run your fingers through them, the slight flush to his freckled cheeks.

You're so fucked, and not just literally.

Brett must be thinking the same thing, because he cups your face in one hand, drags his thumb gently across your cheek.

"Come home with me instead?" He suggests, and you smile, lean in to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

"Mm, that sounds nice."

Sleeping with your interim Battalion Chief? Maybe not the best idea.

But starting something real together? Yeah. That might work.

[alphamecha-mkii]

Chimaera, A Frightening Reality by Stephen Zavala

[divaofmads]

Me and the DEVIL

Part VIII: Ars Mortis Tacita Est

Pairing: Jonathan Crane x Female Reader x Bruce Wayne

Summary: A soul stepping into the depths of Arkham in pursuit of a dangerous conspiracy finds themselves snared in the venomous, twisted embrace of an obsession Jonathan Crane has meticulously woven over months. As a chemical mist shatters the very edges of your consciousness, the neural seals whispered in the shadows of past therapy sessions begin to awaken one by one. In that room, where your mind and will are now entirely surrendered to Crane, escape becomes nothing more than an impossible illusion.

Warnings: This story is not merely for adult audiences, but for mature minds. It explores deep psychological manipulation, non-consensual mind control, and toxic, dark dynamics that blur the lines of consent. If you are capable of navigating the darkest labyrinth of the human psyche without losing your grip on reality, step inside. Reader discretion is strictly advised.

@strangergraphics @cafekitsune

A /N: English is not my first language so excuse my mistakes. I write purely as a hobby, not as a professional.

And yet he still looked like he hated it.

After midnight, the heavy metal platforms of the Batcave always seemed to fall even quieter; while Gotham burned above in the chaos of its own making, down in the depths of the cave the only sounds left were the low hum of computer systems, the distant drip of water, and the mechanical echoes of engines being prepared for war. As you walked toward the departure platform, the black motorcycle was already waiting for you, fully prepared; its matte surface looked almost like a shadow beneath the cave’s dim lighting. The dark leather jacket and protective gear laid beside it had been arranged as though they already belonged to you, and even that thought stirred something dangerously warm inside your chest, because Bruce Wayne did not let people into his world this physically, this personally, unless they mattered to him in ways he refused to admit.

You could tell by the way he watched you.

Bruce Wayne stood beside the Batmobile, the dark armor now fully sealed over his body; beneath the cowl only the hard line of his jaw remained visible, but you could still feel Bruce underneath the Batman. Especially when he looked at you. Because even Batman’s gaze changed when it landed on you now—it became more personal, more careful, more dangerous.

“Keep your hand steady on the throttle,” he said as he approached you. “And don’t fall behind me.”

His tone was sharp, but beneath it lived something restrained and uneasy; the sound of a man used to giving orders burying fear beneath discipline. You stood beside the motorcycle and picked up the helmet, but Bruce immediately took it from your hands instead. The movement happened so naturally neither of you questioned it at first.

As Bruce lowered the helmet onto your head, his fingers brushed your jaw; the touch should have been brief, but it lingered longer than necessary. His face was close while he adjusted the strap beneath your chin, and despite the cold air of the cave, you could feel the warmth of his breath. In that moment, both of you were remembering the way you had kissed in the shadows of the Batcave only minutes earlier, though neither of you dared to say it aloud.

“That’s it?” you asked lightly, the faintest smile pulling at the corner of your mouth. “Batman kept the safety speech short tonight.”

Bruce’s jaw tightened. “You think that’s funny?”

“A little.”

The answer should have irritated him, but for the briefest second something else flickered in his eyes instead—something dangerously close to liking the challenge. He buried it immediately.

“This isn’t a game.”

“I know,” you said softly. “That’s why I’m going.”

The air changed after that.

Bruce said nothing for several long seconds; he only stared at you. Then he exhaled slowly and stepped closer again. The distance between you narrowed into something dangerous once more. The dark armor nearly brushed against your knees.

“We wouldn’t have found that access route without Jonathan Crane’s information,” he finally said, his voice low, unable to completely hide the tension beneath it. “That doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

The moment you heard Crane’s name, you saw the hardening in his gaze.

Bruce did it instinctively now.

Jonathan Crane was no longer just a threat to him; he felt like someone who had gotten too close to your mind, someone who had tied himself to you inside your fears. And the more Bruce hated that thought, the more physical, more personal his jealousy became.

“Crane was right,” you said calmly. “The old morgue line’s been running off-record for years. Strange didn’t choose those tunnels for no reason.”

“That doesn’t make him trustworthy.

“I never said he was.”

Bruce didn’t answer immediately. Beneath the cowl, he held your gaze for another moment before his gloved hand moved to the motorcycle’s handlebars. When his fingers settled right beside yours, your heartbeat quickened involuntarily, because the gesture was unnecessary. He wasn’t teaching you how to ride.

He was finding excuses to touch you.

“Don’t push too hard in the turns,” he said quietly. “Rain’s coming.”

“Are you worried about me,” you asked softly, “or your motorcycle?”

This time, he truly went silent.

And inside that silence, the tension between you thickened all over again.

Batman’s gaze dropped from your eyes to your lips; only for a second, but long enough. Then he tilted his head slightly, and when he spoke again his voice sounded darker.

“Both.”

Your heart slammed hard against your ribs. Because he wasn’t hiding it anymore.

You swung yourself onto the motorcycle and Bruce stepped back, though not completely; his eyes remained fixed on you, watchful, protective, and unbearably intense. When the Batmobile’s engine roared to life, a deep vibration spread through the cave; the dark vehicle looked like some mechanical creature crawling out of the shadows.

When you started the motorcycle too, Bruce looked at you again. And for the first time, you truly understood it:

This was no longer just Batman protecting you.

This was him wanting you beside him.

Even if it was dangerous.

Even if it was wrong.

Even if it destroyed both of you.

When the Batcave’s hidden exit opened, Gotham’s night air poured inside; the smell of rain, burned asphalt, smoke, and distant sirens carried the city’s darkness with it. Bruce drove the Batmobile out first, but only a few meters later he looked back at you through the mirror. It wasn’t just to check on you.

He was watching you.

And he couldn’t stop himself anymore.

As you rode after him, Gotham’s lights blurred beneath the rain, neon signs bleeding across wet asphalt in streaks of red and violet. The two of you were heading into the same darkness now—toward the forgotten tunnels hidden beneath Arkham’s rotting heart, found through the information Jonathan Crane had given you.

And for the first time—Bruce Wayne was truly taking you with him.

The entrance leading into Arkham’s forgotten morgue line felt completely severed from the rest of Gotham; while the city above still burned beneath sirens, protests, and endless chaos flickering across television screens, down here there was only the smell of rust, the damp breath of rotting concrete, and the suffocating silence of stone that hadn’t seen sunlight in years. When the Batmobile came to a stop in front of the abandoned service tunnel, even the engine’s echo multiplied through the darkness in an unsettling way. You climbed off the motorcycle while rain still drifted softly from the sky; thin droplets gathered along the shoulders of your black leather jacket, and Gotham’s cold night air turned every breath visible.

Bruce Wayne stood several feet away from you; rain slid across the dark surface of his armor like streaks of light, the shadows of the cowl sharpening the severity of his face, but by now you could tell which silences belonged to Batman and which belonged to Bruce. Tonight’s silence was both at once. Because he had brought you here beside him—and he still wasn’t fully at peace with it.

“I’m asking one last time,” he said as he approached the entrance. “You can stay here.”

You laughed instinctively, short and mocking. “You’re changing your mind now?”

Bruce looked at you. For a long moment.

Inside that gaze lived exhaustion, protectiveness, and the raw, unhidden pull he felt toward you now, all tangled together. “I never changed my mind,” he said quietly. “I just accepted I can’t stop you.”

Your heartbeat shifted involuntarily. Because Bruce Wayne did not say things like that easily. And you knew exactly what it meant for him to admit it.

When the two of you forced open the entrance door, a heavy smell of mold rose from the darkness inside; the old morgue line had been abandoned for years, but the air carried more than neglect. It felt hidden. Buried on purpose. The tunnel beyond was swallowed in total darkness; the electrical systems had died long ago, and nothing existed beyond the narrow beams of your flashlights. Bruce moved first, and you followed immediately behind him. The stone walls of the corridor had partially collapsed in places, rusted pipes hanging from the ceiling low enough to nearly block the path entirely.

Silence worked differently down here. Every breath echoed. Every footstep sounded too close. And the way Bruce kept turning back to look at you only made it feel more intense.

“Watch your footing,” he warned at one point, his hand instinctively sliding to your waist to guide you away from a fractured slab of concrete. The pressure of his gloved fingers was light but firm—and the touch lingered longer than it needed to.

You lifted a brow slightly. “You really like giving orders.”

Bruce’s gaze flicked toward your face; the flashlight beam carved a sharp line beneath the cowl across his jaw. Then he leaned slightly closer, and when he spoke again, his voice sounded lower. More personal.

“I like keeping you alive.”

The sentence changed the cold air of the tunnel instantly.

Your heart hit hard against your ribs, but you didn’t pull away. Bruce’s hand was still on your waist; maybe he needed to act protective down here, but both of you knew it wasn’t just instinct anymore. Especially now that you’d started noticing the subtle change in his breathing every time he touched you.

The farther you moved into the tunnels, the narrower they became; in some sections it was impossible to walk side by side, forcing Bruce to move you behind him more than once. Every time, his hand found your waist or your back, guiding you through the darkness while your bodies brushed together unintentionally. Under normal circumstances, maybe those touches would have meant nothing.But down here beneath Gotham, in a silence where you could hear nothing except each other’s breathing, every touch felt unbearably personal.

At one point the tunnel narrowed so severely Bruce stopped completely.

“Give me the flashlight,” he said.

“Control freak.”

“Stubborn.”

“Old.”

Bruce slowly turned his head toward you.

You shouldn’t have been able to see his eyes beneath the cowl, and yet somehow you still felt the exact way he was looking at you. For several seconds he said nothing.

Then, unexpectedly, the faintest trace of an expression tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“Say that again,” he said quietly.

Trying to suppress the thrill running through you, you smiled. “What? That you’re old?”

Bruce took one slow step closer; inside the narrow tunnel, the little distance left between you disappeared completely. Your back touched the cold stone wall while the hard surface of his armor nearly pressed against your body. The flashlight beam had tilted downward now, leaving half of both your faces swallowed in shadow.

“You’re becoming dangerously spoiled,” he murmured, though his voice sounded rough rather than stern.

“Maybe you spoil me too much.”

That answer created a few long seconds of silence.

Then Bruce’s hand slid back to your waist again, slower this time. When his gloved fingers closed around you over the leather of your jacket, warmth rushed through your body because the touch was no longer simply protective. Bruce seemed to realize that too; his breathing deepened almost imperceptibly.

“This isn’t the place to get distracted,” he said, though he didn’t sound convinced by his own words.

You leaned slightly closer to him, a faint smile still lingering at your mouth. “Then stop looking at me.”

Bruce actually went silent this time.

And in that silence, despite all the darkness surrounding Gotham, you could feel that both of you were enjoying this far too much.

Then suddenly small chunks of stone rained from the ceiling; the old tunnel shuddered violently, and Bruce reacted instantly, pulling you completely behind him. Your chest collided against the hard armor on his body, your breath caught somewhere near his throat, and his arm wrapped around you so quickly he forgot to let go for several seconds.

“You okay?” he asked immediately.

His voice had changed. Not Batman’s voice anymore.

Bruce’s.

When you lifted your head, your faces were dangerously close—close enough for your breaths to mix together. And in that moment, deep beneath Gotham’s rotting heart, inside the forgotten tunnels Jonathan Crane’s information had led you to, both of you realized the same thing:

This was no longer just an operation.

The deeper the tunnel stretched, the more completely Gotham disappeared; the city above no longer felt real, only distant—a fading concept somewhere far overhead, as though the two of you had slipped beneath the living world and descended into somewhere older, quieter, and far less human. The walls here were ancient; unlike the modern structure of Arkham, the stonework resembled monastic architecture, and the carved details above the arched passageways looked less like the underground halls of a hospital and more like the hidden corridors of some long-dead academic order. As you moved between the damp stone walls, the beam of your flashlight sometimes fractured against rusted metal surfaces, and sometimes illuminated fragments of faded Latin inscriptions along the ceiling for only a few fleeting seconds.

Bruce walked ahead of you, but something in his movements had changed now.

This was no longer just operational focus.

He kept checking on you.

Every few steps he glanced back, sometimes holding his gaze on you as though simply confirming you were still breathing. And the more you noticed it, the more something uneasy yet warm unfurled inside your chest, because even Batman’s protectiveness became personal when it came to you.

At the end of the corridor, a narrow stone archway opened into another chamber, and Bruce stopped abruptly.

The flashlight beam tilted downward. And both of you saw it at the same time.

A circular seal had been carved directly into the center of the old stone floor; years of dirt and moisture had worn away its surface, but the shape was still visible. The design resembled a human anatomical figure surrounded by intertwined surgical symbols, while a sentence in thin Gothic Latin script curved around the outer ring.

Bruce immediately crouched down; his gloved fingers carefully brushed dust away from the stone as he lowered the light closer to it. The line of his jaw hardened beneath the cowl, and you could almost physically feel his mind beginning to work.

“This doesn’t belong to Arkham,” he said finally.

You knelt beside him, your shoulder brushing his unintentionally. Bruce’s breathing shifted almost imperceptibly at the contact, but he didn’t move away. If anything, he angled the flashlight slightly to give you more room. Even that small gesture revealed how much the dynamic between you had changed; the man who once tried to keep you out of this world was beginning to work beside you instead.

You studied the writing etched around the seal carefully.

“Ars Mortis Tacita Est,” you read slowly.

Bruce immediately turned toward you. “Translate it.”

“‘The art of death is silent,’” you said. “But…” Your brows pulled together slightly. “That phrase isn’t used in medical terminology.”

Bruce looked back down at the seal. “Surgical symbols.”

“No,” you said immediately.

The certainty in your voice caught his attention at once.

This time you leaned closer to the carving; beneath the flashlight beam, smaller details began revealing themselves. The instruments surrounding the figure resembled traditional surgical tools, but their arrangement was wrong.

Too symmetrical.

Too ritualistic.

“These aren’t operational markings,” you said quietly. “They’re ceremonial.”

Bruce’s gaze settled fully on your face.

The way he listened to you now had changed; he wasn’t just waiting for answers anymore—he was following your thought process. It was the way a detective took another mind seriously.

“The lettering resembles Gothic scholastic script,” you continued. “The style used in seventeenth-century academic societies.” Your finger traced the circular layout etched into the stone. “And this symbol…” You paused. “This isn’t anatomical.” Your eyes widened slightly. “It’s a dissection lodge seal.”

Bruce’s jaw tightened. “Explain.”

You rose slowly to your feet; the silence of the tunnel made your breathing sound dangerously close together. “Toward the end of the Middle Ages, some elite medical societies practiced anatomy as ritual instead of science,” you explained. “They treated surgery almost like sacred knowledge.” Still feeling Bruce’s gaze fixed on you, you continued: “This symbol resembles the ones those societies used.”

Bruce said nothing for several long seconds. Then he looked back at the seal. And you could see him thinking.

“Strange,” he finally said. “He had academic obsessions.”

“Yes, but this goes beyond academics.” Your voice lowered further. “This is old elite society iconography.” You angled the flashlight toward the center of the seal. “Look.”

When Bruce leaned closer, your shoulders brushed again.

Neither of you moved away this time.

At the center of the seal, nearly worn invisible by time, was a tiny symbol: a stylized owl’s eye enclosed inside a half-circle.

The silence deepened instantly.

Bruce’s breathing changed.

“The Court of Owls,” he said quietly.

“No,” you answered immediately, though hesitation slipped into your voice. “I mean… not exactly.” Your brows furrowed again. “The symbol’s being used differently here.”

Bruce looked at you. And for the first time, the expression on his face shifted completely.

It wasn’t just admiration.

It was surprise—the shock of beginning to truly see you as someone operating on his level. But you were too lost inside your own thoughts to notice.

“I’ve seen this somewhere before,” you murmured slowly. “Or…” You paused. “No. I read about it.”

Bruce stood immediately. “Where?”

You exhaled slowly. And Jonathan Crane’s office flashed through your mind; old books, Latin annotations, academic texts about the human psyche… and one night, an old half-burned thesis Crane had shown you.

You slowly turned your head toward Bruce.

“Crane might know,” you finally said.

The moment the words left your mouth, Bruce’s expression hardened again. Because every time Jonathan Crane’s name surfaced now, the entire atmosphere around him changed. But this time, there was something else there too.

When Bruce looked at you now, he wasn’t only protecting you anymore.

He was beginning to trust you.

When you emerged from the depths of the tunnels, Gotham’s night air hit your face sharply; the scent of wet asphalt, distant sirens, and the heavy metallic groan drifting from the harbor reminded you that this city never truly slept. The exit from the old morgue line opened into an abandoned maintenance building, and after the suffocating mold beneath the tunnels, even the rain outside felt clean. But Gotham wasn’t what distracted you. Batman was. Because ever since you climbed out of the tunnels, Bruce Wayne had been quieter than usual; not just thoughtful—unsettled. Standing beside the Batmobile, his gloved fingers toyed absently with one of the devices on his utility belt, the shadows of the cowl sharpening the severity of his face even further. But by now, you could tell the difference between his silences.

This wasn’t detective silence. This was personal. “I’ll go to Crane myself,” he finally said. The sentence came out short. Too short.

You raised a brow slightly. “We’re not going together?”

Batman’s gaze snapped toward you immediately. Rain streaked dark lines across the armor on his shoulders, and even though you couldn’t see his eyes beneath the mask, you could feel the way he was looking at you—too careful, too intense, too possessive. “No.”

The answer came instantly.

You let out a small laugh despite the genuine unease growing inside you. “Interesting,” you said. “A few minutes ago we were wandering through underground catacombs together, but suddenly Jonathan Crane’s house is where you draw the line.”

Batman’s jaw tightened.

“This is different.”

“How?”

For several seconds, he didn’t answer. Rain fell between the two of you in thin silver lines while Gotham’s distant lights blurred against the darkness, the black surface of the Batmobile looking like some predatory animal crouched beneath the streetlamps.

“That man isn’t safe,” he finally said quietly. “And he’s hiding things from you.”

Your heartbeat quickened involuntarily. Because Bruce wasn’t saying this on detective instinct alone anymore. There was something more primitive underneath it now. Something personal. And the harder he tried to suppress it, the more visible it became. You stepped closer to him; as the distance between you narrowed again, Batman’s breathing shifted slightly. He knew you noticed it now. “Don’t you trust me?” you asked softly.

Batman didn’t answer immediately. And that silence gave everything away. Because this wasn’t about trust. It was about Jonathan Crane. About the way he looked at you. And worse—the way you sometimes looked at him.

Batman turned his head slightly away, as though looking directly at you for too long might reveal too much. But when he faced you again, his voice had hardened. “Crane manipulates people.”

“Don’t you?”

The question changed the air instantly.

Batman’s gaze locked onto your face; for several long seconds he only stared at you, and the weight of that stare made breathing difficult. Because whatever existed between the two of you had become an open secret now. The kiss in the Batcave. The closeness inside the tunnels. The way his voice changed every time he touched you.

Neither of you denied it anymore.

“That’s not the same thing,” he finally said.

“Are you sure?”

Batman took another step toward you.

Now the distance between you had almost completely disappeared; rain slid down the line of his jaw, the hard surface of his armor rising and falling slightly with every breath. Sometimes when you stood this close to him, the rest of Gotham seemed to blur away entirely, and the intensity of that feeling unsettled you more than you wanted to admit.

“When Crane looks at you…” he said quietly, but stopped himself before finishing. Because he didn’t want to say the rest aloud.

You looked up at him with the faintest smile touching your lips. “Are you jealous?”

Batman’s breathing deepened almost imperceptibly. And even that was an answer.

At that exact moment, the communicator on his belt crackled sharply to life; Gordon’s voice cut through the rain and distant sirens.

“Batman, we found something at the harbor. Looks like some kind of machine, but it’s not WayneTech, not military… we can’t identify it. You need to get here immediately.”

Batman’s expression changed instantly. The detective returned. But this time he looked angry, because the timing was terrible and both of you knew it.

“I’m sending coordinates,” Gordon continued. “You need to see this.”

When the transmission ended, only the sound of rain remained between you.

You looked at Batman.

He looked back at you.

And both of you understood exactly what was about to happen.

“I’ll go alone,” you said calmly.

“No.”

“Bruce.”

The way you said his name stopped him cold.

You could see the tension tightening beneath the mask along his jaw; as he looked at you, the conflict inside him surfaced all over again. He didn’t want you near Jonathan Crane. The thought of you standing beside him disturbed him in ways he could no longer hide. But whatever was waiting at Gotham Harbor was real too. And Batman couldn’t ignore it.

“Ten minutes,” he finally said, his voice hard. “You go in, you talk, and you leave.”

A smile slipped across your lips instinctively.

Proud. Slightly defiant. Because for the first time, you could feel him truly accepting that he could not stop you anymore.

Batman noticed the smile instantly; his gaze lingered on your lips for one second too long.

Then he spoke in a low tone that sounded almost like a threat.

“Don’t think I’m happy about this.”

As you walked toward your motorcycle, you answered without turning around.

“You’re lying.”

And Batman stood there watching you for several long seconds; the way you climbed onto the bike beneath the rain, the way you disappeared into Gotham’s dark streets… as though some part of him wanted to move, to stop you, but already knew it was too late.

Because both of you could feel it now.

Jonathan Crane was waiting for you.

The therapy room reserved for Arkham’s high-risk offenders was quieter than the rest of the hospital; not a peace born of calm, but of suppressed violence. The fluorescent lights on the ceiling were white and merciless. The chairs bolted to opposite sides of the table announced from the start that this was not an equal meeting. In the upper corner of the wall, a camera blinked like a red dot.

When Jonathan Crane closed the door behind him, the metallic click of the lock echoed briefly through the room. He didn’t place the file he was holding on the table. He remained standing. Edward Nygma was seated; the cuffs on his wrists were chained to the chair, but his posture was loose—almost relaxed.

Edward’s eyes, at first, didn’t study Crane’s face. They studied his hands.

“Looks like my therapist came early today,” Edward said, his voice lightly mocking. “Or is this an official visit?”

Crane smiled. The smile stayed on his lips and never reached his eyes. He finally set the file on the table, his fingertips lingering on the cover for a moment. Your lips flashed through his mind—sharp and sudden: softness, warmth, then the push. That dismissive look. A thin, familiar tension tightened in his chest.

“Today,” Crane said calmly, “we’re going to have a conversation.”

Edward tilted his head slightly. “Most conversations here are meant to fix me. This feels… different.”

“You’re right.”

Crane sat down at last. The metal legs of the chair scraped briefly against the floor. Edward’s gaze sharpened; his curiosity had been triggered. Crane took pleasure in seeing it. Curiosity was always the easiest door.

“Why me?” Edward asked bluntly. “There are dozens of patients in Arkham who are afraid of you. But you’re here. With me.”

Crane laced his fingers together. He remembered your breath—the warmth of it in that kiss, the way you’d seemed, for a single second, to give yourself to him. The memory left a slow burn beneath his skin. His voice stayed perfectly even.

“Because you,” he said, “want to understand Batman.”

Edward’s lips twitched. “Want? I have to solve him. He’s an equation. And every equation has a result.”

“Bruce Wayne,” Crane said.

The name dropped into the room like a heavy stone. Edward’s pupils widened, though his expression didn’t change. Only the chain tightened slightly; he had leaned forward without realizing it.

“A dangerous assumption,” Edward murmured. “Saying that out loud takes courage.”

“Not courage,” Crane replied. “Logic.”

Your name hovered at the edge of his mind. Your smile—then the way it broke. You kissed me. The thought was sharp, poisonous. And then you rejected me. Crane didn’t take his eyes off Edward.

“If I’m right,” Crane continued, “then Batman has a weakness.”

Edward let out a short laugh. “Everyone has a weakness. But Batman’s weakness isn’t a person. It’s an idea. An obsession with justice.”

“No,” Crane said softly. “A person.”

The silence tightened. Edward frowned. “Who are you implying?”

Crane didn’t open the file. There was no need. The name rested on his tongue, heavy and sweet. Your face came into focus in his mind—the closeness of that moment, the brief miracle of your lips against his, followed by the sharp wash of shame. Desire and anger tangled together.

“Y/N,” he said.

Edward’s reaction was immediate. His shoulders stiffened. The chain pulled tight again.

“No,” Edward said at once. “You don’t bring her into this equation.”

Crane inclined his head slightly. That was the objection he’d expected. The protective tone in Edward’s voice flashed like a thin clue. Images crossed Crane’s mind of you speaking patiently to Edward in the therapy room—your attention, your gentle understanding. A jealous ache stirred inside him.

“Why?” Crane asked calmly.

Edward’s jaw tightened. “Because she’s… different. She listened to me. Really listened. Most people don’t.”

“That makes her valuable,” Crane said. “Strategically.”

“That makes her untouchable,” Edward shot back.

A thin smile appeared on Crane’s lips. He thought of the moment you’d pushed him away—the pressure of your palms against his chest, the disgust in your eyes. Untouchable. The word left a bitter taste in his mind.

“There’s no such thing as untouchable, Edward,” Crane said. “Only things that haven’t been touched yet.”

Edward narrowed his eyes. “You’re trying to manipulate me.”

“No,” Crane said. “I’m offering you a truth.”

He leaned forward. His voice dropped.

“Bruce Wayne protects her. Gave her his name. Made her family. If Batman truly is Bruce Wayne…” Crane paused for a fraction of a second. Your lips surfaced in his mind again; the echo of that brief closeness pulsed with his heartbeat. “…then Y/N is his heart.”

Edward’s gaze fell to the table. His fingers toyed with the links of the chain. He was thinking. Crane could almost feel it physically—the turning of mental gears.

“Attacking his heart,” Edward murmured. “Would destabilize him.”

“It would break him,” Crane corrected.

The word left his mouth softly, but it carried a hard pleasure within it. He imagined your eyes widening with fear. Your breath quickening. I will turn her into his greatest fear. The thought slid down his spine like a warm current.

Edward lifted his head. Conflict flickered in his eyes.

“There’s a line,” he said slowly. “Crossing it… might be unnecessary.”

“Unnecessary?” Crane’s voice dropped to a near-whisper. “You want to defeat Batman. Truly defeat him. There’s a price for that.”

The room sank back into silence. The fluorescent light buzzed faintly. Crane watched every minute shift in Edward’s face—hesitation, calculation, a greedy spark of curiosity.

And beneath it all, Crane’s mind was full of you—the ghost of that single kiss, like a lingering mark still living on his lips. The thought of revenge fused with that memory, becoming a dark, sweet promise.

Edward exhaled slowly.

“Go on,” he said. “Convince me.”

A cold light flickered in Crane’s eyes.

Crane accepted those two words like an invitation. He straightened in his chair with a microscopic movement. He looked into Edward’s eyes; everything in the room—the camera, the light, the metal, the walls—faded into the background. Only two minds remained.

“Batman,” Crane said in a calm voice, “is built on control. To defeat him, you have to take that control away.”

Edward frowned. “I’ve already tried that. Riddles, traps, pressure. They’re all games of control.”

“No,” Crane said. “Those are challenges. I’m talking about breaking him.”

The word grew heavy in the room.

His voice lowered, sharpened. “If Y/N disappears… Batman can’t calculate. He can’t think. He only reacts.”

Edward’s jaw tightened. “You’re turning her into a pawn.”

“I’m turning her,” Crane said softly, “into a mirror.”

A spark flashed in Edward’s gaze. “A mirror?”

“Batman will be forced to face his own fear,” Crane whispered. “The fear of loss. Again.”

He didn’t say your name, but the thought of you was naked and vivid in Crane’s mind. The idea of shaping your fear created an almost tangible pleasure. He imagined the tremor in your breath, the instant of fracture in your eyes. Remember the moment you rejected me, he thought. I remember it too.

Edward leaned back slowly. It was clear he’d been holding his breath. “This… is a move you can’t take back,” he said.

“Defeating Batman is the same,” Crane replied.

A shadow crossed Edward’s face. He was calculating—balancing probabilities, measuring outcomes. Crane waited patiently. The memory of your skin still lingered warm at the back of his mind; the thought of revenge coiled around that warmth, sharpening.

At last, Edward spoke.

“If we do this,” he said slowly, “it has to be flawless. No margin for error.”

A thin glint appeared in Crane’s eyes. “Perfection,” he said, “is my area of expertise.”

Edward studied Crane for a long moment. Then he nodded once, a small, decisive movement. An agreement. Silent and heavy.

Edward leaned forward. His voice dropped. “All right,” he said. “What’s the first step?”

Crane’s heart beat slow and steady. He smiled.

Somewhere above Gotham, an invisible equation was taking shape—and the first variable had already been chosen.

The labyrinthine corridors of Arkham Asylum always appeared more ominous, more bottomless during the night. Perhaps it was because the whispers, screams, and groans etched between those cold walls by minds hovering on the brink of madness during the day completely vanished in the dark, leaving behind a sinister silence that stretched the distances. As Jonathan Crane walked through those claustrophobic passages after leaving Edward Nygma’s cell, the detached, mask-like expression on his face remained unbroken. For the past half hour, the Riddler had been spinning the same theories, circling the same names, trying to explain with the same obsessive brilliance that Gotham was a jigsaw puzzle far larger than it appeared. But Jonathan’s mind was elsewhere.

Because Edward's final sentence was still echoing in his ears.

"You study the Batman, while I study Wayne. They both make the same mistake. They lose their ability to think when it comes to the girl."

As Jonathan walked down the corridor, he tucked this sentence into a corner of his mind.

When he reached his office at the end of the hall, he turned the key in the lock slowly, with an almost ritualistic composure. He pushed the door open, only to freeze on the threshold, his breath catching in his throat at the sight before him.

The only thing piercing the bleak darkness of the office was a hazy, amber beam of dim light emanating from the old lamp on the desk. And right in the center of that light, deep within the personal space Jonathan considered sacred, sat you. Spread carelessly across the desk beneath your fingers were notes, photographs, and hastily drawn sketches of the sinister symbols of unknown origin found in those damp, dark tunnels. The warm yellow glow of the lamp illuminated one half of your face with sharp lines, while abandoning the other half to the embrace of the inviting shadows that swallowed the rest of the room. Jonathan could not calculate how many seconds he stood rooted to the spot at that doorway; for your presence, your posture beneath that dim light, possessed an aura intense enough to shake the control mechanisms of even a man like him. Your unexpected presence—the way you planted yourself like dynamite into his orderly and predictable world—triggered the dark recesses of his mind within seconds, and a faint curl, as greedy as it was uncanny, appeared at the corner of his thin lips.

The heavy, suffocating tension thickening the air in the room became tangible with Jonathan’s first silent step. While his eyes scanned you from head to toe with the alertness of a predator analyzing its prey—yet simultaneously with a deep admiration—his voice maintained its usual smooth, calm, and hypnotic cadence: "It is not my habit to have people enter my office without knocking." Rather than a warning, these words were the first knot in the invisible cord of dark desire tightening between you. You, however, far from submitting to his oppressive, cornering aura, leaned back slightly in your chair and locked your eyes onto his dark ones; the defiant, inviting, and equally dangerous pull radiating from your body had completely taken over the room. You had absolutely no intention of standing up or formally maintaining your distance; with that dark glint in your eyes, you touched the deepest corners of Jonathan’s soul and whispered, almost as a challenge: "Nor mine."

Jonathan slowly pushed the heavy door behind him; the dull, definitive click of the latch settling into its strike plate cut off all the noise of the outside haven for the insane, completely isolating the room from the world. His steps were measured enough not to creak the old floorboards beneath him, and as heavy as a shadow closing in on its prey. As he drew closer to the desk, his gaze drifted to the pile of papers illuminated by the dim beam of light: the geometric drawing of that ominous sigil scraped from the damp walls of the tunnels, Latin words hastily noted beside it that had taken their toll from the passage of time, the tunnel maps webbed beneath Gotham's underground, and at the very top, as if marking the epicenter of an impending disaster, the rough, angular sketch of the Opera House... The pieces in his mind fell into place with terrifying clarity within seconds, breaking free from the chaos Edward had left in his cell; he instantly understood exactly why you were here, risking danger at this hour of the night, in his private sanctuary. A single word escaped his lips, intensifying the heavy air in the room even further: "The symbol."

Without averting your eyes for a single second from his piercing gaze, which tracked your every movement down to the millimeter, you nodded slowly in confirmation; in the dense, electrically charged silence between you, even the rhythm of your breathing had shifted. "You know very well what that symbol is, and what it means," you said; your tone was not a question or a reproach, but a sharp, inescapable deduction worthy of a detective. Erasing the few remaining paces between you, Jonathan leaned against the edge of the desk, right in line with the chair you sat in; he was so close that the familiar, uncanny scent of his laboratory mingled with the provocative perfume you wore. He extended his long, slender fingers toward the paper on the desk, his fingertips tracing the rough surface of the drawing as slowly as if touching bare skin. Turning the paper completely toward an angle where you could see it, he fixed his eyes on you, as if trying to catch the slightest micro-expression on your face: "Not entirely."

The single-word accusation that escaped your lips in response to this evasive answer brought the tension in the room to its breaking point: "Liar." This time, a genuine and uncanny smile broke through the confines of Jonathan’s usual cold mask; for he had known you long enough to analyze the darkest labyrinths of your mind. He could distinguish like the back of his hand when you were truly afraid, when your professional anger grew fierce, and when you became stubborn enough to defy life itself just to reach an answer; this stubbornness, a cocktail of fear and desire, had always been his greatest weakness and his greatest stimulant. Leaning in to close the distance between you even further, his breath almost brushing your lips, he whispered in that hypnotic, dark cadence of his: "I have seen this symbol before... In buried, ancient academic records belonging to an era when Gotham was not yet this corrupt, and secrets were not buried quite this deep underground."

The silence inside the room thickened, heavy and suffocating.

Jonathan stared at the sketch before him for a few agonizing seconds. There was no trace of surprise on his face, but that stark lack of reaction was the very thing that betrayed him—this was not the first time he had looked upon this symbol. His sharp eyes lingered a fraction too long on specific geometric intersections, deliberately avoiding certain fine details as if staring directly at them might conjure a ghost.

You caught it. You read the micro-hesitation in his posture.

And Jonathan, hyper-aware as always, caught you catching him.

He didn’t offer an immediate answer. Instead, he turned away and walked toward his desk, his movements slow and deliberate, a calculated maneuver to buy himself time to think. He opened one of the lower, heavy wooden drawers with a dull scrape, reaching deep into the back to pull out a dark, leather-bound notebook. It was a relic—edges frayed, pages severely yellowed by time, and scarred by the distinct, blooming stains of cellar dampness.

When Jonathan dropped the notebook onto the desk, the heavy thud echoed with unexpected finality in the quiet room.

He flipped open the cover. His long fingers bypassed the initial pages, turning entire sections at a time with practiced ease, until he finally pressed his index finger down onto a specific spot.

"Look."

Involuntary tension pulled you forward, leaning over the desk.

There, in the center of the page, was the exact same symbol. It was nearly identical to the one you had unearthed, yet the version in his ledger was far more intricate. The faint lines encircling the perimeter were sharper here, revealing that the shapes resembling surgical instruments were actually mapped out according to a precise, rigid geometry. Encircling the central anatomical figure was a ring of cramped, faded script that was easy to miss at a casual glance.

Latin.

Jonathan placed his finger directly over the ink.

"Ars Mortis Tacita Est."

His voice dropped to a low, gravelly timbre. He wasn’t translating the phrase; he was recalling it from a dark corner of his own memory.

"Most people misread it."

You frowned, your eyes shifting from the page to his profile. "Misread it?"

"They read it incompletely." Jonathan leaned back into his chair, his gaze drifting toward the shadowed ceiling for a fleeting moment. "Modern translations lazily render 'ars' as art." His finger tapped the text again. "But the Latin used here is academic Latin. The specific, insular dialect utilized in medieval universities and early, clandestine medical societies."

You kept silent, letting the weight of his expertise fill the space between you.

Jonathan turned the page. The reverse side was populated with archaic engravings: stark human anatomy diagrams, primitive surgical tables, and steep, amphitheater-style dissection theaters. At the bottom of several illustrations, that same haunting symbol was stamped like a brand.

"Here," Jonathan murmured, "ars does not mean art." He turned to another page. "Disipline." Another page. "Method." Another. "Tradition."

Finally, he left the notebook open between you.

"And, on occasion... a cult."

The word hung in the stale air, refusal to dissipate. The silence in the room grew even more profound, charged with a sudden, sharp clarity.

You looked down at the symbol again, but the context had shifted entirely. It no longer looked like the emblem of a hospital or a legitimate institution. It looked like the crest of an ideology. A cabal.

Jonathan noticed the shift in your eyes and pressed on. "In the seventeenth century, certain medical fellowships existed." He leaned against the edge of the desk, invading your space. "They were entirely off the record."

"Like a lodge?"

A brief, dangerous spark flared in Jonathan’s eyes. "I wouldn't use that word."

The deflection was as good as a confession.

"These men were not merely interested in death," Jonathan said, his finger tracing the central figure of the diagram. "They were obsessed with establishing absolute authority over it."

A cold, uneasy knot tightened in your stomach. The philosophy behind those words echoed a terrifyingly familiar doctrine. It pointed to one specific architect of madness.

Hugo Strange.

Jonathan knew exactly where your mind had gone.

"Strange..." you breathed, the name tasting like ash.

For the first time tonight, Jonathan locked his eyes completely onto yours, his gaze piercing and absolute. "...was always far closer to being a high priest than a medical doctor."

The realization made you pause. It was an undeniable truth. Hugo Strange had never conducted himself as a mere man of science. He didn't seek to cure or rehabilitate his patients; he sought to dismantle and reshape them in his own image.

Jonathan turned his attention back to the ledger, flipping toward one of the final pages. There, nestled alongside the grim anatomical diagrams, were small, sketched renderings of theatrical opera masks.

They immediately caught your eye. Standing adjacent to sterile, surgical schematics, their inclusion felt jarringly out of place. At least, at first glance.

Then you looked closer, scanning the details a second time.

The masks weren't arbitrary doodles. Next to each face was a meticulously penned date. There were specific location names, and certain cryptic markers repeated in a deliberate pattern across the timeline.

Your heart hitched, a sudden spike of adrenaline hitting your chest.

Jonathan read the physical tell across your face instantly. "You see it."

Your finger hovered over one specific drawing, your voice dropping. "This is..."

You couldn't even finish the sentence because the answer was staring back at you in cold, faded ink.

The Opera House.

Jonathan tilted his head slightly, a dark, approving shadow of a smile playing on his lips. "Now you're asking the right question."

The heavy silence settled over the room once more, but the air felt different now. For the first time, you realized Jonathan Crane wasn't just decoding a symbol for you.

He was dragging you into the blueprint of a conspiracy Hugo Strange had spent a lifetime hiding.

The heavy silence inside the room tightened its grip once more.

Jonathan remained quiet for a long stretch of time. The ledger lay open between you; its jaundiced pages were cluttered with layers of annotations appended by distinct, varying hands over the span of decades. In some passages, the ink had bled into illegible blossoms; in others, entire lines were aggressively struck through, yet certain symbols had been preserved with meticulous, almost reverent care. It read less like the working field notes of a single researcher and more like a generational archive passed down through a lineage of shadows.

"This isn't a motto," he murmured at last.

His tone was hushed, dropped low as if he were thinking aloud.

You kept your eyes anchored to the symbol. "Then what is it?"

Jonathan didn’t offer an immediate response. Instead, he reached out and turned a few more pages. As the parchment flipped, the clinical, surgical diagrams began to recede, replaced by mock-ups resembling antique invitation cards, architectural blueprints, and rigid columns of dates. At a casual glance, these elements appeared entirely disconnected, but you noticed how deliberately Jonathan’s fingers paused on very specific pages.

Finally, he pressed his index finger against a tiny emblem.

It was a mark shaped like a theatrical opera mask. Beneath it was a stamped date, and beside that, a singular, isolated letter:

"M."

Jonathan turned to another page bearing the exact same mark. The date was entirely different this time, but the symbol remained unchanged. Then he flipped to another. And another.

Your brow furrowed in involuntary concentration. A distinct, repeating pattern was beginning to take shape before you.

"It’s a calendar."

A fleeting spark of gratification flared in Jonathan’s eyes, as though he had been waiting for your intellect to bridge the gap. "Yes."

You moved closer to the desk, leaning into his space as you began to scrutinize the pages yourself. The markings weren't arbitrary. They recurred at calculated, rhythmic intervals, and every single one of those dates aligned precisely with major high-society events on Gotham’s cultural calendar.

Galas.

Charity benefits.

Art exhibition openings.

Opera premier seasons.

Suddenly, the fractured pieces of the puzzle slammed together in your mind. "They are hiding in plain sight. In the middle of the crowd."

Jonathan looked at you, his gaze direct and unblinking. "Precisely." His finger traced the chronological progression of the dates. "The most effective way to conceal a gathering is not to make it invisible." He paused, letting the cold logic settle. "It is to display it right before everyone’s eyes."

A visceral wave of unease tightened in your stomach. It made perfect, terrifying sense. No one would ever link a high-society opera night attended by hundreds of citizens to a clandestine cabal meeting. No one looks for a syndicate inside a symphonic concert hall. No one looks for a conspiracy among tuxedos and violins.

Jonathan returned to the ledger, flipping back to an incredibly archaic page. Its edges were practically disintegrating into dust, and the ink had faded to a ghost of itself, yet the same triad of symbols endured: the opera mask, the Latin seal, and the immutable phrase beneath them—Ars Mortis Tacita Est.

Jonathan placed his finger firmly over the centuries-old date. "This entry is from a hundred years ago." He flipped forward. "The same symbol." Another page. "The same symbol." Another. "The exact same building."

Your pulse quickened. This was no longer a theory of coincidences. This was a legacy. A methodology. A system.

Jonathan leaned back into his chair, his eyes locking back onto yours. "People fundamentally misinterpret the phrase. They translate it as 'The art of death is silent.'" He offered a slow, subtle shake of his head. "But it isn't death that is silent here." He let the quiet stretch between you before finishing the thought. "It is the meeting itself."

The air in the office grew remarkably heavy. You looked down at the ledger again, your eyes darting from the symbol to the dates, until you finally spotted the missing link.

"Hugo Strange."

A faint, unreadable expression flickered across Jonathan’s features—hovering somewhere in the liminal space between professional validation and deeply rooted resentment.

"Strange is an academic," Jonathan noted.

"And he’s obsessed with historical precedent," you added.

"Yes."

"Which means he wouldn't build a new system from scratch."

Jonathan nodded slowly. "He utilizes the one that already exists."

This time, you were the one to lean forward, taking initiative as you began flipping through the parchment yourself. One date. Another date. Yet another. Then, your fingers froze.

Right beside the very last symbol, there was a fresh inscription. The ink was significantly darker, sharper, and newer—visibly appended after the fact.

The opera mask. The same seal. And beside it, a solitary date.

Three days from now.

Your heart hammered violently against your ribs. You realized instantly that Jonathan had already seen this; he had deliberately withheld it, waiting for you to unearth it on your own.

Slowly, you lifted your gaze to meet his. "Three days."

Jonathan gave a silent, grim nod. "Opening night of the opera season."

In an instant, the entire investigation coalesced into a single, terrifying picture. The underground tunnels, the seal, the masks, Strange, the archival ledgers, and the opera house—they all bled into the exact same point.

Jonathan watched you intently for a few silent seconds, gauging the realization in your eyes, before speaking in a dangerously calm voice.

"Now, you must ask the real question."

"Which is?"

Jonathan’s eyes darkened, the shadows of the room seeming to pool in his gaze. "Why is Strange going there?"

For the first time since you had broken into his office, a chill ran down your spine as you realized what you had uncovered was far greater than a mere lead. You didn't just hold the date of a secret meeting anymore.

You knew exactly when the hunt was going to begin.

He let the question hang in the air. "Why is Strange going there?" Jonathan’s voice was calm. Almost gentle. But you didn't know the answer. And you both knew it.

You looked down at the open pages of the ledger, re-examining the dates, the symbols, the notes. You tried to find a logical explanation. A delivery. A meeting. A transaction. A ritual. All of them were possible. But none were certain. The silence stretched.

Jonathan finally leaned back slightly. "I started with a difficult question."

You lifted your gaze.

There was a subtle, contemplative expression on Jonathan’s face. "It isn't fair."

Your brow furrowed slightly. "What?"

"This question." He traced his fingers over the cover of the old ledger. "You’re trying to understand what Strange is thinking. To enter the mind of Hugo Strange, you must first be as narcissistic as he is."

Involuntarily, you rolled your eyes. "Thank you."

A faint curl appeared at the corner of Jonathan’s lips. Then, he leaned forward. "I’ll ask you an easier question."

The silence inside the room thickened once more. The yellow glow of the desk lamp illuminated only half of his face. The gaze behind his spectacles seemed hard to read, but by now, you had learned to discern the shifts in his tone. "Why are you here?" The simplicity of the question caught you off guard.

You hesitated for a moment. "What?"

"Why are you here?"

"I just told you." Your voice came out harsher than you intended. "Strange." You reached your hand toward the notes. "The opera." You pointed at the ledger. "The meeting."

Jonathan watched you intently. The unsettling part about this look was that while he appeared to be listening, he didn't actually care about what you were saying.

It was as if he weren't analyzing your answers, but rather the expressions forming on your face as you gave them. "No." It was a single word. But it shifted the air in the room.

"No?" you repeated.

Jonathan tilted his head slightly. "You could have asked another professor about them." Your heart skipped a beat against your will. Jonathan seemed to notice. "Or historian." Silence. "Or Gordon." The silence stretched a little longer. "You came here."

This time, you were the one who averted your gaze. You began gathering your notes. A little too fast. A little too forcefully. "You're talking nonsense."

Jonathan didn't answer.

You kept stacking the papers. "I came here because you know." You closed the ledger. "And I came to get information." You stood up from the chair. "That's all."

The expression on Jonathan’s face didn't change. This frustrated you even more. Because he wasn't arguing. He wasn't trying to win. He was just waiting. As if he already knew the outcome of an experiment.

You threw your bag over your shoulder. "I'm done." You headed for the door. You took two steps.

Then you were forced to stop. Because Jonathan had moved.

You hadn't even noticed when he stood up. He was standing between you and the door now. He wasn't threatening. But he wasn't moving out of the way, either. The narrow space of the room suddenly felt even smaller.

"Jonathan."

He heard the warning in your voice. But he ignored it.His gaze was fixed on your face.

Calm.

Attentive.

Uncomfortably focused.

"Why are you here, Y/N?"

The same question.

The same tone. But this time, it felt different. Because you both knew he was no longer talking about Strange.

"Move."

Jonathan merely looked at you for a few seconds. Then, he spoke slowly. "A person does not run from questions they already know the answer to." This sentence struck an uneasy chord inside you. Because for a moment—a very brief moment—you felt as though you truly didn't know why you were here. As if seeing this on your face, Jonathan tilted his head slightly. "Nygma said something interesting today."

Involuntarily, your brow furrowed. "The Riddler?"

"Yes."

Jonathan’s voice was calm once more. "He said that people shouldn't pay attention to the places they constantly go to..." He paused briefly. "...but rather, to the places they keep returning to."

The silence inside the room grew heavy. Because that sentence wasn't just about the Riddler. And Jonathan knew it.

"You came back." This time, his voice was barely a whisper. "And I am still wondering why." For a moment, all the sounds inside the room faded away.

The rain. The hum in the corridor. The creaks of the old building.

All of it.

Nothing remained but Jonathan’s gaze. And despite your reluctance to answer, you realized his question had penetrated far deeper than you thought.

Pressing the notes against your chest like armor, as if desperately trying to shield your bare skin, you took a sharp step back from Jonathan’s hypnotic presence. This time, the feeling clawing inside you wasn’t just a shiver or the urge to run; what rushed through your veins now was a pure, fierce rage, its roots reaching deep into the darkest soil of a corrupted desire. The fragments that had been drifting like mist through the unsettling recesses of your mind for months were finally piecing together beneath his oppressive breath, coming alive with shattering terror. The long, midnight sessions in the dim, locked rooms of Arkham... The strange, foreign phrases hanging in your mind when you woke up in the morning—phrases you couldn't attribute to anyone, yet made your soul ache... And worst of all, the meaningless, numbing, almost voluptuous calm that washed over you when you should have been terrified in the dead center of the most fatal dangers... All of it, without exception, led back to this man standing before you like a predator. Jonathan Crane. Your chest heaved with the fury of the dark labyrinth you were trapped in as the accusation tore through the burning air between you: "You manipulated me."

As your words echoed like a foul whisper against the office walls and faded, the flawless, cold serenity on Jonathan’s face didn't shift a fraction of a millimeter. His indifference only heightened the corrupted tension within you, pushing you to the brink of madness; because the man before you wasn't acting like a guilt-ridden or cornered criminal. On the contrary, he resembled a creature waiting with immense pleasure for the dark truth—the truth he had spent a long time cultivating like a toxic ivy, weaving it stitch by stitch between the two of you—to finally spill aloud from your lips like a confession of surrender. "Manipulation..." he said, his tone as low as a whisper brushing against your earlobe, yet deep enough to send a shudder down your spine. Taking a step forward to erase the distance between you once again, his bottomless eyes beneath his spectacles locked directly onto your trembling lips. "Too primitive, too clumsy a word... Utterly inadequate for the bond between us."

"Is that so?" Your voice rose like both a rebellion and a scream of a futile war waged against his pull; you were close enough for your breath to strike his skin. "Those so-called therapy sessions you put me through in the dark rooms of Arkham... The secret work you did by infiltrating the most intimate, vulnerable corners of my subconscious... The sinister phrases you whispered into my mind, waking me from my sleep at night! You cannot make me believe any of that was normal or professional, Doctor. You defiled my mind." The furious glint spilling from your eyes was the very confession of your secret devotion to this corrupted state, to this dark romance he had brought you to.

And you both knew it.

The few seconds of silence locked between Jonathan’s lips filled the room like a heavy, suffocating smoke. Outside, Gotham’s savage wind battered Arkham’s centuries-old stone walls, making the ancient building groan to its very bones. As Jonathan let his gaze trace every contour of your face, drinking in the warmth of your skin, he finally broke the silence with that smooth, hypnotic voice: "It wasn't normal." This naked, unvarnished confession caught you completely off guard, striking you right in your most vulnerable place. Deep down, you had expected him to hide behind medical jargon, to suppress you with manipulative arguments, or to deny it altogether. Instead, he accepted the dark truth that defiled your mind—the toxic bond between you—with absolute audacity, needing no defense mechanism.

"I told you I was trying to help you," he said, the cadence of his voice trying to seep into your soul, just like in those past sessions.

Behind the notes pressed tightly to your chest, you whispered in pain, trying to hide your ragged breathing: "You lied."

"No." This time his voice abandoned its usual professional composure, coming out raw, fierce, and dominant for the very first time. He paused for several seconds, letting the erotic, dangerous tension tightening between you scorch your skin. Without breaking eye contact for even a fraction of a second, he breathed his whisper right against your lips: "I truly tried to help you... But my reason for doing so was never a mere medical impulse."

Staring straight into the eyes of this man, the sheer pull of his presence sent your heart racing involuntarily, as if it wanted to tear through your ribcage. The frantic heaving of your chest, the rising heat of your skin, and your fear laced with desire did not escape Jonathan’s predatory focus. That familiar, dark, and voluptuous satisfaction curled upon his lips. "I remember the first day I spoke with you, the first time we shared that dark room, as if it were yesterday," he whispered, the rhythm of his voice turning into invisible fingers brushing against your skin. "The exact moment I realized how you stared at that pure terror—the very terror other people turn and flee from, terrified of losing their sanity—with such hunger and fascination..."

You swallowed hard as the silence of the room grew thoroughly corrupted by his audacious confessions; the direction of this conversation—this dark vortex forcing you to face your own desires—terrified your soul. You knew that Jonathan himself didn't actually enjoy losing control, or having his professional mask shattered like this before you, but this twisted romance had long since carried you both far beyond the edge.

Jonathan leaned in with an audacity so intense you could feel his breath on your neck. As the warm yellow glow of the desk lamp cast a provocative glint across his spectacles, he delivered the final blow in that uncanny, desire-laden voice: "Some people merely pique my curiosity; I perform experiments on them... But you, you ceased to be a subject to me a very long time ago. You became the only dark obsession I desire in this life."

As each word falling from Jonathan’s lips drifted slowly through the bleak air of the dim room and struck your skin, you felt that cold sensation spread through your veins like an icy venom in its absolute rawest form. The man before you did not utter these words as a cheap threat slung to corner you, nor in the hysterical tone of blackmail meant to break your will; instead, he whispered them as an entirely relentless, irreversible deduction, as if laying bare the anatomical truth of a cadaver on his laboratory table. This terrifying, unshakable composure of his made the sickly desire for possession behind his words far more uncanny, far more breathtaking.

Trying to conceal the tremor in your voice, you murmured, "This isn't normal..." This sentence was less of an address to him, and more like the last desperate concession you made to seek refuge in your own lost logic.

Jonathan tilted his head slightly at this feeble defense, and behind his spectacles, his ice-blue gaze concealed both a desire that stripped you bare and a cynical intellect that mocked the deepest recesses of your mind. "When..." he said, letting his voice rest upon you as slowly as a smooth fabric brushing against your skin, "...did you ever think I was normal?"

With this fierce admission, the silence inside the room cloaked itself once more in that heavy, corrupted weight. Beneath that pale, yellow light, standing at a distance so close you could hear each other's breath and the rhythm of your hearts, you could not tell for how many seconds you stood there, simply staring straight into each other's eyes.

Reaching for the cold metal handle of the door was the most concrete step you took to escape the invisible prison built within seconds in this claustrophobic room. Each of Jonathan’s words stung your soul like venomous needles, leaving you alone with your own defense mechanisms; but what truly hurt you, what truly made your knees tremble, was not his audacious accusations, but the doors of those dark rooms in the depths of your mind beginning to unlock, one by one. Just as you reached the heavy wooden panel and wrapped your fingers around the handle, that smooth, velvety voice rising from behind nailed your steps to the floor: "When you look back... you will remember everything, down to the smallest detail."

Betraying your will, your body paused involuntarily under his hypnotic command. Your back was turned to him, but you could feel his warm, oppressive presence hovering over the nape of your neck. "Remember what?" you whispered; the shaky defiance in your voice was an invitation summoning the very truth you were terrified to hear.

Instead of answering your question with words, Jonathan sank into a deep silence. The faint scraping of wood from behind announced that another of the desk's hidden drawers had been opened. Immediately after, with the metallic click that followed, you felt a cold current run the entire length of your spine, making the hairs on your skin stand on end. Your time spent in these bleak corridors of Arkham had taught you a great deal; most of all, that no object touched by Jonathan Crane’s fingers, no step taken by him, was ever an accident. You didn't need to see the small, matte metal cylinder in his hand; your mind was already poisoned enough to recognize its mere shadow.

"This is not the pure fear gas that paralyzes your intellect," he said, catching the wave of panic passing through your mind out of mid-air with his sharp, analytical intelligence. His tone was much closer now, close enough to send a shiver through the strands of hair at your neck.

"Then... what is it?" Your breathing grew heavily constricted by the rhythm of the unpredictable, sinister bond tightening between you. Your grip on the doorknob loosened, your body unknowingly prepared to surrender to the next tremor he would cause.

Jonathan stood right behind you, erasing the last remaining inches between you; the warmth of his presence and the sharp scent of the laboratory clinging to his skin completely enveloped you. Fixing his eyes on the back of your neck, he whispered, as if carving the words directly into your skin: "The key to those rooms you locked of your own free will... A door that will help you remember, that will make you see how you begged me that night."

In that instant, your heart began to beat wildly, like a heavy blow striking the dead center of your chest. Hugo Strange’s intricate plans, the sinister sigils you found in those dark tunnels, and the bloody night at the opera scheduled to begin in three days... all of it vanished within seconds, peeling away from the walls of your mind and leaving you completely alone with Jonathan’s massive, swallowing shadow. For the first time, far removed from the complex conspiracy unfolding outside, you were faced with the true, soul-shattering question: What had Jonathan Crane really done to your mind, your soul, and your body in those dark session rooms; and why had you allowed it?

When Jonathan felt that sudden, unyielding numbness at his fingertips, the sinister curve at the corner of his lips deepened. He knew the chemical had completely zeroed out the electric charge in her synapses, replacing her fierce will with a winter hibernation; yet his methodical mind wanted to test the foundations of this dark palace he had built with his own hands. He slowly slid his long, bony fingers toward your jawline. His initial touch upon your skin was far from the sterile, cold contact of his laboratories; it was unexpectedly soft, placing his fingertips against the contour of your lower lip with an almost tender numbness. He slowly traced his thumb across the smooth moisture of your lower lip, as if inspecting a priceless piece of art.

As for you, you simply stood there. The fire within you from just moments ago, that angry rebellion, had vanished along with the breath in your chest. Your eyes were open but unfocused, your gaze locked onto the deep, dark vortex behind his spectacle lenses. His touch should have burned your skin, but the neural seals planted in your frontal cortex converted this stimulation into a total sense of security.

Jonathan slowly ran his other hand through your hair. As his fingers moved through the strands in a hypnotic rhythm, he leaned down and brushed his breath against your bare neck. His voice echoed with a subtle yet absolute authority, enough to awaken those newly built chambers deep within your mind:

"Look at me, Y/N."

With his smooth command, your eyes gathered focus with a millimetric movement.

"Do you trust me?" he asked. The academic curiosity in his tone was blended with the narcissistic pleasure of a creator admiring his own masterpiece.

From amidst that chemical haze in your mind, your lips parted without a moment's hesitation, releasing a whisper that was mechanical yet deeply sincere: "I trust you... more than anything, Crane."

Jonathan’s fingers tightened slightly in your hair, tilting your head back a bit more to bring your face fully into the bare, amber glow of the lamp. His gaze drifted to your wet lips, touched by his fingertips. "Does it please you..." he whispered, his voice now raspy with the weight of his own dark desire, "...when I touch you?"

"Yes," you said, with the intoxicating submission bleeding into your eyes. "Every time you touch me... the noise inside me stops. Only you remain."

This answer was enough to satisfy the darkest, most desolate corner of Jonathan Crane's soul. He, the man who brought the world to its knees through fear, had found his own paradise in your corrupted loyalty. The thick, chemical, and erotic tension between you tightened until there was no room left to breathe. Like a predator unable to endure any further delay, Jonathan lunged forward and sealed his lips over yours.

The initial touch was warm and sudden enough to erase the chill of those old examination rooms. As Jonathan increased the pressure of his lips against yours, the faint taste of mint and bitter chemicals seeping from his mouth bled onto your tongue. He boldly parted your lips; the fierce desire emerging from beneath that cold, detached man was powerful enough to completely steal your breath. The tip of his tongue slowly and with a deep sense of ownership touched the warm moisture inside your lower lip, and then your numbed tongue. The wet, smooth friction of your tongues created an almost audible rhythm in the silence of the room as Jonathan pulled you completely against him, his chest pressing hard against yours. His kiss was not a display of affection; it was a wet, voluptuous proof that he had conquered the most intimate boundaries of your mind, absorbing you entirely into his own darkness. The warm, saliva-slicked moisture between your lips and the entanglement of your tongues dissolved the last remaining shards of your logic.

When he finally pulled his lips away slowly, the thin, wet strand stretching between you glistened for a moment in the yellow light of the lamp. Jonathan rested his forehead against yours, breathless, but the bottomless darkness in his eyes was clearer and more triumphant than ever.

"Now," he whispered, his damp lips brushing against the corner of yours. "Now you are entirely mine. And on that night at the opera... you will stand before Strange as my most flawless masterpiece."

[ladypunz]

I get to read this for freeee?! Omgah this is so good.

Part 2?

[liltangerineart]

F I R S T T I M E F O R E V E R Y T H I N G

pairing: din djarin x f!reader

word count: 20.11k (honestly a mini series)

rating: e (minors dni)

song inspo: me and your momma by childish gambino

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! 🥰

[abbotgirl]

Is it hot in here or is it just him?! 🥵😮‍💨🔥

[spicynectarines]

jeez man what’d you say?

[dr-rylandgraces]

Stay Quiet // Brett Richards x F!Reader

#68 from this list - "can you stay quiet if I take this call?" with the caller being Manny or Sharon.

Requested by Anon. Hope this okay!

Brett has you caged in beneath him, holding himself up on his hands so he can get a good look at the pretty, decorative harness he's tied around your torso with soft rope.

He likes the way it looks against your skin as you move, the way parts of it catch the light, and he particularly likes the way it digs in, ever so slightly, when you take deep, shuddering breaths.

The way you are now, in fact, as he stuffs you full of his cock, giving you deep, steady thrusts, making sure you feel every. Single. Inch. Of him as he moves.

Given the way you're moaning for him, wrapping your thighs tight around his hips, back arching off the mattress, he'd say you're feeling it just fine.

Leaning over you, pressing you into the mattress, he picks up his pace.

He's just establishing a nice rhythm, getting you closer and closer to release, if the way your cunt is tightening around him is any indication, when his phone starts ringing.

Considering he has the damn thing on Do Not Disturb, and he has exactly four people set for it to override, one of whom isn't speaking to him and another- being you- is currently beneath him and full of his cock, it's probably an emergency.

You whine as he slows down, leans over to grab his phone from the nightstand. Fucking Sharon. Of all the times she could be calling him...

He tries to tell himself it's either an emergency, or she's finally decided to give him a job at 42.

"Noooo, please don't stop-" you beg all needy and whimpering, making him seriously consider whether he needs to answer his phone. The responsible part of him wins.

Brett lowers himself down onto one forearm, brushes his lips across yours, still giving you shallow little thrusts.

"Can you stay quiet if I take this call?" He asks, voice a low, almost seductive purr.

You nod eagerly, mime zipping your lips shut, even as he gives you a doubtful look.

He figures that you probably can, so long as he doesn't give it to you too hard while on the call; his solution is to roll you over so you’re on top of him, giving you a warning look when you moan again, before he answers the call.

"Hello?"

You have to admit, you're impressed by the fact that he doesn't even sound out of breath. Of course, he keeps his body in peak physical condition; while he carries the signs of his age in his cinnamon sugar curls, in the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, he's still stronger than most men half his age.

Based on the way he nods as the person on the other end – Sharon, you think – is talking, it’s a serious conversation. You don’t care, not when the hand that isn’t holding his phone to his ear is smoothing over your body, up your thigh, over your stomach, tracing the rope expertly woven around your torso, brushing his fingers over your nipples.

You have to fight not to react, force yourself to stay silent as he shifts beneath you, trying to get comfortable, you think. Regardless of the reason, the result is the same; the movement temporarily has him pressed deeper inside you.

As you bite down on your bottom lip, Brett raises his eyebrows at you. You can kind of hear what Sharon’s saying down the line, something about staffing and shuffling the decks and making it work without stepping on toes.

You’ve met the division chief before, once or twice, at social things, because whilst you may be a little younger than Brett, he doesn’t hesitate to show you off. Doesn’t leave you with any doubt that you’re his, and that he has no shame about the age difference.

Sharon’s nice enough, but she doesn’t do a good enough job of hiding her judgement. You still remember the way she’d looked you up and down when you’d first met her, the way she’d said you weren’t what she was expecting.

There’s a part of you that’s pretty sure she just wants to be in your place instead. Not that you can blame her at all, so you always try your hardest to be polite, to be nice, because you don’t want to play into the idea of a younger than her partner woman who gets irrationally jealous.

You know that Brett loves you. Know how hard he worked to get himself to a place where he was comfortable building a relationship again, let alone with someone a little younger.

That doesn’t mean that you aren’t slightly tempted to let an audible moan out as Brett listens to her talk, answers with little mm-hmmand uh-huh sounds as she goes on and on about how she’s managed to fit him into 42, if he wants it, somewhere between a Captain and a Chief role, until there’s a space in one of the other surrounding stations to Edgewater.

You really do try not to be petty, but she’s drawing the conversation out for far too long. It doesn’t help that her son, Bode, annoys the hell out of you, too. He’s hotheaded and disrespectful, and he’s asked you more than once what a pretty thing like you is doing with some boring old guy like Richards?

You and Brett have more in common than people would suspect. You both prefer your quiet hobbies; the company of books, animals and a garden over socialising. Never mind the fact that after his wife had passed, Brett had gone through an entire… journey… of self discovery.

The kind of journey that’s resulted in the pretty rope harness woven around your torso, accentuating your tits. The same tits you cup in your hands, teasing him by playing with them before you plant your hands back on his chest.

Not trusting yourself to ride him properly and stay quiet, you start slowly grinding against him, letting the coarse greying curls at the base of his cock rub against your puffy clit.

It feels good, better than you expected. The pleasure that you get from it is evident in the expression on your face, in the way your eyes briefly drop closed, nose slightly wrinkled, lips parted.

All the while as you keep up this slow grinding, you lightly drag your nails across and over his chest. Over the light sprinkle of hair that dusts his pectorals. Down his abs, which honestly, you think are obscene with how defined they are.

Running your nails back up, you watch in satisfaction as his eyes briefly drop closed; Brett loves when you use your nails on his chest, his shoulders, his back.

It’s probably cruel of you to do while he’s on an important phone call, but you start moving properly, lifting yourself up an inch or so and then back down, slow, so there’s no lewd sound effects that the phone mic will pick up.

“Yeah,” he says in response to whatever Sharon’s saying, voice just a little ragged as he continues, “that sounds great.”

Narrowing his hazel eyes at you, he smoothly rolls his hips up, making you gasp; his free hand moves to cover your mouth, muffling the filthy moan that escapes you.

“Is now a bad time?” Sharon’s voice is vaguely audible through the speaker; a jolt of satisfaction rushes through you when you realise she may have heard you.

“What? No, now’s a good time, but we can always go over the details on Monday.” Voice even, Brett keeps rolling his hips, steadily fucking up into you, keeping his hand gently resting over your mouth.

Most of your little moans and mewls are muffled into his palm, quiet as he finishes his conversation. You have no idea whether Sharon has caught onto the fact that something’s up, but you also don’t care, are beyond caring.

He hangs up, tosses the phone aside, releases your mouth so he can hear your filthy moan as he rolls you again, pins you beneath him.

“I thought you were going to behave,” he purrs, plants an open mouthed kiss to your throat.

“You told me I needed to stay quiet, not to behave.” You counter, eyes sparkling with mischief as he shakes his head.

Luckily, he isn’t actually irritated with you, loves you too much to care that you disobeyed him… this time.

“Mm, well.” He braces one hand beside your head.

You can’t help but giggle a little, half embarrassed and half because you can just picture him blushing under interrogation. Brett smirks, not actually annoyed, hikes your thigh up around his waist and drawing high pitched moans out of you, grunting softly as he starts to move.

“You’re not the one that has to have a very awkward conversation on Monday.”

written by andrew-codys 2026 / do not feed into AI

[cherbicdollie]

CAUGHT IN THE TOWER

Pairing: Clark Kent x Reader x Bruce Wayne WC: 1.2k CW: Voyeurism, cucking, orgasm denial, spit-roasting, Eiffel Tower position, exhibitionism risk,  dp, multiple orgasms, belly bulge, creampie , you’re their lil fleshlight,  > fem! reader (has a pussy + fem pronouns), fingering, overstimulation ,  bicep biting, teasing, male whimpering, dry humping, fingering, penetrative sex, unprotected sex, talking you through it, hair pulling, bruce and clark are described as big, creampies,

The Watchtower was supposed to be empty at this hour. Zeta tubes were locked. The league had cleared out after a briefing that ran long. You knew Clark was still here—he'd messaged you, said to meet him in the observation wing.

But the observation wing was dark when you arrived. And the main corridor was not empty.

You stopped dead at the intersection.

Bruce had Clark pressed against the reinforced glass of the panoramic viewing deck, his hand fisted in Clark's hair, his mouth locked onto Clark's throat. Clark's head was thrown back, eyes closed, a low groan rumbling from his chest.

Neither of them had heard you.

You shouldn't watch. You should turn around, go back to your quarters, pretend you saw nothing. But your feet wouldn't move. Your thighs pressed together. Your cunt throbbed.

Bruce's other hand was inside Clark's suit. You could see the bulge of his forearm working, the way Clark's hips bucked forward. The Man of Steel—the invincible, untouchable alien—was whimpering.

"Please," Clark gasped. "Bruce—"

"Not yet." Bruce's voice was gravel, pure command. "You don't get to come until I say so."

You bit your lip. A small sound escaped.

Both heads snapped toward you.

Clark's pupils were blown wide. His suit was half-open, his cock—fuck, it was huge, slick and straining, the tip already wet—visible through the gap. Bruce's hand still held him. Neither moved.

Then Bruce smiled.

It wasn't a kind smile.

"Well," he said, his voice dropping lower. "Looks like we have a witness."

Clark's breathing was ragged. "Bruce..."

"Ssh." Bruce released Clark's hair and turned fully toward you, crossing the space in three long strides. He stopped inches from you, so close you could smell the leather of his suit, the sweat on his skin. "How long have you been standing there?"

"Not—not long."

"Heard anything good?"

You swallowed. "Everything."

Bruce's hand came up, cupping your jaw, tilting your face toward him. His thumb pressed against your lower lip, pushing into your mouth. You sucked without thinking.

"Good girl." He withdrew his thumb, slick with your saliva, and turned back to Clark. "Looks like your little pet wants to play."

Clark approached slowly. His suit was still open, his cock jutting out, precum beading at the tip. He stopped behind you, chest to your back, and his large hands settled on your hips.

"You want this?" Clark murmured against your ear. "Want to be our secret? Stuffed full while the whole league sleeps two floors up?"

"Yes."

Bruce's eyes burned. "Then strip."

They took you on the viewing deck. Right against the glass. Any passing ship, any league member wandering the wrong corridor, would see everything.

Clark had you bent over the observation console, your hands gripping the edge, while Bruce knelt behind you. His fingers were inside you—two, then three, stretching you open, curling against that spot that made your vision white.

"So wet," Bruce muttered. "She's been watching longer than she admits."

"Let me taste her." Clark's voice was desperate. "Bruce, please."

Bruce pulled his fingers out, brought them to Clark's mouth. Clark licked them clean, moaning at your taste.

Then Clark was between your legs, his tongue flat against your cunt, lapping at the wetness Bruce had left behind. You cried out, your knees buckling, but Bruce held you up.

"Quiet," Bruce warned, his hand clamping over your mouth. "You want to wake up the league? Want Hawkgirl to walk in and see Superman eating you out?"

You shook your head frantically. But the thought—being caught, being seen—only made you wetter.

Clark's tongue worked you expertly, circling your clit, dipping inside, fucking you with his mouth while Bruce twisted your nipples. You were so close, so fucking close—

"Not yet." Clark pulled away, his chin glistening. "I want to feel you first."

He lifted you like you weighed nothing, settling you onto the cold metal of the console. Bruce positioned himself behind Clark, his hands on Clark's hips.

"Eiffel Tower," Bruce said. "She takes both of us. One in her mouth, one in her cunt. You pick."

Clark's eyes met yours. "I want her mouth first."

He stepped forward, his cock brushing your lips. You opened, and he pushed in—thick and heavy, the taste of your own arousal on his skin. He filled your throat, and you gagged, tears springing to your eyes.

"Breathe through your nose," Clark said, his voice strained. "You can take it. Good girl."

Behind him, Bruce pressed into Clark's tight body. Clark gasped, his hips jerking forward, his cock sliding deeper into your throat. Bruce's balls slapped against Clark's ass, his rhythm slow and punishing.

"This is what you wanted?" Bruce grunted. "Caught in the act? Watching your lover get used?"

"Yes—fuck—yes—"

"Then watch."

Bruce fucked Clark in long, deep strokes, each one driving Clark's cock deeper into your throat. You were drooling, your jaw aching, your hands clawing at Clark's thighs. Bruce reached around, his fingers finding your clit, rubbing in tight circles.

"You feel that?" Bruce's voice was ragged. "Feel me inside him while you choke on his cock?"

You moaned around Clark's shaft, the vibration making him shudder.

"I'm close," Clark whimpered. "Bruce, I'm—"

"No." Bruce's hand clamped down on Clark's hip, stopping his thrusts. "You don't come until I say."

Clark sobbed. Actually sobbed. His body trembled, his cock pulsing in your throat, denied release.

Bruce pulled out of Clark and circled around, his own cock—thick, veined, intimidating—hovering in front of your face. Clark withdrew from your mouth, leaving you gasping, a string of saliva connecting your lips to his tip.

"Switch," Bruce ordered.

Clark lifted you, positioning you over Bruce's lap. You sank down onto Bruce's cock in one wet slide, both of you groaning. Clark moved behind you, his cock pressing against your other entrance.

"Ready?" Bruce asked.

You nodded, and Clark pushed in.

You screamed into Bruce's shoulder. The stretch was unbearable—two cocks, two massive men, filling every inch of you. Your belly bulged, the outline of them visible under your skin.

"Look," Bruce said, his hand pressing on your stomach. "Look how full you are."

They moved together, perfectly synchronized, a machine of pleasure. Bruce's thumb found your clit, rubbing while they fucked you from both sides. Clark's hand fisted in your hair, yanking your head back.

"Quiet," Clark hissed. "Everyone on the station will hear if you don't—"

You came without warning, your body convulsing, your cunt clenching around Bruce's cock. A loud, broken moan escaped before you could stop it.

They froze.

Footsteps in the corridor.

Bruce's hand clamped over your mouth, his eyes locked on the door. Clark stopped moving, buried deep inside you, his breathing ragged. Your pussy clenched involuntarily, and Clark whimpered—a tiny, desperate sound.

The footsteps passed.

"Fuck," Bruce breathed. "That was close."

"Don't stop," you begged, the words muffled against his palm. "Please—"

They didn't stop.

Bruce fucked you through your second orgasm, then your third, his rhythm never faltering. Clark came first—hot, flooding your ass, his voice breaking as he emptied himself. Bruce followed, filling your cunt until it overflowed, his cum mixing with Clark's, dripping down your thighs to pool on the observation console.

They pulled out slowly. You collapsed between them, trembling, spent. Bruce caught you. Clark kissed your forehead.

"Clean up," Bruce said, his voice soft now. "We'll talk tomorrow.

© cherubicdollie. no plagiarism or ai training authorised.

@manifisted @s1llymew

[longstringofnumbersandletters]

Fives 💙

[eobe]

Echo: Fives, do you know to where they keep the Separatist Senator, we must try to get the info without... *drooling and babbling Separatist Senator* Echo: ... overstepping

[twentytomidnight]

bruce likes fucking you with the mask on

NSFW/18+ONLY -> (reader has a pussy, riding him)

You don’t want to admit it, but you like fucking Bruce in the costume as much as you do out of it. He doesn’t want to admit it—but he likes it too. The two of you decide to meet in the middle by capturing him in the state of undress—and seeing where it devolves from there.

“Oh—Bruce—"—You moan as you sink down onto his cock. There's a frisson of heat darting up your body as you take in the impossible length of him. He’s so big, tapering out at the base—as he slides further and further into you, the breath is expelled from you in delicious, suffocating fashion.

You can barely keep your eyes open, staring at the implacable cowl that scowls back at you, those whited-out lenses that draw you in. That jaw that is all revealed, demonstrating the set of his teeth as they savor the sight of you.

Especially as you continue to ease down onto him—the Batman has expectations, after all. And one of them being that he has to be in control. His hands are ironclad around your waist as he guides you down onto him, his fingers sunken deep into the flesh of you. Possessive to a fault, all that he does not say inscribed in the clutch of those calloused fingers that hold you so tightly.

He growls, and it’s a needful, hungry noise—you shudder open-mouthed as he guides you down ever-so-carefully.

“Oh my God—“—You whimper, though you’re unable to say little more. Without any hesitation, he pulls you towards him and draws the tender skin on the column of your throat into his mouth. When he sucks, laving his tongue against you—you whine.

All he does is groan into you, allowing the vibration to hum through you, speaking his satisfaction. And allowing you to fully seat yourself upon him to the hilt.

His mouth is heaven against you, but you can’t resist—your head lolls back as you are overwhelmed by the sensation of his cock inside of you, your mouth open in perfect o. All you can do is clutch onto his broad, muscular shoulders—too overwhelmed by sensation to even make a noise.

“You look perfect like this,” he husks in shallow whisper, low enough that you can barely hear—scarcely audible enough for you to detect. But the adoration is made clear. Especially as his hands grapple at you for every stitch of you that he can commit to his palms, to his fingers. As he hikes you up again, guiding you off of him—and then helps to plunge you down.

“Oh—fuck—“—You begin to say, but it’s been a long night—and Bruce is greedy. He’s eager to feel more of you clenched around him, to feel himself inside of you—his hips buck into the tight heat of you. And you let him with such ease—he slides in with no effort at all, a slick, lewd noise filling the cave as you gasp.

“Good,” he praises you, and you look back to that guise he wears, to see the set of those teeth in a smile. “Perfect.”

You barely have the time to send him a breathless smile before he starts fucking into you—with an abandon that has you captive to the glide of his cock. To the way he fills you so perfectly, spreading you open on him. To the way that his mouth is searching for what he can sink his teeth into. To the way his fingers are clutching you against the span of his chest.

“Oh—oh—oh—"—Each pitiful whimper you make is staccato by each brutal thrust he pumps into you, treating you like the fuckdoll you are. That you want to be. You press against the sweaty tack of his chest, angling back so he can fuck you right—hitting that spot that makes your vision blur at the edges, that summons stars.

“Fuck—"—Bruce’s composure breaks as he glides into you, making you bow your head into the crook of his shoulder, your rapturous moan in his ear. “Let me hear you again, darling.”

He sinks in again—and you reward him with the chord of your pleasure. His hands grasp around you for good measure, holding you in place—the sharp exhale of effort on your shoulder. When he thrusts into you again, you can’t resist the broken gasp as he hits that spot again—and makes you tremble.

“Bruce—“—You whimper again him—“—Bruce—"

You look up to that immutable mask, as something obscene grows in the pit of your stomach—and obey the instinct that tells you to lick your tongue up the side of it, slick and smooth. To hear the rumble of approval from him as he fucks into you—and the pace becomes that much more relentless.

“Do that again,” Bruce commands you, “And I’ll have to punish you.”

For good measure, his hand slides from the slope of your waist to the curve of your ass, and squeezes—hard. But the sting of pain is ignored for the way that pleasure crests over you as he sinks fully inside you again, as you cry out in delight.

“Oh, no, Batman,” you tease, your eyes glassy with pleasure as you look up at him, “I wouldn’t want that.”

You’re given a smirk in return, an instant to catch your breath. And then he startson showing you just how he’ll get started on that punishment—as he thrusts into you once more.

banners and divider made by me :)

taglist: @dianaenjoyer @kimmylikesthemall @spookyfunhottub @bestmannequin2018 @bestmannequin2018 @planetevermore @thescrawler @bozosprout @just-peachy-babe @newangelle @luvmailing @colonelfish @timetothirst @cassiecasluciluce

join the taglist here!

[sunflowersinheaven]

May the 4th be with you ✨

[titus-danforth]

If I may-

Manny Perez + mentor/mentee and or virgin/experienced

Do with that what you will

➽─❥ pairing: Manny Perez x Female!Reader

➽─❥ summary/prompt: Virgin/Experienced, Mentor/Mentee, Manny hearing you, Eve, Bode, and Jake talking about experiences and learns that you were more innocent than you let on.

➽─❥ warnings: 18+ MDNI, Virgin!Reader, mentor/mentee, p in v sex, hand job

➽─❥ author’s note: If you’d like to participate in my february fic fest- click here for more!

Manny was a good mentor- a good leader and gave you solid advice when you needed it. He never let you drown or never let you feel like you were alone. You looked up to him- gave him those big, soft eyes and would smile at him like he fucking mattered and meant something and- god he fucking hated it. Because he thinks about you more than he should- Manny stays up at night imagining your face, your soft voice m, your body- he fucking hates himself for it. He was supposed to be mentoring you, molding you like he’s done for Eve and the boys and all he thinks about is how pretty you’d look on your knees for him.

But Manny isn’t the only one with sick fantasies.

You spend far too many hours imagining those baby blue eyes that make your heart race and knees weak. When he comes up behind you to correct your form while throwing ladders or moving your arms to redo hose loads over and over again- all you can fucking smell is his cologne and all you feel are those big arms around your waist. Your body feels hot every time your hands touch and once it boiled down to your ankle getting caught on a branch and Manny hauled you up in his arms so easily to carry you back to the trucks that you couldn’t think about anything else for a week.

Especially after he made you sit in the rig while he personally checked your BP and held the oxygen mask to your face despite being adamant that you were fine. You felt like some little girl with a stupid crush on her teacher. You would get lost in his voice during briefings and safety trainings. You would lose yourself in his eyes when he made you go through knot tying drills and equipment checks.

But late night when most of the crew were resting? You and Manny sat in his office and just- talked. About what? Anything really. It started as you just being new to Edgewater and asking him where there’s a good coffee shop what didn’t cost and arm and a leg and he said he can make better coffee than any shop- and then it divulged into you asking how he joined Cal Fire. And then his backstory. And then yours. And every time you and your battalion chief spoke your chairs got closer together and the door started being shut and- his lips were soft. His voice was low and hands were gentle when he’d pull you into his lap.

And eventually the door would end up locked- your shirt pulled off to allow Manny’s hands to roam over your body before he would unhooked your bra and place the softest kisses across your chest. His heavy hands dragging your hips back and forth to give you both the most delicious friction- your hands shook while unbuckling his belt but his hands were steady while guiding you to touch his heavy cock. He was big- god Manny’s cock was fucking huge and made your hand feel so small with each drag of your hands wrapped around his length. At some point Manny couldn’t take the gentle way your soft hands were rubbing him- he needed to be inside you. Picking you up with ease- standing with you in his arms to place you on his desk before he slides himself between your thighs.

“Just like that amorcita,” you both gasp when he finally slides in- your thighs spread so fucking wide to accommodate him. Your nails digging into the thick meat of his shoulders- breathing heavily in his ear with soft pants of his name from your lips. Thick cock stretching your pussy open- never felt anything so tight and warm that Manny swears he’s seeing stars. “So tight- fucking perfect,” he sets a hard pace- heavy thrusts that punch breaths out of your lungs each time he slides out so slowly until only the tip of his cock is left- then a fast, hard thrust back in that makes you cry out his name. Manny doesn’t know how he’s able to handle not cumming immediately but when he feels your soft thighs tighten around his waist he groans in your mouth- breaking the kiss only for a moment.

It wasn’t until a week later where Manny hears what he wish he didn’t- you sitting around with Eve, Jake, and Bode one night after a long day of training. The four of you giggling together- sipping coffee to try and stay away while swapping stories until you laugh at the boys- “well you both are blood brothers so.”

“What do you mean?” Bode pushes his hair back- titling his head to look at Jake to see if he knows gets you’re talking about when Eve bursts out laughing.

“Well- you both fucked Gabi,” Manny should absolutely stop listening- he’s already heard too much but your laugh was so sweet and he never gets to see you having fun because he needs to play battalion chief and-

“Well at least we’ve fucked,” Jake chimes in, scoffing but needing to stop the attention on him and Bode being with the same girl. Your face immediately heats up- narrowing your eyes at Eve because she was only one who knew you were a virgin until a week ago was her and Manny’s ears burn. They didn’t know about you both- there was no way because then they’d know you had fucked and- you were a virgin? Fuck. Fuck. Why didn’t you say anything?

Manny is beside himself- stumbling away from the kitchen back to his office where he sits at his chair and stares at the exact spot on his desk where he basically took your virginity. He wouldn’t have been so rough with you, he wouldn’t have gone so fast or mean or- your soft knock breaks his train of thought. Sweet smile nearly making him forget everything when you slide into his office and lock the door behind you- meeting him halfway with a desperate kiss to his lips before he stops you. Heavy hands cupping your face to slow your soft lips- sighing, pressing his forehead against yours when you ask if he’s okay.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” You have no idea what he’s talking about- pulling back with a questioning smile and asking what he means and- “was that your first time?” Oh- oh. He heard you talking?

“Yeah but- Manny it’s not a big deal-” it wasn’t- not really. Sure he’s the first person you’ve ever been with but you didn’t think it was the end of the world- or the beginning of it? You liked him- you wanted to have sex with him and as you explained it all- “Manny I trust you, I knew you wouldn’t hurt me.” Something about the way you said that made his chest ache- made his body feel warm because hearing about you trusting him was something he didn’t know he needed. Your arms wrapped around his shoulders- playing with the hair at the back of his neck with a tilt of your head. His heavy arms wrapped around your waist- soft blue eyes searching for any hint of lies in your own but all you give him is a sweet smile and a soft kiss.

“Go out with me tomorrow, let me treat you the way you deserve,” he’s still going to make it up to you.

➽─❥ taglist (click to join!):

@velvetmel0n and @ovaryacted because Nic used to like him once upon a time

[sammy-bryant]

BRETT RICHARDS & MANNY PEREZ Fire Country | Life of a Fire Fighter (4.12)

[superhoeva]

sorry guys, i’m deep in it

brett richards and manny perez taking turns railing you—one at your front, his big hands cupping your wet face while your lip wobbles to shush your dazed hiccups while the other squeezes your hips as he rams his cock into you from behind… pressing his belly into the curve of your back and trying not to pass out at how much you’re leaking around him

[ladypunz]

I need this viscerally

[longstringofnumbersandletters]

501st Day!

(image)