King!Simon had never been very affectionate. He didn't believe in it. There was no point in being frivolous with his love. It was stupid. It was for the weak.
That was until your child was born. She was small, so small it scared him. He was sure she was ill or something was wrong, but here she was dressed in what he considered to be the worldâs most needlessly opulent dress for a little baby girl. She babbled happily and smashed her wooden toy horse into the stone floor of your shared chambers.
He huffs, eyes looking over your happy baby. âShe looks ridiculous.â
âShe looks royal. Like a little princess should,â you retort. You had dressed her in the finest clothes you could find, sent as a gift from your family. It was customary to show wealth and power with lavish clothing for your people. Simon did not feel the same way.
âYour people are strange. I see no need for this drama.â He mutters, sighing. He would never say it out loud, but he found her extravagant clothing to be entirely adorable.
You turn your nose up at him, scooping the little girl into your lap and adjusting her dress so it didn't wrinkle. âIt shows she is important, Simon.â
âImportant people have many furs or weapons. Things of strength, not⊠a little gold dress.â He insisted, patting the girls back as she coughs.
You roll your eyes and hand your daughter over to him when she starts to fuss, little hands making a grabbing motion at her father. âOh hush. She is darling.â
âMmm. Sweet child." He nods in agreement, poking her cheek with his finger, earning a squeal and laugh from her.
He indulged her at every chance. Toys and dresses filled the chest he had made for her with his own hands. He had even started a second to fit more of her possessions. In her short 8 months she had already accumulated quite a collection.
Simon took her everywhere, even if it wasnât deemed âappropriate." Your little baby sat in on war meetings, happily chewing on her fatherâs collar, interrupting the council with happy shrieks or hungry screams. He even took her to the training ground, letting her watch the young soldiers train and practice their swordsmanship.
For Simon, there was no place that she didnât belong. He has her on his lap while he tears his food apart, relishing in the large plate delivered to him. She also is very enthusiastic, shrieking and trying to take bites from his hands. âNo, little one. This is not yours.â
âBahhh bahh!!â She shrieks in growing frustration, little tiny hands slapping at his chest.
He shakes his head, adjusting her away from the food. âYelling will not make me give you any. You are spoiled enough."
Your little, furious girl wails, face turning red as she starts to cry, confusion and anger overriding her usually calm demeanor. Her chest heaves as she tries to throw herself backwards in her dramatic display.
"Oh fine, child." Simon huffs and pulls her closer, handing her a piece of cheese that is far too big for someone so small. Her shrieking halts immediately, using her tiny little teeth to bite a chunk off of the wedge. She shakes the cheese up and down in delight, tilting it for you to see as you watch.
"Daddy spoils you again, I see," you joke, smiling at the exchange.
He looks scandalized by the claim, putting a hand to his chest. "What? She is a princess. She must be strong."
"And cheese will make her strong?" Sometimes you swore he said things just to justify gifting her things and spoiling her beyond reason.
He nods with full conviction. "Yes. Besides, she wants it. Best to keep 'er happy."
He lifts the girl so he can look at her chubby little face. He smiles as she takes another bite of her cheese. "She knows good food when she sees it." He plants a kiss on her cheek and adjusts the little bonnet you had put her in. "There we go, princess."
Jack Abbot has had a terrible eighteen months. Truly one for the books. Losing his mother, and then you, sometimes he wonders what the point is. If things will ever look up. Until you turn up at the Pitt, with a little girl who looks exactly like him.
warnings: this blog is 18+, mdni! this fic deals with grief, difficult births, depression, anxiety, and canon medical gore. it will also eventually contain explicit sexual content. unprotected pinv, really sappy sex
main masterlist // transatlanticism masterlist
You donât mention the kiss the next day. Or the next. Or for the next three months after. You and Jack return to just co-parents, and continue on like nothing ever happened.
Meanwhile, it feels like Gwen is becoming more and more her own proper human every single day. Now seven months, she's curious about everything. If people are talking, she wants to be in the middle of it. If someone walks out of the room, she cranes her neck to watch where they're going. She grabs at anything she can reach and somehow always manages to find the one thing she isn't supposed to have.
She discovers her voice by the time Valentineâs Day rolls around, and what starts as mere babbling quickly turns into a language only the three of you can understand.
Jack especially canât get enough of chatting to her. A firm hater of the baby-voice, he speaks to her like any other person - sometimes Gwen gets more levity than the likes of Robby. One of your favourite things to come home to is Jack running her bedtime routine on days where you have late classes.
Sometimes, youâll hover in the hallway, listening to their little chats. Tonight, the topic appears to be the latest volume of the American Journal of Emergency Medicine.
He has her perched on his knee, one hand spreading the pages of the journal, the other at the wheel of his wheelchair, pushing them back and forth softly. Sheâs always loved the rhythm of the wheelchair - to the point where the rocking chair in her nursery has been replaced by one of Jackâs backups.
Itâs a sure way to have her asleep within half an hour.
Jack loves that heâs the only one that can do it with her. Even if you try and sit in the chair, replicate his movements exactly, sheâll just start to fuss for her daddy.
âI see what youâre saying,â comes Jackâs voice, low and playful. âBut itâs all about the politics, Gwenny. You canât just decide on a uniform protocol for something like that - every doctor has their own preferences.â
Gwen responds in babbles, and you find yourself leaning against the wall to listen in, fighting a smile.
âWell, now youâre just being ridiculous. Sounding too much like your Uncle Robby for your own good, huh? Weâve got to think about the funding, Gwendoline. How are we going to pay for that?â
A small pause, before Jack pretends to gasp. âMy credit card? And here I thought we had a few more years before you became a teenager.â
Only when Gwen erupts into a flurry of giggles do you finally enter, dropping your bag down in the doorway. âAre you trying to indoctrinate our daughter into medicine already?â
âWell, she clearly has the knack for it already, honey - even if her spending habits leave something to be desired.â
âHm, I donât know. I still think sheâs got a novel or two in her. With the way she loves books and stories.â
âWhy make her choose? She can be the worldâs best doctor, and write books on the side to supplement. Make sure she can support us in our old age.â
The smile he shoots you is easy, and you find yourself leaning down to press a kiss to Gwenâs head. When you pull back from the wheelchair, Jack pouts. âNothing for me?â
You roll your eyes dramatically, but thereâs no heat behind the action, and you press a soft kiss to Jackâs cheek. âHappy now?â
âVery.â
*****
Now in April, Gwen is pulling herself up on every piece of furniture she can find. Her favourite target is the low coffee table, where Jack accidentally leaves his mug one evening. You catch her just as her stubby fingers wrap around the ceramic handle, her tongue sticking out in pure, concentrated determination.
"Gotcha," you breathe, lifting her away just in time.
"Good catch," Jack says, walking into the room with a stack of fresh diapers. His eyes drop to your mouth, just a flicker, before he blinks and looks down at the baby in your arms. "Sheâs getting too fast for us.â
âIâm sure weâll blink and sheâll be twenty.â
âDonât say that,â Jack groans. âSheâs not allowed to ever get any older than she is right now.â
You laugh as Gwen immediately twists in your arms, reaching back toward the coffee table like she has unfinished business there.
âOh, really? Because two months ago you were begging for her to sit up on her own.â
âThat was different.â
âHow?â
âBecause sitting up is cute.â He points at Gwen. âThis?â He gestures as she lunges for absolutely nothing in particular. âThis is the beginning of the end.â
âThe end of what?â
âOur peace.â You snort, while Jack drops the stack of diapers onto the sofa before holding his hands out. âCome here, kiddo.â
Gwen practically throws herself toward him. The betrayal is immediate. âWow,â you say. âNice to know where her loyalties lie. Guess if she likes you so much, you can take bedtime duty tonight.â
Jackâs head immediately snaps to yours. âWhat? I did it last night!â
âAre you seriously turning your daughter down?â You ask. Itâs cruel, really, playing him by using Gwen. But after a full day of classes, youâre not sure you can face three rounds of The Hungry Cateroillar.
You pass her over, and Gwen rests her head briefly against Jack's shoulder. The sight catches you off guard, even though youâve seen it on a daily basis for the past however many months. Itâs just a startling reminder that she is, in fact, growing up. Slowly but surely, and yet somehow all too fast. These little flashes where she seems less like a baby and more like a tiny person with preferences and routines and opinions.
A tiny person who absolutely prefers Jack's left shoulder over his right.
A tiny person who laughs whenever you sneeze.
A tiny person who somehow knows exactly where forbidden objects are located at all times.
âYou look sentimental,â Jack comments, and you snap out of your daze, realising you were staring. âAll weepy like youâre the one who doesnât want her to grow up.â
âSorry. Uh, just thinking.â
âYeah? About what?â
Suddenly slightly concerned youâre about to cry, you decide to dodge the topic altogether. âAbout how you should do bath and bedtime tonight?â
âHm, youâre lucky I love you both.â
*****
You lie awake, staring at the ceiling and trying to warm your toes under the heavy duvet, when you hear it.
A muffled, choked sound comes from the bedroom down the hall. Far too low to be Gwen. You check the baby monitor, just to be safe, and see her sound asleep in her crib. A few seconds later, it happens again - a low, fractured groan that twists into a sharp, desperate gasp for air. It isn't the sound of someone snoring.
It sounds like somebody in pain.
Kicking off the covers, you slip out of bed. The hardwood floor is ice-cold against your bare feet as you creep down the dark hallway, bypassing Gwenâs room, and stop outside Jackâs cracked door.
The pale moonlight cuts through his blinds, casting sharp shadows across the room. Jack is thrashing under his sheets, his large frame tangled in the blankets. His head turns violently from side to side, his jaw locked tight.
"No," he chokes out, his voice thin and entirely stripped of his usual assurances. "No, wait. Don't go.â
"Jack," you whisper, stepping into the room.
He doesn't wake. He lets out another ragged, breathless sob that makes your chest ache. You cross the room and sit on the edge of the mattress - reach ping out to place a firm, steady hand on his bare shoulder. Heâs burning hot and slick with sweat.
"Jack, wake up. You're dreaming," You murmur a little louder, shaking him gently.
He bolts upright with a violent gasp, his eyes wide and blank, staring straight through you. His chest heaves as he fights for oxygen, his hands instantly clawing at the sheets. He is entirely unmoored, trapped somewhere between the nightmare and reality.
"Hey, look at me," you insist, shifting closer and placing both of your hands on the sides of his face, forcing his frantic gaze to anchor on yours. âYou were just dreaming. Youâre fine. Itâs okay, Jack.â
It takes another second for his eyes to refocus, and only when you reach out to take a hand do his shoulders start to relax. âShit. Iâm sorry, sweetheart.â
âNothing to be sorry for,â You murmur. âWant to talk about it?â
He nods, but thereâs no words donât come, and instead he leans into your touch.
Your fingers gently smooth the hair at the back of his neck. "Was it the army? Or your mom?"
He stays still for a long moment, his forehead pressed hard against your shoulder as his breathing slowly hitches. When he finally pulls back just enough to look at you, his face is wet, his expression completely raw.
"No," he whispers, his voice cracking. "It wasn't them. It was you."
You blink, caught entirely off guard. "Me?â
âI dreamt I was losing you. That Iâd already lost you. A-and we didnât even have Gwen, and it was so awful, and-â
He cuts off in the horrible realisation that you both lived that dream almost eighteen months ago. "Jack, I'm right here," you say softly, your voice steady against the howling wind outside. "I'm not going anywhere.â
A single tear leaks down his cheek, and you pull him into your arms, until you can wrap them round his entire body. âC-Can you stay the night? I-If you donât want to, thatâs fine-â
Heâs never sounded more vulnerable, and it breaks your heart. âOf course I can stay, Jackie.â
âYou and Gwen are the best things in my life - you know that right?â
âYou prove it to us every day.â
Almost tentatively, you draw him down towards the pillows, slipping under the duvet beside him. Jack turns onto his side, facing you, and pulls you tightly against his chest. His arm tucks securely under your head, anchoring you to him, while his other hand rests flat against your waist. You wrap your arms around his torso, burying your face in the crook of his neck, letting your heartbeat match his.
You stay awake for a while, listening to his breathing smooth out into a deep, uninterrupted sleep.
*****
Jack knows heâs being unreasonable. Insane, even. Youâre only thirty minutes late from when you said youâd be home, and he can feel himself spiralling.
By minute thirty, his hands are shaking so badly he can barely scoop the formula into Gwenâs bedtime bottle. He has paced the living room until his leg aches, Gwen tracking his frantic movements from his arms. Every time he looks at the clock, the knots in his stomach tighten. He calls your phone for the sixth time. Straight to voicemail. The flat, automated tone triggers a sharp spike of adrenaline in his chest. His mind immediately bypasses every logical explanation and constructs a worst-case scenario: a car accident on the slick March roads, a breakdown on a dark shoulder, something terrible.
He cannot fathom how you possibly did this alone.
He cannot fathom doing any of it on his own.
"Come on, sweet girl, let's get you down," Jack mutters, his voice thick with a panic he is desperately trying to hide from the baby. Gwen responds with a sleepy little noise and presses her face into his shoulder. His left shoulder.
At least one of them is calm.
Jack glances at the clock again. Thirty-two minutes late. He swallows heavily, and begins to get Gwen changed into her pyjamas with hands that won't stop trembling. She watches him with wide eyes while he fumbles with snaps he's fastened a hundred times before.
"Sorry," He murmurs when he misses one. As if his eight-month-old daughter cares.
Normally, bedtime is his favourite part of the day, but tonight he can hardly focus, and when the front door lock finally clicks at fifty-seven minutes past the hour, Jack is waiting right there in the shadows of the hall.
You walk in, balancing your bag and a stack of papers, looking tired but entirely fine. "I am so sorry," you start immediately, kicking off your shoes. "One of my students needed help with an essay rewrite, and then my phone died on the way out, and I couldn't-"
You stop because Jack has crossed the carpet in two strides. He doesn't wait for you to finish. He drops his forehead against your shoulder, his hands gripping the heavy fabric of your winter coat so tightly his knuckles turn white. He is trembling, as he pulls you into the tightest hug of your life.
"Jack?" you ask, the papers slipping slightly in your grip. "What's wrong? Is Gwen okay?"
"Gwen is fine. She's asleep," He croaks, his voice thick and rough against your neck. He pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes bloodshot and frantic, searching your face as if verifying you are actually here. Here and okay. "Your phone was dead. You didn't text. I thought... I thought you were in a ditch somewhere. I thought someone hurt you."
"Jack, I'm less than an hour late," You say gently, shocked by the sheer terror radiating off him.
"I know that's not a long time. I know normal people don't immediately assume the worst because somebody's fifty minutes late."
"Jack-"
"I called you fourteen times."
You blink. "What?"
"Fourteen." His voice is flat with embarrassment now, and he runs a shaking hand over his face, his skin pale under the hallway light. "I started picturing the highway near the campus, thinking about how slick the roads get when the ice melts. Then I started thinking about someone cornering you in the parking lot after dark. I couldn't stop it. O-Or some kind of accident on the freeway-â
"Hey," you whisper gently, dropping your bag and the stack of papers onto the bench by the door. They slide and scatter slightly, but neither of you moves. You wrap your arms around his waist, pulling yourself tight against his solid frame. "Look at me. I'm right here. I'm safe. I'm completely okay. And Iâm sorry. I shouldâve charged it in the car.â
Heâs shaking his head. âYou donât have to apologise.â
"Come on," You murmur, sliding your hands up his back, feeling the tense, knotted muscles of his shoulders begin to give way under your touch. "Letâs go sit down.â
Steering him gently, you guide him into the dimly lit living room, pulling him down beside you on the sofa
One hand slides into his hair, fingers threading through the soft strands at the back of his head, while the other settles firmly at his back.
For months, he's been trying to be everything for everyone. Strong for Gwen. Strong for you. You know him well enough to catch the signs. He still feels guilty for missing out, so heâll run himself ragged in order to look after you both.
You havenât seen a single bill in almost four months. Neither of you have ever had to want for anything. You can work whatever classes you want, because Jack will rearrange his own schedule to look after Gwen when needed.
Your fingers continue moving through his curls. Slow. Steady. The same way you soothe Gwen when she's upset - rubbing soft circles into her scalp.
Eventually, his shoulders begin to loosen, and he gently catches one of your hands, his thumb tracing over your knuckles - though he can't quite hold your gaze. "I'm so sorry for everything I did to you. I was just... I was so low after my mom died. I didnât want to be here anymore. I was angry and exhausted and grieving, and somewhere along the way I convinced myself I didn't deserve to be happy."
âWe donât have to get into this again, Jackie.â
Finally, he looks up at you. âWe do. I-I donât feel like Iâll ever be able to apologise enough for leaving.â
âYouâve given both of us the best life - if I could go back and change the way I handled things, I would, but I really need you to stop feeling so guilty. And stop imagining a ditch.â
The corner of his mouth twitches despite himself. âNot just one ditch." You stare at him, and Jack sighs heavily. "There were several ditches."
A surprised laugh escapes you, and the tension breaks for half a second. âYouâre insane-â
âI love you,â he bursts out, and you freeze.
âWhat?â
"I love you," he chokes out. "God, I love you so much, and the thought of losing you just destroyed me. I kept telling myself I didn't want to get married again. That I wasn't built for it anymore. That I'd already done it once and couldn't go through all of that a second time."
He lapses into a pause, and you wonder if you should speak. Before you can, he stumbles on, shaking his head again.
"But that wasn't the whole truth. The truth is I was scared." He looks away again, jaw tense. "After Marisol died, I felt guilty for everything. For laughing. For having good days. For even thinking about a future that didn't include her. Part of me got stuck there. In that hospital room. And every time things got serious with you, it felt like I was being forced to choose between holding on to her and moving forward. I thought if I let myself love someone else the way I loved her, it meant I was leaving her behind.â
âMarisol belonged to that specific time in my life. A-And I still love her, and miss her every day. But this? What I feel for you? Itâs all-consuming. Itâs this constant, heavy pull in my chest that I can't shake, no matter how hard I try. Youâre just everywhere in my head now. And the thing is, I don't even want to fight it anymore.â
You have no idea how to sum up decades of history. Instead, you simply nudge his shoulder with your own, and mumble, "You had an entire collection of ditches."
"Weâre still on that?â The words are murmured, and he finally leans sideways and lets his head fall against you.
"I'm sorry I scared you."
He lets out a long breath. "I wasn't scared."
You raise an eyebrow. "Jack."
"I was absolutely terrified." He swallows heavily, âI think Iâve always loved you a little bit. Since we were kids. But Iâve been the biggest fucking idiot on the planet, and Iâd understand if you didnât want anything to do with me like that. This house is as much yours as it is mine, and I-I donât want you to feel like you canât live here in peace.â
Unable to take it anymore, you shift angle, and press your lips to his.
Jackâs right. All-consuming is the only word for it. A desperation permeates into his every movement. One hand cups your face, so gently as if heâs terrified youâre about to disappear, while the other wraps around your waist, holding you as tightly to him as possible.
âMissed you so much, sweet girl,â He mumbles between kisses. âSo fucking much.â
Itâs teeth and tongue and gasping for breath, until youâre sitting in his lap and feeling like you might die if you donât get to have him right now. âBed?â You offer, knowing itâs whatâs easiest on his leg.
âWe donât have to-â
Youâre interrupting immediately. âBut do you want to?â
âMore than anything,â he breathes, and youâre back on each other. Your movements are clumsy as you navigate up the stairs, trying to keep quiet so you donât accidentally wake Gwen - youâre pretty sure there are more apologies tumbling from Jackâs lips as he trails down your skin.
Clothes are discarded in heaps, and soon Jack is seeing your body for the first time since having Gwen. Itâs a far different body to the one you used to have, and youâre still working on loving it. Jack Abbot seems to have no such problems. âGod, youâre so beautiful, honey. Prettiest girl in the whole world. Prettiest girl Iâve ever seen.â
Youâre sure thatâs not true, but when Jack dips his head to wrap his lips around your nipple, all you can focus on is the feeling of his tongue against you. Heâs always been big on foreplay - insisting you get off before he even takes his pants off. Tonight, you just want to be near him. âJ-Jack, need you-â
Ever a pleaser, he complies immediately, hand moving to your hip so he can draw you closer to him. Heâs hard already, leaking against your thigh, and youâre dizzied by how good it feels to be with him like this again.
âPromise youâre up for this?â He asks, forehead dropping to rest against yours.
You just nod, lip between your teeth. âDonât leave me again,â You whisper, a few tears leaking from your eyes as he finally pushes in.
âNever,â His reply is instantaneous. âI promise, sweetheart. Mâso sorry.â
The rhythm he sets is slow and torturous, nothing like the frenzied kissing as you made your way upstairs. Heâs savouring this, moving like he knows this is forever. He knows you have the rest of your lives to relearn each otherâs bodies, and make each other happy. The way he should have been this entire time.
Six months later.
The September sun warms the secluded little clearing in the botanical gardens, filtering through the trees in patches of gold.
Thereâs just a simple wooden altar, ten chairs arranged on the grass for your closest friends, Jack, and a walking, fourteen-month-old Gwen in a tiny linen dress. Normally, the bride and groom are supposed to remain separated until the ceremony.
Given you've done everything else out of order, you donât pay much attention to tradition. Last night, you and Jack put Gwen to bed together, before falling asleep in each other's arms. There's nowhere you'd rather have spent your last night as a single woman.
You stand in front of the full-length mirror, smoothing down the front of your wedding dress. The fabric is cool against your skin, flattering in all the right places. The baby weight still isn't gone entirely, but it's been nice having your boobs back to yourself with Gwen stopping breastfeeding.
A soft, hesitant knock sounds at the door.
Before you can answer, the handle turns, and the door creaks open. Jack steps into the room, holding Gwen against his hip. "I told her we should wait a little, but Gwenny wanted to see Mommy in her pretty dress-"
His voice trails off as you turn, finally getting the full view of it. Keeping the wedding dress secret had been one of the few traditions you'd actually subscribed to.
Gwen, entirely oblivious to the weight of the moment, breaks the silence. She lets out a loud, cheerful babble and reaches her chubby arms out toward you, her fingers curling and uncurling as she recognises your face. "Mama!"
The sound breaks Jack out of his trance. He lets out a soft, breathless laugh, his eyes never leaving yours as he finally walks into the room. He closes the distance in a few slow strides, stopping just inches away from you. "Doesn't Mama look beautiful?"
"Boo-tifull!" Gwen echoes, giggling.
"God," He whispers, his voice low and incredibly thick with emotion. He shifts Gwen slightly on his hip so he can reach out, resting his palm against your waist. "You look... you look absolutely beautiful. I knew you would, but seeing you standing there like that⊠can't believe how lucky I am."
"You look pretty incredible yourself," you say softly, a tear threatening to spill over your eyelashes as you look up at him.
Jack leans down, pressing his forehead gently against yours. The scent of his cologne washes over you, warm and familiar, anchoring you instantly. He closes his eyes, just breathing you in for a long, quiet second, his grip on your waist tightening as he holds his girls close.
"I love you so much," he murmurs against your skin.
Gwen chimes in again, smacking her tiny hands against Jackâs shoulder and demanding to be part of the huddle. You both laugh, the remaining nerves melting away entirely. You reach out, letting your fingers intertwine with Jackâs free hand, while your other hand gently strokes Gwenâs hair. "What do you say, Gwenny? Want to help Mommy and Daddy get married?"
A/N - thank you so much for reading!! hope you enjoyed this lil family <3
NOTE: Iâve never written anything this filthy helpâŠ
The bass from the pubâs speakers was vibrating straight through the soles of your heels, but honestly, after the semester youâd had, it felt like a lifeline. You and your girls were in your final year of university, drowning in dissertations, exams, and the collective dread of the real world.
Tonightâs objective was simple: get dressed to the nines, look entirely unapproachable yet wildly attractive, and see how many free drinks you could leverage out of the local blokes before you completely lost the ability to stand.
You were currently rocking a fit that made you feel unstoppable, but the sheer volume of the Manchester crowd had done its work. Somewhere between the bar and the jukebox, you and your closest mate had been separated from the rest of the pack.
"Right, where did they go?" your friend giggled, swaying slightly as she held her vodka-cranberry aloft like a torch.
"No clue, but if weâ"
Oof.
You bounced off a solid wall of absolute muscle. You stumbled back a half-step, your hand instinctively reaching out to steady yourself, landing flat against a very broad, very warm chest clad in a dark jacket.
"Whoops, steady there, lass," a thick Scottish accent chimed in. You looked up to find a pair of bright, mischievous eyes crinkling at the corners, a short mohawk cutting through the dim pub lighting. Next to him stood another handsome man wearing a baseball cap backward, a smooth, easy grin plastered on his face.
It was Johnny "Soap" MacTavish and Kyle "Gaz" Garrick, though to a civilian like you, they were just two incredibly fit, incredibly good looking men who seemed far too fit to be standard Manchester pub-goers.
"Sorry about that," you laughed, smoothing down your outfit. "A bit hazardous out here."
"Oh, itâs no trouble at all," Gaz interjected, leaning against a pillar with a smooth smile. "In fact, I think itâs a stroke of luck. Iâm Kyle, this is my pal Johnny. What are two lovely ladies like yourselves doing wandering the wilds on a Friday night?"
Within five minutes, the flirting was in full swing. Johnny was laying it on thick, his Scottish charm working like an absolute charm on your friend. He had her laughing up a storm, her hand already resting against his arm. Gaz turned his attention to you, and bless him, he was incredibly sweet and objectively gorgeousâbut he just wasn't your type. You preferred a bit more edge, a bit more mystery.
"Weâre actually heading over to the pool tables," Soap announced, flashing a brilliant grin. "Weâve got a table cornered. You two should join us. Teams of two?"
Your friend looked at you with pleading, intoxicated eyes. Looking back, you probably should have said no and gone to find the rest of your uni squad. Instead, you shrugged. "Sure. Lead the way."
By the time you reached the back of the pub, the dynamic had shifted. Another one of your girls had miraculously reappeared from the crowd, and Gaz, picking up on your polite but platonic vibes, seamlessly pivoted his attention to her. They hit it off instantly, leaving Johnny and your friend practically joined at the hip.
There was just one problem.
"Ah, bloody hell," Johnny muttered, counting heads. "Weâre short one for proper doubles. Hold on." He cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted over the din of the pub. "Oi! L.T.! Get over here!"
From the shadows near the back exit, a figure shifted.
Your breath caught in your throat. Jesus Christ.
He was a giant. A big, hulking mountain of a man clad entirely in dark clothing, a heavy hood pulled up. But the kicker? A black skull-patterned balaclava covered his face from the nose down, leaving only a pair of dark, intense, heavily lashed eyes visible. He looked dangerous, entirely out of place in a crowded pub, and absolutely, unequivocally exactly your type.
He walked over with heavy strides, hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets. Why was it so hot that he didn't look pleased?
"What, MacTavish?"
The voice made all the inner parts of you quiver. Deep. Gravelly. A low, raspy baritone that vibrated straight down your spine and sent an instant, undeniable jolt of heat straight between your thighs. You actually had to cross your legs slightly, your eyes widening as you stared at him.
"We need a fourth for pool, Simon," Soap said, completely unfazed by the terrifying aura the man was radiating. "Don't be a misery guts. Play a round."
While Soap conversed with the giantâwho you now knew was named Simonâyour friend leaned into your shoulder, her breath hot and smelling of alcohol as she excitedly whispered in your ear.
"Oh my god, Iâm definitely into the Scottish one," she hissed happily, watching Soap laugh. She nudged your ribs with her elbow. "What about you? The quiet one looks like he could snap a man in half."
You swallowed hard, your eyes locked onto the broad expanse of Simon's shoulders under his jacket, watching the way his dark eyes flicked over to you, assessing you from behind his hood.
"Yeah," you whispered back, your voice a little breathier than you intended. "I am definitely into his taller friend."
â
The pool cue felt heavy in your hands, but that was mostly because your brain was short-circuiting. The green felt of the table blurred into the background as Simon stepped up directly behind you.
"You're holding it like a damn club, love," he rumbled. That deep, gravelly voice was right at your ear, his warm breath ghosting over the column of your neck and sending a violent shiver down your spine.
"I'm doing my best," you teased, casting a smoky look over your shoulder. "Maybe I just need a proper teacher."
Simon didn't say a word. He just stepped closer, completely enveloping you in his shadow. He smelled of rain, leather, and a faint undertone of bourbon. Then, his hands covered yours. They were massive, and calloused drowning your smaller hands as he adjusted your grip on the wood. He leaned down, his broad chest pressing flat against your back, aligning his body perfectly with yours to show you the angle of the shot.
The contact was electric. With the pub's bass thumping through the floorboards, you couldn't help yourself. You shifted your weight, deliberately grinding your hips back against him just a fraction of an inch.
Above you, Simon froze. A low, dark grunt vibrated from deep within his chest.
You let out a soft, breathy laugh, feeling incredibly cheeky. Maybe it was the four vodka crans sloshing around in your system, or maybe it was just the intoxicating thrill of making a literal mountain of a man react to you. You glanced over at the other side of the table; Soap and your friend were entirely in their own world, trading sloppy kisses and whispering things that had them both giggling. They hadn't noticed a thing.
But Simon had. His grip on your hands tightened just a fraction, a silent command to stay still before he guided your arm forward. Clack. The cue ball struck true, sending the solid seven-ball straight into the corner pocket.
From there, the game was a blur of Simonâs clear pool skills. You contributed absolutely nothing but distraction, but thanks entirely to him, you won.
By the time the final ball dropped, the midnight hour had long passed. The rest of Simon and Johnnyâs group was visibly, hilariously wrecked. Gaz was slumped in a booth trying to teach your other friend a tactical military handshake, and their âcaptainâ Price was at the bar aggressively debating football with the bartender. They were all clearly ready to crash hard at an unlucky blokes townhouse. (Simon)
Well, all except for one. Simon stood perfectly upright, he looked sober, his dark eyes tracking the room.
"Right, Iâm taking this one home," Soap slurred, his arm slung heavily over your friendâs shoulders as she giggled, both of them already shuffling toward the exit into a waiting taxi. Just like that, your ride and your squad were gone, leaving you standing under the dim pub lights with the giant in the skull mask.
"Looks like it's just you and me, big guy," you murmured, stepping into his space. The alcohol lent you a massive wave of confidence. You reached out, your fingers daringly tracing the edge of his dark hoodie. "Your friends are all sloshed. Who's going to look after you?"
Simon stared down at you, his chest rising and falling heavily. "I don't need looking after, love."
"No?" You tilted your head up, leaning in just enough that heâd have to bend down to hear you over the ringing in your ears. "My flat is only a ten-minute walk from here. It's warm. Quiet. And I have a really, really comfortable bed." You let your eyes drop to his covered lips before looking back up into his intense gaze. "Are you going to let me walk home all by myself in the dark?"
A tense, heavy silence stretched between you. For a second, you thought he was going to refuse, to turn on his heel and drag what was left his drunken mates to wherever.
But then, Simon let out a rough, defeated sigh. He reached up, pulling his hood a little lower, but his large hand settled firmly on the small of your back, the heat of his palm burning through your clothes.
"Lead the way," he growled low in his throat. "Before I change my mind."
â
The ten-minute walk through the crisp night air felt like a blur of friction and heat. Every time your bare shoulder brushed against his heavy jacket, a jolt went straight to your core.
By the time you stumbled onto the porch of your flat, the tension snapped.
You fished blindly in your bag for your keys, your hands shaking slightly from a mix of the cold and pure adrenaline. You felt him step up behind you, blocking out the streetlights, trapping you between his massive frame and the heavy wooden door.
"Need some help with that, love?" he rumbled, his voice dangerously low against your ear.
"Iâve got it," you breathed, finally wrapping your fingers around the key ring. But as you turned around to face him, keys in hand, the look in his dark eyes made you completely forget how to use your hands.
You didn't wait. You reached up, your fingers catching the hem of his black balaclava and pulling it up. Simon didn't stop you. He helped, bunching the fabric up over his nose, exposing a strong, rugged jawline, a dusting of stubble, and full lips that were parted in a sharp intake of breath.
When your lips finally met, it was like an explosion.
It wasn't a gentle kiss, fuckâit was feverish, hungry, and so desperate. Simon let out a low, ragged groan into your mouth, his massive hands coming alive. One of his palms cupped the back of your neck, his long fingers tangling in your hair to angle your head perfectly, while his other hand gripped your hip, pulling you flush against him. You could feel the rigid, hard lines of his body pressing into yours, and a soft whimper escaped your throat.
"Inside," he muttered against your lips, his kiss tracking down to your jawline, biting lightly at the sensitive skin there and making your knees go weak. "Get the bloody door open."
"I'm trying," you gasped, your hands blindly fumbling behind your back. You were pinned against the wood, your hips grinding instinctively against his as his large hand slid down to the back of your thigh, lifting you slightly to bring you even closer.
The metal of the key scraped loudly against the lock, your fingers clumsy as Simonâs mouth returned to yours, devouring you, his tongue sliding past your lips in a deep, possessive stroke. You managed to guide the key into the slot, turning it until you heard the heavy thunk of the deadbolt sliding back.
The hand on your neck migrate towards the handle of the door, twisting it open. Your body, still pressed between the wood and his, hit the door with your back, tumbling inside into the dark warmth of your hallwayâand dragging the giant right in after you.
You moan into the kiss, hands roaming desperately over his shoulders, feeling the hard ridges of muscle beneath his shirt as his palms slide up your sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts. The size difference hits you instantly, his body engulfs yours completely. You arch your back as he presses forward, the thick, unmistakable bulge of his cock grinding against your belly through his jeans. It throbs with heat, promising an overwhelming stretch, and you feel your pussy clench in response, wetness already soaking your panties.
Simon doesn't ease up, one massive hand cupping the back of your head while the other roams lower, squeezing your ass to pull you tighter against that rigid length. Your breaths mingle in ragged gasps, the kiss turning sloppy and wet as his teeth nip at your lower lip, sending sparks straight to your core.
He tugs at your clothing, exposing more skin to the cool air, and the heat radiating from him envelops you completely. Simon sets you down just inside the door but keeps you pinned against the wall with his body, his hands already working at the hem of your top. He peels it upward in one smooth motion, baring your breasts to his hungry gaze before tossing the fabric aside, then hooks his fingers into your waistband and drags your skirt and panties down in a single, impatient tug that leaves you naked and trembling against him.
You reach for his shirt in turn, fingers fumbling with the shirt as your hands struggle against the broad expanse of his chest, but the fabric resists your frantic tugs and you end up clutching uselessly at his belt instead.
Simon chuckles low in his throat, the sound rich and teasing as his accent curls around the words. âEasy now, loveâlook at you, all eager. Let me handle it, hm?â He steps back just enough to strip his own shirt over his head, revealing the hard slabs of muscle, scars, and tattoos beneath, then unbuckles his belt and shoves his jeans and boxers down in one fluid movement. His cock springs free, thick and heavy, the substantial length curving upward and already glistening at the tip.
He crowds back against you immediately, the heat of his bare skin searing yours while one large palm cups your breast and the other slides between your thighs to find you slick and ready.
âThere now, darling,â he murmurs against your ear, nipping at the lobe as his fingers part your folds and circle your clit with deliberate pressure.
âAll wet arenât we? Just the way I like. Gonna fill you proper soon.â His substantial endowment presses hot and insistent against your stomach again as he lifts you once more, your legs wrapping around him on instinct, the blunt head of his cock nudging at your entrance while his attentive eyes search yours for every flicker of pleasure and surrender.
He carries you deeper into the apartment, his long strides eating up the distance to the bedroom while your legs tighten around his waist.
Youâre wondering how he managed to find your bedroom so quick, but your thoughts are completely overtaken by the throbbing of your clit each time he grinds himself forward.
He puts you onto the bed with surprising care despite his size, heâs hovering over you as his lips close around one nipple, sucking hard enough to make your back arch.
He then lowers his head down to your stomach, and then between your legs, his tongue dragging hot and broad over your slick folds, lapping at the mixture of your arousal that leaks from your entrance.
Simons broad shoulders force your legs further apart, his tongue delving deep before circling your clit with relentless strokes that send jolts of pleasure racing through your core. Your hands fist in his short hair as he sucks gently on the swollen bud, one thick finger sliding inside you to curl against that sensitive spot while his free hand pins your hip down.
You arch off the bed, the orgasm building fast and sharp under his attentive mouth, your thighs trembling around his head as he hums in approval, the vibration pushing you over the edge. Your pussy clenches and floods his tongue with fresh wetness, the release easing the lingering ache of desire while he drinks you down greedily, eyes flicking up to watch every shudder that ripples across your.
He doesn't stop there, easing you through the aftershocks with softer licks until your breathing steadies, then rises to kiss you deeply, letting you taste yourself on his lips as his substantial cockâalready hard and redâpresses insistently against your belly.
He reckons you're ready now. your slick folds glistening, and your hips canting up in silent plea.
Simon lines up the blunt head of his cock with your cunny, pressing just enough to part your lips before inching inside with agonizing slowness. Inch by thick inch he sinks deeper, the stretch burning sweet and deep as your walls flutter around him, that delicious bulge in your belly rising under your skin with every deliberate push until he's fully seated, heavy balls pressed to your ass.
The sensation nearly undoes him; a low groan rips from his chest, his cock twitching hard inside you as if fighting the urge to flood you right then, but he relents with a shuddering breath, muscles straining as he holds still and lets the edge pass.
Yet the invasion sends you reeling, stars bursting behind your eyes as the pressure overwhelms every nerve, your body arching and clenching as pleasure crashes through you in white-hot waves. He begins to move then, slow and powerful thrusts that make the bulge shift and press outward with each stroke, his hands pinning your wrists to the mattress while he watches every gasp and tremor, savoring how completely you yield to the relentless fullness.
âShh, just sit back and relax alright, love.â Even his voice was making you reel.
The slow pace is long gone as Simon starts to thrust faster and faster, the thick head of his cock slamming into that spongy spot deep inside, each powerful stroke making your eyes water and your vision blur as pleasure borders on overwhelming.
âS-Simon⊠s-slow d-â
Your body jolts beneath him, the belly bulge shifting visibly with every drive of his hips, and the wet sounds of your slick pussy gripping him fill the room alongside your broken cries. He watches your face, his balaclava gone and discarded somewhere on the floor, his muscles flexing as he builds the rhythm higher, pushing you toward another shattering peak while his substantial girth stretches you to your limits again and again.
Without warning he pulls out, the sudden emptiness drawing a needy whimper from your throat, then flips you onto your hands and knees with effortless strength. He thrusts back in hard, burying himself to the hilt in one fluid motion that forces another visible bulge to rise in your belly, his left hand clamping onto your waist with a grip sure to leave bruises as he holds you steady. His right hand tangles in your hair, yanking your face upward toward his as he leans over your back, claiming your mouth in a bruising kiss that tasted like sweat and shared hunger, his tongue thrusting in time with the punishing snaps of his hips.
You moan into the kiss, body trembling from the intensity His attentive murmurs vibrate against your lips, praising how well you take him, how perfectly your pussy milks his cock, and the emotional tether of his touch keeps you grounded even as wave after wave of ecstasy crashes through your smaller frame.
Round after round blurs into one another as he claims you again and again, flipping you, lifting you, filling you until cum leaks in thick rivulets down your thighs and the ache in your core becomes a constant throb of bliss.
â
Every muscle in your body was aching in a way that felt both agonizing and utterly spectacular.
You slowly blinked your eyes open, squinting against the aggressive morning light piercing through your blinds. Your head was pounding a steady, rhythmic rhythm, the undeniable receipt of too many vodka-cranberries, and your throat felt like sandpaper. You looked like absolute hell, your hair a chaotic bird's nest and your makeup undoubtedly smeared across your face like a tragic watercolor painting.
But as you shifted (tried) under the duvet, a wicked, involuntary smile tugged at the corner of your lips. Jesus. No one had ever rocked your world like that. Multiple rounds that had left your headboard dented and your sheets tangled around your ankles. The man was built like a tank and moved with too much stamina.
You reached out a hand to the space beside you. The sheets were empty. The fabric was slightly cold to the touch, but not completely, meaning he hadn't been gone long. A sudden, familiar pang of morning-after anxiety flickered in your chest.
Did he slip out? Did a man like that even do morning-afters?
The answer came in the sudden, sharp click of your bathroom door opening.
You sat up, immediately regretting it as the soreness permeated throughout your body.
There he was. In all his absolute glory.
He didn't have a towel around his waist. In fact, he didn't have a single stitch of clothing on. The only towel in sight was the small white one gripped in his hands, which he was currently using to vigorously rub his damp, short blonde hair dry.
Your eyes wide, you drank in the sight of him. In the harsh daylight, he was an absolute masterpiece. His pale skin was a roadmap of stories, jagged silver scars cutting across the thick armor of his chest, heavy tattoos weaving down his massive arms, and powerful thighs that you vividly remembered gripping your waist just hours prior. And his face, completely bare, completely exposed, was ruggedly handsome.
Simon stopped rubbing his hair, dropping the towel around his shoulders. He looked down at you, completely unbothered by his own total nudity, a faint, rare smirk tugging at the corner of his lips as he noticed your starstruck expression.
"Morning, love," he rumbled. Without the mask, his deep, gravelly voice sounded softer, intimate, and heavier in the quiet of your bedroom. "You look like you've seen a ghost."
You let out a raspy, sleep-deprived laugh, burying the lower half of your face in your blanket to hide your blush. "I think you legally count as a weapon, Simon. I can barely move."
Simon let out a low chuckle. He walked over to the side of the bed, the sheer size of him casting a shadow over you, and leaned down. He placed one massive, scarred hand on your thighs, stroking them up and down.
"Good," he murmured. "That means I did my job right."
You scoffed and lightly smacked his solid chest, the impact making your hand sting more than it bothered him. "Don't you dare," you groaned, pulling the duvet up to your chin like a shield. "My body literally cannot handle another round. If you touch me, I might dissolve into the mattress."
Simon let out another chuckle, completely unfazed by your swat. He stood up straight, his gaze raking over you with a look of satisfaction.
"What are you going to do now anyway?" you asked, leaning your head back against the pillows. You blinked up at him, your hangover finally catching up to you as a dull throb started behind your eyes. "Are you just going to vanish into thin air, or...?"
"First, I'm going to find where you keep the painkillers, get a glass of water, and make you some breakfast," Simon replied casually, as if standing stark naked in a uni student's bedroom was a completely standard Saturday morning routine. "Then, I suppose I have to go round up my mates."
You raised an eyebrow, a slight smirk tugging at your lips despite your headache. "Your mates? Right. The ones with you at the pub.â
Simon walked over to the pile of his discarded clothes on the floor, hooking his foot under his trousers to lift them up. He shook them out and started stepping into them.
"Aye, those idiots," he rumbled, fastening his belt. He looked back at you, a distinctly amused glint in his eyes. "They were meant to crash at my place. But I donât really fancy spending my first night off in a month playing nursemaid to a bunch of loud, puking bastards."
He grabbed his black t-shirt, pulling it over his head and obscuring those magnificent chest scars from view. When his head popped through the collar, his eyes locked back onto yours.
"And then, suddenly," Simon murmured, his voice dropping into that deep register that made your stomach flip, "a lovely lady asked me to walk her home. So, naturally, I had to take her up on the offer. Far better company."
You couldn't help the massive smile that broke across your face, burying your burning cheeks into the blanket. "Oh, so you're saying Iâm lovely?â
"Something like that, love," Simon said, finally pulling his iconic black mask out of his pocketâthough he didn't put it on, just tossed it onto the bedside table. He walked toward the bedroom door, pausing at the threshold to look back at you one last time. "Don't move. I'll be back with the pills."
Before his footsteps could even fade down he suddenly reappeared in the doorframe. You blinked, startled by how quickly and silently heâd turned back around.
Without a word, Simon flipped his wrist. A heavy, black, smartphone sailed through the air and landed with a soft thud right on the duvet by your knee.
It was a brand youâve never seen before. It had lots of bells and whistles on the outside too.
You stared at the phone, then looked up at him, utterly bewildered. "What's this?"
"Password is zero-four-one-zero," Simon rumbled, his eyes locked onto yours, completely deadpan. "Open it and put your number in. Don't give me a fake one, either."
You let out a stunned, breathy laugh, the sudden burst of adrenaline making you forget about your headache for a split second. "Are you ordering me?"
"Just making sure I don't have to hunt you down across Manchester when I want a repeat of last night," he countered smoothly. A small smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. "Get to it, love."
Before you could even form a comeback, he vanished back into the hallway as he finally made his way toward your kitchen.
You sat there for a second, looking at the black brick of a phone, a massive, giddy smile breaking across your face. Sliding your hands out from under the covers, you picked it up, punched in 0410, and opened the contacts.
You quickly typed in your details, humming happily to yourself as the faint, heavenly scent of sizzling bacon began to waft into your bedroom.
SIMON "GHOST" RILEY // barbarianking!simon, f!reader, kidnapping, noncon, eventually consensual, pregnancy, mention of intimacy, mention of fingering, possessive simon, caring simon, childbirth
part 1
Simon was angry.
Firstly, at the healers. The local midwife was shocked when he broke into her house and pinned her against her wall, scaring the hell out of her children, who immediately grouped together, shaking at thinking what their king might do. The middle-aged woman shook her head, saying that nothing was her fault, that she had determined pregnancy at a time when your small bump was not yet there, and that she could not even imagine that the news would not reach Simon.
Then at himself. Because you did not trust him enough to tell him that you were carrying his child in your womb. And looking at how he treated you, he understood that you simply had no reason to trust him.
The day he saw you mourning your father, who was slain during the battle, he just threw you over his shoulder and moved towards his horse. You were punching his back and crying, so he had to put you in front of him and literally squeeze into your back so that you were trapped between him and the edge of the saddle. You cried the whole first day when his men stopped for the night in the woods, and Simon just covered you both with one big piece of fur, not noticing how you slipped out of his arms and slept on the side, but not next to him.
But you did not shed a tear at your wedding ceremony. You did not even look Simon in the eye when the local spiritual leader tied your palms together with a thin strip of bearskin, and then, after you were both treated to wine, you poured yours right into Simon's mouth when he kissed you.
You were not to share a bed with him, but Simon refused to do anything that would provoke your tears. What was the point of a woman hitting his chest while he fucked her? Instead, his fingers were the first to enter your core, and you frowned through barely suppressed moans when you first reached your peak, pressing into his palm.
He was the one who kidnapped you, took you away from your home, forcibly married you, and now you were pregnant with your unwanted husband's child.
But Simon was still angry. At himself.
His was raised as a brut; the shortage of sentences he spoke and tight muscles of his arms were what he was raised to act like and have, his culture valuing rought instead of gentle. His men did not spare a glance to women they fucked after the victory, whether it was they wife or a wife of their neighbor. Women's tears were not seen, men's were disgusting.
But you... You were the one whom he married, despite his advisors seeing you as a whore, hardly even worth of their king's bed. But Simon's actions were not to be questioned, he made sure of such a reputation when he took the position from his uncle.
At yet, in the face of his wife, pregnant with his babe, Simon clutched his fists on his way back from the midwife's house, swearing to himself to become a better man for you. And for the second heart, already beating inside you.
***
You noticed you were no longer present on the main room of the house, when Simon usually returned from the hunt with his men. The gatherings were held in this big hall, men dragging their prey on the wooden floor, soaking the wood with blood still pouring out of the corpses, laughing and chanting in unison on a language you still were yet no learn. The action always made you nauseous, seeing the blood, the fur being removed from the deer's body, men roaring and biting the raw meat right from the flesh.
Yet when the voices were heard again, Simon did not appear on the doorstep, as he usually did, with the "inviting" gaze of his that forced you to come out, to sit on one of the tables by your husband, to look at all the chaos, the pure madness happing around you.
No.
You could hear his voice, telling the servants to gather the drinks. But he did not "invite" you to the gathering.
The same night, when he slipped under the furs, making the bed creak under his weight, you asked, not looking over you shoulder.
"Why did you not make me come out?"
The silence stretched for too long, making you nervous, almost thinking that he might have just fallen asleep and you were speaking into the air.
But it was his sigh and short, always short answer, that made you put you palm on your belly.
"Not good for you to see the blood."
***
Everything began to change since that night. Since when Simon's eyes, brown and stoic, caught the slight bulge of your stomach. You were on top of him, bouncing on his cock, whining and gripping the headboard of the bed with you fingers, when he outlined the new curve of yours.
Hiding that from him was the only thing you felt you had the right to. After being taken from your home, forced into the marriage, the life around the people unfamiliar to you, the new life that bloomed in your womb was the only thing you thought could belong to you.
But since Simon found out, since the silent conversation of your gazes colliding happened, he changed.
He was still the same giant of a man, almost too small for the bed, speaking of short sentences and giving orders to everyone around. Yet, your new state made him soften the littlest bit.
The knife, placed in front of you, made you raise your gaze up from the embroidery (on which the servants looked down on). The blade was small, yet sharp, and the handle wooden with some shapes carved in. The item appearing so suddenly made you stiffen, but Simon was quick to speak.
"Tradition. Men gives a babe a knife. First weapon."
A weapon for their unborn child.
You raised a knife in your hands, examining the handle. The symbols carved into the wood, yet, made to sense. The tree, as if the one he had slung you over his shoulder near; the flower, similar to ones you had been embroidering; the sun that you cherished to have and always pulling your face towards when walking out of the house for mere seconds.
"Those... Are those for the babe?"
The real question that made Simon clench his fists, but not tearing his eyes away from you. The tradition required a future father to carve in the symbols of his future babe. Yet, those he put on the handle, were not about that particular being.
"You left everything there when I took you. You need to have something yours here."
Something yours.
He said no more, walking out the room, but your heart skipped s beat, taking the said in.
Simon made the knife not for your future child. But for you.
***
The day your belly became too huge for you to sit up came quicker that you had expected.
The servant, the girl, prepared a bath with a hot water for you, and called when everything was ready. Having laid down for a moment to ease the pressure off of your back, you struggled to sit at the bed. Clatching the headboard, you tried to wiggle to the side, to find the balance and reposition newly gained weight.
But before you knew it, the strong, calloused hands, gripped your shoulders and set you straight, you finally being able to sit. You looked up, and there Simon was, hair slightly sprinkled with fresh snowflakes, as the first snow settled on the village a week ago.
His hands moved, one under your knees, the other on your back, and he carried you, as if weightless, to the other end of the room, where the wooden bath tub stood near the fire.
You found yourself silent, expecting him to follow you into the tub, to perhaps try to initiate intimacy, which you lacked for some time.
The first time you shared a bed, you shed a tear and blood, having lost your virginity. But he was never cruel with you during sex. Persistent, perhaps, sometimes even rough. But he always made you shiver and whine in pleasure, as your hips twitched, catching this sweet release again and again.
The moment your wool dress dropped, and you climbed in the water, you scooted over, making some space for him. But Simon stayed outside. Maintaining some distance, he sat on the fur on the floor, seeing your body being fully covered by the water for a second, as you wetted your hair.
The bathes were what made the pain of your big belly ease. The weight you had gained and will gain, most of which were the babe inside you, made your already small statue clumsy. Simon had noticed you several times placing your hands on the wooden pillars of the house while walking, as if ensuring some safety for a small adventures.
But he saw now how big the babe had gotten.
The curve of your belly, soft yet strong, was undeniable. Poking out of the water for a mere inch, it was a big evidence of all the shared nights of yours. The pregnancy made you stronger. He saw how you started sharpening the knife he had gifted you, cutting apples and helping the servants with cooking. You were refusing to be a burden in a state where your body was making another human being inside.
That made Simon proud. For a woman he had taken away, but not taken the spirit of hers.
The small movement from the inside of your stomach, the glow casket on your skin from the nearest torch, it made Simon stiffen, his hand quickly reaching for the axe on his hip.
But you chuckled, shaking your head.
"No need for that. The babe is simply kicking."
Kicking.
"Kicking you?" His brown arched, the anger and confusion, the strange mix in his eyes.
"It is moving." You clarified, moving your palm, stroking the skin at the exact spot, as if soothing the babe inside you. "It shows the strength."
Strong. His child would be strong.
He let you bath in silence, sitting nearby, looking how you enjoyed the warm water, the comfort. And that night, he feel asleep with his palm on your belly, and you already sleeping face to face with him.
***
You found him hear the open doors, the ground sprinkled with snow, the winter not harsh enough yet to make him cover his bear chest. Yet, you were the one covered in warm clothes.
The wood between his legs looked smooth, the curve not subtle, but the length not long enough to be one of those where people carried water in on their shoulders.
"What are those for?" You stepped closer, palm stroking your belly, the babe being active all morning.
Simon raised his eyes briefly, looking at yours, and then at the movement of your palm. His hands did not stop, still smothering the wood, but his haze lingered on your belly, the reminder of an approaching labour.
"The babe bed."
"The crib?" You asked, dumbfounded.
Just the other day, the woman from the village, a wife of one of the warriors, brought the local version of a crib into your house. Two small wooden pillars firmly embedded on the ground under the floorboards, and a sack of fabric hanging in between. You looked puzzled, eyeing the construction with a curiosity, asking Simon what for did you two need a cheese press when the goats in the village hardly have enough milk to make one.
You were horrified to discover this was how his people made newborns sleep.
"Monk said your people use wood." Simon mumbled, his eyes back on the wood in his hand.
The monk. The kidnapped slim man from the same lands as you, taken and kept as a slave for one of the chiefs of Simon's. He talked to him. About the babe, about you refusing to let the fragile being sleep in something without a steady ground under.
And he made a crib.
It stood near your bed two weeks after. Steady, strong, and full of clean fabric and warm furs.
"Woman said babe needs warmth." Simon said, dropping two more fur pieces in the already full crib.
You nodded, and, walking closed, snuggled closer to his side, desperate for his always hot skin and warmth.
"It will need warmth, coming in the winter."
***
The wind outside made the doors swing from side to side with force. Or was it the hurry with which the servants and the midwife were running in and out, bringing more warm water and fresh linens? You could not tell, too lost in the agony that gripped your body.
"Why she screams?"
"She is having a child, the child needs a way out of her body. It is expected of her to-"
"If you do not do anything I will take my axe and-"
You interrupted the threat, ready to slip out of Simon's mouth and reached for his hand. He gripped your palm in an instance, moving closer, until your foreheads were pressed to one another.
"I need the knife."
"Knife?"
"The knife you- Ugh! The knife you gave me."
The one you never parted ways with, always looking at the pattern, tracing the symbols with you finger pads.
The horror passed into Simon's eyes, and before anyone could notice that, you said.
"The cord. Cut it with the knife."
He did, just several moments later. When you collapsed on your face, babe being pushed out, and servants helped you to lay on your back from the hands and knees you were relying on while the midwife wiped the babe with a fresh fabric. The newborn screamed, finally here, finally breathing the air for the first time.
"What a big boy. A mighty warrior."
A son was placed into your hands, and Simon cut the cord not leaving his eyes off of the child on your chest.
He would do anything for the two of you. He would conquer new villages, fight a thousand battles, build a bigger house, hunt a dozen deers, kill anyone who dares to look wrong at you.
description: princesses are meant to be poised, delicate and untouched by things unbecoming. At least, that's what everyone expects of you. hidden away in your room, curiosity gets the better of you - one that takes a dangerous turn when sir simon riley, your father's most loyal knight, catches you in such an intimate moment. he's far too tangled in temptation - when you ask him to teach you, how could he say no...
word count: 4.2k
tags/warnings: 18+, SMUT with no penetration*, lots of touching (female masturbation), implied age gap, power imbalance. MASK STAYS ON.
"Soap!" Simon's voice echoes down the dimly lit hallway. The sound of metal clanging together as Johnny meets him by the end of the narrow path. Stairs leading towards the main part of the castle, concious that his back is to the wall, peripheral to every entrance - every possible way in.
"High alert tonight whilst the king is travelling. He'll arrive in a few hours but I'm concerned that whilst the princess is here alone we must be careful." Soap says and nods towards Ghost who says nothing behind the mask. The silver in his armour reflects the warmth from the candle's flames beside him, a dark contrast to Ghost's own.
"King's put me in charge of guarding the princess, you guard the main wall." Ghost states to him, who nods and, without question, agrees alongside.
"Happy to swap over once the King arrives Si." Simon nods, not overly pleased with the notion but happy to return to his usual post by the King instead of his daughter. Soap would never understand Simon's loyalty, the way his role had seeped into every crevice of his purpose. He'd fought hard, worked his way up the ranks and made a name for himself, something he would never sacrifice. His job was his life which meant even the princess's was too.
Flashes of (your hair colour and type) wisp into his mind at the thought of you, not getting much of an opportunity to truly speak to you as much as Soap had - you weren't his usual assignment but this time around you were.
Sweet scents of roses would waft his nose every time you'd entered a room or turned a corner, he'd resisted the urge to deeply inhale many times. Being surrounded by men day and night seemed to dull the senses after some time. Deep down he was looking forward to being able to let the scent invade his senses numb without the possibility of anyone watching.
Soap gives him a nod of acknowledgement before heading back down the hallway. Ghost scans his peripheral further before walking down to situate himself in front of your door which was currently manned by another guard several places below his rank. The guards silver armour coming into view.
Once Ghost rounds the corner into eye view, his eyes divert from the masked man to the floor in a second, straightening his posture in fear of being told off for slacking.
"Go." Ghost firmly presses. The guard wastes no time arguing; no one would dare question him. Soap, excluded, of course.
Watching as the guard hurries off without thought, Ghost positions himself with his back to the lightly stained wooden door. The scent of male sweat faded as the guard's steps disappeared; the faintest of something sweet wafted through. He deeply inhales, it was very faint, something you'd have to concentrate to truly appreciate it. You.
He says nothing once more, hoping the night watch was as easy as Soap always made it out to be. No one rarely entered in and out during the night; he assumed he'd spend only a few short hours before returning to the King's side once more.
Your father had been visiting a town not too far from the castle for a night and was returning not too long after leaving. With no one truly left to guard the city, your father had left Simon in charge of his army. With Gaz and John off beside your father, that left Simon and Soap by your side.
The castle settled around him. Servants disappeared into their quarters. Torches burned lower. Conversations faded until the only sounds remaining were the occasional crackle of firelight and the distant footsteps of patrols changing posts.
Behind the door, he could hear faint movement, nothing alarming.
A chair scraping across stone and rustle of fabric alongside the soft thud of something being set down. His shoulders relaxed by a fraction, the princess was still awake. Not unusual, you had always been restless. At least, that's what the servants claimed. Soap seemed to know more. The younger man always managed to find himself tangled in conversations with people throughout the castle.
Kitchen maids, stable hands and apparently princesses too.
"You should speak to her sometime." Soap's words from weeks ago surfaced unexpectedly. Simon had grunted and ignored him. Yet now, standing alone outside your chambers with nothing but his own thoughts for company, Simon found himself wondering. What were you doing in there?
Reading? Writing? Avoiding sleep?
His gaze travelled the length of the corridor once more. Then he heard it. A muffled cry, the sound had come from inside your chambers.
There he heard it again, pained cries - ever so faint in the night. He craned his neck, listening out once more. A hand on the hilt of his sword, ready to strike. Again. Coming right from the princess's room. He wastes no time, sword sheathed and the force of any experienced fighter he kicks the door open revealing the room in its entirety.
"Princess-." Heâs across the room before the words die, only to freeze. His voice drops. Laid bare on your poster bed, one hand splayed on your stomach, the other parted within your folds. It took Ghost a second too long before his eyes darted "Shit! My Lady - God, so sorry." Face diverted to the wall now, sheer embarrassment and shock deep within him.
Your fatherâs most feared knight, a man who had faced war without blinking now looks completely, utterly unprepared. His jaw tightens beneath the scarred edge of his mask. ââŠBloody hell,â he mutters quietly.
Heat rushes to your face as you scramble to collect yourself and hide what little is left of your body unseen. The one time you thought you'd get a night without any interruptions, here you were now exposing yourself to your father's own Knight. The feared masked Simon Riley, the Ghost.
âI thought someone was hurting you,â he says after a minute, voice rougher now, lower. The concern in his expression somehow makes the embarrassment worse, your face turning slightly pink at the intrusion.
You turn away immediately, fumbling for the blanket at the edge of the bed. âYou werenât meant to come in,â you mumble, mortified.
âAye, gathered that.â He grumbles. Turning towards the door to leave, not sure what his next steps are. His voice is dry, and he feels himself go red, warmth rising in his chest and neck. Flashes of his position, of what will become of him if he doesn't right this. All those years of hard work thrown into waste, all for his recklessness. Simon exhales slowly through his nose and finally looks toward the door, like heâs reminding himself where the exit is. "I'm so sorry, M'Lady." He says, still slightly turned away, in an effort to give you some privacy.
âYou really thought I was hurt?â You don't acnkowledge his apology. Simply ignoring the gravity of whats occured with a light tone in your voice. Had you really been that loud?
His gaze flicks back to you instantly. âYou cried out,â he says simply. âWasnât about to ignore it.â He avoids watching you cover yourself in your night shift. He sheathes his sword in the side of his armour. The leathers and plating feel all too tight now. Flashes of your body crossing his vision.
Of course Simon Riley would tear through a castle door for you. "I apolgise, your highness. That was incredibly improper of me to see you like that and I will do whatever it takes to right my wrong." His eyes are diverting, not sure where to look.
âYou can stop looking at me like Iâve committed treason,â you mutter quietly, pulling the blanket higher despite the warmth in the room. Youâve seen Simon bloodied from battle. Unshaken when your own father snapped orders at him like he was something less than human. But now? Now he wonât quite look at you like he usually does. Like the sight of you unsettles him in ways battle never could.
"M' Sorry m'Lady."
"Will you tell my father?" You ask, the thought making you cringe. He shakes his head, like thats the most normal answer.
Simon shakes his head immediately. "No." The answer comes so quickly it almost makes you laugh.
"No?"
"No."
"You didn't even think about it."
"M'Lady, there is not a force in this kingdom strong enough to make me repeat what I've just witnessed to your father."
A startled laugh escapes you before you can stop it. He tilts his head, confused if he truly is hearing you laugh. "Good," you say. "Because I think he'd die on the spot." A sound suspiciously close to a chuckle escapes him. You smile, thankful at his response.
âWhat happens in this room stays in this room.â His voice lowers, steadier now. âYouâve got my word.â
"Our secret." You confirm, with a soft smile on your flushed face. Your hair slightly messed, the loose shift on your frame exposed a bare shoulder. Simon held the instinct to look about your body. He'd already done too much already so he didn't. You hesitate before quietly adding, âThen⊠I wonât tell my father you barged into my chambers.â
That gets a real reaction from him as his eyes lift to yours instantly.
âYou wouldnât.â You raise a brow.
âYou did enter unannounced.â
âYou sounded distressed." He defends.
âYou still entered.â You slyly respond, a hint of playfullness on your tongue.
A long pause emits from Simon, not sure how to respond. Not many render him speechless; never has he been unsure what to say back. But then the faintest huff of laughter escapes him. He's never had the chance to properly speak with you, never needing to when his primary assignment was the King. But here he was, cracking a smile under his mask, impressed with your wittiness. Had Soap interacted with you like this before?
âRight,â he mutters. âSuppose weâre both keepinâ secrets now.â You nod and wrap your arms around yourself. He watches as you ponder over him for a moment; he's never felt so intrigued by someone before. Never truly wanted to get to know a person, for their entirety. Something about the way you spoke to him with such tease and simplicity made him feel like he wasn't just the knight with a mask or the one people feared as he walked into a room.
"Could I ask for a favour?" You ask, a small hint of mischief splayed on your lips. You sit up, resting on your knees and leaning forward towards him. Now he was really paying attention. Fuck, you were beautiful.
"Yes, m'Lady." He says without a sliver of doubt. Right now, he'd do just about anything. The look on your face caused a low stir in his groin - oh, how he was ruined. How could he ever look at you the same ever again? The vision of your bare skin, pointed nipples and fingers between your folds would replay every time he'd stare into those (your eye colour) eyes.
"Could you stay, watch me and tell me if I'm doing it right?" Your question sure sends his heart into a stop and makes him miss a beat or two. He wasn't entirely sure you knew what you were asking, or if he knew what you were implying. The sound of your voice was slightly hushed, bashful.
"M'Sorry?" You smile cheekily. Sitting back onto your arse you position your hair on your head, releasing a few strands to sit neater.
"You see, the women of court - even my own handmaid won't talk to me about this. People around me tend to steer clear of these types of conversations, but I know you're an honest man, Captain." The way you speak is such a casualty of the context. He looks behind him to the open door - were you really having this conversation so openly?
"M'Lady, I don't feel this type of conversation is appropriate for someone like me. I'm a man of your father's watch, I am not a husband or a man of importance." You shake your head.
"That doesn't matter to me, Simon." Use of his real name sends him to stand straighter. "You wouldn't deny a princess of the King of her order would you?" You're teasing now and he cant help the need to put you in your place, for talking to him like a spoilt child but he shakes that thought away.
"You know what you're asking of me, m'Lady?" He reassures.
"Yes."
"I have a duty, I have an honour to your family to protect you. That would be the opposite." You shake your head, ignoring his words.
"I've heard many of my servant women speak of your expertise, I believe they said you knew well on how to please." You say so calmly, he almost forgets that he's speaking with a noblewoman. He smiles to himself under the mask.
You've clearly spoken about him before, recalled the way the other women he'd slept with had writhed in pleasure underneath him. Did you know about everything he'd done? So foolish to think the women didn't talk. You were different though; you weren't just any woman.
"I do not count myself an expert." He attempts to downplay it. Secretly hoping the notion impressed you.
"But you can steer me into the right direction?" You confirm. He stands there a while longer. Thinking about his duty, honour and every lesson beaten into him since he first picked up a sword. And, far more dangerously, thinking about you and the way he caught you pleasuring yourself so beautifully.
The princess, the same woman sitting before him who looked at him as though he were more than a knight standing guard outside her door.
Simon clears his throat. "Please," you say soft and pleading.
"Why me?" He asks, not sure if he wants to know the answer for himself. You roll your eyes.
"Trust me, I don't think I'd be able to ask Johnny if I really wanted to. He'd tell on me the first moment he saw me, you wouldn't tell on me, Captain." The sultry words warmed his core. The way you called Soap by his real name, "You've got a lot to hide, sir knight, and I do too. I know you wouldn't tell on me, and we don't ever have to speak of this again." He ponders over it. Did he know what you were asking of him?
"What'd you need me to do?" You smile, like you knew he'd agree and that you'd won him over.
"To make it less scandalous for your poor eyes, I'll wear my night gown and touch myself. Show you what I'm doing and you can guide me on what to do." Almost like you're asking but teasing him he shakes his head. You rise from your spot, fluff the pillows behind you and rest yourself comfortably. In truth, you had some idea on what to do but never made yourself get to the end. Were you teasing him? Maybe.
The idea of this masked man in your bedroom watching you pleasure yourself sends waves of warmth to your core, feeling the cool air against your pussy as you situate yourself to be covered by your shift. You didn't know where you'd gotten this confidence, but ever since you'd been told to never ask about your private times by your septor, you knew you wanted an ounce of what your handmaids had experienced with men. If you couldn't have sex with any man besides your husband, you sure would have fun otherwise. You were royal after all, you could do what you damn well pleased.
You watch as he watches you, unsure for a moment before deciding for himself that he would help you, reassuring him that this was purely to help you and nothing more. Looking out into the hallway for a sign of Soap or any other guard, but was met with an empty hallway. Shutting the door and locking it from the inside, he turns to you with your sultry eyes, and your back against your poster bed.
That wasn't going to work for him.
"Come here." He says firmly, pointing to the edge of the bed. Your eyes widen at the change in the tone of his voice, a deep, gruff sound that sends you shivering in anticipation. You gulp and nod, listening to his command as he navigates you to the edge of the bed.
"Lie on your back at the end of the bed. I won't touch you, but I'm going to sit beside you." You nod and give him a cheeky smile as you lie back. Your head is almost at the edge, your legs soon splay out. The night shift, hiding your exposed bareness. You felt very out of your element in front of this man, a man definitely much older than you. But the notion of such a strong, large man watching you like this makes you excited. Gods, if your mother could see you, she'd be absolutely turning in her grave.
"Princess, if you want me to leave I can. I won't speak of this, I will lay my life on it." You shake your head and give him a small smile at his reassurance.
"I'm fine. You know you can call me (Your Name), I don't bite." You tease. He doesn't say anything, your words itch him in a way he doesn't explain. Your carefree and bratty attitude is making him feel hot under the leathers.
The things he'd do to you, thoughts of spreading you over his knee and spanking you till you're a bubblering mess under his hand. He shakes that thought off. You're trusting him right now. The least he can do is stop imagining things he shouldn't and focus on what you're asking of him.
"Lay back for me." You listen closely and rest your head back, his body now sitting behind you on the floor by the bed. Kneeling so his head is now over yours, not too close of course. You move the shift from your legs, spreading your thighs just enough for Simon to see your cunt. Peaks of your folds peaking out for him at this angle.
"Bloody hell..." The softness of your skin under the fire lit in the hearth and the candles by your bed. He'd give what left of his soul to be able to touch it, if he could. You smile at his reaction, flattered and blushing under his gaze.
"You sure, m'Lady?"
"Yes!" You insist firmer. He nods and looks over your almost breathless body.
"Place the tips of your fingers at the centre of your cunt. Just like that." He trails off as you begin to place your pointer and index fingers at the sensitive spot on your folds, tipping your head up to watch. "Gently, begin to rub it how it feels good. How you were playing with yourself before I interrupted."
You start to circle your fingers, the sensation sending waves of pleasure through you. "Show me, Princess." You gasp and mewl at the sensation, sending your head back onto the bed. He chuckles, a deep throaty noise that seems to send you straight to seeing stars as you moan a bit louder.
"Look at you... I think you know what you're doing, little princess." He says. "Is your pretty cunt wet?" You reach further down between the circles to feel the wetness forming on your fingers; you nod messily with your bottom lip between your teeth.
"Am I making you wet?" He says without hesitation, deep in your ear. The warmth of it fanned the hairs. You nod again, you open your eyes, met with the ones behind the mask, which continues to remain on. The sight of the dark brown irises sends you into deeper and deeper pleasure. The not knowing makes you buckle under your fingers. The same man you'd watched beside your father for years was now above you, speaking absolute filth into your ears and watching you play with yourself.
"That's it, you know what to do." He reassures. You clench your eyes shut in pleasure at his voice and reassurance. "Touch your breasts for me, use your free hand to play with them." He commands, voice confident now. No longer unsure about breaking boundaries, enjoying himself right now. Everything he'd ever worked for in his life, all coming into this moment. "Fuck you're beautiful."
You use your free hand to palm your breast over the top of your sheer dress, the warm light allowing the pointed peaks of your nipples to poke through. "Fuck." He mumbles, he resists the urge to palm them himself. Wondering what you'd feel like to touch. "I think you were loud on purpose - wantin' someone to hear your cries. Want them to come in and help you finish what you started." You almost nod, it wasn't true, but the thought makes you moan a bit louder. "Were you hoping it was me waiting outside your door or Johhny?" You shake your head and look up at him pleading.
"You." you admit to him, which makes him smirk.
"The princess wants a man to touch her needy cunt." You nod fast with eyes clenched shut and your mouth open. Eyes fluttering open to watch his eyes focus on you.
"Can you touch me?" You plead and whine. Your fingers continue to work your clit, and his cock continues to strain in his trousers. By the Gods, he'd love to devour you with his mouth. Watch as you writhe on his tongue, but he settles for guiding you with his words. Continuing to sit behind you, settling by your head on the floor.
"You beggin' now, princess. What happened to the confident woman before?" he teases as he reaches for your free hand, clasping it in his. The feeling of his warmth from his gloved hand brings you back to the sensations between your legs. One you've never felt so intensely before in your life. You shake your head.
"No, I want you to touch me properly." You turn to face him, only slowing your movements slightly. Fingers are still working themselves at your clit. He shakes his head. "Please, Si." Desperate pleas falling your mouth along breathy moans and squeeks as you work your clit. "Touch my tits, please." He compromises with himself, tits were a lot less intimate than anything else. "Gloves off." You command now, a sense of confidence coming back.
He doesn't question it, throwing his dark leather gloves off his hands he watches as you continue to play with yourself. You were going to be the death of him. Without hesitation he palms your right breast, your body curves at his touch. "Oh gods..." you mumble.
"That's it." He encourages you to continue to circle your clit. The feeling of your breast in his hand sends his cock even more achingly hard, the pointed nipple poking his rough palm. If you'd told him he'd be touching a princess, watching her pleasure herself like this, he'd tell himself he's joking.
But here he was, not sure how he'd be able to function. How would he be able to look at you again? He'd definitely needed to relieve himself later, but right now, all he can think about is the sounds you're making and the way your body can't seem to react with him touching you like this and whispering things in your ear.
"Look how pathetic you are, touching yourself in front of me. Is this making you wet, Princess?" You nod, barely able to speak a word. Too lost in the new sensations. You start to feel a build-up in your core, the warmth spreading to your cheeks. The way his hand touches your body sends shock waves through you. How had you gone so long without experiencing this? Why hadn't you asked him sooner?
"I-I think I'm going to come." You say shakily. You'd heard about it from your handmaid Lily, who'd explained how good it can feel once you reach it.
"Good girl." That did it, sending waves of pleasure through you, your body curved and arched with your head shot back, and eyes scrunched together. Simon's hand still on your breast and your fingers slowly on your folds, you moan loudly, your body convulsing to the feelings. Stars crossing your vision and the world exploding in a sea of warmth. Wetness spreading to your arse and all over your hand and thighs.
Trumpets sound, breaking Simon from you. The sound sent you and him back to reality in an instant. The King had returned; he had to go. You sit up, your face flushed and your eyes now tired with now a light glow present on your face. He gets up, rushing for his gloves as he gets up.
"Thank you Si." He nods, runs his hand along your jaw, patting your head lovingly before retreating for the door. He adjusts the feeling in his pants, looking back once more to face you.
"Sleep well, princess." You wave him off, landing back onto your pillows and curling in the blankets satisfied. He smiles to himself under the mask and shuts the door behind him heading straight back down the hall. Meeting back with Soap at the post by the gates, not looking him in the eyes.
"You alright there Simon?" Soap says.
"More than fine." He says, a little more chuffed and proud of himself.
Soap gives him a looking over before Ghost returns within himself, his pants starting to loosen as he returns to his task.
Forever thankful he'd been tasked with keeping an eye on you and not Soap. Knowing that he'd be thinking about you for the rest of his life.
I headcanon that Simonâwho grew up under irresponsible and intoxicated parentsânever got birthday cakes growing up. Like, heâd gone to other peopleâs birthday parties and saw what they had, but knew he could never expect it for himself because his mom and dad were either too drunk or too careless to ever get him one.
Youâve been dating for a year and his birthday rolls around. When he walks in on you carefully icing a big, beautiful chocolate cake, itâs immediately like someone just poured a bucket of ice water over his head.
-
âLove, have you seen myââ he barges into the kitchen looking for his car keys, but freezes in his step when he sees you leaning over the counter, a look of supreme concentration on your face as you pipe a few chocolate roses.
âHm? Whatâd you say, babe?â Your delayed reply eventually comes, almost too absorbed in the task to even hear him.
A few beats of silence.
âI asked if youâd seen my car keys. Whatâwhat are you doing?â He asks, voice quieting.
You merely scoff, âWhat do you mean âwhat am I doing?â Iâm making your birthday cake, dummy! What else would I be doing?â
You giggle, as if he were silly for even asking the question in the first place. Meanwhile, Simonâs entire world is shaking on its foundations.
âOhâchocolate cake is still your favorite, right?â You hurriedly jump back from the cake, âI went to the store and I thought about making confetti cake, but then I remembered how much you liked that lava cake we got at the cafeâŠand then I saw they had that fancy dark chocolate on sale! Yâknow, the one thatâs too expensive to justify, and since itâs your birthday, I just knew it would be perfect! But if you want a different flavor thenââ
âNo, no,â he meekly interrupts your passionate explanation, âItâs perfect, love.â
For a second, he watches your face curl into a pleased smile, before you grab him by his tattooed wrist and drag him closer to the cake.
âLookâLook, I even found little star sprinkles to go on the edges! Theyâre super cute, right?â
You blink at himâentirely clueless to the way his heart is currently beating out of his chest, and through the force of the pain in his throat, he manages to speak.
âItâs beautiful. Youâve done a great job,â his voice sounds like a robot, tense and to-the-point. Heâs so stuck in his head he literally flinches when you jump excitedly into a hug.
âGosh, Iâm so glad you like it! I was so worried, yâknow, cause the frosting melted a little bit, and then the sprinkles left stains on the top, and thenââ like always, you ramble nonsensically, voice muffled from where you squish your face into his t-shirt.
All the while, he simply stares down at the little cake, wobbly and imperfect, struggling to breathe.
ââbut it was all worth it in the end,â you breathe a deep sigh of relief, before suddenly snapping out of your reverie, âOh, what did you want again? Sorry, I was distracted.â
He cluelessly blinks a few times, âUhâasked for mâcar keys.â
âOh, I think I saw them by the couch. Try there,â you reply, before you step out of his arms and go back to your task, smiling all the while. You pick up the frosting bag once more.
He merely watches on, breathing too loud, something hard and immovable collecting in his chest. When he opens his mouth to speak, his voice is garbled and soft, âIâmâIâm goinâ to the grocery.â
âSounds good, babe,â you hum, âOh! Pick up some milk while youâre there, too.â
âWill do.â
With that, he SPEED WALKS out of the kitchen, ducking aimlessly into the bathroom. For a moment, he stands, looking at himself in the mirror. The tightness in his chest chokes him to the point where his breaths come out in small, silent pushes. And when he glances at his face, the tears in his eyes finally spill over.
He cries silently to himself for the first time in years, shaking arms leant up against the bathroom counter while he muffles the sobs into the crook of his elbow. In the background, he can hear the sound of your phone blaring pop music, can hear the noise of your sneakers as you dance to the beat. Somewhere between the overflowing love bursting from his chest, and the sugary sweet air of his now peaceful home, he crumbles.
When he finally manages to pull himself back together, he takes a moment to steel himself in the mirror, unable to contain the smile that tugs at his lips. He looks deranged almost, eyes bright red from crying yet grinning like a maniac. Itâs only when he goes to turn the faucet on that he sees it: a little spot of buttercream frosting amidst the blue-black ink of his tattoos.
Slowly, he lifts his wrist to his mouth, feeling the sugar melt on his tongue. If anything, his smile only widens.
When he finally gets into the drivers seat of his car, itâs not the grocery store that he ends up navigating to. Rather, itâs the jewelry store.
You needed milk. But, hell, heâd been meaning to buy an engagement ring soon anyway.
đ„ major plot spoilers for the mandalorian and grogu film!!
.đ„ Ę Ëâ¶ jedi! reader, fem!reader mentioned wearing dresses (and +1 bra joke), reader is able to run, no pronouns used for the reader. my goat zeb is in everyone's dms. do i have a part 2?? well, i have concepts of a part 2...
Pulled away for a tedious task, you leave your Mandalorian alone for a week. One. In these seven days, he has managed to anger the Hutts beyond belief and lose your son in the jungles of Nal Hutta. Safe to say youâre pissed.Â
Youâve been meaning to close out your accounts on Naboo for over a year now. Youâre ready to tie off the loose ends you have left on the opulent planet as you shift the pieces of your life into your home on Nevarro, a home you share with Din. Despite the nagging need to attend to your chores, you donât want to go.Â
At all.Â
No force in the galaxy can drag you out of Dinâs arms in the soft mornings that rise above the lava flats. Thereâs no pulling you away from the pond where you splash Grogu with handfuls of water before the little booger chases after you with a frog in each hand. Each lazy afternoon, you finally get to fall asleep with your son tucked safe on your chest and your husband curled around your back. Youâre not eager to go anywhere anytime soon.
Even now, years after the Darksaber, itâs not a rare occasion when you startle awake in the dead of night, disoriented and briefly fearing that Gideon had taken your little family too. Youâre not quite ready to leave the house yet, for fear that youâll return to an empty plot and the phantom outline of a home that you dreamt up.Â
Despite your reservations, itâs a cozy morning when you and Din are sorting through mail at the breakfast table, forcing you to reckon with just how shamefully large the pile of envelopes from Naboo has grown. Your Mandalorian places a bowl of sliced meilooruns at the center of the table as you sort spam letters from important records. Bills from a unit in Theed that you havenât spent the night in for almost a year, endorsements from the newest senators, local newspapers irrelevant to your new home on Nevarro. You begin rubbing at your temples before even reaching for the letter opener.Â
âIâm sure itâs nothing impossible, cyare,â Din mumbles as he settles into his seat, rubbing a comforting hand across your back to squeeze your shoulder. âItâs tedious and annoying, but weâve had easier runs with far worse.â
Scooting your chair impossibly closer to his, you lean forward to let your forehead thunk onto the table. Dinâs forearm reaches out to soften the landing.Â
âItâs just paper work. I like our odds,â he adds.Â
âStill sucks ass,â you mumble into the grain of the wooden table. Terribly sleepy with your face buried into Dinâs long sleeve, not a single syllable is intelligible.Grogu had been restless the night before, and if Din werenât such a morning person, you wouldnât be blinking back at the sunlight peaking through the blinds. You huff at the brightness. Still, Din brings a hand to the back of your neck and begins to massage the tender spots there.Â
âI know, cyare.â
áŻâ âŹâŹÎčâââââââđ„ Ę Ëâ
âAlright sweet boy, you remember what we talked about, right? Itâs up to you to put your toys back into the bin when you take them out. Stay near your buir when you guys play outside, okay?â you smacked a kiss onto Groguâs wrinkly forehead, jostling the hem of his robes until he erupted into a fit of sweet giggles.Â
Monotone announcements rang throughout the PA system in the spaceport, signaling the five minute window you have to wrap up your goodbyes. With hustling travellers weaving their away around your little family, you regretted the weight of the travel pack that you took from Dinâs hand.Â
âJust keep being a good boy,â you stroked one of Groguâs oversized ears, not quite ready to lean away from the baby nestled into the crook of your husbandâs arm.Â
âI donât think heâs ever been good for a day in his life,â came the dry response from your Mandalorian. Lovingly rolling your eyes, you stepped into Dinâs side and smacked a kiss onto the hollowed cheek of his helmet. With a deep sigh, he tilts his helmet down and brings you into a keldabe kiss, touching his metal forehead to yours as his free hand pulls you closer by the small of your back. Itâs a shocking amount of affection for Din to display in public, but youâre never one to complain, and rather you slip your eyes shut and lean further into his steady hold.Â
âOne week and Iâll be back. Thatâs only seven sleeps. One bra change. Itâs practically over already,â you ramble in an attempt to convince yourself to leave, your breath puffing over the beskar of your husbandâs helmet. You and Din had agreed that while you close shop in Naboo, he and Grogu would run errands of their own as they address some tedious âindependentâ business on an Outer Rim base for the New Republic. Neither of you would be doing anything particularly exciting. Both of you were already eager to return to the snuggle puddles held on your couch. As much as you hated it, these chores had been put off for long enough, and brushing them off further would only make them more of a pain.Â
âNi kar'tayl gar darasuum, cyare. We will be home to each other soon. Now get your ass on that transport before they yell for last call,â Din cradles your head and swipes a thumb across your cheek, tapping your chin to get you to hurry along.Â
âAlright tin can, Iâm gone,â you seal another quick kiss to the edge of the helmet and swiftly steal Grogu for one last toss into the air, spinning him around before settling him back into his carrier.Â
You spin on your heel and head straight for the transport. You know youâve got no backbone. If you look back, youâre not sure if you can fight the urge to stay for the two sets of brown eyes waiting for you on the platform. The transport lurches right as you find a handle bar to grip onto, and through a ripple in the force, you know Din is holding up one of Groguâs hands to wave goodbye.Â
áŻâ âŹâŹÎčâââââââđ„ Ę Ëâ
Changing your address across planetary systems was the biggest pain in the ass youâve ever had to deal with. Order 66 included.Â
Perched on a set of marble steps at the heart of Nabooâs capital, you snack on a skewer before making plans to catch the next transport home. Your view of Nabooâs graceful sights was a mercy after so much grueling paperwork. It had been years since you had visited your home world, and although you wouldnât dream of hesitating to settle down with Din (on a glorified lava rock), you felt a distant guilt for abandoning the part of your identity that was Naboo. The loose, artistic fashion of the women strolling by was the kind you had worn in your first days while traveling with Din. Raising Grogu meant that you remained deeply in touch with memories of your Jedi upbringing, but life on the Razor Crest wasnât exactly suitable for the intricate morning routines of unique makeup and tedious hairstyles that Naboo had engrained into you. Traveling with a (highly wanted, fugitive) bounty hunter would have only brought harm to your silken gowns, although you were happy to part with them in favor of joining clan mudhorn. Circumstance had brought you aboard the Crest, but trust and the blossoms of something more had kept you there. That was more than enough to keep you satisfied.Â
Briefly, you wondered if Din would like to see you in some of the lighter gowns of your home world. At the thought of your husband, you realized you hadnât received an update in a hot minute. Fishing for the datapad in your tote bag, you opened your inbox.
Two missed calls from Zeb. Three unread messages. Shit. The damn datapad didnât notify you. You opened the messages, hoping it was just more pictures of Grogu messing with the buttons of some dashboard.Â
NEW MESSAGE FROM Zeb (chill asf) : âWardâs got a new job for Mando. Iâm flying. Estimate three days. Stay safe out there.â
NEW MESSAGE FROM Zeb (chill asf): âMando headed to Nal Hutta unsanctioned. Outside of New Republic jurisdiction, thatâs for sure. Not worried. Just letting you know. Stay safe.â
NEW MESSAGE FROM Zeb (chill asf): âBeen a day. Havenât heard from your Mando. You okay?â
NEW MESSAGE FROM Zeb (chill asf): âMando off-grid. Unresponsive. Whatâs your move?â
The kebab skewer you held loosely between your fingers clattered to the marble flooring as you scrambled to gather your bearings. With your heartbeat skipping over itself and bile rising to sting the roof of your mouth, you held the back of your hand to your lips in a sorry attempt to hold hot, panicky tears at bay. What the hell were you going to do. He was fine, right? Din had to be fine, he always ended up fine no matter what situations you guys found yourselves in.Â
Except, of course, this time it wasnât a situation you both were in. You were separated with entire planetary systems shoved between you two and no way of immediately knowing if your partner and your baby were okay.Â
No way in hell was this oversight on Dinâs part. Din doesnât just forget to comm in. Your husband isnât sloppy. Dinâs precision is his pride, down to the miniscule detail. Rising from your spot on the stairs, you typed out a response to Zeb with fumbling hands and a rising anger.Â
When the message is delivered, you discard the datapad and let it clatter to the ground. Your bag remains where it rests on the stairway.Â
You inhale two sharp, quick breaths. In this instant, on a planet that was once your home but now means so little compared to the Mandalorian and child you have claimed as family, you feel a tremble in the force. You become aware of Nabooâs damp breeze. An imbalance between the land and ocean of this planet. You catch the trail of a phantom scent â thickened jungles and blaster bolts. Beskar. Distress. Desperation. Groguâs desperation. You hear a familiar whimper, and the force reveals to you a vision of your child with his hand raised, focused entirely on moving Dinâs body into a crude mud shelter. A tomb.Â
You gasp and break into a swift sprint. Adrenaline carried you as your mind raced through the million possibilities of where your Mandalorian could be. You could feel the force singing in the corners of your senses are you wove between street intersections in search of transport. Your calved stung with the strain of suddenly hauling ass, and you couldnât tell if your chest was caving from the exertion or the possibility of your Din being gone. Dashing through the coiling cobblestone streets of Nabo, your instincts awakened by the force mingled with your childhood muscle memory, delivering you to the nearest shipyard.Â
Eyes darting across the rows of parked aircraft in search of an easy steal, your hand subtly felt for the leather holster slung across your hips. Your lightsaber waited there patiently, seeming to hum in anticipation for the fight it would soon see. It had been a while since youâd needed to . . . borrow . . . a spacecraft, but youâd be damned if you waited for a transport to arrive on schedule before shipping you off to Nal Hutta.Â
You spotted a retired ship tucked near the far side of the hangar, just far enough out of sight to be inconvenient for any security droids to linger near. Sauntering around the ship, you acted as if you had entered the hangar out of sheer boredom by kicking an empty oil can across the ground. Ensuring no eyes were on you, you ducked into the hull of the ship.Â
Complete darkness engulfed the belly of the abandoned craft. Igniting your saber to illuminate the gut of the rotting ship, you were met with dusty wired and rusted floors.Â
Well shit. Whatever. If it could get you into hyperspace, it would do. You lifted the bandana around your neck to keep from breathing the stale air as you ventured deeper into the ship. You swept your surroundings for any squatters or security droids, rounding corners with precision in the way that Din had taught you. Your heart tugged at the thought of your Mandalorian, wherever the hell he may be.Â
Youâd get him back. Youâd get him home and smack him upside the helmet before you chew his ear off about his definition of âlow stakes chores.â
Locating the cockpit, you fired up the engines with the flip of a few switches. Instinctively, you reached for the copilotâs chair to ensure Grogu was strapped in. The pang that struck your heart at his absence only fueled your determination to get them back. You had faced Gideon for your little family. You had seen what was left of the Empire, locked eyes with its brutal face, and still managed to settle down in a peaceful home. Sure, the nightmares you suffered were something serious. Dreaming of the darksaber in Gideonâs sick hands, dangerously close to Dinâs throat, was never easy to come back from. Still, youâd gladly deal with the grief and panic, letting it melt away each night that Din shook you from your nightmares and held you until your breathing evened. You had fought so hard for this fragile future. There was no way youâd let a fuckass Hutt take it from you.Â
You knew the New Republic would tear you apart for what you were about to do. Whatever. You grit your teeth in preparation for the patrol wings that would surely be on your ass as soon as they detected your uncharted flight. Giving yourself no more time to think it through, you tugged the controls to pull the stolen ship up and out of the hangar.
If Din were here, youâd glance to his stoic helmet for reassurance that you were doing the right thing. He would hate your plan. Heâd beg you to stay on Naboo, where it was safe and you could escape if need be. He would assure you that the kid would be taken care of. Din is going to be so pissed if you threw a tantrum in front of the Hutts just to find him. He would tell you to let him handle it and that this was the way.
As much as you loved him and his creed, you found that you didnât quite care about the way. He had insisted on taking Grogu on their âboring errand,â and proceeded to leave you worried sick over whether they were even alive.
The Hutts could go to hell. So could the New Republic. While youâre at it, the Naboo postal service system could go to hell, too. You were doing this your way.Â
A/N: I'M BACKKKKKKK. if i write one more mando fic before giving other characters attention, put me down. but for now, we have a hozier lyric for the title and a dream.
i've been instructed to write a john walker fic (đ) for the summer season. . . but mama just started watching the bad batch . . . computer put these guys in the most angsty & torturous situation possible . .
summary: on your very first day as an attending at the ptmc, you're forced to navigate the chaos of the night shift, a code silver, and the fact that jack abbot would (and did) take a bullet for you. (7k)
characters: jack abbot / fem!reader, samira mohan, john shen, crus henderson, princess de la cruz, michael robinavitch, jack's dead wife also gets a wee mention
contents: friends to lovers, hurt/comfort, angst with a happy ending, heavily inspired by greys anatomy s6ep24, not proofread soz cw for so many medical inaccuracies (like so many), hostage situations, heavy mentions of blood and gore, mentions of trauma and grief
( NAVIGATION ) | ( MASTERLIST ) | ( AO3 )
It was your first day as an attending, and almost your very last.
Other than your newfound position, there was little else different about this night compared to all the others. The late evening was filled with all the usual chaos that youâve come to find a strange sort of refuge within. Your first patient of the day was a woman in a pretty sequined dress, whoâd sustained a collapsed lung after screaming a little too hard to âBohemian Rhapsodyâ during karaoke â something youâd only find while working the night shift.
âFirst needle aspiration as an attendingâŠâ Jack Abbot said with a nod of approval when the procedure was done. âHowâs it feel?â
The simple question made you dizzy. It was as much of a reminder of your new ranking as the foil balloons in the break room, bobbing lazily against the ceiling tiles. Or the crooked banner strung above the coffee maker, reading CONGRATS in cheap gold letters. Or the plastic container of store-bought cupcakes someone definitely bought last-minute, with neon-colored frosting smeared slightly on the lid.
But what really sent you reeling, though, was the inadvertent acknowledgment of the simmering tension between you and Jack â which had always been there in some ways, but was much easier to ignore before now.
The constant will-they-wonât-they between you was buried under layers of hierarchy, rules, and morals â under the unsaid understanding that whatever this thing between you was could never be acted upon. Not while you were his resident, anyway.Â
The obvious power imbalance was a line Jack Abbot would not let himself cross, no matter how desperately he wanted to.
Only now, that wretched line isnât there anymore. For the first time since he met you, youâre both on even ground. The world is your oyster, as it were; all the opportunities lie now at your feet. You need only to reach out and take it.
âFirst intubation as an attending,â Jack hums from the opposite side of the hospital bed, eyes glittering with amusement behind his safety glasses. âHowâs it feel?â
You scoff a quiet laugh and shake your head. âThat question got old about the fourth time you asked it, Dr. AbbotâŠâ you deadpan, sewing the trachael to the unconscious patientâs neck.
Reggie Brice; thirty-two-year-old male; exhibiting crush injuries to the chest and pelvis from a gnarly car pile-up. Seven people, including this one, were rushed in requiring immediate assistance. The rest were brought in with sustained head injuries, concussions, or minor fractures that needed tending to. You know that there has been at least one confirmed death.
âWell, itâs a big deal,â the man scoffs. âWhy do you think we all chipped in two dollars to decorate the break room? Those grocery store cupcakes actually mean something, you know?â
âWell, I am honoredâŠâ you sigh in a distracted monotone.
Jack squints. âYeah, I can tell. You look downright emotionalââ
You take a step back to assess, gaze flickering to the monitor at your side. You find the manâs blood pressure continuing to climb, which is less than ideal for the injuries heâs sporting now.
âPressureâs too high. We gotta fix that, or heâs gonna crash,â Jack announces in a sharper tone, though it never quite loses its laid-back edge. He always works best under pressure, in truth. âWe could always crack the chest, cross-clamp the aortaâ buy him some time till we get him a room.â
âWhat about preperitoneal packing?â you suggest, gesturing over the patientâs lean stomach with gloved hands. âWe do a simple midline incision below the umbilicus, pack like hell around the bladder, keep the bleeding in check until we get him upstairs.â
Jackâs silence is less than reassuring.
You peer at him behind the glasses sitting low on your nose, stumbling over yourself as you brace for an inevitable rejection. âI know itâs more of an OR procedure, and Iâve only done it once, butââ
âHeyâŠâ Jack cuts in softly, brows raised to his hairline. âYouâre the boss here, kid. Remember? Weâll do whatever you wanna do.â
Your eyes narrow, despite the funny feeling flaring in your chest. His voice, all deep and gravelly and gentle, has always had a way of piercing right through you.
âIâm not a kid anymore, Abbot,â you remind him.Â
So thereâs nothing standing in your way anymore, old man, youâre really saying.
Jack grins wide, like he can hear it in your silence.
âForce of habit,â he shrugs. âNow, câmon. Letâs do it your way, boss.â
Youâre wrists-deep in the conscious manâs pelvis, packing the blood clot around his bladder while Jack holds the Deaver retractor in a steady head. You fall into a strange sort of rhythm together, the way you always do, moving with each other without ever having to speak. Though, for some reason, you canât seem to stop your hands from shaking.
âThis is good, right?â you murmur behind your mask, shoving more gauze beneath the manâs sliced skin.
âYouâre doing great,â Jack praises muffedly, without missing a beat, though he flashes you a stern look behind his glasses a second later. âYouâre an attending nowâ You know what youâre doing.â
You swallow hard with an unsure nod. âRight⊠YeahâŠâ
Jack smiles at your sheepishness â a stark contrast to how methodically your hands move â though the expression gets hidden behind his blue surgical mask. âDonât worry. Itâs always a little weird at first. Youâll settle in in no time.â
You scoff a harsh breath through your nose. âYouâve been uncharacteristically sweet to me today. You know that?â
âIâm always sweet,â Jack squints. âBut I can always get meaner, if you want. You know, if my kindness isnât impressing you.â
âHm,â you shrug and swipe your gloved fingers under the fatty tissue of the fleshy linea alba. âJuryâs still out.â
âWell,â his brows bounce. âI guess Iâm just gonna have to try a little harder, then, arenât I?â
âWhat can I say? I have high standards, Dr. Abbot.â
Your concentrated gaze flickers from the incision to the man standing across from you. Something mischievous glimmers in your eyes, crinkling at the edges with a smile he canât see behind your mask. The air between you charges in a flicker.
âYou doinâ anything after this shift?â the man wonders suddenly, passing you another stack of gauze with his free hand. âYou know, to celebrate?â
âI donât knowâŠâ you sigh and turn away again. âI guess it depends.â
âOn?â
âWhether someone can give me something better to do than collapsing face-first into my bed.â
âI think I could make a pretty strong case,â Jack quips.
âOohâŠâ you hum. âDo tell.â
âSomething involving food. Definitely,â he starts. âMaybe something a lot more filling than two-dollar vending machine snacks.â
âVery compelling start, Dr. AbbotâŠâ
âAnd maybeâ if youâre so inclined,â he croons drily. âSomething where we donât talk about work for an hour. At least.â
You flash him a deadpanned stare. âWell, now, thatâs just way too far.â
âHm. It was worth a shot,â he shrugs.
âI guess weâll just have to see how the rest of your performance goes...â
His eyes widen in amusement at your sudden teasing, not nearly as shy as heâs grown accustomed to. âOh, so Iâm the one being evaluated now?â
âYep,â you nod once, popping the p.
âAnd what happens if I pass?â
You meet his gaze once more, with something a little shier around the edges. âThen Iâll⊠let me take you somewhere for breakfast in the morning,â you shrug, trying to be casual, though your wavering voice gives you instantly away.
A smile curls slow at Jackâs mouth behind his surgical mask. You can see it squinting the very edges of his light eyes as he nods in response. âLooking forward to itââ
The glass door across the room swings open without warning.Â
Your heads whip simultaneously, half-expecting to find a grey-scrubbed nurse standing there, hopefully with some information about the state of the suddenly flooded OR. You find a strange man there instead â late fifties, bearded, tall but with a beer gut that hangs over the top of his baggy jeans. Thereâs dark blood on his t-shirt and the collar of his beige jacket, dripping from a cut on his temple.
His narrow face is strikingly hollow; his eyes are painfully empty. You figure he must be one of the victims from the pile-up. He wears the shock of it all over, no doubt.
âThis is a sterile room, sir,â Jack tells him, authoritative but never unkind. âIf youâre family, Iâm gonna need you to wait outside. Iâll have a nurse give you the detailsâ and maybe take a look at the cut of yours.â
âIâm not his family,â the man says in an even monotone, with a gritty drawl that insists heâs from somewhere further south. There is little inflection in his voice, the same way there is little emotion on his bearded face. He just lingers there in the doorway, frozen still in a way that feels almost uncanny.
Your wide eyes flit to Jack, glimmering with apprehension. Your stomach twists with it, too.
Jackâs firm gaze never wavers from the stranger across the room. âEither way, sir, you canât be in hereââ
The older manâs weathered right hand reaches slowly for the inside pocket of his jacket. Something silver glints beneath the bright white fluorescents overhead. It takes you a second too long to realize what it is â a gun.
The world narrows in an instant. The oxygen gets sucked out of the room all at once. Your chest hitches for a breath it cannot take.
You donât realize until then that youâve never seen a pistol this close before â or at all. Your brain detaches in an instant accordingly, protects you now by convincing you that this is no longer your reality. That youâre only dreaming. That everything around you is just a movie youâre watching from faraway.
âHey, hey, heyâŠâ Jack cautions on bated breath, bloodied hands raised in surrender.Â
His wide eyes dart between the man and the glass door, where the stranger is just out of view of the hallway. He swallows hard, adamâs apple bobbing in his throat, as he takes slow steps towards the assailant.Â
âLetâs justâ Letâs just take a breath here, alright, man?â
The monitor beside you begins to beep wildly when your hands freeze. Your body jerks when the sound fills the silent room.Â
Your gloved hands move on autopilot, adjusting the Deaver retractor in Jackâs absence and continuing to pack the bladder with the remaining gauze. The work is the only thing anchoring you now â the glaring acknowledgment that, if you donât finish up here, the man in the bed will die before he makes it to the OR.
âThat man thereâŠâ the stranger says in a distant voice, like heâs not all the way here either. âHe was driving the car that hit my wife⊠Blew a red light⊠Came out of nowhereâŠâ
Jackâs expression shifts. He reaches for his jaw with slow hands, plucking the surgical mask from his right ear, and letting the left side hang by his chin â allowing the man to see his face.Â
âIâm sorry to hear that, sir.â
âHe killed her⊠On the sceneâŠâ the man continues, gravelly voice tighter now. âI was trying to scoop her brains back into her skullâ Do you have any idea what the kinda shit does to a person?â
âThatâs hard, man,â Jack nods sympathetically but stands his ground at the head of the hospital bed all the same, planting himself firmly between you and the stranger across the room. âI get it.â
âYou donâtââ the man snaps, harsher now.
You flinch when his voice rings suddenly through the room, trying to pack the wound tight with half-numb fingers.
âYou donât just get toâ to fix him like nothing happened. Like her life didnât matterââ
âIt does matter,â Jack assures with a rapid nod. âYour wife matters, I promise.â
âThen let me do something about itââ
Jackâs chest tightens when the manâs knuckles turn white around the gun. He holds it steady despite his troubled state, like he knows exactly what heâs doing with it. Jack understands, then, that if he lets that gun off, itâll hit exactly whatever this man wants it to â wherever he wants it to.
âThere are two other people in this room who had nothing to do with what happened to your wife, man,â Jack tells him. âAnd I know you donât want anyone else to get hurt. I know that.â
âYouâre right⊠I donât want anyone else to get hurtâŠâ the man nods, voice heavy and trembling. âSo tell her to stopââ
The gun shifts over Jackâs shoulder, aiming right for your head.
A pained whimper sounds in the pit of your tightening throat. You can hardly see the incision below you as burning tears gather at your waterline. Your shaking fingers scramble for the sutures to stitch him back up again.
âHey, hey, hey!â Jack blurts, stepping in front of the gun again without a second thought. He keeps his gloved hands raised, but his sympathetic stare turns stern in a flicker. âYouâre talking to me right now, alright? So put the gun back on meâ Weâre gonna figure this out together.â
âI saidâ tell herâ to stop!â
His thumb flicks the hammer of the gun with a daunting click.Â
âI know, kidâŠâ he says without looking back at you, with a voice much more even compared to yours. âI know. Just keep going.â
âStop!â the man bellows. âOr I swear to god, Iâll shoot you both in the goddamn head!â
Jack is not perturbed by his yelling. He wants him to yell, wants him to cause a scene so that someoneâll check in and call in a Code Silver. He just doesnât want that gun to go off. So he keeps his voice calm as he counters gently, âAnd what happens next? If you kill usâ If you kill him. What are you gonna do after?â
The man hesitates for a moment. His grip falters on the gun, as if he hadnât considered the question until that very moment.
âI know you want your wife back⊠But this isnât gonna make it any better.â
âMaybe not,â the man says. âBut itâll make it stop.â
He doesnât elaborate on what âitâ exactly is, but Jack doesnât need him to. Heâs been where this man is standing â not physically, maybe, not with a gun in his hand; but in the deep, dark void reserved only for a special, gut-wrenching sort of grief.Â
âIt wonât. Trust me,â Jack says with a shake of his silver head. âI lost my wife ten years ago. Not like you did, but it still hurt like hell, man, I can tell you thatâŠâ
The man softens slightly. Itâs the first time since the crash that someoneâs tried to level with him, that someoneâs actually understood.Â
Jack takes a hesitant step forward when he catches the strangerâs resolve starting to slip.
âAnd I can tell you it doesnât stay that way foreverâŠâ he continues. âWhatever youâre feeling right now, I know you think itâs never gonna stop. But it will. You just have to let it.â
Another step forward.
âYou see the woman youâre pointing that gun at?â Jack wonders with raised brows, nodding his silver head in your direction. âI like her⊠I really like her. And I didnât think I was capable of feeling anything again.â
Your chest aches at his words. Your glasses fog from the warm tears clinging to your bottom lashes. Your clammy hands fumble with the surgical needle.
The manâs finger loosens slightly on the trigger, and Jack takes another cautious stop.Â
âAnd this is really bad timing, man, âcause I was gonna take her out after this,â he confesses with a not-quite smile. âBut for that to happen, I need us to walk out of here. All of us.â
The beat of silence thereafter feels borderline suffocating. It wraps its cold hands around your neck and strangles you.
Jack almost thinks heâs gotten through to the man. He can see the cracks starting to fissure throughout his hollow face; the flicker of hesitation, the realization of what heâs doing â where his dark mind has led him.
âSo youâre sayingâŠâ the man trails off and swallows hard. His drawl is much too soft for the words that spill from his mouth a second later. ââŠIf I shoot her, youâll understand how I feel?âÂ
Your blood runs ice cold in an instant.
Jackâs shoes squeak hard against the tile as he lunges for the man before you can blink. He pushes him into the wall with an aggressive thud and tries to shove his gun out of your direction. You bend over the bed on instinct, covering your patient without a second thought.
Two shots ring out.
You expect to feel both of them, or perhaps nothing at all, as your limp body hits the floor. You keep your eyes shut and your jaw clenched tight, bracing yourself for pain or certain death.
The harsh ringing in your ears is slow to fade. When your hearing finally returns to you, and your eyes peek slowly open, you find a sea of bodies crashing into the room like a tidal wave â and you, yourself, still standing.
Your head swivels on your shoulder, still half-hunched over your patient. Your gaze drags unwillingly past the blur of bodies and dark scrubs until it finds Jack, lying flat on the ground instead of you.
It takes your brain a long moment to make sense of it â the strangle ngle of his body, the stuttering of his chest, the tear in his shirt from the bullet, and the wet crimson darkening the tile beneath him. The sight doesnât fit, doesnât belong. Not to Jack, anyway; not to the man whoâs far too steady, too solid, to ever look like this.
And the worst part of it all â the part that will follow you long after this moment ends â is that that bullet was meant for you, and that Jack didnât even hesitate to take it instead.
The ED descends into a different sort of chaos than youâre used to. The PTMC fractures, splinters into something unrecognizable, as voices overlap and distort in your ears. âGunshot woundâ Attending down!â you hear someone shout, followed by a quieter, âHelp me get him up,â and a harsher, âSomeone get me a fucking line!âÂ
None of it feels all the way real.Â
Itâs like looking through the rest of the world through a fishbowl, where everything is blurred and warped and muffled. You can see armed guards detaining the crying gunman in the foreground of it all, along with Jackâs body being transferred to a stretcher, right before Samira ducks into your tunnel vision.
Her dark brown eyes are lined with exhaustion from her double shift as they dart attentively across your face â the first person to reach out for you in the midst of all the chaos.
âWhat do you need me to do?â is all she says.
Your voice comes out strangled. It sounds like itâs coming from somewhere else entirely as you choke through panted breaths, âF-Finish up hisâ his sutures, and⊠and get him to the OR... Walsh has a⊠has a room ready for him, I thinkââ
Your legs feel half-numb as you step back from the patient before you, left totally unaware of the chaos surrounding him. You stumble for the entrance, peeling off your stained gown and bloodied gloves as you go, and follow Jackâs body as they lead him out of the room.Â
You migrate to his side like itâs muscle memory to you, struggling to find your footing in the midst of the growing crowd as the doctors rush the gurney to the elevators. For every step you take, Shen and Crus seem to take three more. It makes it nearly impossible to keep up in your stupor.
You crane your head to catch a peek of the man from behind the towering bodies before you. âI-Is he okay?â you wonder breathlessly.
The gurney jerks too hard around the corner, scraping the side of the wall.
âMotherfucker!â Jack groans.
âWell, shitâ He definitely sounds the same,â Parker quips from beside you.
âHow are you feeling?â Crus calls from the manâs side. âTalk to me, Abbotâ Youâre still with us, right?â
âNot unless you two learn how to maneuver a goddamn gurney,â Jack jokes through gritted teeth.
âPage Walsh,â Shen tells Lena with a stern nod, pushing the button for the lift. âMake sure sheâs got a room open.â
The doors part with a ding. They wheel the stretcher inside, and you make sure to squeeze in with them, elbowing past the attendings and nurses to get to Jackâs side.
Heâs clammy and pale when he comes into view, writhing in place as he clutches at his ribs. His black scrubs are stained a darker color from the blood spilling from the wound, which turns the white towel pressed there a deeper shade of scarlet than you think youâve ever seen.
Your trembling hand reaches for him on instinct. You press your palm over his bloodied knuckles â keeping some pressure there, reminding him that youâre still here.
âJack?â you call to him in a voice taut, as your teary eyes dart wildly across his scruffy face. âJack? A-Are you okay?â
He swallows hard, adamâs apple bobbing in his throat. His head turns slowly, just enough to find you, and he blinks wildly to clear the blur in his vision. The corner of his mouth twitches in a faint hint of a smile when he spots you standing over him.
He clears his throat, but his words still come out a little gravelly as he arches an expectant brow and says, âTold yaâŠâ
You shake your head, features screwing in confusion. âTold me what?â
âThat Iâd make a good caseâŠâÂ
Your chest flares. Something wells suddenly in your throat, though you canât be sure if itâs a laugh or a sob. You just scold him instead. âItâs not funny, Jackââ
âHey. Youâre the one who said you had high standards, kidâŠâ he rasps.Â
His eyes fall over your form, trying to assess you despite his dwindling vision. You watch his scruffy features twist with concern a second later. His chest stutters as he questions breathlessly, âWhoaâ Is that⊠Is that my blood? Or yours?â
You tilt your chin to follow his gaze. Only then do you feel the warm blood trickling down to your elbow; only then do you feel the white-hot, searing pain of the bullet that had grazed your shoulder.Â
You feel very suddenly like the world is spinning around you.Â
The stares you get return, as everyone else seems to notice too, only adds to the dizziness.Â
âYouâre bleeding,â Shen observes sharply. âWhy didnât you tell anyone you got hit?â
âI-Iâm fine,â you insist despite the waver in your voice, shaking your head to fight the lightheadedness away. âI canâtâ I canât even feel it, okay? I swear.â
âGet someone to take a look at that when we get upstairs, alright?â Shen commands with a stern glare. âI mean it.â
Your wet eyes harden in an instant. âIâm not leavingââ
Jackâs hand, still weak on his side, twists over the damp towel to grab yours. His bloody fingers are cold and trembling as they struggle to find purchase on your smaller ones. You hold him with enough strength for the both of you.
âYou got hurt âcause of me, kid. At least let someoneââ
âHey,â you snap, meaner than heâs ever seen you. âThat was not your fault.â
âLet âem take a look at you, alright?â
You shake your stubborn head. âI need you to focus on yourself right nowââ
âI am,â he insists. His gravelly voice never loses its humorous edge, and neither do his glassy eyes lose their tenderness as they flit back and forth between yours. âAnd Iâm not gonna be okay if you arenât, alright? So just⊠please.â
Your features crumple at the pleading look he gives you â with his eyes all squishy around the edges, and glazing over with unshed tears.
The elevator stills with a ding, shattering the tense moment. It jolts faintly, just enough to make your swimming stomach feel sicker. You catch yourself nodding despite your better judgment.Â
âFineâŠâ you tell him in a fragile voice.
Jack tries to smile but finds the strength to slowly leave him, a little like the blood trickling from his side.
âIâm in good hands,â he assures you, then turns to the attending on his left. âRight, Dr. Shen?â
The younger manâs brows lower. âDidnât you just call me a motherfucker?â he quips.
Jackâs weathered face twists as heâs wheeled out of the elevator. ââŠDid I?â
Your hand slips from his as you watch him go. Something about it feels wrong, though you canât exactly place why. You just know it feels like something ripping in two â like the torn skin of your bloody shoulder, times a thousand.
The room they put you in is achingly quiet; the kind of quiet that makes everything else seem ten times louder. The green-white fluorescent bulb clicks and buzzes mercilessly over your head, drilling straight into your skull. The AC hums gently alongside it in a mundane sort of symphony that matches the empty room youâre in â where only one hospital bed sits beside a shuttered window, in front of a porcelain sink and mirror.
Everything smells like stale air, sharp antiseptic, and metallic blood.
You stand before the cloudy mirror with your scrub sleeve pushed up your shoulder, kept awkwardly in place by your chin. You struggle to do your sutures with a hand that wonât stop trembling.Â
You donât realize how ardently youâre still shaking until the needle slips across your skin â not enough to do any real damage, but enough to make you hiss through your teeth when it stings. You clench your jaw and pull the thread through, until the raging skin around the laceration pinches together again. Your features flicker as you try and fail to ignore the dull burn that spreads up and down your arm a second later.
The fiery sensation is the only thing keeping your mind distracted from all the rest of it â the way the gunshot made your ears ring; the way Jackâs body jerked before it hit the ground; the way the man called out for his wife when security pinned him to the floor.
You tug the sutures harder, relishing in the sting. You push the needle through once more, harder than necessary, and let it slip a little sloppier than you should â anything to take your mind off of it.
âCarefulâŠâ a voice cautions from the doorway.
Your head whips over your shoulder. You blink rapidly as your brain struggles to catch up â like you half-expect to find yourself back in that room; like you half-expect to find the man from before standing there.
You feel a little like the ground has been pulled from underneath you when you find Robby there instead, rubbing disinfectant between his calloused palms.
Someone downstairs mustâve called him about Jack, and about the Code Silver currently turning the PTMC to shambles. And, based on the surgical mask sticking out of his jacket pocket, you figure he mustâve just gotten back from checking in on him in the OR.Â
His dark eyes flit from your face, to your shoulder, and to the supplies scattered across the sink before you.
âThey said you were supposed to be getting looked at,â he says. âNot playing DIY surgeon.â
You huff out a breath that wouldâve passed for a laugh any other time.Â
âEveryone else is busy⊠At least I can make myself useful this wayâŠâ
You canât bring yourself to meet his gaze. You canât stand the way heâs looking at you now. His gaze is too sharp, too focused. Itâs like heâs studying you, cataloging, assessing â the same way you do with your patients. The thought of being so helpless makes your stomach twist.Â
Robby doesnât argue, but instead lets his eyes linger on the slight tremor in your hands. The leftover adrenaline is likely buzzing like electricity in your veins just now. Youâre bound to crash at any second.
âI know you donât want my help,â he starts slowly, sauntering further in with his arms crossed over his chest. âBut at least lie and say I did your suturesâ so Jack doesnât try to kill me when he wakes up.â
âI think heâll know you didnât do âem when he sees how neat they are,â you joke drily.
âRudeâŠâ Robby scoffs, sneakers scuffing as he plants himself at your side. You can see the leftover slumber in his swollen eyes more clearly now, as he ducks down to look at you. âWant me to get you something for the pain, at least?â
You shake your head instantly, not trusting your voice enough to speak without wavering.
âYou sure?â he presses.
âIâm fine,â you snap. âIâm not the one in surgery.â
He is not dismayed by your anger. He knows itâs not meant for him.Â
âWell, Jackâs doing just fine. Walsh is finishing up with him now,â he tells you. âHonestly, I think the hardest part is gonna be keeping him off his feet for the next little whileâŠ. âCause thereâs about a hundred percent chance heâs gonna want to come back to work when heâs discharged.â
You exhale sharply through your nose in place of a laugh as you tie the sutures and cut the excess with a pair of small medical scissors.Â
You just barely catch sight of your delirious smile in the cloudy mirror before a chuckle sputters suddenly from your mouth. The sound of it fills the quiet room as you tumble into a fit of half-drunken giggles, bowing your head and propping your gloved hands on the porcelain sink.
Your shoulders shake as your laughter turns quickly into sobs.
âIâm fine,â you blurt once more and shake your head. Your voice is strangled through the tears in your throat, but you dismiss him anyway. âIâm fine. I-I donât even know why Iâm crying, so..â
âYou went through something traumatic tonight,â he coos. âEverything youâre feeling is completely normal.â
You shake your head again. âI shouldâve gone with himâ I should be helping in thereââ
âYouâd just be a liability,â Robby shrugs, a little blunt but not entirely unkind. âYouâre still in shock. Your hands are still shakingâ I wouldnât let you anywhere near an OR like this⊠Youâre better off here, and you know it.â
You turn your head to flash him a teary-eyed look. Your chin quivers as your taut voice trembles, âHe asked⊠He asked me if I wanted to go out with him when we got off,â you confess in a strangled whisper.
Robbyâs brows raise to his hairline. âDid he?â
You nod slowly. âAnd I was gonna say yesâŠâ
âGoodâŠâ the older man nods, lip flickering into a smile beneath his beard. âAbout timeâŠâ
âSo he canât⊠He doesnât get toâŠâ You stumble over yourself to get the words out. âHe doesnât get to not come back after that.âÂ
Robbyâs sympathetic grin widens at the stern, wet-eyed glare you give him. He takes a slow step closer and splays a warm, comforting hand along your back.
âJack Abbot is the most stubborn son of a bitch Iâve ever met,â he tells you. âIf thereâs even the slightest chance of him coming out of that OR just to take you out, then⊠Heâs gonna take it. Trust me.â
âYeah,â you quip drily. âHe betterâŠâÂ
Jack wakes after surgery to a tingling ache in his side and a heart monitor beeping faintly overhead, pervading the strange silence surrounding him â a silence he doesnât usually allow himself.
His eyes crack slowly open, dry and unfocused for several long moments. They dance across the ceiling tiles as he blinks the haze of sleep from his gaze. He struggles to recall how he got here â in this dim recovery room, which he had never seen as a patient until now. He remembers the stranger with the gun first, the warmth of the blood that came spilling from his side second, and the way you cried from him third.
Your name spills from his dry mouth like itâs the only word he remembers.
âGreat. Now I owe Crus twenty dollars,â he hears a familiar voice joke from his side. Jackâs head swivels until he finds Princess standing there, checking the IV hanging by his bed. She smiles softly down at him and quips, âHe said the first thing youâd do is ask for her. I thought for sure youâd want a beer.â
âYeahâŠâ Jack rasps, then clears the gravel from his throat. âI could go for that, tooâŠâ
âWant me to go grab her for you?â
He hesitates. âIs she⊠Is she okay?â
âSheâs great. Last I heard, Robby was patching her up,â the woman grins. âAnd, for what itâs worth, she was asking about you, tooâŠâ
The anticipation of seeing you again was somehow worse than the pain, blooming something sharp in his abdomen, and only slightly ebbed by the morphine drip.Â
The minutes drag on. The heart monitor at his side counts the seconds instead of his pulse. His fists curl against the stiff hospital sheets when he remembers the sticky red blood that had dripped slowly down your arm â the way you so easily brushed it all off, the way you so desperately wanted to stay at his side.
The door creaks softly open.
Something tightens in his chest.
You linger in the doorway for several long moments, as if you arenât allowed to come any closer just yet. Youâre bathed in the shadow of the lamplit recovery room and backlit by the too-bright hallway outside. He can only vaguely see the outline of your features from here â weighed down with fear and exhaustion and relief.Â
The laceration on your arm has been cleaned and sewn. Itâs still raging a little around the marred edges, but will heal into a thin scar in a few weeksâ time â a story youâll tell for years to come.
Jack grunts as he struggles to sit further up on the raised bed, but hides it by clearing his throat. âYou look goodâŠâ he observes in a rasp.
âAre you flirting with me, Dr. Abbot?â you joke with narrowed eyes.
âI am,â he quips back. âThanks for finally noticing.â
You scoff a faint laugh and shut the door behind you with a quiet click. You canât help but feel a little like the air has thinned as you walk further inside. You focus on your wringing hands the entire way to his bedside. You donât have the strength to meet his unwavering stare, still puffy from a medically induced slumber, but never once straying from your face.
âYou okay?â he wonders aloud, shattering the silence between you.
You huff a weak laugh. âIâm not the one who just came out of surgery, JackâŠâ
âFair pointâŠâ he nods.
âBut yes⊠Iâm okay,â you add, if only to appease him. âWhat about you? How do you feel?â
Jack exhales a heavy breath, chest deflating behind his thin hospital gown. ââŠLike I got shot.â
That almost gets a real laugh out of you.Â
âYeah. Thatâ That makes senseâŠâ
You flounder in place for a moment, before reaching for the chair by the curtained window and dragging it closer to his bed. Jack is able to eye you more clearly when you settle into the cushioned seat by his side. He can see the redness in your eyes, the tension in your jaw, the way your clammy hands hover like youâre not quite sure what to do with them.Â
Whatever closeness you had before those shots rang out is long gone now. You orbit around him like heâs a stranger to you, like youâre not quite sure what to do with him, like youâre too scared to get any closer.
He bows his head, made of mussed silver curls, in a feeble attempt to meet your stare. He silently begs you to look back at him, but you never do.
âIâm okay, you know?â he coos to you, equal parts because itâs true and because he knows you need to hear it from him.
âNo, I know, I justââ You cut yourself off when your fragile voice finally breaks. You shake your head to yourself and swallow hard, picking at the skin of your thumb until it starts to bleed. The scratch there blurs as burning tears gather once more in your gaze. âI canât stop thinking about it, you know? If you wouldnât haveâ have gotten as hurt if⊠you know, if you werenât standing in front of me like thatââ
His chest twists at the thought of you blaming yourself for it. The burning sensation there hurts him far worse than the one at his side.
âYou wouldâve gotten it a lot worse if I hadnât.â
Your eyes snap finally to meet his gaze, though your stare is much more hardened than heâd like.
âBut what if something worse had happened to you? Huh? What if you died, Jack?â you scold in words that spill faster from your lips than you can stop them. âWere you even thinking about that?â
âNo.â
His honesty stops you cold as much as his lack of hesitation.
âI guess I was just thinking about youâŠâ
The room goes eerily quiet, saved only by the even beeping of the monitor at his side and the distant voices talking in the hall.Â
Jack holds your gaze even as it weakens around the edges, even as it glazes over with burning tears you canât seem to keep away. A rogue droplet clumps your bottom lashes together when your eyes flick down to his abdomen, to the place beneath the blanket where you know the damage lies.
âYouâre not supposed to do that to a person, you know?â you whimper. âItâs cruel.â
Jackâs brows furrow. âDo what?â
âMake someone like you, and thenâ And then get yourself shot,â you stammer, gesturing wildly with your anxious hands. âMake someone almost lose you beforeââ
Your breath hitches.
Jack leans further in. âBefore what?â he presses gently.
âBefore theyâve even gotten to have youâŠâ
His lip flickers with a weak smile. âYou do have me,â he assures. âYouâve had me way before I ever asked you outâ You know that.â
âYeah,â you scoff with a grin of your own, much sadder in comparison. âSo much for that date, huh?â
Jackâs eyes narrow in a challenging stare. âAnd what makes you think itâs not happening?âÂ
You blink owlishly back at him. âDo you want a list, orâŠ?â
That earns a weak chuckle from him, until he winces at the ache it puts in his side a moment later. He cradles the bandaged wound with a grimace, and your chair scrapes the tile when you stand. âIâll tell Princess you need more morphine,â he vaguely hears you say, though he reaches for your hand before you can stray too far.
You still in place. Your wide eyes fall to the fingers around your wrist, warm like a furnace, and calloused like softly textured velvet. Â
âIâm okay,â he tells you, then takes a wavering breath in before repeating more firmly. âIâm okayâ And youâre not going anywhereâ And Iâm not missing our date for the world, alright?â
Your features screw, hardly convinced.
âWeâll order something here,â he shrugs. âHell, we can eat the cafeteria food for all I care, just⊠Donât leave. I mean, I kinda got shot, soâŠThe least you could do is indulge me a littleâŠâ
You cave instantly under the weight of his light-eyed stare. Your chest hitches with a quiet laugh. âItâd be a pretty grim first dateâŠâ you quip.
âYeah, wellâŠâ he trails off, smoothing his thumb over your knuckles. âI plan on having plenty more, less grim ones with you, soâŠâ
Your eyes narrow in a cynical squint despite the smiling tugging at the edges of your mouth. âThatâs very presumptuous of you, Dr. AbbotâŠâ
âWell, you could always so no,â he croons drily.
âNot a chance,â you argue without pause, gripping his hand with great strength â an unsaid promise. âYouâre not getting rid of me that easily.â
âGetting rid of you?â Jack echoes with a scoff, wincing when it hurts him but smiling up at you anyway. âThat was never a part of the plan, kidâ I took a bullet trying to keep you, in case you forgot."
simon 'ghost' riley x f!reader | soulmate!au | 18.8k (oops)
Ghost didnât want a soulmate, and he was sure, if they existed, that they didnât want him either.
cw; soulmate!au in which soulmates share scars, references to self-harm, lots of talk about scars, angst, fluff, references to domestic abuse and past violence, references to simon's past, descriptions of pain, military inaccuracies, miscommunication, touch aversion, reallllly slow slowburn, ghost being sort of really bad and weird at affection
Simon didnât remember how he got every scar on his body.Â
The big ones, the important ones, sure. He remembered them all too well, even through the haze of pain and fatigue that often hung thickly around their reception.Â
But there were too many to account for. To remember the particulars of each slash and burn and gunshot wound was a losing battle. Heâd long since given up on keeping track of them. Little lines on the sides of his fingers, stretchmarks on the backs of his biceps, winged fans of a burn on the side of his thigh, a pale line along the point of his elbow that he might as well have been born with.
There were ones from further back, too. Scars that time and pain had eroded the precision of the memory, but not the feeling. Cigarette burns on his forearms, a necklace of animal teeth on his side, a craggy line across his hip, accompanied by the shadowy memory of hand reaching for him, and not being quick enough to duck out of the way.Â
They all meshed together into the hard patchwork of scar and muscle his body had wrought itself into.
Almost none of them could be helped, out of his control, out of his hands.
They were a catalogue of his life, a story traced on his skin.
Stamped, more like. Branded.Â
Survived.Â
And soulmates shared scars.Â
Their hurt was his; his hurt was theirs. Literally or metaphorically, he wasnât quite sure. Simon had so many, spent so much time in pain, it was impossible to know if any of them didnât belong to him originally. Â
He didnât like the thought of someone sharing his scars, having felt what he did. Possessive of them and the pain in a strange way.Â
Itâs ironic, then, that he should be able to find his soulmate more easily than the average unmarred person, and wanted to do nothing of the sort. Simon dismissed the whole thing as drivel a long time ago, anyway. If they did exist, if they werenât just incredibly rare instances of luck, Simon was sure that he hadnât been afforded one.Â
There was guilt, too, settled somewhere deep inside him, that someone had to endure it alongside him. It was easier to believe heâd been left out of the whole thing.Â
Better he was alone.Â
The likelihood of finding that person was slim. It almost never happened. Eight or so billion people swanning around the planet would do that. A one in eight billion chance.Â
A grand, cosmic joke. The unfairness of it drove some people crazy, drove them to do insane things to increase a probability that couldnât be alteredâto know that person probably existed somewhere and yet know that they would probably never run across them.
A trend of self harm cropped up online every few years, healed over self inflected wounds posted in forums of people seeking their other, fated, half. The presumption being that they were being desperately searched for in turn. Â
Idiotic. Determined. Fallibly human.
And taboo. Most saw it as circumventing fate.Â
Violently frantic for the thing Ghost had been unwillingly given. A way to find them, or, at least, easily identify them. And he never would.Â
But, sometimes, he wondered.Â
He tried to picture the imprint of a person somewhere out in the world wearing his wounds, suffering his losses. The thought would circle his brainstem in an unrelenting loop, a bright fish whispering around the perimeter of its bowl before it dissipated in lieu of something more pressing.Â
It was always there, though, waiting to be grappled with again.Â
He always came up blank. Nothing but a shadow in his mind where a person should be. Fitting, typical. Â
It was a cruelty he couldnât imagine, somehow. Someone being fatefully, inescapably afflicted with him.Â
Simon didnât want a soulmate anyway, and he was sure, if they existed, that they didnât want him either.Â
If there was someone out there, someone wandering around with his scars on their skin, he was certain they hated him already.Â
He didnât particularly believe in fate; life had taught him not to. He believed in himself, his capabilities, planning and contingencies. And Simon didnât relish the thought of something he couldnât control, someone holding the other end of his corded, deformed soul, like a leash they could tighten and use to yank him to his knees. Compromised, vulnerable.Â
It wouldnât happen; the margin for discovery was so small it was practically nonexistent.Â
He blamed Soap, then, for tempting fate.
Ghost listened to Johnny yammer on, the sound of his voice louder than usual in the rattling dark belly of the transport plane home. The glow of green light, the roar of engines, the jangle of gear.Â
It was an irritating, and sometimes endearing, quirk of Johnnyâs that he couldnât stop talking in the post-op cortisol and adrenaline drop, his words a smeared haze of jumbled thoughts spoken aloud for hours afterward.
The notion of a soulmate was at the front of Soapâs mind, not for the first time. Heâd always seemed to enjoy the idea of it, and find some comfort in it, particularly after a close call. There was someone waiting for him, somewhere, after all, it couldnât all come to nothing yet.  Â
Simon glanced out the window, watched the sea below morph into land.Â
A yellow network of light winked below, a sea of reverse stars swimming in the black.
âLucky that way, Lt,â Johnny declared with finality, finally winding down, sounding exhausted. âFindinâ âem will be easier.âÂ
Ghost glanced over, the first time in nearly an hour that heâd acknowledged the conversation beyond a hum and a nod. âWhat do you mean?âÂ
Soap gestured to his scarred chin, then his temple. âKnow âem straight away, wouldnât I?â Â
Simonâs own thoughts spoken out loud; his hopes to never see his own scars reflected back at him turned on its head.Â
Johnny made it sound like a good thing, instead of the nightmare it was.Â
No, he thought for the nth time in his life, not that, not for him.Â
But heâd always had an extraordinary knack for beating the odds.Â
.
.
.
The base was a constant flurry of activity, a relentlessly buzzing hive of people. There were very few places that skirted away from the general chaos of life on a military base, but Simon had catalogued them allâthe field behind the barracks when drills were not being run, the concrete service walkways beneath the base, crowded with spiderwebs and dust, the cool, sterile medical wing, and, the orderly administration offices.Â
Each place had caveats.Â
The service walkways were the most reliably quiet, but Simon hated being underground, hated the claustrophobia of it, like some part of him would always be clawing at black earth, and so usually avoided it.Â
Soap had found him smoking behind the barracks once and now regularly joined Simon there.Â
The medical wing could be crowded and frenzied, depending on the day.Â
The administration offices were practically serene in comparison. Neat file folders, tidy desks, windows that let in the watery, gray English sun. Square offices with their doors propped open, conference rooms bathed in the light of glowing intel reports, data convergences, and map overlays, uniform gray walls and floors.Â
The admin wing only occasionally spasmed into restless activity if an emergency op was underway or about to be, and if that happened, Ghost was usually already swept up in it himself, probably already long gone.Â
A spare office stuffed away at the end of the hall with the name plate removed technically belonged to him. A mostly unused space he sometimes finished reports in but, more often than not, sat empty.Â
He preferred to haunt the corridors, observe the more peaceful, inner workings of the military, breathing in the quiet air for five minutes at a time. It gave his perpetually over taxed nervous system, his forever-in-fight-or-flight-mode body, to relax, if even it was only an increment or two. The lightning was softer, the constant bark of orders and drills, the snap of gunfire, the general loudness of the rest of the place, was muted and far away.
Simon knew of all of the staff and their precuilaritiesânames, ages, birthdates, minor feuds among each other, immediate family members, previous posts, favorite foods, habits, complaints about the buildingâs irregular temperatures and the pervasive scent of diesel. It wasnât information he necessarily collected on purpose. Gleaned over years of half heard conversations, glimpses of photos on desks. They, like the medical staff, didnât often change, not like the revolving door of soldiers and operators.Â
It was a regular, routine, quiet place.Â
So it would be difficult for even the most oblivious person not to notice when the familiar order of the place was interrupted.Â
Soft, dandelion light flooded the hall from a doorway that had always before been shut tight.
The scent of an unfamiliar perfume lingered in the hall in a feathery streak, oakmoss and lavender. It settled hard in his lungs, made his footsteps slow slightly, caution prickling at the back of his neck.Â
The click of ceramic being sat on wood, the soft shuffle of files, tapping of computer keys emanated from within the now open office. The faintest notes of bubblegum pop floated by, at odds with the chill, still air.Â
Inside, you were hidden behind two massive computer monitors, the very top of a pair of lilac headphones just visible over the rim. Plants in colorful painted terracotta pots lined the window to your left absorbing what they could of pale winter light, a thick blanket was thrown over the back of a chair in the corner, a jumble of bright, hand crocheted squares. A brass floor lamp with a circular shade sat behind your desk and drooped forward like the antenna of a giant radio, or a bug, casting a delicate halo of light around you like a protective ward.Â
There was something. . .lambent that emanated around the room, that had nothing to do with the ridiculous lamp.Â
Simon hovered in the doorway, in the shadow of the dim hall, just to get a glimpse of your face. Start a mental file on you, begin his careful catalog. Something to match the color and light to.Â
It was a surprise to you both, then, when you glanced up and caught him at it.Â
You stood hastily, headphones sliding down your neck when the cord jerked taut, the tinny sound of pop echoing loudly from them until you slammed your fingers down onto the keyboard and silence descended abruptly. âSorry, sir. I didnât see you there. Can I help you with something?âÂ
Simon could only stare at you, a curl of dread snaking its way between his ribs.Â
Johnny was right, then, he would know his own scars anywhere.Â
He would know his own face anywhere.Â
He would, apparently, know you anywhere.Â
Your face was a faded mapping of his own, the same scarring traced with a lighter hand. The same crack over your lips, a line drawn across your cheek, a faded check through your brow, the bridge of your nose bisected, the outline of webbed burn scars crosshatched at the edge of your jaw and shoulder. A jagged, thick line crossed your throat.Â
Despite his legacy marring your face, you were pretty. Beautiful, even, with curious, cautious eyes, one side of your mouth pulled up into a half grin that tugged at the line across your cheek and somehow didnât ruin the brightness of it.Â
You were watching him watch you with a tentative gaze, brows drawing slowly together the longer he stood there staring at you, breathing around the newly minted cavern under his lungs.Â
His eyes met yours again, and as soon as the realization settled in, something clicked violently into place inside his chest, like a missing rib bone had suddenly slotted into the cage around his heart.Â
Pain bloomed hot and tight across his chest, so acute he covered his side, expecting to find a knife inexplicably lodged there. He grunted mutely. The discomfort receded as quickly as it had come, leaving behind a vast hollow just beneath his breast bone. Cavernous, lurching, undone.Â
The hollow hardened into a solid brick of pain.Â
Nausea swept into the back of his throat.Â
âAre you okay?âÂ
He was frozen in the direct line of fire. Your eyes swept over him, fingers curling around a folder on the edge of your desk which you thumbed nervously. You began to lift your other hand, an aborted half movement toward your face that you dropped at the last second. But you didnât avert your gaze. You looked past the mask, past him, and into his eyes.Â
You saw him.Â
Simon was not to be seen.
Ghost didnât get caught, didnât freeze.Â
Didnât feel like an animal trapped in a cage, pinned and weak and panicked.Â
Not anymore.Â
He was a ghost, a shadow, a silentâ
The silence unspooled, thin and fragile as unraveling lace.Â
Your smile widened, a slow, confident thing that stretched across your face crookedly, pulled at your scarred skin as you tilted your head. It was, maybe, the most beautiful thing heâd ever seen.Â
âSir?â
Amusement threaded your voice; a laugh curled like a sleeping animal in your throat.Â
Instead of answering, he faded back into the hall.
As he retreated an uncertain realization prodded at the back of his mind. One wonderful contingency.Â
You had not felt the shift, the world turning horribly on its axis, the pain that radiated hot as a wildfire.Â
You hadnât recognized what he was.Â
And he was going to keep it that way.Â
.
.
.
It felt like there was a hook in his chest, slipped right between his ribs, a constant painful tearing that landed him again and again outside your office door. Like he was a fish on a line, and you held the reel in your fist, totally oblivious to it.Â
He didnât love you, thatâs not how the soulmate bond worked. You were tied together, for some reason, though that reason remained to be seen. Resentment was all he felt, a burning desire to chew his leg out of this trap, to grip the line that bound you and run a knife through it.Â
Better yet, through you.Â
Sever the tie as cleanly as a blade through an artery.Â
One sure way to free himself was your death.Â
It was unusual, but it happenedâheadlines of a soulmate killing their pair because they couldnât tolerate the connection. It was taboo, considering how rare the bond was. The link suffocated them, instead of comforting them.Â
Simon understood the urge.
He thought of your office, the way your back was angled half toward the door, how easily he could slip in and slice your throat open. He had seen and done worse, but the thought of you lying in a pool of blood, let alone at his hands, was so abhorrent and wrong that he doubled over as an acute, sharp pain pinched between his ribs, like someone wriggling their fingers between the bars to claw at his insides.Â
Which irritated him. Things like that didnât bother him, not anymore. At the very least, he was better at handling discomfort than this.Â
It did start him thinking about someone else doing it, though. Slipping quietly into your office and nudging a knife between your ribs, pressing a silenced pistol against your temple, Ghost left to find your cold corpse.Â
It was wrong.Â
He could feel your life wrapped around his fingers, tangled in little ribbons around his wrists. A pulsing, glowing, bright thing. Â
The resentment doubled because he should not care. He didnât know you, trust you; your death should mean nothing. You should mean nothing. Â
Still, he found himself walking the administration wing again the following day, even though the sun was out and itâd be nice to sit behind the barracks and smoke and listen to Johnny rattle on about something or the other when he inevitably showed up.Â
Your door was open again, gold light spilling into the corridor, the low flutter of too loud music in your headphones accompanying it.Â
Simon would never admit it to himself, but he also needed to know that he could remain hidden from you. The shock of your eyes finding his still hadnât left him. It had never happened beforeânot on an op, not about the base, not out among civilians. He blended in, he remained invisible, but you saw him, sensed him, and he needed to know if that was something he had to adjust to. Planning was survival, and you were an unknown factor he needed a method for handling. Â
Simon stepped close to your door, out of the beam of light.Â
Your office was bathed in soft, cream light but not from your antenna bug lamp.Â
Your back was fully turned toward the door, face tilted into the scarce winter sun streaming in the window as you leaned back in your chair. Your eyes were closed, headphones over your ears as he suspected they were.Â
Fuuucking hell.Â
Couldnât see, couldnât hear, back toward the entry point of the room.Â
Your life hung there, trusting, fragile as spun crystal.Â
He waited, but you didnât turn, didnât seem to know he was there. Something in his shoulders uncoiled, tension slowly replaced with an odd sense of calm. The pain in his chest eased for the first time in twenty-four hours, fading to a tender ache.Â
Your lunch, half eaten, laid abandoned on your desk. The blanket that had been on the chair in the corner was swaddled around your shoulders.Â
You yawned, eyes still closed.Â
He waited for you to sense him, glance up, but you seemed unaware of him. He wouldnât admit it then, but he half hoped you would.Â
Ghost backed away, left you to your peace.Â
The weight in his chest intensified again.
He hated you for it.Â
He went back the next day.Â
And the day after that.
.
.
.
Anchor might be a better descriptor.Â
Hook was too violent.
Simon knew what it felt like to have a hook between his ribs, and this feeling was not that.Â
He was satisfied, after weeks of observation as late winter turned to a wet spring, that you did not have a preternatural sense of his presence. In the process, he learned other things.Â
You hated the cold, and your office always seemed to be chillier than you would prefer, blanket perpetually tucked around your shoulders. He watched you fiddle with the radiator one morning, bottom lip caught between your teeth, sigh, and resign yourself to it. He waited for you to complain to your coworkers like everyone else did, to call maintenance to fix it, but you didnât.Â
You liked to sit in the sun, however you could, squinting against the glare of it against your computer screens just to have it on your skin.Â
You hunched over your desk, and clearly had pain in your neck and back because of it.Â
You often stayed later on base than many of the staff and walked out of the building alone late at night.Â
You didnât drink tea, but politely accepted the tea several different coworkers made for you with the very good intention of showing you a proper cup. You drank every drop as you chatted with them, even though you clearly detested it. It didnât show, but Simon could tell. He didnât like that he could, that it was instinctual and nothing else.Â
They were also plying you with shit tea, of course you werenât going to like it. He watched as one bloke let it steep for a full fifteen minutes and then presented you with what must have been the bitterest lukewarm tea to ever pass through the base. An older secretary took the opposite approach and handed you a cup of barely brewed tea with approximately four tablespoons of sugar in.Â
Absolutely bloody foul.Â
Horrific crimes committed in your name, and you swallowed them with a smile.Â
And you smiled a lot. From the tiniest twitch of your lips when you were alone, to a grin so big he could see all your teeth, that your eyes squinched closed.Â
You nearly always had headphones onâwired earbuds dangling from the collar of your shirt as you walked down the hall, or over ear headphones looped around your neck at your desk, usually pop, occasionally 70s rock or alternative spitting from the speakers.Â
You talked a lot, and your voice carried. One of those truisms about Americans, you could be heard long before you were seen even if you werenât being particularly loud. He didnât need to be close to hear you, and he found himself thinking one afternoon good. It would be easier to keep track of you.Â
He liked your voice, anyway, liked your laugh, liked to hear you say English phrases in that accent of yours that made them sound ridiculous.Â
You could likely give Soap a run for a world record of useless chatter. Anyone who walked into your office was subject to your stream of consciousness if they lingered long enough.Â
Lonely, he might have called it. But you were new, to the base, and to the country. Your only connections were those you were attempting to craft with stuffy intelligence officers who sometimes seemed to regard you as below them.Â
He found his thoughts drifting to the sound of your voice once heâd left you for the day, replaying things heâd heard you say in the period of observation he allowed himself, like the tune of a lullaby. It calmed him.Â
The resentment in his chest festered like a badly healed wound. You were nothing but a distraction, a thorn stabbed into his side, stealing his focus from nearly everything that was more important.Â
That used to be more important.Â
Now his every thought was asterisked by you.Â
Distracted.Â
He didnât do well with it.Â
He didnât like that he could feel the newly rended hole in his chest corroding and throbbing when he wasnât near you, suffocating him. Heâd felt worse in his life, so he could mostly ignore it.Â
Simon decided that the nature of the bond was at least neutral. You were not a threat. Â
He was tired, anyway, of constantly thinking about your back to the door, your headphones playing too loudly.Â
After you left one evening in mid spring, he moved your desk.Â
Simon sat in your dark office for longer than he should have, letting the pain ease out of his chest.Â
It was enough to be where you had once been.Â
That was as close as he cared to be.Â
He fixed the radiator before he closed the door again.Â
.
.
.Â
He went by Ghost, you learned eventually.Â
His was a redacted, blacked out name in the files on your computer, so Ghost seemed less a name than a description. You briefly scanned the ops he had been on. It was a horrifyingly long list, most of them totally classified or excised beyond comprehensibility. And those were only the missions you could see, likely his involvement in many ops had been scrubbed entirely.Â
It was clear that he was good at his job, though it left you to wonder what he had been doing in the administration wing of the base, let alone peering into your office like a silent wraith.Â
It should have been terrifying to find him looming in your doorway. His massive frame had blotted out the corridor behind him. Mostly in black, a skull mask covering his face. You hadnât been able to see his eyes in the low lighting. But you had only felt curiosity, apprehension, a delicate wrenching in your gut.Â
Something that a different person might liken to butterflies. Absolutely absurd, but nonetheless true.Â
Fear, afterward, of course, that youâd missed some kind of order or request.Â
It had also been a while since someone stared so openly at you, since youâd felt the urge to duck your head, obscure the scars littered across your skin. You never had before, and you wouldnât have started then. You wore them proudly. Most bore their soulmateâs scars better than their own, and you were no exception.Â
It had become a rarity, really, in recent years that anyone spared you more than a glance. Being surrounded by military personnel who had seen worse, might have had worse on their own skin, meant you didnât stand out.
When you mentioned the incident to Laswell, worried that some kind of disciplinary report, during your first month at this post no less, was headed your way, she had only shook her head. âThatâs just Ghost. He probably didnât say anything. You get used to it.âÂ
The base, especially among the operators, was filled with odd personalities with even odder quirks, so you decided not to question it. You had only nodded, and said, âOkay.âÂ
Laswell had smiled. âYouâll do well here.âÂ
You suspected you were being watched in the weeks following the incident, though you couldnât say why at first. The suspicion was confirmed when you arrived one blissfully sunny spring morning to find your office warm and your desk moved. Your other furniture was rearranged neatly around it. You rounded it, dropping your bag as you went, half expecting to find a note.Â
There was nothing, and you started to rotate it back, a bit irritated, when you paused and sat. The new angle gave you a clear view of the door and window. The sun hit your face without causing a glare on your screens. The monitors had been lowered ever so slightly so you could easily see over them.
You left your desk in its new position. It was better that way.Â
Ghost appeared in your office that afternoon as suddenly as he had left it.Â
You sensed that heâd been there for a long time when you finally noticed him in the doorway, that you were only seeing him because he wanted you to.
You smiled and turned away from a report. A welcome reprieve for your strained eyes and hunched back.Â
âHi. Something I can help you with, Lieutenant?âÂ
This time, he stepped into your office, grasped your offer with both hands.Â
The room seemed to shrink and adjust to his size. He was more massive than you remembered, in height and breadth. His eyes didnât leave yours, a deep blackened honey brown half hidden by skull. Neither of you looked away.
âHave I passed?âÂ
His head tilted ever so slightly. When he spoke his voice was like an iron rod shoved down your spine. Deep and jagged and rough, it settled between your ribs, in the pit of your stomach. âPassed?âÂ
âYour test?âÂ
âThink Iâm testinâ you?âÂ
âYou moved my desk.âÂ
He didnât answer for a long moment, still not dropping your gaze. The silence lasted so long you began to think he wouldnât answer at all. âPractically had your back to the door,â he said eventually, as though that explained it.Â
It conjured the image of Ghost creeping around the base in the dead of night to adjust offices into more tactical configurations and you had to bite the inside of your cheek to keep the giggle in your throat from bubbling out.  Â
You nodded and then shrugged instead. âI guess I donât think about things like that.âÂ
âShould.â
âMaybe.âÂ
âEspecially in the field.âÂ
âI donât do field work.âÂ
He nodded slowly and finally took his eyes off yours, glancing around the room again. When his lashes caught the light, you saw that they were a light blond.Â
âWelcome to sit,â you offered, taking up a pen and a pad of yellow paper. âGhost.â Â
He didnât sit, but he didn't leave either. When he remained mute and motionless, you looked back at your report and continued working, resigned to the new addition to your office.Â
Minutes passed in silence, with only the scratch of your pencil over paper, the tapping of computer keys, for company.Â
All at once, the room sighed, and when you looked up, he was gone.Â
Ghost was strange, slightly off putting.Â
You liked him.
Maybe, you thought, heâd come back.Â
.
.
.
Ghost visited regularly after that.Â
Sometimes he simply stood at the door and watched you work.Â
His boots were so silent that you often didnât know he was there until he was leaving again. It felt as though he often melted into nothing but shadow, but it wasnât an uncomfortable feeling.Â
You didnât feel watched, so much as observed, minded.
But the lengthy silences began to wear thin, so you started talking to him. Â
Talked at him, more like, about anything that came to mind.Â
The shit weather and how cold you always were. Recounted phone calls with your sister and noted things youâd seen on your commute. You told him of your slightly creepy neighbor who would follow you occasionally down high street when you did your weekly shopping trip, but that was probably harmless.
You were sure he wasnât actually listening, his eyes focused somewhere in the middle distance as he stood statuesque in the middle of your office. Â
The visits were occasionally broken up by operations that could last days or weeks, once up to a month. Time passed either way, but you found it passed more easily when you could reliably count on a visit from Ghost. Hearing his voice in staticky communications wasnât the same. A blinking green dot on a map that you tracked just a little more closely than the others.Â
Ghost sat down for the first time toward the middle of a particularly miserable and cold spring afternoon. He sighed as he did, the only sign of any feeling. Almost a resignation in the soft cut of it.Â
You didnât comment on it, just chatted as you usually did, buoyed in a way that you could not explain.Â
He started to bring you coffee, done up to your preference, always when you were hitting the midday lag.Â
In exchange, you left offerings at the edge of your desk. Baked goods, protein bars, chips, sweetsâ which disappeared when you looked away from him. You noted what went first so you could invest in it. Chocolate went more frequently.Â
But Ghost, whether he was listening or not, made you feel less alone. The ache of loneliness in your heart eased, and maybe that said more about you than him.Â
If he was around, he usually slipped in while you ate lunch. He didnât eat with you, the mask never moved, but you began cooking extra in the evenings, leaving tupperware containers at the edge of your desk in addition to brownies wrapped in waxpaper, chocolate chip cookies sprinkled with sea salt. âDonât have to,â he always said.Â
âWant to,â you answered, and then received the empty, clean container from the day before as though it were an offering.
Your office always smelled like tobacco and tea for hours after he left, a comforting combination that you began to wish you could bottle.Â
He didnât appear one day at his usual allotted, precise time. You figured something came up or he finally got tired of you, but he turned up instead late in the afternoon. Â
âSorry,â he said as he sat, without explanation, a paper cup of coffee steaming at the edge of your desk like it appeared there by his will alone. Â
âOh,â you answered. âYou didnât have toââ
âDid,â he said simply. ââave you eaten?â
âYep. Got something for you, too.âÂ
He settled back. âNeighbor still botherinâ you?âÂ
You blinked in surprise, the slightly creepy neighbor had not spoken to you in a few days. âOh. . .IâYou were listening.â
He tilted his head. ââCourse I was, bird.â He leveled you with a look. âSo?â
âNot recently. Not in a couple days.â
âGood. Let us know if he does, yeah?â
Then he sat back and waited, shoulders relaxed as though attending a sermon, but content with silence anyway.Â
When you glanced up from a report a while later, for clarification on a mission detail that he happened to be on, his eyes were closed.Â
It felt akin to having a wolf willingly curl up in your lap, blood wet maw dripping peacefully onto the floor.
.
.
.
When you turned from watering your plants one innocuous spring day, you found Ghost entering your office with a different mask on. A soft black balaclava. You could see his eyes and brows, the bridge of his nose and the thin, bruised skin beneath his eyes.
You froze and then smiled at him, tried hard not to stare. His eyes were always pretty but now you felt you could actually see him. Blond brows and lashes, his irises were lighter, amber honey in the yellow light of your bug lamp, as Ghost had called it one afternoon without a shred of humor.Â
It was raining, and the dim light made the small space cozier than usual. The patchwork blanket was around your shoulders, a ward against the chill bleeding beneath the window.Â
In his usual chair, youâd laid a gift.Â
He pointed to the blanket you had carefully folded there earlier.Â
âItâs for you. I knitted it.âÂ
He froze, hand half extended toward it. You swept past him around your desk again, inundated with the scent of black tea and cigarettes as you went. His was alternating black and dark blue squares to your brightly colored purple and teal. âJust in case you were cold. Youâre always so buttoned up after all,â you joked. âAnd you fixed my radiator this winter. So itâs a thank you, too.â
Ghost only moved it to the back of the chair. You hadnât expected him to take it, really, but his gloved fingers lingered on it for a moment, rubbing the fabric gently. âHow dâyou know it was me that fixed it?âÂ
âWho else would have?âÂ
He grunted. âYou knit?âÂ
âWhen I canât sleep,â you answered. âKeeps my hands and brain busy.â
His brows furrowed, and seeing even that small movement felt like seeing him naked, like seeing something he didnât want you to. You averted your eyes, heat crawling up your neck.Â
âCanât sleep?â His fingers slid off the blanket and he sat.
You shrugged. âMust seem silly to you. You see it with your own eyes. But some of the reports. . . stick with me.âÂ
Ghost considered this for a long moment. âItâs not.âÂ
âWhat?âÂ
âSilly.âÂ
The way he grunted the word made you laugh.Â
âCould I ask you something, Ghost?â
âReckon you just did.âÂ
You rolled your eyes. âAm I allotted only one question?âÂ
âJust two.âÂ
It was. . . funny. You giggled and shrugged. âGuess Iâm shit out of luck.âÂ
âAnd out of questions.â
You laughed again.Â
He surprised you by laughing too. If a low, graveled grunt counted as a laugh. You certainly counted it, a cache of swollen pride bubbling in your stomach. âGo on, then.âÂ
âWhere are you from?âÂ
The levity vanished. His brows lowered. âWhy?âÂ
You shrugged. âJust curious. Iâm not good with all the accents yet. Just canât place you.âÂ
He relaxed back into the chair again, but didn't answer.Â
The pinch of his brows, the tense line of his jaw, remained, his expression considering as he tilted his head back.Â
âWhy do you come here?â You asked instead.Â
This question he answered readily. âItâs quiet.âÂ
âThatâs one way to tell me to shut up.âÂ
He blinked and lowered his chin to meet your eyes. âNot the kind of noise I mean.âÂ
You decided not to take offense at being called noise.Â
You snorted and reached beneath your desk, taking some pride in the fact that Ghost did not tense anymore than usual when you did, withdrawing your lunch.Â
âHungry?â You asked. Â
âTryinâ to see my face?âÂ
You smiled. âNever,â you answered, âNot sure I want to see what youâre hiding under there.âÂ
The rain tapped against the window as you popped the thermal lid off. Â
âWhy are you here?â He asked as you folded your legs beneath you on the chair and tucked the blanket around them. Ghost rose without asking and twisted the knob of the radiator beneath the window a bit higher.
You waved your fork, indicating the office. âFairly positive I work here. But perhaps base security is more lax than I thought.âÂ
He sighed, a long suffering sound. âEngland, smartarse.âÂ
You smile and dig your fork into last nightâs spaghetti bolognese. The steam caressed your face in a warm puff as you lifted a bite. âIâm on loan to Laswell.âÂ
âOn loan?â He asked as he settled back into the chair, broad shoulders pressed to the wall behind him, against the blanket. It slid over his elbow a little, curled over his forearm. He didnât move it.Â
When you lifted your gaze to his, his stare was piercing, brows lowered, furrowed. You imagined he must be frowning. Â
âTemporary replacement for whoever used to be in this office,â you explained. âShe needed someone quickly, who she could trust.âÂ
Ghost folded his arms across his chest, something more tense than usual in the movement. âHow long are you on loan for, then?âÂ
You shrugged, twisted your fork into the noodles. âItâs unclear. So, for now, indefinitely.â You smiled, âHopefully not through another winter, though, I donât think Iâm cut out for the rain and cold.â
His shoulders eased, but only marginally. If it werenât for all the hours heâd passed in your office, you werenât sure you would have caught it at all.Â
âFrom somewhere warm?â
âWarmer than here. Especially in the winter.âÂ
âMust be nice, that.âÂ
âHas its perks. But the summer is its own kind of hell.âÂ
âOne you enjoy.âÂ
âBut of course. I like feeling like Iâm baking alive.âÂ
He snorted again.
You ate in silence for a bit. The quiet had become comfortable between you somewhere along the way, silken and gentle.Â
When you were scraping the last bit of sauce from the bottom of the container, Ghost said, âManchester.âÂ
âHm?â
âWhere Iâm from.â
His voice was low; he wasnât looking at you, eyes trained on the door instead.Â
âManchester,â you repeated, trying to place it on the map of the UK in your mind. âAnd do you all sound sort of likeââ
You were about to say like you have gravel in your mouth but he makes an affected noise, that stiff grunt again. âAre you laughing at me?â
âItâs your fucking accent.â
âMy accent?â You asked incredulously. âHave you heard yourself?âÂ
âGot a thick one, bird.â He imitated your voice. âManchester.â The sharp rhotic r sound was like a gunshot in his mouth, each letter enunciated to the point of being butchered.Â
You scoffed, not bothering to fight your smile. âTakes one to know one, I guess.âÂ
âSuppose it does.âÂ
âFucking Brits,â you said, without any venom. âI canât do anything right according to you all.âÂ
He tilted his head, something predatory in it. It made your heart flutter a little. âWhoâs tellinâ you you canât do something?âÂ
You sighed, long suffering. âMy coworkers. Canât make tea, apparently. I donât care for it and everyone keeps insisting I just make it wrong.â
âThey make it wrong too.âÂ
You groaned. âNot you too.âÂ
Ghost rose to take his leave as you snapped the lid back onto the now empty container.Â
âIâll show you how to make a proper cup sometime.âÂ
You paused, a warm surprise sweeping into your chest, and decided not to linger on this solitary acknowledgement that Ghost would return to your office. âBig fan?âÂ
âI love tea.âÂ
It made you laugh. âOf course, English afterall.âÂ
He nodded, just once, and started toward the door. âGhost?â You called.Â
Ghost turned and you slid another tupperware container across your desk. âFor you.âÂ
He stared at it, for a moment too long, as he always did, like he was telling himself to leave it. âDidnât have to.âÂ
âI know.â You nodded at it again and then then ducked behind your computer screens. âI always want to.âÂ
Ghost moved so silently that you didnât hear or see him take it, but when you looked up again he and the container at the edge of your desk were gone.Â
.
.
.
It should be a good thing.Â
You would be gone soon enough, none the wiser of who Ghost was. Of what you were to each other.Â
But it didnât sit well. It was a new thing to nag at the back of his mind, finding your office empty, you becoming a ghost in your own right. He hated the ache in his chest, the thought of you so far away. He could only assume youâd be stationed back in the US.
The thought festered, burrowed.Â
âLaswell.â
She jumped, hand going beneath her desk before she spotted Ghost in the corner of her office. She sighed and closed her eyes, fingertips rubbing her eyes instead.Â
âGhost,â she sighed, âDonât do that.âÂ
Simon said your name, and Laswell lowered her hands to look at him. âHow long has she got?âÂ
âWhat do you mean?â
âSaid sheâs on loan. I want to know how long.â
Laswell considered him; Ghost waited. He wouldnât explain himself, and Laswell knew that.Â
âMaybe as long as a year.â She tilted back in her chair and asked anyway. âWhy?âÂ
Ghost didnât answer, slipping back out of her office and down the hall.Â
You were still in your office, hunched over the desk, lavender headphones pulled down around your neck. He watched you for a long moment, eyes tracing over scars that belonged to him. It was jarring each time to see pain he experienced threaded over your skin. It made him feel exposed by proxy.
As he watched, you lifted a hand and rubbed your neck with a wince, fingers lingering on the long scar slashed at the base of your throat. The grimace faded from your face and your expression receded into the impassive, blank, focused slate it always settled into as you continued working.Â
When he sat down in your office, you just shot him a tired smile and continued working.Â
He walked you to your car around midnight.Â
âTell us if youâre here this late again,â he said, not looking at you.Â
âGhost,â you said. âItâs almost enough to make me think you like me.âÂ
âDonât get ahead of yourself,â he answered.Â
You just laughed.Â
.
.
.
âTea?âÂ
You jumped, just as Laswell had, only your hand didnât go beneath the desk. Nothing there to reach for, he knew, your vulnerability like a beacon, or a stain.Â
It would need remedied.Â
But first, this.Â
It was the sixth time in two weeks that you were at your desk well past when everyone else had gone home. Â
âJesus Christ.âÂ
âUnfortunately not.âÂ
You laughed; his shoulders eased. âGhost,â you said. âTo what do I owe the pleasure?â You tilted your head. âIâm starting to think youâre spying on me.âÂ
âWhatâre you still doing âere?âÂ
âWhat are you doing wandering around our wing after hours?âÂ
Not a line of questioning he was keen on following. That just being near a place you had been earlier in the day was enough to loosen that fucking tether in his chest. That he was worried incessantly about you being alone at night.
âOfferinâ to make you a tea,â he answered. âObviously.â Â
âObviously,â you echoed. âOf course.âÂ
âYouâre supposed to tell me when youâre stayinâ late.âÂ
âGhost,â you said seriously, lifting your brows, âIâm here late again today.âÂ
âHilarious, you are.âÂ
You giggled again. âAre you really offering to make me tea?âÂ
He nodded. âCâmon then.â
You smiled and shrugged the blanket off your shoulders. He waited while you locked your computer and stood.
Simon allowed you to lead toward the breakroom where heâd observed the many cups of tea youâd politely swallowed from well meaning coworkers, who left it to steep for too long or too short, added too much sugar and milk, or left it totally plain.Â
The overhead lights were too bright, a blue-white glare that made you frown and squint. Your nose scrunched up in distaste. There were circles beneath your eyes, exhausted loops that matched his own. Â
âSo,â you prompted, leaning against the counter, âHow does one make a proper cuppa?â
âNot bad,â he said of your accent, lifting the electric kettle from the hook to fill with water. âLittle posh.âÂ
âIâve been practicing.â
He grunted, and put the kettle on, before rooting through the cabinet above the sink for tea bags. A grim selection awaited him, but heâd make due with what was available.
âAh, so you boil the water. I was under the impression you could just stick it all in the microwave.âÂ
He involuntarily made a pained sound. âFucking hell,â he muttered, âThat your usual method?âÂ
You bit the inside of your cheek, poorly concealing a laugh. âI scandalized a data analyst with that joke.â You cup your chin in your hand, peer up at him from beneath a thick fringe of lashes. âI do know how to boil water, Iâll have you know.â
âGot a head start then.âÂ
You laughed again, shoulders shaking. Simon watched the corner of your mouth curl, and it eased something in his chest. You were painfully close, the woodsy, floral scent of your perfume curled in the air. Your elbow brushed his. He didnât know how you could be unaware of the bond at that moment, when being that close to you felt like being lit on fire. He wanted to reach for you so badly that he had to clench his fist closed to avoid it.Â
If someone were to ask him to move away from you right then, it would end badly. Bloody.Â
The thin, needle sharp connection ached, begged.Â
Simon ignored it. Â
When you glanced up, he looked away. He could feel your eyes on his face, and didnât mind the scrutiny in it. He didnât mind you watching him, and wondered what you saw.Â
âI like being able to see your eyes,â you said, just as the kettle clicked off.Â
He met your gaze, disarmed by the declaration. Your features had softened, melted into a dangerous fondness. âWhy?âÂ
âYou have pretty eyes,â you shrugged. âAnd itâs hard to see you with the other mask.â You shifted, watching him lift the kettle, pour the hot water into a mug and over the teabag heâd dropped into it.Â
âYou can tell me to fuck off, if you want,â you began carefully, fingertips drumming nervously against the counter. âWhy do you wear it?âÂ
Simon watched the teabag bob on the surface of the water, thin amber trails unfurling, coloring the water slowly brown. âFive minutes,â he nodded at the tea. âDonât touch it. None of that dunking shite.âÂ
âYes, sir,â you agreed. âFive minutes, no touching.âÂ
He huffed, and your smile widened. You bumped your shoulder against his. The contact only lasted a second or two, but the relief it provided was so intense that he nearly choked on it.Â
The pain, softened by your proximity, returned immediately, crept down into the soft ligaments between his bones. He felt the loss in the roots of his teeth, the middle of his chest; it was like losing his breath in a different way, being suckerpunched in the solar plexus, knocked on his ass.
âTo hide my face.âÂ
âYour identity, you mean.âÂ
âMy identity,â he agreed.
âWhy?âÂ
He released a long, slow breath, and thought about telling you to piss off, maybe even just to see how youâd take it. Were you as good as your word? Would you let the subject drop?Â
Instead, he said, âThere are a lot of bad people in the world, bird.âÂ
You pursed your lips, fingers toying with the teabag string, flicking the tab at the end with your nail. There was another question swimming in your eyes, but you let it go unasked, dropping your eyes from his instead.Â
âYouâve seen more of them than most,â you said. âI would guess.âÂ
âPart of the job.âÂ
Your mouth curled a little, lashes fluttering against your cheek. âHm. But yâknow something? I think Iâd know you anywhere,â you said, without a hint of shame or irony. âItâs all in your eyes.âÂ
Before Simon could respond, you hid a yawn in your sleeve and rubbed your hand over your face, exhaustion layered in thick rings beneath your eyes. âEven if this is gross,â you indicate the tea, âAt least it will keep me awake.âÂ
âI take offense to that.âÂ
You laughed again. âHm. Sorry, Lieutenant.â You leaned in, âIt smells so nice, so why does it taste like shit?âÂ
He rolled his eyes. âIâll make you a coffee if itâs shit.âÂ
âYouâre kind.â This time when you leaned your shoulder against his, you left it there. The empty soreness like a bruise inside his ribs loosened again. For the first time in a while, he was left with the absence of pain. Â
When the tea was done steeping, he did yours with a bit of honey. There was no way youâd take it plain and like it, but he drew the line at milk. Especially the blasphemy that was the military issued powdered milk in a canister that sat on the counter. Abso-fucking-lutely not.Â
âThere you are,â he said, âCup of tea.âÂ
âA proper cuppa,â you tried again. It was a little less posh this time.Â
He huffed. âBetter all the time.âÂ
âAnd I have you to thank.âÂ
Your face creased as you took the cup between your palms, an unreadable expression flitting across your features. Then your mouth twisted to the side, a sure sign you were attempting to keep some emotion or thought in check.Â
Your shoulder was still pressed heavily against his.Â
âThanks, Ghost.âÂ
ââS just tea.âÂ
You shook your head and lifted the cup, blowing gently on the surface before you took a tiny sip. He watched your face, watched your throat move as you swallowed, the flickering web of your lashes. A step up, at least, from all the shit tea from your coworkers that make your brows tense in an effort to conceal a grimace. âOne good thing has come of this,â you said after a moment of contemplation.Â
âWhatâs thaâ?âÂ
âI know how to make tea for you now.âÂ
âLike it?âÂ
âI love it.âÂ
You briefly tilted your head onto his shoulder, then pulled away entirely. The flood of discomfort was worse than before. His muscles spasmed around it in a violent convulsion. âI mean that really.âÂ
He breathed out, through it. âI donât take honey.âÂ
You studied the contents of the cup, tilting it one way and then the other, like something important laid at the bottom of the porcelain well.Â
âNoted.âÂ
Sure enough, the next day, a hot cup was waiting for him, which he drank as you chatted from behind your computer, decidedly, pointedly, giving him the privacy to do so.Â
.
.
.
Things settled into a pleasant rhythm.Â
A regimented, regular existence that you had long ago learned to embrace. The base became home more than the tiny apartment you rented and spent only enough time to sleep, bathe, and cook in.Â
You timed your days to the ebb and flow of the base, to visits to your office, debriefings and conference rooms, the restless energy of so many people in one place moving. You breathed around absences, the pockets of emptiness that sometimes cropped up. The loneliness that felt like an unfillable pit in your stomach.Â
People often saw your scars and thought not to bother. Why would fate have marked you so heavily if you werenât meant to find your pair? The scars meant nothing, really. They were no more significant than anyone elseâs. Your chances of running into your soulmate was no higher than someone who had accrued no scars from their bond.Â
You were a stopping off point, a bit of fun, but not someone to invest time and effort into, not when the reminder that someone else might come along and render it all moot was so visible, so literally in their face. To look at you was to be reminded of that bond waiting in the wings, for them and for you, and that you could only ever be temporary.Â
It made friendships hard too. Some were jealous, others thought there couldnât be room for anyone else in your life. You were important to no one.
It had been proven to you time and again, and you werenât sure what kept you hopeful that someone would one day see past it. So when Sergeant Davies stuck his head in your office one Friday afternoon long after Ghost had departed your office for the day, and asked you out, you found yourself saying yes.Â
âWould you like to go out sometime?â He asked, hand rubbing the back of his neck. âJust round the pub for drinks?âÂ
âOh,â you said. âIââÂ
It had been a long time since anyone took interest in you. Youâd only talked to him a few times before, but Davies was handsome in a boyish way and sweet and you liked him well enough, you found yourself hesitating for half a second. To your horror, your mind flashed to Ghost, stomach lurching painfully, a knot of tension fisting itself in your chest.Â
You looked at his usual chair, empty now, seeing his large frame sprawled there anyway, thighs spread wide, arms crossed over his chest, eyes steady and focused, locked onto you with an intensity and constancy you still werenât used to.
Heat bloomed in your lungs, crept up your neck. You glanced away, back at Davies waiting at the door.Â
âYeah,â you answered firmly. âSure.âÂ
âBrilliant,â he grinned. âHow about tonight?âÂ
Your belly gave another sour squirm that you ignored; it had just been a long time, that was all. âIâm free.âÂ
âBrilliant,â he said again. âIâll text you.âÂ
âOkay.âÂ
His grin was crooked and self satisfied as he exited your office.Â
So you found yourself walking off the base with Davies later that evening. You found yourself laughing and hopeful in a local pub that you hadnât gotten the chance to explore yet, busy as you were, the base a tide that tugged you back again and again. Like a magnet, you wanted to be there.Â
And all of it came to nothing, the moment Davies saw the extent of the scarring when you took him home. It wasnât just your face, it was your hands and arms and chest and belly. Your whole body was marked, dogeared for someone else. He looked down at you in your bed, his head framed by your ceiling fan and you saw the moment it clicked. The moment it wouldnât work.Â
âSomeone out there is really looking for you,â he said. âYouâre lucky.âÂ
âNo more than anyone else,â you countered. âYou know thatâs not how it works.âÂ
âI know,â he said, pulling on his shirt. âIâm sorry.âÂ
âItâs okay,â you said before he kissed your cheek and retreated.Â
Still, you didnât sleep, just laid on your side, half undressed, staring out at a sky that slowly lightened, stars fading, wondering if perhaps your truest fate was to be lonely for your whole life.Â
You didnât hate your scars, or your soulmate. But sometimes you thought it would be easier if you didnât have one at all.Â
.
.
.
Monday.Â
There was a knife in Simonâs pocket.Â
Not unusual in and of itself, he carried several at all times, slipped into his sleeves and belt and boot.Â
The one in his pocket, though, was for you.
A gift, a contingency, and an offer all wrapped in one.Â
The knowledge that it was yours was an uncomfortable weight in his chest. It meant admitting he cared enough to procure it, test it, hand it over.Â
It wasnât quite your typical lunch hour, but Ghost was headed to your office anyway. It was sunny, for once, and he expected to find you taking an early break anyway, leaning back in your chair with your headphones on, absorbing the rare rays.Â
And, he wanted to be done with it, to stop tapping his pocket repeatedly, checking the blade was still there, like it might have run away.Â
Soap had noticed his fidgeting as they all sat through a briefing on intelligence reports with Laswell that morning. Ghost had forced his hand still, exuded a forced calm, but Johnnyâs eyes hadnât turned away.Â
When he arrived at your office, deliberately rustling against the doorjamb so as not to startle you, you glanced up and smiled tightly and his plan vanished.Â
Something was wrong. The blinds were closed, your office an unusual sea of gray air. Your shoulders were caved inward protectively, your expression wan and closed. Your smile didnât reach your eyes, your voice was rough when you said, âHey, Ghost.â Â
Simon took his usual seat, watching you type something, decidedly not looking at him. He watched you, the set of your mouth and eyes. He waited for your chatter to begin but it didn't.Â
âAll right?âÂ
âHm?â
âYouâre quiet.âÂ
âOh, only one of us is allowed to be quiet?â You joked, but it came out a bit brittle, and worn.
There were, he noticed as he looked at you, circles beneath your eyes. âWhat âappened?âÂ
You looked up again, and shook your head. âIâm just tired.âÂ
âTry again.âÂ
Frustration crept into your features. âWho said I want to tell you?â With that, you ducked behind your monitors.
Simon waited, but you did not reemerge.Â
He stood, and rounded your desk. You glanced up then, leaning back when you found him so close. âJesus, GhostââÂ
âNice weather.âÂ
âI can see that.âÂ
âAnd you arenât out there sunninâ yourself? Something horrible must have happened.âÂ
Your mouth twisted to the side and you glanced away. âI. . .Iâm just being dramatic.â
âCâmon, then.âÂ
You blinked up at him. âWhere are we going?âÂ
He didnât answer, but you rose anyway when he tilted his head toward the door. Simon snagged the blanket youâd knitted for him months ago from its place along the back of his chair, finally with a proper purpose, and carried it over his arm.Â
âLunch.âÂ
You grabbed it and followed him down the hall. Simon shouldered open an external door and held it open for you, the scent of your skin, the warm brush of your body so close to his as you ducked under his arm like a beacon, a light he wanted to follow.Â
Carefully, you nudged your shoulder against his as you walked. The familiar sharp, sweet pang whenever you brushed too close together settled in his chest. He wondered if you felt it too, if you felt that sickly flutter in your chest, or if his suspicion that he was holding one end of an untethered bond in his hand was right.Â
Just his luck.Â
Didnât matter though.Â
He ticked his elbow out a little, and after a moment, you pushed your hand against the inside of his arm. His shoulders loosened; his jaw unclenched. The pain in his chest settled.Â
The absence of the ache was intense; he was so used to being in near constant pain.Â
âSo, what are we doing?âÂ
âWalking.âÂ
âI can see that.âÂ
âWhyâre you askinâ, then, bird?âÂ
You huffed but didnât ask anymore questions as he led you down one concrete pathway.Â
The sky was a flawless robinâs egg blue, only a wispy, thin line of cloud on the very distant horizon. The distant shouts of drill instructors snapped in the warm summer air. Your shoulders drooped as you walked, eyes fluttering closed for a few seconds at a time as you tilted your face to the sun, inhaling deeply.Â
He led you around the last building in a long line of barracks and brought you to a halt. The only thing beyond was a chainlink fence that marked the edge of the base. A faint breeze coated him in the smell of your skin, settled deep in the well of his lungs. He took a breath, watched your lashes flutter.Â
Your thumb stroked a pattern against the inside of his arm, lazy and slow. âYouâve got a soft spot for me, Ghost.âÂ
He didnât deny it.Â
âWhat are we doing back here?âÂ
Ghost pulled away from you with some effort and spread the blanket over the grass. He sat on the concrete steps that led to the back door of the unused barracks.
You sat on the blanket, started to open your lunch and then flopped back in the sun instead. âA usual haunt?âÂ
âSometimes.âÂ
âSecretâs safe with me.âÂ
âMind if I smoke?âÂ
âNo.â Then, âI wonât look.â Â
He grunted in acknowledgement, rolled the bottom of his mask up, carton of cigarettes and lighter pulled from the depths of a trouser pocket. Simon watched the rise and fall of your chest, tracing the latticework of scars over your face. They looked better on you, he decided. Not as noticeable as his own, faded and light, pencil through wax paper instead of the thick groves of his own.Â
They glinted a little in the sun, like the scales of an iridescent fish.Â
Your eyes remained peacefully closed, soaking up the sun like a long deprived plant. Sweat beaded along your forehead, and when you pushed up your sleeves, Ghost was reminded that all of you matched all of him.
He recognized a burn mark on your forearm that belonged to him, a cut that wrapped halfway around your wrist. He was pretty sure the burn mark was from a mishandled flare, the wrist scar from a rope that had gotten tangled and burned him.Â
Simon wanted to reach down and cup the side of your throat, feel the soft, sun warmed skin beneath his fingers. He wondered if your scars felt the same as his own, rough and grooved.Â
Probably not, they were imitations, ungenerous sketchings of his own.Â
Heâd like to map them all against his own, find out if he bore any of yours. He wouldnât have noticed something small that you might have collected yourself. A childhood fall, a careless burn while cooking.Â
He watched the delicate flex of muscle in your forearms. Your shirt was a little askew, more faded marks left like a tracery of veins on your chest and collarbone and shoulder. It was fucking awful, a wrenching feeling in his chest, to know all that had been inflicted on him, had fallen on you too.Â
He wondered about the pain again, imagined you writhing with terror and agony and confusion, every gunshot wound and burn and slash he received an echo inside you. Cigarette burns dotting your arms and wrists when you were just a child, months of pain without end when he was captured and tortured and his life was irrevocably changed.Â
Simon wanted to ask, needed to know just how much damage heâd inflicted. But the words stuck in his throat. A fear of knowing, if he asked about the pain, maybe heâd hear other things too, how much you must hate him and didnât know it was the man in front of you your hate should be directed at.
When he stubbed out his cigarette on the heel of his boot and rolled his mask back down, you blinked into the sun and exhaled, long and slow, and then sat up, leaning back on your palms.Â
âWhat âappened?â He asked.
Your mouth twitched into your usual, if a bit more sheepish, smile. âYouâre like a dog with a bone, you know that?âÂ
âAffirmative,â he said.Â
You rolled your eyes and set up straight, brushing your palms together before reaching for your lunch. âI brought something for you.âÂ
âStalling.âÂ
âPushy,â you countered, giggling, rummaging around in your bag. Your smile faded as you pulled free one of the usual containers, what looked like lasagne within. He watched the edge of your mouth curl, the scar slitted along one side pulling at your expression. âI went on a date this weekend.âÂ
Ice slid down his spine, curled in a viscous circle in his gut. âBad date?âÂ
âNo,â you said, shaking your head adamantly, staring down at the container in your lap. âNo, it went really well.â You glanced up at him and then dug in your bag again, passing another one to him along with a fork. âUntil he saw myââ You fidgeted with your sleeve and then yanked it down. The other followed suit. âMy marks. My scars.âÂ
âHeâs a prick.âÂ
âNo, he wasnât,â you shook your head. âItâs happened before. They see the extent of it, and itâs like something biological clicks. Iâm off limits.â You sat your food to the side and wrapped your arms around your knees. âEven though Iâm no more likely to find mine than anyone else.âÂ
You looked very small, and alone at that moment.Â
âI know itâs not my soulmateâs fault,â you said quietly. âI know that. I know that. And I donât blame them for it. But sometimes I get so lonely I justâI wishâI wish I didnât have one. Sometimes I wish I could hate them.â
The chill spreads outward. Â
It was confirmation enough. If you knew, you would hate him. All that repressed, sentimentalized resentment would come bubbling up the moment you were actually faced with the person who so fundamentally changed the course of your life.Â
He looked at his scars winking in the sun on your skin and felt a self hatred so intense it nearly made him flinch. He wished he could crawl out of that grave and kill them all over again, slower, just for this.Â
You glanced up and smiled tightly. âBut Iâm a hopeless romantic, and dramatic. It was just disappointing. I always have hope someone will see past it.â You ran your hand over the blanket and unfolded yourself to finally begin eating. âThis helped, though,â you said. âThank you, Ghost.â You nodded at the food in his hands, averted your gaze again.Â
And even though you could easily glance at him, Simon pushed up his mask and popped open the lid of the lasagne still warm between his hands.Â
You ate together for the first time, in silence in the sun. You closed your eyes, kept your face pointed up and away, a cool breeze ruffling your shirt sleeves.Â
âHave you found yours?âÂ
Simon looked at you, the edge of your jaw, the soft shadows your lashes cast over your ruined cheek. âDonât think someone like me is meant for one.âÂ
You nodded. âMe either.â
.
.
.
He walked you back to your office.Â
You felt better, settled, but he sort of just had that affect on you, you were coming to find.Â
Ghost smelled like sun and freshly mowed grass and cigarette smoke. His shoulder kept touching yours, something in your chest lurching each time, like a rib bone had come loose and was knocking against your heart and lungs.Â
Ghost carried the blanket back, folded it and set it carefully along the back of what had become his chair.Â
You sat and turned, expecting to find him already silently gone as was his way.Â
Instead, he was very close and depositing something on your desk.Â
Matte black, compact, deadly, cold to the touch.Â
A folded pocket knife sat at the edge of your desk. Ghost loomed over you, his shadow curling around your edges.Â
He slid it toward you, watched you fold your fingers around it. For a long moment, each of you was holding it. âWhatâs this?â You asked when he released it, gloved fingers sliding across your desk, back to his side. Â
âA knife.âÂ
âOh, really? I've never seen one before.âÂ
He rolled his eyes. âItâs for you. Iâll teach you how to use it.âÂ
âWhy?âÂ
âIn case you need to.â
âIs this about me staying late?âÂ
âNo.â He did not elaborate.Â
âYou know I received firearm training. I can shoot a gun. Isnât a knife a littleââÂ
âBut you donât carry a gun.âÂ
âNo,â you agreed. âI donât.â Â
He nodded as though that explained it. âRight.âÂ
You considered it, flipped it open. Deadly, shiny blade newly sharpened and oiled and well cared for. It was odd to be given a weapon, and yet unsurprising where Ghost was concerned. You glanced up, watched his dark, intense eyes flick over your face. You werenât sure what he was looking for, but his brows knitted the longer you stared at each other. Concern, weariness.
âOkay.â
His shoulders loosened. âTomorrow.âÂ
âTomorrow,â you agreed.Â
.
.
.
If you thought you would receive one lesson in knifework and be done with it, you didnât know Ghost very well.Â
You only ran drills first, as though Ghost were making sure the physical fitness exam you had to pass once a year was up to scratch. You proved again and again that you could run without getting too winded, disassemble, load, and fire a service weapon. When he was satisfied with that, the real training began.Â
You practiced with a rubber blade that bruised when stuck into your ribs. He did not go easy on you. You left the gym battered and bruised, sweaty and just a little bit resentful. But you could break a wrist lock hold, grapple and use your body and size to your advantage. The goal he repeatedly told you, was not to turn you into a fighter or a soldier, but give you an opportunity to get away, to run away. Â
What kind of danger he imagined you getting into between the base and your apartment you couldnât begin to imagine. But you enjoyed spending time with him, enjoyed being in the gym. You found yourself laughing when you were repeatedly slammed into the mat, knife wrested from your fingers. It was fun. And, it was good for you, you decided, even if you thought his intense insistence was a tad dramatic.Â
Ghost was a bit dramatic about certain things, you were coming to learn.
This was one of them. You were, you thought with warmth, one of the things he was a bit dramatic about. For whatever reason, youâve been tucked under his wing, into his shadow.Â
On the third week of relentlessly brutal training, you arrived at the base gym, empty as it always was, to find him holding a length of rope.Â
You eyed it warily and shifted from foot to foot, amused despite the discomfort. âWhat do you imagine is going to happen to me?âÂ
Ghost didnât answer as you set your bag down and pulled off your sweatshirt. The room was warm, close and humid, the scent of left over dregs of soldiers clogging the room for most of the day. The scent of plastic, lemon disinfectant, and sweat is thick on the air, but when you stepped toward Ghost, his familiar comforting smell of tea and cigarettes washed over you in a vacuous, orbital cloud.Â
You looked up just as his eyes slid away from you, blond lashes catching the light, skin pink around his eyes. Youâd swear it was a blush if you didnât know better. âGhost?âÂ
âBetter to be prepared, yeah?âÂ
âFor what?â All the same, you turned with a sigh.Â
After a painfully long moment he stepped close and pressed the dark material around your wrists. His body was warm behind yours for that brief moment even without touching you, like the glow of a heat lamp that made the rest of the room feel cold by comparison.Â
His gloved fingers were carefully delicate against your skin. It sent sparks skittering up your arms. What would his bare skin feel like against yours?Â
Rough, warm. Safe. Â
Itâs a thought that had curled its roots into your mind the first time you fell to the mat together and you felt his weight against yours, brief and heavy, but comforting somehow. It wasnât supposed to be, he was playing predator, it should have been panic inducing.Â
Stupid, silly.Â
If your most recently failed date had shown you anything, it was that feeling anything for anyone that had seen your scars was a failing venture. And Ghost had seen more of them now, than most. Maybe you should start wearing a mask.Â
âWhatâs the goal today?â You asked, feeling a little like you couldnât breathe. His warmth and scent and the weight of his presence was overwhelming in a way that made you want to curl into him, gladly suffocate.Â
âSame as always,â he answered drolly. âTo get away.â
âHm. I keep thinking youâll challenge me,â you teased. Â
âNot a game, bird.âÂ
âBut what am I meant to do? I canât fight.âÂ
âGet out of the bindings. Get to the door.âÂ
âIs that it?âÂ
You would swear heâs smirking. âSimple enough, aye.âÂ
It wasnât easy.Â
For the third time in a row, you landed hard on your back.Â
Ghostâs weight was heavy against you, before it lifted away. Your sweaty skin stuck to his hoodie.
Your breath comes in hard, deep pants. Your wrists ached and panic had begun to set in.Â
âOn your feet.âÂ
Clumsy as a newborn deer, you stumble to your feet. You had to be faster than him, incapacitate him. âYou wonât be getting away from me,â heâd said once, âso youâd have a chance.â It was a compliment; one that said you were doing good.Â
It didnât feel like you were doing good now.Â
By the sixth time, you felt raw and helpless, wrists caught at an odd angle beneath you. It wasnât fun; it wasnât sparring. You couldnât manage to wriggle out of the bindings and you were useless at anything heâd taught you without your hands.Â
âYouâre hurting me,â you gasped.Â
He released you immediately and the pressure in your wrists eased. It hadnât been pain, not really, just panic, just exhaustion.Â
But you knew instantly that youâd made a mistake, that he would not take it that way.Â
âShit.âÂ
.
.
.
The window was open and you were not in your office.Â
Simon paused in the doorway, noted your bag on the chair in the corner, the patchwork quilt trailing over the arm of your desk chair and spilling onto the floor. His was gone from the chair. Youâd been wandering off without him recently.Â
He turned and marched back down the hall. An administrative assistant pointed toward the external door. âGetting sun, she said,â he said. âSir.âÂ
Ghost nodded and shouldered the door open. He found you behind the barracks, lying on his blanket, staring up at a patchy sky, slices of blue peaking from between low hanging gray clouds.Â
When his shadow fell over you, you opened your eyes and squinted up at him. âGhost, youâre blocking my sun.âÂ
âNot much sun to speak of.â You grimace and frown at the sky. âYou werenât in your office.âÂ
âSorry, should have left a note.â You patted the blanket next to you. âSit.âÂ
Simon sat on the concrete steps. âWhereâs your lunch?â
âForgot it.âÂ
Worry sprouted, blossomed along his veins, ubiquitous as the pain that accompanies it.Â
âCanteen,â he said. âLetâs go.âÂ
âItâs okayââ
âWasnât a suggestion.âÂ
âYouâre bossy,â you said but didnât move, chin tilted up, eyes flitting shut again. âIâll have a big dinner.âÂ
He sighed and pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, content enough to wait you out and smoke. The clouds continued to gather, putting your beloved sun to rest for the moment. The air grew steadily thicker with humidity.Â
âGonna rain,â he commented.Â
You ignored him, eyes squinching closed harder, like you could will the sun to return. He watched you, made himself look at the bruises on your wrists and forearms, he knew there were matching ones on your ribs. They were harmless, just the usual consequence of sparring, but the ones around your wristsâthatâs a mistake he wonât soon forget.Â
When a fat raindrop landed on your arm, you sat up with a grumble. âReady now?â He asked, pulling down his mask again.Â
âI can see you wonât leave it alone.âÂ
âAffirmative,â he said.Â
You rolled your eyes and started to get to your feet, pausing when he held out a hand to you. You stared for a beat too long before gripping his hand in yours.Â
Even through his gloves, it was like being electrocuted.Â
You released his hand as soon as you could, eyes skirting his. âYour lead,â you said. âI havenât had the privilege.âÂ
He grunted, followed you closely back inside.Â
As Simonâs misfortune would have it, Johnny was still in the canteen.Â
He lasered in on the pair of you immediately, a grin growing across his face as he approached. âAch so this is where youâve been off to LT.â
Ghost herded you into line, a raucous group of new recruits halting their conversation to ogle you before their eyes flicked to his and away, conversation continued at a more subdued level. He shifted closer, between you and them, though you didnât seem to notice.
âHavenât been off anywhere,â he grumbled.Â
âWhoâs this then?âÂ
You smiled and offered your hand and name. âItâs nice to see that Ghost has bad manners with everyone.âÂ
âJohn MacTavish,â Soap said, all charm as he practically bowed. âCall me Soap.â
âSoap,â you giggled. âIâve seen you in my reports.âÂ
Soapâs gaze flicked over your face, sharp eyes making the quick calculations that had made Simon hope he wouldnât be in the canteen. âAre they yours?âÂ
âSergeantâ,â Ghost said sharply, a warning in his voice.Â
But you only laughed and touched your cheek with obvious pride as the line moved up. âNo. None of them belong to me. Theyâre nice though, right?âÂ
Simon went very still, swore his heart rate slowed. You held out your arm, showed off a sliver flash.
âVery becoming, lass.âÂ
You smiled again and gestured to your own chin, the side of your head. âYours?âÂ
âAye, all mine.â
âAh, luck.âÂ
âLucky indeed.â
Johnnyâs eyes shifted to Simonâs, brows raised, with a look that said he knew. Simon glanced away, gritting his jaw so hard it ached.
 âAm I going to get food poisoning from this?â You asked as a tray was handed over, eying warily what was ostensibly mash, peas and carrots, mystery meat.Â
âProbably not,â Johnny answered cheerfully. âBeen mostly fine.âÂ
âYes, but I think you military people might have tolerance to low levels of poison.âÂ
âThatâs for sure, bonnie.âÂ
âBonnie,â you said, giggling. âAre you calling me pretty?âÂ
Soap covered his heart, balancing his tray with one hand. âYou wound me. Simon only keeps us good looking bastards around.â
âSimon,â you said softly, glancing up at him. âI didnât think anyone knew your name.âÂ
Ghost didnât answer for a moment, glaring daggers into the side of Johnnyâs head, ignoring the way his heart was clenched so tight it felt like it was in a vise. Simon, his name on your tongueâ Â
âItâs need to know,â he snapped.Â
Your expression folded and you glanced away. âRight, of course. Sorry.â
Simon clenched his jaw so hard it clicked as Johnny shot him a look. âThis way, lass,â he said, leading you toward a spot in the corner of the mess.Â
âOh,â you said weakly, âThatâs all right. You donât have toââ
Ghost couldnât help but notice the anxious look you threw him, the thin line your voice had transformed into.Â
Soap wasnât listening, already talking your ear off, pulling out a chair for you. You smiled and sat and Simon was left to silently watch it unfold.Â
.
.
.
âFuckinâ hell,â Soap muttered when theyâd safely returned you to your office where a contingent of lesser analysts awaited you. The corridor leading away from the now closed door seemed impossibly long. âDâya know how many people would kill to meet their soulmate? Youâve got yours right under your fuckinâ nose and havenât even told her yer name!âÂ
âShe doesnât need to know.âÂ
âYer name?âÂ
Ghost leveled Soap with a stare.Â
Soap gaped at him. âSteaminâ Jesus. You arenât planninâ to tell the lass at all?âÂ
âStay out of it, MacTavish.âÂ
Johnny followed him down the hall, outside into a bleak, gray drizzle. âYou know it can kill you?â Simon kept walking. âSimon.âÂ
He stopped, glanced at Soap with a warning in his eyes. âDo ya?â
âIt wonât.â
Johnny continues anyway, urgently. âThereâs a pain, they say, under the ribs whenââ
âStay out of it, Sergeant,â Ghost growled, that very pain growing as it always did as he moved further and further away from you. âItâs nothing.âÂ
âItâll corrode,â Johnny said to his retreating back. âSheâll feel it eventually.â
Simon ignored him.Â
But he wondered as he walked away, if he died, if youâd feel the corded snap of his life floating away from yours. Â
Somehow, being that sort of ghost, didnât sit well with him.Â
.
.
.
Johnny, predictably, did not stay out of it.Â
He regularly and reliably began to show up in your office. More than once, he looped Garrick into accompanying him. Ghost had watched as the same realization Soap had snapped into place on Gazâs face, and knew it was only a matter of time before Price knew too.Â
Luckily, they were the only three on the entire base that could make the connection, that had seen his face, so at least it was done with. None of them said anything to him about it, but there were a lot of worried glances being exchanged.Â
Ghost felt the edge of his sanity begin to wear thin the longer it went on, not that there was much left of it in the first place.
The disruption, the infiltration, the distraction grated until his insides felt raw with irritation. He hadnât wanted anyone else to know, not because he was ashamed, but because you were his, and you didnât deserve to be burdened by that. He would shoulder that horrible belonging for both of you.Â
But the way youâd tenderly touched your cheek remains burned into his memory. The soft look in your eye. The gentle way you and Soap always spoke of soulmates whenever they came up, reverent and tender.Â
You enjoyed their company, Johnny and Kyle, and seemed all the better for it. It was clear immediately how much you liked both of them. How much you desperately needed friends.Â
Ghost was loath to admit there was a seed of jealousy wriggling in his belly. The easy way you got on with them proof enough that a wire had gotten crossed somewhere, that you were more cursed by him than anchored by.
Then, the gifts left at the edge of your desk began to extend to the lads and not just himself, and it felt vaguely as though he were losing a vital piece of himself to it.Â
Then, you stopped coming to the gym. You were gone, office dark, before he could walk you to your car. You went on another date.Â
He didnât know what to do with any of it.
One Tuesday at the end of July you were in your office, but Soap was there before him, tearing into a packet of crisps, lounging in Simonâs chair, patchwork quilt flattened beneath him in a heap. It was hot, and humid, a fan in the corner working overtime, window propped open.
You were happily listening to Johnny explain the ins and outs of football. A match was playing on your computer screen which youâd turned back so both of you could see.Â
Your eyes found Simonâs when he paused in the doorway, and you waved him inside, an unsure smile twitching at the corners of your mouth. âHi, Ghost. Do you keep up with soccer, too?âÂ
A groan from Soap. âBloody Americans.âÂ
âSorry, sorry. You keep up with footie too, mate?âÂ
âHorrendous,â Ghost said flatly.
Your smile faltered then brightened again. It didnât quite reach your eyes. âYou should hear my Scottish accent. Soap said I offended every one of his ancestors.âÂ
âAye and you did lass,â he said solemnly. âYehââÂ
âSergeant,â Ghost interrupted loudly. âArenât you due for PT?â Â
âAch, right,â he muttered, getting to his feet, âThanks for the reminder, LT.âÂ
âOh, Soap,â you said, âHold on.â You rummaged beneath your desk for a long moment, then passed him a brown paper bag full of cookies. âYour favorite, as requested.âÂ
âYou sweet on me or something, bon?â
You rolled your eyes and said, âOut of my office.âÂ
âYes, maâam.âÂ
Ghost took Soapâs vacated seat, watched you avoid looking at him as you moved things needlessly around your desk, twisted your monitor back around and muted the match.Â
The silence was suffocating.Â
âAll right?âÂ
You froze, then shuffled the papers together and slid them to a corner of your desk. âI wanted to apologize.â Your voice hitched a little.Â
He blinked, taken aback. He didnât like that you could surprise him. âFor what?âÂ
You bit your lip, fidgeted again. âYour name, I guess. You didnât want me to know.â Your mouth twisted to the side. âAnd your team bothering you hereââÂ
âYouâre apologizing for Soap?âÂ
Your brow furrowed. âWell I encourage itââ
âNo.âÂ
âNo?â You shook your head, âand that day in the gymââ You opened and closed your hands anxiously. âI think I upset you.âÂ
He stared across the room, toward your big, sunny window, all those little potted plants that have flourished through the summer months. Your bug lamp seemed to droop in the heat, sad and watchful. Heâd hurt you, and youâd taken the blame. Something horrible lurched in his belly, heavy and unforgiving. âDidnât. I should have been more careful.âÂ
âRight,â you said carefully. âSo if itâs not that, why are youââÂ
He shrugged, watched one of the emerald leaves sway in the warm breeze. âI like you to myself,â he admitted. âNot the best at sharing.â Â
âOh,â you said, voice tender. âOh.âÂ
âMm.âÂ
âIâll make space.âÂ
He didnât quite understand what you meant by that, but he liked the way it sounded. Space for him.Â
âYouâll come to the gym later, yeah?âÂ
âYes.âÂ
âGood.â He stood, deposited your knife, which heâd snagged early in the morning to clean and sharpen, back onto your desk, along with the new box of tea because he noticed you were out the night before. âAnd donât tell bloody Soap.âÂ
âAye, LT.âÂ
He chuckled. âTake care of that.âÂ
âTeach me how?âÂ
He nodded.Â
âThanks for the tea. I used the last bag yesterday afternoon.âÂ
âI know.âÂ
Your smile was soft, your fingers touched his. He breathed a little easier.Â
ââCourse you do.âÂ
.
.
.
Simon couldnât stop thinking about pain.Â
His body functioned at a constant low level of pain, had for years. Maybe it had his whole life, so he tended not to notice it. But the ache you caused had only seemed to grow over time, tendrils spreading to the furthest reaches of his body, the tips of his fingers, the backs of his knees, places he didnât think could hold pain.Â
The intensity increased too, until he could no longer ignore it. It was like a whine, like a child begging to be seen to.Â
He kept thinking of your voice, too, dreaming of it. Youâre hurting me. Panic ridden, laced with fear.
You said he didnât, after, but he didnât relish the thought of the possibility. Accidentally hurting you, hurting you on purpose. He thought of his mother, doing her best with a brutal man. He was afraid of unknowingly stepping into a cycle, to find himself standing above you one day, drunk, mean, angry.Â
Youâre hurting me. Â
It echoed like a heartbeat. Inevitable.Â
You might collect his scars, but he would not add to them with his own hands. Heâd rather die; heâd rather be burned alive; heâd rather crawl out of a grave a hundred times over.Â
He was afraid of it. Afraid that every terrible aspect of this bond between you could only bring you pain.Â
His father loomed in the recesses of his mind, all the violent men heâd ever known, every bloody fist. Simonâs scalp ached, the memories swam behind his eyes. Long nights, wild animals, dead girls.Â
There was one person who had a preoccupation with soulmates who was likely to know, who badgered him regularly about eroding the bond, about bond tears and pain. Simon could know, once and for all, if he was the cause of the indirect pain, at least. His own imposed on you, pushed into your skin like a punishment. He could cross that off his long list of sins.Â
Johnny, when Simon finally tracked him down, was sat in the armory cleaning a rifle. He watched over his Sergeant's shoulder for a long moment. The methodical movement soothed him, brought his heartrate down a little.Â
âJohnny.âÂ
Soap jumped and glanced around. âSpooky fucker. Should put a bell on yeââÂ
âDoes she feel it?â
âWhatââ
He exhaled long and slow. âMy pain. If Iâm shot tomorrow, would she feel it?â
âNo, the lass doesnât feel it.â Soap turned his wrist, pointed to a scar that was lighter than some of the others, a pale tracery that slipped from the inside of his elbow to mid forearm. âNot mine. Watched it fade in one morninâ. Didnât feel a thing.âÂ
Ghost looks at the scar, and Soap lets him. âThaâ why you havenâtââ
âNo.âÂ
âWhy?âÂ
âDeserves better.âÂ
Johnny nodded, continued cleaning the rifle. âThing is, LT. She doesnât. Thatâs the point.âÂ
Well, at least he only had to worry about becoming his father.Â
Fucking perfect.Â
.
.
.
Two months deployment. Â
The pain in Simonâs chest was agonizing, a constant fire. He couldnât sleep, pain meds did nothing for it.Â
He could only wait it out, wait until he was back on base and hope you were in your office, that the solace of your presence in that warm yellow light would be waiting for him. The pain would recede. He needed a plan, though. Clearly it wasnât fucking viable to just let it go on. It was too distracting and only getting worse. It was no longer something he could ignore.Â
Maybe, he didnât really want to.
Maybe, Johnny was right.Â
He half convinced himself that the lancing ache was so bad because youâd been posted somewhere else the last two months and you were further away than ever. Your office would be empty. This was just an agony he would have to learn to live with.Â
Finally, though, they were going home. Intel secure. One last building to sweep. Empty. A loaded silence that made the back of his neck prickle.Â
Not as empty as they thought.Â
Soap steps quickly into the last room ahead of him, gaze sweeping from one side to another before he lowered his weapon and stepped forward.Â
Ghost followed quickly, lowered his gun when he saw what Johnny had. Civilians. One curled around the other, sobbing so hard she made no noise.Â
When she lifted her face, Simon sucked in a startled breath. She looked like you, only without his scars. There was a mark slowly bleeding into place on her temple, one that matched the gunshot wound of the woman beneath her.Â
The wail that suddenly pierced the air was distraught, horrible, a lurch and a bang.Â
Soap was there, kneeling, looking for wounds that Ghost knew didnât exist. Horror froze him for the second time in his life, your face swimming behind his eyes.Â
âI thought you said they couldnât feel it,â he barked.Â
âWhat?âÂ
âSoulmates.âÂ
Soap looked at the pair with fresh eyes.Â
âThey canât, LT,â Soap said without glancing at him. âItâs noâ that. Itâs justââÂ
Grief. The unbearable snapping of a fated cord. The tether in his own chest pulsed, ached. He thought of it breaking cleanly in two, as though it never existed, your light snuffed out, leaving him in total darkness again.Â
It wasnât pain she was feeling, it was the absence.Â
âGhost,â Johnny said sharply and Simon finally snapped out of it, went to his side.Â
It wasn't worth it, he thought. None of this could be fucking worth it. He was left with the sinking sense that all he could ever do was hurt you.Â
All the same, he felt an urgency to go home. To return to your side. To feel your pulse under his fingers.Â
Just to be sure.Â
It took them a long time to get her to leave the body.Â
.
.
.
Task Force 141 was deployed for nearly two months.Â
September and October passed slowly, in starts and fits that seemed to drag.Â
You developed a pain in your side, a stitch from taking it too hard in the gym you assumed. But nothing seemed to help it. The pang became a prick became a small misery that the base medical staff couldnât pinpoint the origins of.Â
You missed Ghost, and Kyle and Johnny, tolerated the terrible tea your coworkers made for you, went on another series of failed dates, and finally became friends with your cross-hall apartment neighbor. Months of baked goods and hellos finally coming to fruition. Pieces of a life were falling together.Â
Finally, they were coming home. You left your offer that night with the assurance that they were uninjured, that Ghost, and likely Soap, would be in your office by noon the next day.Â
But Simon still managed to reappear as he always did, silently and without warning. A shadow crossed your back as you were locking your office near midnight, a hand grazed your back. You followed the series of steps youâd been taught months ago. Foot back, elbow out, knife in hand, open, turnâ
Your wrist was caught by the flat of his palm, fingers of the opposite hand yanking it from your grip. Â
You blinked and breathed out heavily, relieved. The tight tenderness in your side leveled off for the first time in a month. âGhost,â you murmured, lowering your now empty hand, âYou arenât supposed to be back until tomorrow morning.âÂ
âThat disappointed to see me?âÂ
No. Never. But he was still in full tactical gear. The skin around his eyes was still layered with eyeblack, exhaustion and an acid tension rolling off him in a thick wave. His gaze was heavy, but steady, assessing you in turn. He smelled like diesel and cigarettes and gun powder. You lifted your chin. âSurprised to see you. Glad to see you.âÂ
He only flipped the knife around and held it out to you. âNice work.âÂ
You smiled as you took the blade and stored it again. âYouâre making me paranoid, I think.âÂ
âGood. Paranoid keeps you alive.âÂ
His eyes flicked over you, looking long and hard, though for what you couldnât be sure. He stepped closer, until you were forced back against the door. He towered over you, corralled you back against the cool wood. Soft, dark eyes like wells of ink in the shadow of the hood pulled over his head, searched long enough that you began to worry something was wrong.Â
You reached out and rested your hand on his forearm. His body was so taut you could feel the tremble of exhausted, overwrought muscle. âGhost,â you said gently, carefully. âAre you okay?âÂ
He inhaled deeply, so hard and fast it sounded pained.Â
He looked at you again, eyes sliding over you slowly, like he was orienting himself, finding steady ground on which to stand.Â
âWhy donât you cover âem?â
Your belly clenched. âCover what?â you queried, silently begging him not to ask that question.Â
âScars.âÂ
You went still, looking down at your skin. You had rolled up your sleeves earlier in the evening when furious typing had required it. They glinted silver in the low light of the hall. Pretty and delicate as dragon scales.Â
It wasnât anything he hadnât seen before.Â
Still, you fought the urge to cross your arms. You hated when he stared at them.Â
âWhy would I?â You rubbed your wrist. âI donât want to. They belong to my soulmate.â
He glanced away from you, his jaw tight beneath the mask. âYou actually believe in that shite?â His voice was harsh, aggressive in a way he had never spoken to you before. âItâs a bloody childrenâs tale.â Â
You bristled, felt something hard and mean well behind your breastbone in a tight knot. The pain that had been kicking you in the ribs lately reared again, made you wince and cover your side. âWell,â you snapped, gesturing to yourself with your free hand, âthese arenât mine, so I guess I have to.â Â
He scoffed and you felt your heart lurch, hurt settling in your gut, twisting an invisible knife that much deeper. You tried to side step him but he didnât move, a terrible, solid wall of muscle andâanger? Irritation? You couldnât tell. âWhat the fuck do you care? Maybe youâre ashamed of yours,â you said roughly, âBut not all of us are.âÂ
His brows furrowed and he shook his head again. âOh, come off it.âÂ
âWhat?âÂ
âYouâre tellinâ me that if you came face to face with the bastard that did this to you, you wouldnât hate him?âÂ
Indignation burned a righteous path up your throat. âYou donât get to do that,â you said lowly.Â
âYou didnât deny it,â he said. âYou would.âÂ
âNo,â you interrupted vehemently, swallowing around the word like gravel in your throat. âNo, of course I wouldnât. It wasnât done to me, itââÂ
But Simon was determined, his mind set.Â
âHe hurt you, changed the course of your bloody life, whether you want to admit it or not. Youâll hate him for it, love.âÂ
âFor something he went through?â You asked incredulously, defensively. âDo you know how scared I was?âÂ
Ghostâs eyes went blank, his stare suddenly flat and far away. His gaze drifted from yours, the weight of flinty amber lifted. âOf him,â he said viciously, like something terrible heâd always known had been confirmed.Â
âNo,â you snarled again, not sure why Ghost was fighting you, not sure why he cared about your scars suddenly. âYou arenât listening. For him.â Your ribs ached, your breath came in short bursts. He was too close, the clashing sensations of safety and agitation calcifying the tension between you into a solid, immutable wall.Â
You inhaled shakily through the sudden distress. Your lungs hitched and spasmed before you could suck in a proper breath, feeling faint, glad for the wall behind you.Â
He blinked, looked down at you again. âHeyââÂ
âI was so scared I would lose him before I ever got to meet him. Ever since I was a kid Iâve had scars. Cigarette burns and scratches, bite marks. I used to hope he was older than me, so it wouldnât have meant that heâso that he wouldnât have beenââ Agitation rises like a tide, all the nights youâd sat awake watching scars bleed into your skin. Your parents had been unable to look at you in the morning, wondering what the future held for you. What kind of person that child would grow up to be.Â
The same fear Simon seemed to be holding onto so tightly.Â
You stumbled over his concern, something prickling at the base of your neck.Â
âOnce,â you continued shakily, âthey just kept showing up, day after day, for months. I didnât know what was happening and there was nothing I could do. I thought he was going to die and I couldnât help him. I was so worried and all I could do was watch.âÂ
You met his eyes, saw something so raw and wretched there that you flinched back, closed your eyes, breath caught.Â
You arenât sure when you transitioned to using he instead of they.Â
It suddenly didnât feel like you were talking about someone you hadnât met yet.Â
You thought of how strangely intense he was about you. How you had felt so strongly about him immediately. How the only bit of his skin youâve ever seen has been around his eyes; the delicate veins at his wrists.
You thought of him making you tea and teaching you to defend yourself. You thought of him walking you to your car and pulling you into sunny days. You thought of all the cups of coffee and boxes of tea, the gentle way he handled the blanket you made him from cheap cotton like it was spun gold.Â
You thought of Johnny asking after your scars the first time you met him. How not long after youâd been personally introduced to the rest of the 141 for no discernable reason. How they checked on you. How they were probably the only people that knew what Ghostâs face looked like.Â
âNo,â you whispered, pieces of a terrible puzzle sliding together in your mind.Â
You opened your eyes. Â
âGhost?â you asked softly, tentatively lifting your hand.Â
He jerked back. âDonât do that,â he warned. Â
You stepped closer, knowing you were playing with fire, that he might burn you, lash out like a dog with its leg in a trap.Â
But if he was yoursâ
If he was yours, you would not be the one to inflict more hurt on him.Â
He did not want this, he did not want you, that much was clear.Â
You closed your hand and let it fall, pushed your fist against your heart instead. âI see you,â you said gently. âThatâs all Iâve ever wanted.âÂ
âYou donât understand,â he rasped. Â
âYou survived.â You backed away. âThatâs enough. To know youâre okay.âÂ
The empty spot in your chest ached, seemed to grow tendrils that wrapped around your heart. A bond so close and not latched. Because you havenât seen him. He has to let you in.
âWhen youâre ready. If youâre ever ready. I'm here.â
He finally returned his gaze to yours.Â
âDid it hurt?âÂ
âDid what hurt?â You tilted your head but he didnât answer, just stared at you with big, moon dark eyes, brows pinched inward, eyeblack creating a tiny white line there. âOh, you wouldnât know, I guess.â You shook your head, âNo I was just scared. Just worried. It didnât hurt. Youâve never hurt me.âÂ
He moved so quickly and silently that you jumped when his hand curled around your wrist. Light enough that you could pull away if you wanted. Â
âYou donât have to. You never have to. I donât want to take anything else from you.âÂ
Ghost hesitated, his chest rising and falling quickly. âDo I have any of yours?â The question was quiet, almost reverent. Â
You nodded, ââCourse you do. I fell out of a tree when I was a kid. Gave me a nasty scar on the back of my elbow. I landed on a rock.âÂ
His eyes flicked away, like he was trying to imagine it. You twisted your arm, showed him the thick line of scar there, totally different than the lighter version of his on your skin. âSee? Youâll have that one in the same spot but lighter. Maybe not even visible, since youâre so pale.âÂ
Your breath caught when he stepped closer, the pain in your chest was so intense it made breathing difficult.
âItâs not fair to you.âÂ
âWhat isnât?âÂ
âTo bloody leave it. Hurts, yeah?âÂ
You didnât admit to the spasming in your chest; it wouldnât help anything. âWhen have you ever cared about fair?âÂ
He made a pained sound. âDonât.âÂ
âIâm okay. I donât need anything from you. I donât want anything from you.â
âYouâre supposed to need things from me.â Â
He peeled his gloves off, tucked them into his back pocket. The hall was still and silent aside from your combined ragged breathing. It sounded like youâd been running a marathon. âGhostââÂ
âSimon,â he said. âPlease, call me Simon.âÂ
You closed your eyes, felt his hands graze your collarbone, your throat, before anchoring on your jaw, tilting your face up. âLook at me, sweetâeart.âÂ
âI canât.â Your voice trembled, tears clogging your throat.Â
âCan.âÂ
Very gently, he leaned down and pushed his forehead against yours.Â
You shuddered and swallowed and stepped closer. Simon curled his arms around you, pulled you into his chest. He was so broad and tall, you felt swaddled against him, warm and secure. His scent wrapped around you like ribbons holding you together. âNo point dragging it on, yeah? No point you being in pain.âÂ
âHow long?âÂ
âThe whole time,â he admitted after a moment. His voice rumbled against your cheek. It felt like home. âFirst time I saw you.âÂ
âYou have had this pain for almost a whole yearââÂ
âNot your fault,â he interrupted, one massive hand sliding down your spine. âNot your fault.âÂ
You huffed, hooked your fingers beneath his tac vest. âIâm sorry anyway.â You pulled back, felt his arms tighten around you for a moment. He didnât want to let you go. âIs there anything you need to take care of? Reports or debriefing or something?âÂ
âNo.âÂ
âWould. . . would you want to come to mineââÂ
He reached under your arm and plucked your keys out of the lock before you could finish, guiding you down the hall, his hand never leaving your skin.Â
You had never seen Simon outside the base, you realized suddenly, and everything felt vastly more fragile. It also felt as though that hollow pulse in your chest would tear if you were asked to walk away at that moment, something real and physical would tear and drop out of you, an irreparable part of your soul.Â
You werenât sure how you drove home, Ghost huge in your passenger seat, your hands shaking each time he shifted his grip on you.Â
In your apartment, you hesitated, not sure where you belonged in your own space anymore. Simon looked strange in your tiny living room, among soft blankets and years of collected books and knicknacks. An all consuming shadow. You wondered if this would end like all those dates, just another failure, another loss.Â
When you started to step toward the lamp, Simonâs fingers curled around your wrist to keep you by his side. âNo.âÂ
âJust turning on the lamp.âÂ
He released you.
As you stepped away, a hollow pulse in your chest retched with pain that made you gasp and clutch the edge of the sofa. It felt real, like something was breaking, jagged edges clawing at the inside of your skin. You wondered what Ghostâs self imposed distance might have done to the bond. There were stories, albeit few, of corrosion. The bond literally rusting out, slowly poisoning the soulmate and their pair.Â
âCome âere,â he muttered. âSit down.â
When his palm cupped your elbow, the world became softer. Like purr instead of a shriek. He guided you onto the sofa.Â
Your hands shook when he released you, making quick work of the lamp. The room flooded with soft yellow light. He glanced around. Art on the walls, forest green rug over hardwood floor, molding you had painted a delicate gold. You felt embarrassed of it all suddenly.Â
âGod,â you muttered. He didnât seem to feel the pain at all, which made your chest ache in a different way and guilt pool heavily between your bones for it. You didnât want him to be in pain, but you felt as though you were breathing water, choking on your own lungs. âHow have you dealt with this?âÂ
âWorse now,â he said, though you felt it was his version of a kind untruth.Â
He sat next to you, reached for you, then faltered, unsure. You closed the space, folded your fingers between his. The scars made a fucked up little mirror when you looked down at your hands. They matched exactly. âIâm sorry.âÂ
Simon didnât answer, but stayed close to you, letting you hold his hand. Even the smallest amount of space between you seemed to burn, a brazier that flared hot and demanded attention. But it was better; just having his bare hand in yours helped.Â
âNothinâ tâbe sorry for.â He said after a few minutes of uneven breathing, eyes trained on your hands, thumb running over the back of your fingers.Â
âYou donât want me.âÂ
It wasnât a question.Â
He glanced up, something razor sharp in his eyes. You flinched a little, but his hand tightened on yours.Â
âYou donât have toâWe donât have to bond,â you tripped over the last word. âItâs okay.âÂ
âObviously itâs not, bird.âÂ
Your heart sunk and you glanced away. A one in eight billion chance was sitting under your nose for months, and he wanted nothing to do with you. He was being forced into it.
âIâm sorry,â you murmured again. âGhost, Iâmââ
âSimon,â he corrected. Â
âSimon,â you echoed.Â
He curled his hands around your wrists, lifted your palms to the bottom of his mask. He let your hands settle at the base of his throat, eyes never leaving yours. âI didnât want you,â he said plainly. âI never wanted you to know.âÂ
You swallowed and nodded. âIâm sââÂ
âNo.â
You closed your mouth with a click of your jaw. You donât expect a speech and he doesnât give you one. âYou deserve better,â he said. âBut Iâm all you get.âÂ
His knee touched yours. Your faces were tilted together, so close that the only thing you could see were the soft depths of his eyes reflecting the gold light.
It didnât feel close enough.Â
You wished it were all different.Â
That he didnât feel forced, that you were what he wanted.Â
âI deserve you. Isnât that the point?âÂ
He watched you for a long moment, an unreadable expression on his face, then nodded.Â
âGo on, then.âÂ
Your throat felt tight as you tugged the mask upwards, heart lurching when you recognized the same scar on your throat on his. You pushed the fabric over his chin and mouth, up until you could pull it over his head.Â
You looked at him, the same scar over his mouth, along his cheek, the bridge of his nose was nicked, the outline of burn scarring crossed the edge of his jaw and neck. When you looked past that, you saw him. Crooked nose, thick, furrowed brows, dark eyes youâd loved for a long time cast darker by the black around them, light eyelashes and hair, longer on top and curling.Â
Something seemed to. . .snap then. A warmth broke between you, filled that awful, dark, pained well in your chest. It hurt, but the pain was brief, like stitches done by a seasoned medic.Â
Breathing was easier. You could feel the pulse of him without the threat of imminent pain. It was a warm, comforting, safe thing in your lungs. You inhaled, attempted to stand, to give him a bit of space. âShould be able to separate now. Shall we test itââÂ
You didnât get a chance to move away, tugged suddenly from your seat and into his lap. You fell heavily against his chest, wrapped tightly in his arms, foreheads slanted together.Â
âNo,â he said, sounding, for the first time since youâve known him, breathless. âNo.âÂ
âI donât want to.âÂ
âGood.âÂ
âCan I touch you?âÂ
âCan do anything you like to me, bird.âÂ
You stroked the side of his throat, felt him shiver. âWell, I wonât. Not anything.âÂ
He made a content noise of agreement.Â
You touched his jaw, his cheek, the tail of his brow, the faded check through it that youâd never noticed matched your own. His arms tightened around you in increments until the pressure forced you to take shallow breaths. âYouâre beautiful.âÂ
âLookinâ in a mirror, are you?âÂ
âSort of,â you answered. âA little.âÂ
His hands shifted, anchored on your hips, and pushed you back a little.Â
Disappointment that it was over so soon pinched at your throat but you backed off, attempting to slide from his lap. His hand caught at your hip. âStop trying to bloody move.âÂ
âWhatââÂ
He was only taking off the vest, which probably should have been left at the base. It dropped heavily to the floor as he pulled you against his chest. It was warmer, softer like that, thick muscle coiled beneath your cheek when you rested it against his shoulder, heartbeat hard against yours. Â
âNo more pain?âÂ
âNone.âÂ
âGood.âÂ
You pushed your face against his throat, felt him tense and then uncoil. One large hand cupped the back of your neck, holding you there. You brushed your lips against his pulse point, felt a scarred flutter against your mouth, a muted grunt.
âYouâre all I want,â you admitted quietly. âI think I knew. I think everyone knew. Iâm sorry,â you finally said, âthat Iâm not who you need.â Â
His hand squeezes your neck and then heâs pushing you down against the cushions, pressing one massive thigh between your legs, hauling you closer like it could never be close enough. The space between your bodies would always be too large, because you couldnât climb into his chest, nest among his veins.Â
It would have to do then, his hand tilting your jaw up, his eyes searching yours as you part your lips.Â
âYou are, sweetâeart,â he said simply, mouth brushing yours before he kissed you properly.Â
He tasted of black tea; his eyeblack rubs off on your temples.Â
Already, he was leaving pieces of himself behind with you to mark safe.
âSimon,â you murmured against his mouth. Just to say it, just to be rewarded with a shudder.
The kiss slipped into something more desperate, your hands felt the skin of his back, your own scar on his elbow, and you thought, maybe, you could become what he needed. Â
if you made it this far thank you for reading! I'd love to know what you thought!
Canât stop thinking about Trucker!Simon whoâs been rolling for four straight days without a real shower, big frame crammed behind the wheel of his rig, the sleeper cab behind him smelling like diesel, old sweat, stale cigarette smoke, and faint grease of last weekâs truck stop burgers.
Trucker!Simon whoâs got you- the pretty little bird he picked up on the side of the interstate at 2am, thumb stuck out in your pretty little sundress, soft tits spilling heavier over the neckline every time you breathe, panicked, after youâd quietly explained through the open window that someone had ditched you out there, hundreds of miles from home with nothing but your bag and you just needed a ride to the next town, anywhere, please- in his sleeper, curled up on sheets stiff with old sweat and cum, stained more than clean.
Soft thighs pressed together, pretty mouth parted, eyes wide and already glassy in the low light from the dash. Heâs too big for the space, has to duck his head, shoulders brushing the sides, and he fills it completely when he crawls in after you.
Shirt half unbuttoned and stuck to his chest with sweat, jeans open and shoved down, freeing that heavy cock that youâve seen the outline of under his oil stained pants when heâd palm at it, bulging against his thigh when he drove under street lamps to this trucker stop.
It hangs thick and flushed between his thighs now, heavy balls drawn up tight, the skin at the base dark with dried sweat and the pre heâs been leaking into his boxers since he got a whiff of your sweet floral perfume as you climbed into his rig.
Kneels on the mattress, one big hand braced on the low ceiling, the other reaching down to fist his cock slow and lazy, eyes dragging over you, your soft curves, the way your pretty clothes are already rumpled from being in his rig, the little tremble in your thighs that only gets worse when he leans in closer.
Mattress dipping under his weight, until his chest is right in front of your face, heat rolling off him intense. You wrinkle your nose hard, trying to turn your face away, shoulders curling in like you can escape the stench.
He shifts his weight anyway, knees forcing between your thighs, spreading them wider, one nicotine stained hand wrapping around yours, yanking it down to wrap around his cock. Itâs hot, heavy, the skin at the base tacky. Your fingers donât quite meet around it.
You flinch violently, trying to yank your hand back with a soft disgusted sound, but he just wraps his bigger one over yours and makes you stroke him once, twice, slow, firm drags that smear fresh precum down the shaft while your lower lip wobbles and your breath comes in tiny, hiccuping gasps. He groans at the skin of your hand around his cock which is all too used to the feeling of his calloused hands and scratchy sheets and not at all used to soft and warm.
His fingers thread into your hair, digging into the base of your skull, and he forces your face down the trail of coarse hair on his stomach until your pretty mouth is pressed right against the root of his cock.
The smell is strongest here, musky and sharp, the faint bitter trace of old piss where heâs been too lazy to stop properly. You squeeze your eyes shut and try harder to twist away, soft disgusted whimpers catching in your throat, hands pushing weakly at his stomach, nose wrinkling as you gag at the smell of him. He holds you there until your lips brush the tacky skin.
Rocks his hips forward, the fat head of his cock smearing across your soft cheek, leaving a shiny streak. âOpen up.â
When your lips part and you take him in, he grunts low, the wet heat of your mouth making his balls draw up tighter. He pushes the taste of road and sweat across your tongue, then deeper.
You choke immediately, a wet, panicked sound bubbling up as your hands fly to his hips, pushing hard. Tears bead in your lashes and spill down your temples, nose wrinkling hard at the stench, but he doesnât let you pull back. Both big hands sink into your hair, fingers twisting tight at the roots, dragging you down, groaning when he pushes into your throat, feels it convulse around the fat head of his cock.
âFuck,â he rasps, barely a word, more a punched out sound of satisfaction.
Then he shoves you down the rest of the way, using his grip on your hair to force your pretty mouth lower, inch by inch, until your nose is pressed flush against the sweaty, crusty hair at the base of his cock.
Your throat spasms hard around him, fluttering and squeezing, and he groans again, deeper this time, hips twitching forward. Saliva floods your mouth instantly, thick and messy, spilling out around your stretched lips and dripping down his balls in shiny strings.
He holds you there, nose buried in the damp, crusted pubes that smell like days of sweat and road grime, cock buried to the hilt in your spasming throat.
One thumb slides forward, pressing against the outside of your neck, feeling the obscene bulge of his cock stretching your throat. He rubs it slowly, while your eyes water and more tears track down your face.
Then he starts to rut, grinding his cock deeper into your throat while saliva pours out of you. Every time he pulls back just enough for you to gasp a wet, choked breath, thick strings of spit stretch between your lips and his cock before he shoves you back down again.
Your hands keep pushing at his thighs, manicured nails scraping over sweat slick skin, but he just tightens his grip in your hair and fucks your throat harder, deeper.
The wet, gurgling sounds are obscene in the cramped sleeper. Your mascara is running, pretty face a mess of tears and spit, nose still wrinkled in disgust even as your throat keeps fluttering and milking him. He groans every time you gag, the sound low and satisfied, hips rolling in steady, filthy ruts that smear more of your saliva into his pubes and down his balls until theyâre shiny and dripping with it.
He doesnât let up until your vision starts to blur at the edges and your hands go slack against his thighs. Only then does he pull you off with a wet, obscene pop, cock shiny and flushed dark, strings of spit connecting your swollen lips to the head. You cough and gasp, chest heaving, tears and saliva dripping from your chin onto the stained sheets while he fists his cock once, twice, smearing the mess you made all over himself.
Then his hands fall to your hips, manhandles you between his highs, one big hand under your soft legs. The sundress gets shoved higher, bunched under your tits, grips your panties and pulls, ripping them off, forcing your legs wide even as your thighs tremble and try to close.
Youâre crying harder now, soft hiccuping sobs, hands pushing frantically at his stomach and chest as he lines up, eyes wide and pleading up at him.
âPlease- waitâ your voice cracks, small and teary, â- condom? Do you have a condom?â
He pauses for half a second, the thick head of his cock nudging against your slick folds. Then he answers, low and rough, âAinât got one.â
The stretch of his cock is immediate and overwhelming, feels like heâs splitting you in half. Your back arches hard, a broken whimper slipping out as your hands beat harder at his chest, trying to push him off, soft thighs shaking uncontrollably.
Heâs too big for the cab and heâs too big for you, hips grinding forward, heavy balls pressing tight against your ass, coarse hair at his base rubbing against your soft skin while fresh tears spill down your temples.
You keep pushing at him, palms flat against his sweaty chest, trying to create space, soft disgusted sounds mixing with the first helpless little moans that start slipping out every time he bottoms out.
The mattress creaks. The sheets stick to your back, stiff and filthy. Every thrust makes the cab rock slightly on its suspension. Sweat rolls off his chest in fat drops, splattering onto your soft belly and the swell of your tits while he fucks you in deep, heavy strokes that grind right up against your cervix. The wet slap of his heavy, pendulous balls is loud in the cramped space, scent getting thicker the harder he works, mixing with the new smell of sex and your own unwanted arousal until the whole sleeper reeks of it.
He breathes heavy, low grunts punched out of him every time your cunt flutters and squeezes around the thick drag of his cock. One hand stays braced on the ceiling, the other gripping the back of your soft thigh hard enough to leave bruises, holding you open while he uses you.
Your hands are still on his chest, pushing weakly, fingers slipping through the thick sweat coating his skin, but the resistance is turning sloppy. Your pretty face is scrunched, eyes going glassy, mouth falling open on broken little moans.
He fucks you through an orgasm like that, grinding rolls that drag the fat head of his cock inside you until your soft body locks up and you sob out a high, whiny sound, cunt pulsing and gushing around him.
He doesnât stop. Just keeps using you, sweat dripping from his jaw onto your collarbone, the wet slap of his balls getting filthier as your slick and his precum mix into a messy froth at the base of his cock.
Youâre babbling now, soft and fucked stupid, little âah- ah- plea- â sounds that donât quite form real words. Your thighs are shaking so hard they canât stay wrapped around him. He catches one and folds it higher, nearly bending you in half on the narrow mattress, and the new angle makes you wail, eyes rolling back as he grinds right up against your cervix with every thrust.
When he gets close he drops forward heavier, chest crushing your soft tits, the full weight of him pinning you down into the stiff sheets.
You panic the second you realize whatâs about to happen, hands shoving harder at his sweaty chest, legs kicking weakly, soft sobs turning frantic. âNono, pull out, Iâm not on birth control- please-â
He doesnât even grunt in response, just wraps his arms around your body, shoves you down on his cock throbing deep inside you, and then heâs cumming thick, hot spurts pumping straight into your womb, flooding your uterus with daysâ worth of heavy, pungent load. Itâs so much it forces its way out around his cock in messy rivulets, smearing down your ass onto the already ruined mattress.
Empties every last drop deep inside you, flooding you until your lower belly feels warm and full. Only when the last spurt finishes does he pull out, thick strings of cum stretching between his cock and your messy cunt.
Before you can scramble away he grabs tou, big hands flipping your soft, trembling body onto your stomach, then hauling your hips up so your face is shoved down into the filthy mattress. One heavy palm plants between your shoulder blades and stays there, pinning your face into the stiff, sweat-and-cum-stained sheets. Your sundress is rucked up around your waist, soft ass presented, and heâs already lining up again, the fat head of his cock nudging through the mess leaking out of you.
You try to twist, try to push up on your arms, panicked little sounds muffled into the mattress. âWait- wait, you canât- â
He pushes in anyway.
âHavenâ fucked anyone in months,â he mutters, hips snapping forward hard enough to jolt your whole body and your mouth opens on a moan, drool pooling onto the mattress beneath your head. âBalls been so heavy they ache. Ainât wastinâ it on these fuckinâ sheets again when I got a pretty little hole right here to fill over and over.â
Maybe you should have just walked to the next town.
Summary: You and your Mandalorian have an argument and you want to make him jealous.
Warnings: 18+only. Smut đ
A/N: I teased this as a WIP before and hereâs the full version. This is definitely staying as a one-shot and isnât part of Through The Wall. Enjoy! đ„°
The argument had started over something stupid. Thatâs the worst part - you canât even hold onto the shape of it anymore, only the heat.
Something about a job. Something about him going in alone, again, without telling you. Something about the way he'd said it's safer this way in that flat, modulated tone that always made you feel like a child being sent to bed early.
You told him to go fuck himself. He told you, very calmly, that you were being unreasonable. And then he walked off the ramp of the Crest and down into the dust of whatever nameless Outer Rim moon you've put down on - Karthos, Karthon, you canât remember - without looking back.
So here you are, in a cantina on your third drink. Itâs the kind of dim, smoky hole-in-the-wall where the patrons donât ask questions and the bartender keeps his blaster within easy reach of the till. Spice-burners murmur in a corner booth and a Twi'lek dances half-heartedly on a lit platform near the back.
The air has that sweet rotten tang of cheap Corellian whiskey and unwashed bodies, and you nurse your first glass long enough to feel the slow loosening behind your ribs, the kind of warmth that talks you into trouble.
Dinâs at the bar. You can feel the beskar before you see it - that particular density in the room, the way other patrons give him a careful half-metre of space without meaning to.
He hasnât sat with you. He didnât even look at you when he came in. He's taken a stool at the far end of the long curved bar, ordered something he wonât drink, and angled the dark visor of his helmet toward the door like heâs guarding it. Like you arenât even there.
Fine, you think. Fine, fine, fine.
You cross one leg over the other, the slit of your skirt rides up your thigh, and you donât smooth it down.
Thatâs when the man slips into the booth across from you.
Heâs human, mostly - thereâs something in the cheekbones that suggests a near-human grandmother somewhere in the family tree, a faint silvery cast under the warm brown of his skin - and heâs handsome in a way that isnât subtle.
He has dark hair thatâs pushed back from his forehead, a smuggler's coat, and a smile that arrives ahead of him by a half-second, like he's been practicing it on the way over.
You look like a woman who's been left to drink alone,â he says, settling in like he's been invited.
You raise your eyebrow over the rim of your glass. "Maybe I like drinking alone."
"Maybe." His teeth are very white. "Or maybe whoever left you alone is a fool to think youâll stay alone.
Across the room, you donât have to look. You can feel the slow, deliberate turn of the helmet, the shift of focus, the whole black mirror of that visor sliding toward your booth with the patience of a hunting cat.
Your pulse kicks once - hard - and you smile.
"That's a very tired line," you tell him, letting the smile do the work, letting it linger a beat too long, letting your tongue touch the edge of your bottom lip as you say it. "What's your name?"
"Kal," he says. "Kal Renn."
"Kal," you repeat, like youâre tasting it.
You arenât. Youâre tasting the way Din's posture has gone very, very still at the other end of the room. You can picture it without looking - that hand resting on the bar that has stopped tapping. The slow inhale you know so well that filters through the vocoder as a faint mechanical hiss.
"And yours?" Kal prompts
You tell him. You even lean forward when you do it, your elbow on the table, your chin in your palm, your hair falling in a slow curtain over one shoulder.
The neckline of your shirt shifts with you, and Kal's eyes do exactly what eyes do when a neckline shifts. You watch him watch you and you think - he's looking. He's looking and you're letting him and Din is watching and you let him and think, good, let him watch.
You know itâs petty, you know itâs childish and you donât care.
"Can I buy you another?" Kal asks, nodding at your nearly empty glass.
"Please."
He flags down a serving droid and orders something more expensive than what you've been drinking.
He asks you where youâre from, you lie prettily and he laughs at the lie like he knows it is one and doesnât mind. You laugh back, and the whole time thereâs a second conversation happening across the room in silence, in the angle of a helmet, in the way a gloved hand closes slowly into a fist on the bar and then, very deliberately, opens again.
Kal leans closer over the table. He has the kind of cologne that's trying too hard - leather and citrus and something musky underneath. He smells like a man whoâs used to being told he smells good, so you oblige and he grins.
"That Mandalorian over there," he says, low, conspiratorial. "He's been staring at you since I sat down."
Has he.â
"You know him?"
You tilt your head and consider the question. Consider the man who hasnât sat with you, the one who walked off the ramp without looking back. Who is, even now, doing the silent stone-still thing he does when heâs furious, the thing where he becomes more like a piece of armour than a person, because Maker forbid Din Djarin ever just says whatâs eating him.
"I know him," you say lightly. "He's nothing."
It isnât even close to true. Itâs the cruelest thing you've said all month and you say it because you know the vocoder will catch everything in this little cantina and his helmet's external mics are almost certainly tuned to your voice the way they always are when heâs worried about you, the bastard.
And you want him to hear it. You want him to hear you call him nothing.
Kal's grin widens and he reaches across the table, brushing two knuckles down the back of your hand. "Then dance with me."
You donât even hesitate.
You slide out of the booth, take his hand, and let him lead you out toward the little square of scuffed floor in front of the bandstand where two other couples are swaying to something slow and sad in a key meant for losing money.
The music is warm, the lights low. Kal puts a hand on your waist, and you realise immediately that itâs the wrong hand - too smooth, too soft, no glove - and you let him put it there anyway.
You dance, letting him spin you, letting him pull you a little closer than you should allow. His thumb traces a slow circle just above your hipbone through the fabric of your shirt and you laugh at something he murmurs against your temple.
Over his shoulder, between the haze of smoke and the dim flicker of the lamps, you see the helmet, the bar, the empty stool where he was sitting.
Now heâs on his feet. Not moving, just standing there at the bar, half-turned, watching you, and the room around him has gone quiet in the particular way rooms go quiet when people sense weather coming.
You should have stopped then.
You donât.
You slide your free hand up over Kal's shoulder, thread your fingers into the hair at the back of his neck, and tip your face up toward his.
Kal, whoâs been waiting for an invitation and has finally received one, lowers his head toward yours with the slow inevitability of a man about to kiss a stranger in a cantina on a planet whose name he probably canât pronounce.
You feel the air change before he reaches you.
You feel him - the displacement of beskar through a crowd. The polite, deliberate way Mandalorians move when theyâre choosing not to draw a weapon.
A hand closes around the back of Kal's collar and lifts him a full inch off the floor, setting him gently to one side as if heâs a piece of furniture being repositioned.
"That's mine," Din says.
Just that - two words through the modulator, low and even and so quiet that only the three of you hear them.
Kal - to his credit - takes one look at the visor and decides, audibly, that he likes his teeth where they are. He raises both palms, takes a slow step backward, then another, and then heâs gone into the crowd without a word.
The music keeps playing, and the Twi'lek on her platform never even breaks rhythm.
You open your mouth to say something cutting - something about ownership and about him not having any right.
Din's hand closes around your wrist.
It isnât rough, thatâs the worst of it. His grip is the same controlled, deliberate pressure he uses on the grip of his rifle - exact, unhurried, impossible to slip.
He doesnât drag you, he just turns and walks, and the distance between his fist and your wrist doesnât change, and so you walk too.
You make your way out of the cantina into the night. The double moons are up, throwing two overlapping shadows that lengthen and shorten as you cross the packed-dirt landing strip.
The air bites colder than it has any right to and you can hear his breath through the vocoder - measured, very measured, the way he breathes when heâs choosing not to do something violent.
You find your voice somewhere between the cantina door and the Crest's lowered ramp.
"Let go of me."
He ignores you.
"Din."
The ramp closes behind you with a hydraulic sigh and the hold lights come up in low amber. He lets go of your wrist exactly as the seal hisses shut, and you stumble a half-step at the sudden absence.
You turn to face him with every furious thing youâve been rehearsing in the back of your throat, but heâs already on you.
His hand catches the back of your neck. Not your hair, your neck, his palm wide and warm even through the leather, his fingers spread, his thumb just under the hinge of your jaw.
He walks you backward three steps until your shoulder blades met the bulkhead, and the cold of the durasteel through your shirt makes you gasp.
He stops there, caging you in. The other hand braces flat on the wall beside your head, the visor a hand's breadth from your face.
"Nothing," he says, the modulator making it sound like gravel. "I'm nothing."
âDinâŠâ
"You let him touch you."
"You walked off the ramp withoutâŠâ
"You let him put his hand on you."
"You wouldn't even sit with me!"
He goes so still you feel it through the hand at your throat. The grip doesnât tighten, but it doesnât have to. You feel every individual finger as a separate point of attention.
"Tell me," he says, very low, very even, "what you were going to do if I hadn't come over."
You didn't answer.
"Tell me, cyar'ika."
The endearment comes out of the vocoder like a brand. He hasnât said it once in three days, hasnât said it once since the argument. He's been vode'ika this and ad'ika that with everyone else on every comm line and youâve been you and hey and silence, and now, now, when he has you pinned to his own bulkhead with one hand on your throat, now he remembers the word.
"I was going to kiss him," you say. Itâs pure spite, a pure lie. Pure idiot bravado dressed up in your second-best voice.
The hand at your neck slides up, slowly. His thumb traces the line of your jaw to your chin, tipping your face up, and holding it there. The visor is so close you can see your own eyes reflected in it, wide, glittering, furious and scared in a way that isnât really scared at all.
"No," he says, âyou weren't."
How would youâŠ?â
"Because you looked at me first."
You stop breathing.
"Every time he leaned in," he says and the modulator does nothing to soften it, "you looked at me. You wanted me to see."
"IâŠâ
"You wanted me to come over there."
"I didn'tâŠâ
"Say it."
Your throat moves under his thumb. You canât get the word out, you canât look away and you canât, for the life of you, remember why you've been angry, why the thing about the job had mattered, why anything had mattered other than the fact that heâs here and heâs come and heâs furious and his hand is on your throat and the heat of him is bleeding through the beskar where his chestplate presses almost-but-not-quite against yours.
"Yes," you whisper.
"Yes what?â
"Yes, I wanted you to see."
He exhales, and somehow itâs the most human sound he's made all night.
"Good girl," he says.
Oh, fuck.
Your knees nearly go. You've never been a good girl in your life and you argued with him about that very phrase the first time he ever tried it on you, and heâs using it now with deliberate, weaponised accuracy. Your thighs press together involuntarily, and his helmet tilts a precise half-degree as he catches the motion.
"Mm," he says.
The hand on your throat slides down over your collarbone and down the line of your sternum with the same patient pressure he used on your wrist.
He hooks one finger in the neckline of your shirt and pulls, not hard, just enough to test the seam, and the fabric gives with a small dry sound. He keeps pulling, and the cheap stitching rips from collar to navel in a single clean tear that leaves the two halves of the shirt hanging open, your breast band on display and goosebumps rising along every inch of skin heâs just exposed.
"DinâŠâ
"Quiet."
He says it without heat, just an instruction.
You shut up.
His glove ghosts across your stomach. The leather is warm from his body and cool from the cabin air at once, and it raises a line of fine, fierce shivering everywhere it touches.
He traces the underwire of your band and the seam of your waistband. He finds the soft notch at your hip and presses his thumb there until you make a sound you havenât meant to make.
"He didnât get to hear that," he says.
No."
"He's never going to."
"No."
"Say it."
"He's never going to."
"Whose are you?â
The question lands so quietly you almost miss it. The vocoder flattens it into something that could have been a statement and could have been a prayer.
His helmet tips forward until the brow of it is almost touching yours, the visor filling your whole field of view. You can see, very faintly, the suggestion of his eyes behind it - not the eyes themselves, just the dark shape of where they are. The focus - the absolute and unblinking focus of a man who has walked a stranger off your body and then locked the two of you inside a metal box together to settle it.
"Yours," you say.
"Louder."
"Yours."
He makes a sound, a low, broken click. Without the modulator, it would have been a groan, the kind of low gutted groan he gives you when you say exactly the right thing, when your mouth is on him and you swallow and look up and his hips buck against your held-down hand.
You know that sound. You feel the shape of it through the helmet.
His gloved hand is on your thigh. He pushes your skirt up slowly, deliberately, gathering the fabric in his fist until itâs bunched at your hip. The cool air of the hold hits the wet patch already soaking through your underwear, and his glove slides up the inside of your thigh and stops just two knuckles away from where you want him.
"You're soaked," he says. âFor me, or for him?"
Your hips jerk helplessly. âFor you," you say. "For you, for you, for you, you stupid jealousâŠâ
His hand closes over you through the wet fabric and whatever you had been going to call him dissolves into a high noise you didnât recognise as your own.
He doesnât move his hand. He just holds it there, flat and warm, the leather pressing the soaked cotton against you so that you can feel every seam, every ridge of his glove, every line of his palm.
You grind forward against it shamelessly and he lets you, then takes the hand away.
You whine and know youâll be embarrassed about it later.
"Turn around."
"Din, pleaseâŠâ
"Turn. Around."
You turn and he helps you, his hands at your hips, guiding you so your palms come up flat against the cold bulkhead. Your forehead presses against it next, so your back arches out the way he wants, the way he's taught you, the way you know.
The torn shirt slides off your shoulders and pools at your elbows. He hooks his fingers in the waistband of your underwear and drags them down to mid-thigh - not all the way off, just down, just far enough - and the deliberate half-measure of it makes you clench around nothing.
You hear him work the catch on his codpiece. You donât turn your head because you donât need to. You feel the heat of him a second before you feel the rest, the blunt familiar shape of him sliding through the slick at the apex of your thighs, not in, not yet, just dragging slow and warm along the length of you, coating himself. Your hands flex against the wall and your breath fogs the durasteel.
"Tell me again," he says, the vocoder right at your ear now, the cold edge of the helmet brushing your temple. "Whose?â
"Yours."
He pushes in.
Itâs not gentle or rough but thorough, the slow inevitable press of a man who knows exactly how youâre built, exactly how much you can take and exactly how to take it.
You feel every inch of him going in, every inch, until his hips meet the curve of your ass and his gloved hand comes around to splay flat across your stomach and hold you there against him.
"Fuck," you breathe.
Mhm."
He doesnât move. He holds and lets you feel it. He presses his other hand flat to the bulkhead beside yours, his chestplate cool against your bare back through the torn fabric, the edge of the cuirass biting just slightly into your shoulder blade in a way that should hurt and doesnât and that makes you arch back into it instead.
Then he starts to move.
He fucks you the way he fights - efficient, deliberate, devastating. Each stroke long, each one pulling almost all the way out before driving back in to the hilt, each one timed to a rhythm that you canât predict because he changes it every time you try to meet him.
He takes you apart on patience. He uses the wall and his hand on your stomach and his weight at your back to keep you exactly where he wants you, and he never goes faster than he means to, no matter how you whimper, or how you try to push back.
"He was going to put his mouth on yours," he says against your ear. "Wasn't he?â
"YesâŠâ
"He's not going to."
"No.
"Nobody is but me."
"No."
"Say it."
Nobody," you gasp. Nobody, nobody, just youâŠâ
"That's right."
His hand slides up from your stomach, between your breasts and closes loose around the front of your throat. He uses it to tilt your head back against his pauldron and the angle changes everything.
He sinks deeper and you sob.
"Look at you," he says, the vocoder breaking a little around the words. "Took some stranger's hand and walked out onto that floor. Let him touch your waist. Let him put his mouth that close to yours."
"I'm sâŠâ
"Don't apologise."
You couldn't have finished the word anyway. He shifts his hips, finds the angle that makes your knees try to buckle, and is using it now with the same patient deliberation heâs used on everything else this evening - like heâs testing a weapon's calibration or filing notes.
Every stroke drags across the place inside you that turns your spine to wet rope. You canât get a breath that isnât his.
"I'm not angry you wanted it," he says.
You whimper.
"I'm angry you thought you had to earn it."
That breaks something in you, some small petty knot at the base of your sternum thatâs been pulled tight for three days.
Your eyes sting and you squeeze them shut against the cold of the bulkhead, feeling the first hot tear cut down your cheek. You donât even care, donât even try to hide it, because heâs said the thing, the thing you havenât been able to find words for in the argument. He says it with his hand on your throat and his cock buried in you and the helmet pressed against the side of your head, and that is, Maker help you, exactly how Din Djarin apologises.
"I just wanted you to look at me," you whisper.
The hand at your throat tightens, just once, just for a heartbeat, the smallest possible squeeze. An acknowledgment.
"I'm looking, cyar'ika."
He pulls almost all the way out and holds there. You sob for it, push back against him, and his free hand comes down hard on your hip and pins you, making you whine high in your throat.
"PleaseâŠâ
"Please what?â
"Please, Din, please, pleaseâŠâ
"Tell me again."
"Yours. Yours, only yours, pleaseâŠâ
He drives all the way back in, the sound that comes out of you is not dignified and does it again and again just to hear it. The rhythm breaks for the first time since he's started - the careful patient tempo finally fraying - and now heâs fucking you, properly fucking you, the way he does when heâs stopped thinking. When his hips are ahead of his head, when the noises catching in the vocoder are ragged and unmodulated and almost, almost like his real voice.
His hand leaves your throat and slides down to find you exactly where you need it. He presses, and circles andâŠ
"DinâŠDin, I'mâŠâ
"I know."
"I can'tâŠâ
"Yes you can, come on."
The leather of his glove moves against you, slick now with your need. The deep relentless drag of him inside you, and his voice through the modulator at your ear saying come on, cyar'ika, come on, that's it, that's my girl, breaks you apart against the wall of his own ship with his armoured body bracketing yours and his hand between your thighs and his name in your mouth like a curse, like a prayer, like a deed of ownership signed in your own shaking voice.
He fucks you through it and doesnât stop. He holds you up against the bulkhead with the flat of his forearm across your collarbones and the splay of his glove on your hip and he chases you through the long shuddering aftershocks of it.
Only when youâre limp, when your forehead is pressed loose to the durasteel and youâre making small, wet broken noises that arenât words, only then does his rhythm finally falter. Only then do his hips stutter, only then does the vocoder catch on a noise thatâs almost a groan, and he buries himself to the hilt and holds.
You feel him pulse inside you in long warm waves, and the helmet presses hard between your shoulder blades and stays there.
For a long moment neither of you move.
You can hear the hold ticking around you as it cools. His glove is still flat on your hip. His other arm is still bracing your weight against him because your legs arenât holding you up anymore. They've given out somewhere between the second and third aftershock and heâs simply taken your weight without commenting on it, the way he takes everything.
He eases out of you slowly and you whimper at the loss. He makes a low soothing sound through the modulator that is, in any language, I know, I know.
He turns you in his arms and you go without resistance. Your forehead finds the cold brow of his helmet and rests there, his gloved hand coming up and cradling the back of your skull.
For a long moment thatâs all there is - his breath through the vocoder and yours unmodulated against the chestplate, and the slow steadying knock of his pulse where you've pressed your palm flat to the side of his neck without remembering doing it.
"I'm sorry," you say, finally, honestly. âFor what I said in there."
"I know."
"You're not nothing."
"I know, cyar'ika."
"I was angry."
"I know."
His thumb moves against the nape of your neck. âI should have sat with you," he says quietly.
You close your eyes.
"Yes."
"I will next time."
"Okay."
He lets out a long breath through the modulator and you feel the tension go out of his shoulders in stages, the way it does when he finally sets down a rifle after a long watch.
His hand slides from the back of your neck, down your spine, comes to rest in the dip of your lower back, and stays there.
"Lights," he says, low, to the ship.
The hold goes dark, all but the dim amber strip along the floor that guides you forward when he turns you, gently, toward the bunk.
You feel rather than see him reach up and break the seal on the helmet. Hear the soft hiss, the mechanical click, the faint rustle as he sets it aside on the crate by the bunk in the dark you canât see through.
And then, finally- finally - you feel his bare mouth on yours, warm and a little chapped at the corner, as familiar as your own name.
He kisses you slowly, deeply, and he tastes like the sour cheap whiskey he hasnât drunk and like him, just him, and you make a small wrecked sound into his mouth that he catches with his tongue and gives you back something softer.
"Mine," he murmurs against your lips, just his voice, rough and low and entirely his own. "Say it one more time, just for me."
"Yours," you whisper
"Good girl."
He picks you up and carries you the three steps to the bunk in the dark, lays you down and climbs up after you.
His now bare hand settles warm against your cheek, his thumb wipes the last drying salt from under your eye, and he kisses you again, softer this time. Then again, and again, until the argument is a thing thatâs happened to two other people on a planet whose name neither of you will remember in a week.
Canât stop thinking about Simon Riley who doesnât know what the hell to do with himself when you leave for a week for your friends' bachelorette trip.
Heâs used to being away from you. Itâs his job. So, he tells you not to worry when you kiss him goodbye on your tippy toes, four days is nothing compared to the months heâs been away.
He grossly underestimated how different itâd be when you were the one gone.
The first day heâs fine, does mundane tasks around the house to distract himself. Mows the lawn, fixes that part of the fence youâve been asking him too for weeks.
The second, he goes to the pub with Johnny, drinks one too many beers to fill a sudden void, and stumbles home to a terribly empty and cold bed.
The third day feels heavy, like thereâs a mass weighing on his chest and making it hard to focus on anything other than you. The phone call he makes isnât any better.
âMiss you.â
He says it first, quiet and uncertain. The giggle that follows makes his heart tighten.
âMiss you too, Si.â
You whisper it, so soft, and so fucking sweet he wonders how he ever left you to begin with. Hearing your voice should settle him, but it only makes his chest heavier. You should be there with him, sat in his lap, and pressing those words into his skin.
Day four heâs staring at pictures of you in his wallet and brushing his thumb over your face like heâs on deployment. Like itâs been months since heâs seen you and not four bloody days.
He doesnât sleep that night when all he tastes is guilt. When this is how you must feel when heâs gone. A bed too big for one person, one pair of shoes at the door when there should be two, indents in the couch that arenât filled.
Itâs the first time he genuinely considers leaving the SAS.
Part Two Summary: As your pregnancy nears the end, you and the Mandalorian come to important realizations about the future of your clan of four.
Pairing: Din Djarin x Pregnant!Reader
Content warnings: accidental pregnancy, gratuitous smut, porn with plot, use of Mando'a (used this website), inaccurate description of the Razor Crest interior (click here to see my made up floor plan), Din Djarin Removes the Helmet, repressed!Din, touch starved!Din, allusions to religious trauma/guilt, intimacy issues, family fluff, pregnant sex, dirty talk, body worship, angst, labor, childbirth
Word count: 12,067
Read on ao3 here | Read Part One Here | dividers by @/saradika-graphics
Author's note: friends, I tried to post this as a long shot like the poll agreed on, but it was too long for Tumblr's formatting :( so here is the second half, and the first half is already posted. I hope you enjoy, and I love you lots !!! <3
The days that follow are less tense than Din thought they would be. Really, heâs the only one making things tense. You told him you loved him, took it a step further and declared him the love of your life, told him you count Grogu and the baby in your womb as lucky to have him as a father.
Heâs not so sure. What kind of father is he if he canât tell the mother of his children that he reciprocates her love? Heâs never said those words in the romantic sense, and hasn't used those words since his biological parents died.
You havenât stopped touching him. Last night, you pulled his arm over your waist and covered his hand on your belly. At breakfast today, you caressed his shoulder while he fed Grogu.
The way you speak to him hasnât changed. You still tell him when the babyâs overly active, about something silly Grogu did when Din wasnât looking. Youâve asked what the flight plans are, what he wants to eat, and you even asked him if heâs ever gotten a sunburn, to which he answered with a stare.
Youâre not upset that he hasnât told you he reciprocates your love. Youâre not holding it against him. So why is he? Why is he beating himself up over it?
The answer comes to him fairly quickly; he doesnât feel worthy of your love. Not for a second. Yes, he tries to be worthy of you. He does. But every day he grapples with what to actually do, trying to decide what he even believes in anymore.Â
Youâre kind and soft and friendly, and heâs grumpy and harsh and not very welcoming.
Yet, apparently, you love him⊠You love him, and youâve taken in Grogu as your own, and youâre happy to carry his unborn baby inside of you, and you love him.
Right now, youâre both in the cockpit. Groguâs in your lap, perched on top of your belly while Din sets the navigation system for a nearby planet to hunt his next bounty.
Din looks over his shoulder at you and his son, and you smile softly.Â
âAre we all set?â you ask softly.
He nods. âYeah. Should be a few hours.â
About thirty minutes after takeoff, you fall asleep, and Grogu toddles off your lap and up Dinâs.
âHey, kid,â he murmurs to his son.Â
Grogu only coos in response.
âYâknow, when the baby comes, Iâll need your help to keep things running smoothly for your mom. I hear newborns take the energy from their parents, their mothers in particular. All I need from you is for you to stay on your best behavior. Can you do that for me?â
Grogu nods, a serious look on his face.
âYouâre a good kid, pal. Mhm, and your momâs got you wrapped around her finger, huh? Sheâs better at the discipline voice than I am. Hm⊠Sheâs got me wrapped around her finger, too.â
Grogu just smiles up at his father.
Thereâs a moment of silence, and then Din continues, an epiphany happening in real time. âBesides you, sheâs the best thing to ever happen to me.â
You begin to stir then, and Din turns the pilotâs chair to face you. Your eyes are tired as you rub them with one eye and your belly with the other.Â
âDo you need anything?â he asks.
You shake your head and stand from your chair.
âIâm gonna go to bed. You got him?â you ask, stepping closer to caress Groguâs head.
Din nods and lets you take hold of his hand.
âSure youâre okay?â he asks softly.
You nod and bring his hand to the side of your belly, where heâs greeted with a kick.
âHeâs restless,â you say with a yawn. âWearing me down is all. Iâll see you in the morning?â
Dinâs heart stops at the sound of the word he. Usually, you and he simply say they or the baby. Motherâs intuition must be stronger than he previously thought.
He nods and runs his hand over the side of your belly. âOf course. Good night.â
As you descend the ladder and head to bed, you try not to think about the fact that Din is so tense, so awkward, more so than usual. You hope itâs not all because of what you said. You can only hope it wonât affect the baby.
A few hours later, Din lands the Crest in Nevarro. Itâs late. He tucks Grogu into bed, washes up, then heads to bed himself.Â
He slips in behind you, and for the first time in days, he initiates touch. His hands are warm and protective on your belly. He kisses the back of your head and sighs.Â
âBaby?â you mumble softly, barely coherent.
âIâm here,â Din whispers, a possessive tone creeping into his voice. âI got you. Youâre mine, you hear that? Iâm not going anywhere. Itâs you and me, Grogu, and the baby. Nothing else matters.â
Youâre barely awake, but you take in every word and let them wash over your body.Â
âI love you,â you whisper, covering one of his hands with yours.Â
Din kisses your hair and whispers back, âI got you, pretty girl.â
Your breathing evens out again, and Din murmurs against your hair, âMhi solus tome, mhi solus darâtome, mhi meâdinui an, mhi baâjuri verde.â
It doesnât matter to him that you donât understand what heâs saying, that youâre probably asleep. He means those words with his entire being, and one day, heâll repeat those vows to you when youâre aware of them being spoken, and when youâll speak them back to him with a smile on your face.Â
///
Now, as your due date becomes more imminent, you donât do much besides feed yourself and Grogu. You used to take the child on little adventures while Din was out on a job, but that is no longer the case.Â
Your feet are swollen, and your back aches. You canât keep up with a creature as quick as Grogu anymore.Â
Dinâs just finished his last bounty before the baby comes. The plan is to head to Naboo to have the baby, but Din wants to take Grogu on one last family outing before the baby arrives.
Youâre lying down in bed, a book in your hands, when Din comes in, clad in only his pants and his helmet.
He kneels in front of the bed and takes your hand in his. You drop the book, open so you donât forget your page, resting it on top of your bump.
âWould you be up for one last outing with just the three of us?â he asks softly, rubbing his thumb back and forth on the back of your hand.
You sigh deeply, a great effort on your part these days with how little room the baby inside you leaves your lungs to do it.
âWhat kind of outing?â you ask, eyes fixed on the contours of Dinâs chest, his abdomen. His pants sit low on his hips, revealing his V-line, completely and utterly tantalizing you.
âLow energy,â he says, and it sounds like a vow. âSomething fun for Grogu, thatâll make him feel special. Perhaps a holographic for children?â
You smile softly at the idea and nod.
âI think that sounds nice,â you say.
And thatâs what the three of you do the next day. You wake to the view of the metal wall. You can feel Dinâs body warmth as he drapes his arm over your waist, his hand covering your belly button.
His cock is hard, like it is most mornings, poking you in your lower back.
You donât want to move; you want to stay here, with his warmth pressing into you, but the baby shifts inside of you, and your current position is no longer comfortable.
As you try to shift to get more comfortable, Din grabs your hips in his sleep, though itâs clear heâs waking up now.
âFeels good,â he mumbles, nearly incoherent.
You whimper at the rough sound of his voice, but also at the dull ache in your hips.
Din doesnât realize heâs prolonging your discomfort when he starts humping you. You feel the outline of his cock through your panties. He didnât wear boxers to bed, and heâs so warm this way. It almost takes your mind off how badly your body is telling you to lie on your back or switch the side youâre lying on.
The sound of his skin moving against the soft fabric of your panties isnât helping either. That, paired with his deep breathing, has you leaking into said panties.
He moves one hand forward, pulling up the t-shirt you wore to bed so he can feel the warm, taut skin of your bump while he keeps humping you.
You feel his breath on your neck, then he dips his head against the base of your skull, and you almost cry out.
He hasnât been this needy this early in a while, and itâs a lot to take in.
âDin.â Your voice is almost a sob, and thatâs when he stops moving his hips.
âSweetheart?â
He mumbles for you to close your eyes, and as you do, he gently turns you over to lie on your back, and thatâs when you let out a deep sigh of relief.
âWhatâs wrong?â he asks, his tone concerned.
âNothingâs wrong,â you murmur, slightly out of breath from the slight excitement.Â
Din furrows his brow. âYou sounded⊠Iâve made you whine plenty of times, and never has it ever sounded like that. Did I do something? Did I hurt you? The baby?â
You shake your head. âI was just tired of that position. My hips started aching.â
You arenât saying it to make him feel bad or to gain pity. Din knows that. But the fact that he unknowingly prevented you from getting comfortable when comfort is so rare for you these days makes his stomach twist.
Din kisses your cheeks, then your lips.
âIâm so sorry,â he whispers, and it almost sounds like his heart is breaking.
Itâs kind of sweet.
âIâm okay. Just par for the course at this point, right?â
Din hums discontentedly to himself, like the idea of you in any sort of pain, no matter how normal and little worry is actually warranted, makes him angry.
He lies his head on your pillow, facing your cheek. If you keep your eyes trained on the ceiling, you wonât see his face. For some reason, he really wants you to open your eyes, even though thereâs the danger of you seeing his face.
âOpen your eyes. Look straight up at the ceiling,â he whispers, his lips tickling your ear as he speaks.
You moan softly, like the danger that you might see his surely perfect face excites you. Slowly, you open your eyes, and though youâre only met with the metal of the ceiling, youâre pleased with your current situation.
âHow can I make you feel better, pretty girl?â he purrs in your ear.
You whine in response at first, then he nips at your earlobe.Â
âCome on. Be a good girl and let me help youâŠâ
âMm⊠Your mouth. Please, Din,â you moan, on the verge of begging.
He smiles, pulls the covers down, then kisses down the length of your body, from your neck to your breasts, making sure to give each of your nipples a peck, then your belly, all the way down to your clothed cunt, which is dripping through the fabric.
âGot wet just from my morning wood?â he teases, nuzzling his nose between your folds through your panties.
âUnh! Fuck, yes, Din,â you whine.
He smiles and kisses you there, his saliva dripping through the fabric. Eventually, he pulls your panties down your legs, then plants a real, sloppy kiss to your juicy cunt, practically making out with it as he teases your hole with the tip of his tongue, moaning against you like heâs eating his favorite snack.
âOh, shit, Din!â you cry out in pleasure. Your hands go to bury themselves in his hair to encourage him, which pulls a groan of pleasure from Din that reverberates throughout your entire body.
You can feel the smile thatâs now adorned on his lips against your pussy, which pulls out another moan from your throat.
âGonna come? Hm? Gonna come just from me licking your pussy?â Din rumbles against you.
âYouâre not just licking my pussyâMotherfucker!â
His teeth graze your clit, and itâs like your whole body is on fire.
âCome on, sweetheart. Come for me. Let me see how good youâre feeling. Youâre so sensitive these days, respond to my touch so quickly⊠Let me see how I made it all better for you.â
With a few more whines, Din pulls your orgasm from you like free-flowing water. He continues to lick you as you come down, then wipes his chin on the back of his hand.
He comes up, kissing your belly on his way, then lies next to you, finding your eyes still trained on the ceiling.
âI bet we can lie here about five more minutes before the kid wants breakfast. Which I will handle today,â Din murmurs, his lips moving against your shoulder.
âThank you,â you sigh, still breathing heavily.
âNo problem.â
Din ends up being right, and a few minutes later, Groguâs coos, begging for attention, are heard from outside the door.
After breakfast, Din lands the Crest and takes you and Grogu to the theater. Itâs mid-morning, so itâs not too busy inside, save for a few other families with small children.
Another mother congratulates you, tells you that youâre glowing. You hear it all the time, and you swear each time Din hears people say it to you, he beams with pride under his helmet.
Inside the theater, Groguâs eyes stay trained on the screen the entire time, making soft cooing sounds of awe and amazement, occasionally giggling at specific scenes.
Dinâs pretty sure you doze off a few times, and he doesnât blame you. Heâs just glad Grogu is having fun with both his parents before thereâs a new baby to share all their attention with.
///
Itâs late when Din enters the bedroom after putting Grogu down. He quietly opens and shuts the door to his small bedroom, thinking youâre asleep. He begins removing his armor, quietly setting each piece down, hoping not to wake you.
âDonât have to be so quiet,â you mumble softly. âYour baby wonât let me sleep.â
He looks over to see your eyes open, head lying between your pillow and his. You probably wanted to smell his scent while he was gone. One of your hands rests on top of your bump, trying fruitlessly to calm the energetic baby inside.
âSorry,â Din whispers, like itâs his fault the baby is so active right now.
He continues undressing, now in just his boxers and helmet. On his way to the bed, he picks up the silk sleep mask youâve been wearing to bed recently, so you donât have to sleep in the same position every night. He helps you put it on, then you hear the hiss of his helmet clicking off.Â
The sheets rustle as Din joins you in bed, his hands immediately going to your bump, half covered by the now too-small tank top you once loved wearing to bed.
He gently presses against your skin, alerting the child within you to their fatherâs presence. He leans down and kisses your stomach, murmuring against your skin, âPlease go easy on your mother, little one. Your big brother is rambunctious enough for her to handle without you using her organs as punching bags.â
You smile softly at the gentle scolding from father to unborn child. You also canât deny how good it feels to hear him refer to Grogu as the little oneâs âbig brother.â You enjoy the notion that the four of you will be one family. Or clan. Youâre still not too sure what language Din would prefer.
He kisses your bump one last time before laying his head next to yours, gently rubbing his forehead against yours, grateful for human contact for the first time in hours.
âTomorrow Iâll set the course for Naboo,â he rumbles in your ear. âYou can bring our child into this world on a peaceful planet.â
You hum softly so he knows you heard him. âSounds perfect.â
Din rubs his warm hand across the globe of your belly, pushing up your tank top while he does.
âDo you have everything you need?â he asks softly. âI heard some women like to bring certain things with them when they deliver their children to make things more comfortable.â
He sounds shy, like heâs nervous heâll say the wrong thing.Â
You open your eyes, but are met with the black silk of your sleeping mask.
Right.
âI actually do have a list of things to get from the market once weâre in Naboo,â you reply with a yawn. âJust a few comforting items.â
Din nods even if you canât see, but you can hear it. You hear his (probably) gorgeous hair rustle against his pillowcase with the movement.
âIâve set aside a few credits just for that,â he tells you, his thumb stopped just above your belly button.Â
You smile and feel your once again shut eyes well with tears behind your sleep mask.
âThank you,â you murmur, and Din can hear the emotion in your voice.
He leans forward and gently kisses your lips.
âSleep,â he orders gently.
///
After setting the course, Din tells you it will take about two days to get to Naboo. You nod in understanding and sigh, hoping you'll make it the two days without going into labor.
The first day of traveling is fine. Din spends most of it cleaning his weapons, while you fold and re-fold all the baby clothes. Grogu is either floating around or playing with his ball; you're not sure. Din said heâd keep an eye on him to give you a peaceful travel day.
By the time Din gets Grogu down for bed, youâre already cuddled up in bed. Din slips his armor off, stripped down to his boxers and helmet. He reaches for your sleep mask and hands it to you.
Once itâs on, he removes his helmet and slips into bed next to you. He wraps his arms around you and rests a hand on your bump. The baby appears to be resting, which he silently thanks his lucky stars for. All he wants is for you to be as comfortable as possible.
âThank you for doing this,â he whispers against your hair.
Youâre barely awake and donât really have a clue what he's talking about. âHm?â
âThis,â he mumbles, punctuating the words by gently pressing against your bump. âI care deeply for Grogu, but I never thought Iâd...have this.â
âOh. Well, itâs, yâknow, just how it happened,â you mumble.
Din grumbles out a sound of disapproval.Â
âIt may not have been planned, but it is everything to me. Itâs not something I ever thought would happen, much less the way itâs happened, but I cannot begin to explain to you how much it means to me. You are giving me a child who is half you. You are amazing, and I could never thank you enough.â
You sigh. Thatâs probably the most words to ever leave Dinâs mouth in such a short window of time. You bring your hand up to cup his cheek. His facial hair, youâve learned, is sparse, but you love it. He has a full mustache, but patches on his cheeks and jaw. Itâs grown out a bit, soft against your palm.
Heâs opened up to you, told you what happened to his parents, the story of how he came to be a Mandalorian foundling. His parents died, and even though the Mandalorians took him in, he was still alone in the world. No one took responsibility for him in the way a parent would.Â
He was a clan of one for decades until he met Grogu, and heâd struggled with feelings of inadequacy. Maybe Grogu deserves more than just a father who struggles to whisper sweet nothings in his sonâs ear when heâs had a nightmare.Â
Then you came along, and Din felt something settle. And when you got pregnant, he was definitely scared, but he knew it was right. His parents would live on with him and could continue to do so through this child.Â
You donât know what itâs like to live the life that Din has, but you can understand why this all means so much to him.Â
âDonât worry about thanking me too much,â you mumble sleepily. âJust be here.â
Din turns his face to kiss your open palm. Your lips curl up slightly to smile, then he leans forward to gently press his lips against yours. Chaste, soft, sweet.
âI am here,â he rasps, taking your hands, bringing your knuckles to his lips. âI am here, and you donât have to worry about anything.â
///
In the morning, you wake to an empty bed, though Dinâs side is still warm. You open the door and see Din and Grogu sitting at the small table, eating breakfast. Din has the helmet off, back to you.
You pad over to them and wrap your arms around Dinâs chest from behind. You kiss the crown of his head. Youâve never seen his hair in the light. A few times, youâve seen the back of his head in the darkness of the bedroom, but never in the morning light. Itâs magnificent.Â
âSleep okay?â he asks, covering one of your hands with his.
âIâve slept worse.â
He squeezes your hand and brings your knuckles to his lips, then reaches for his helmet so he can turn around and look at you.
âWe should land on Naboo by this time tomorrow,â he says, looking up at you through the visor of his helmet.
Grogu coos beside Din, eager for your attention.
You brush past Din, dropping your hands from his body, and pick Grogu up, who perches himself on top of your bump.
âHeâs excited,â Din murmurs, and you swear by the cadence of his voice that heâs smiling beneath the helmet.
You smile down at Grogu, and he babbles something at you, clearly very excited youâve woken up.
âAre you excited?â you ask softly, directing the question to Din.
Din nods slowly. âI am. Are you?â
Heâs sweet, perceptive, and so caring. He didnât use to be. He softened slightly when you started having sex, but it seems almost all his walls fell the minute you told him you were pregnant.
âOh, Iâm just trying to get through these last few days,â you murmur.Â
âI wasnât aware of just how difficult these final stages are,â Din says, his tone sympathetic. âI feel sorry for being responsible.â
You sigh and take a seat next to him.Â
âYou should,â you deadpan. Then you smile. âItâs okay, Din. Iâm tough.â
Underneath the helmet, he smiles. âI know you are.â
///
You spend most of the day pacing around the hull, trying to alleviate the aches in your body. When youâre not pacing, youâre sitting at the table with Grogu, playing whatever game he likes.Â
Throughout the day, you have a few back spasms. Theyâre painful, and at one point, you have to stop what youâre saying to Grogu when one of the spasms gets intense.Â
Din looks up from his spot on the floor where heâd been cleaning one of his blasters, concern in his body language, his brow furrowed beneath the helmet.Â
âMm. Fuck. Okay.â You look from a frightened Grogu to a concerned Din. âIâm okay. Gotta be those practice pains or something. Iâm okay.â
Din doesnât say anything and eventually goes back to cleaning his gun, but his heart is about to beat out of his chest.Â
Grogu scoots closer to you, like he hopes to keep you safe with his presence.Â
By the time you get an anxious Grogu down for bed, youâre exhausted, and your body is beyond sore.Â
You head to the shower and hope the warm water will help alleviate your pain.Â
Outside, at the table, Din hears your occasional soft groans of pain over the sound of the shower hitting the shower floor. It breaks his heart, and he has half a mind to barge in there and demand that you tell him how he can help you.Â
However, he knows youâd call for him if you needed help, and that youâll tell him when youâre sure youâre in labor. Plus, at this point, heâs getting anxious, so he instead heads up to the cockpit to check the time left until you all arrive in Naboo.Â
Heâs disappointed to read that there are thirteen hours left on the clock. Can you last that long?Â
As Din descends the ladder, he hears the shower turn off, then watches you walk out of the small bathroom, a baggy sleep shirt and boy-short panties the only things covering your swollen body.Â
Heâs immediately at your side, gently hovering his hand underneath your elbow.Â
âSweetheart? Are you alright? More false labor, or is it something more?â he asks calmly, his tone not reflecting how he feels on the inside at all.Â
You whimper softly and wrap your arms around his neck.Â
âI donât know. Shit, it hurts, but I canât tell if theyâre consistent,â you say, your voice wavering.Â
Din nods in understanding. âItâs okay. Why donât you lie down or sit, and Iâll time everything? Does that sound alright?â
You nod and slowly waddle into the bunk and sit back against the metal wall while you try to get comfortable in bed.Â
Clad in only pants and his helmet, his bare hand holds yours. Still sitting next to you, he leans down and pulls a stopwatch out of the drawer beneath the bed, at the ready for your next pain, which comes three minutes later.Â
After over an hour of consistent contractions, Din asks you with a shaky voice, âWhat do you want to do?â
You just look at his visor with a pained look on your face.Â
Din sighs. âI can send out an emergency signalââ
âNo.â You shake your head. âWe land in Naboo in the morning. I can make it. First babies are supposed to take longer to come.â
âHeâs coming two weeks early already,â Din points out.
Your stomach twists. âStill. The labor should take upwards of a day.â
âYouâve been in pain all day.â
âNot active labor,â you counter, your teeth gritting.Â
âSo what do we do?â Din asks, the frustration evident in his voice and demeanor.Â
âIâm going to labor in the comfort of my own bed,â you say simply.Â
Really, itâs not that comfortable a bed. The thought of you being in pain for hours on end with no relief, no midwife or doctor to check your progress, no medical equipment fit for labor and delivery in sight, is terrifying to Din.Â
But he doesnât want strangers telling him where to land over the comms system and infiltrating the Crest to wheel you out to a low-grade medical center any more than you do.Â
Laboring in bed will have to do.Â
âOkay,â Din says softly. âOkay, Iâm here.â
Over the next few hours, Din does everything in his power to keep you comfortable. He helps readjust your position when you get sore. He rubs your back and hips to help alleviate your pain. He even stimulates your nipples when you ask him to, and doesnât make you explain the science behind the excerpt you read about this, even though heâs dying to know.Â
He holds your hand when you pace around the hull, lets you dig your fingernails into the back of his neck when a contraction comes, and all the while, he whispers praise in your ears.
When a particularly painful contraction washes over your body, Din keeps firm hands on your hips and doesnât complain when he feels blood pool underneath your fingernails at the back of his neck.Â
He whispers in your ear, âYouâre doing so good, pretty girl. So good. Your body knows what sheâs doing. Youâve got this, and Iâve got you. Iâm here, sweetheart, I promise.â
You whimper softly in response, and when the contraction eases, you rest your head between his pecs and sigh.
Throughout the whole laboring process, youâve been relatively quiet. One of the last things you want is to wake Grogu, causing anxiety and upset. You limit yourself to low groans, soft gasps, and whimpers.Â
Slowly, you raise your head from Dinâs chest and look straight at his visor.
âGet my mind off of this,â you whine softly. âPlease, Din.â
Din stutters for a moment and feels frozen for a moment before his thumbs press deeper into your hips. âUm, what names have you thought of for him?â
You let out a soft moan of pain and a huffy breath.
âI⊠Fuck. M-Maybe Ezra. Finn is good. I donât know,â you pant, a line forming between your eyebrows. âHow about you?â
Din sighs and gives it a moment of thought. âI havenât. I⊠I didnât think much about the sex of the baby until you started saying he. And I guess I figured you would name him.â
You let out a soft moan of pain, your eyes pinching shut, then you shake your head.
âNo. No, we⊠Ow, fuck. We do it together. Weâre both his parents,â you insist.
âOkay,â he whispers, his tone soothing. âWeâll decide together when we see him.â
âOkay,â you mumble, resting your head on his chest again.
A couple of hours go by, and youâre back in bed.
Din holds a warm hand over your belly, underneath your shirt, trying to soothe the baby. The kid doesnât seem to want to be still in between contractions, and Din is attempting to get the baby to sleep.
Youâre in pain and restless and moody, and thereâs nothing he can do. Except for showering, apparently.
âI donât know what it is, but you fucking reek,â you bemoan. âYouâve been sweating, and youâve got my sweat on you, and⊠Go shower. Please.â
âYouâre sure youâll be alright on your own for a bit?â Din asks, concern in his tone more present than ever.
âYeah,â you answer, just a little too snippy.
Din gently rubs a circle on your belly before standing from the bed to head to the small bathroom for a quick shower and the first moment alone heâs had all day.
The baby is coming. He thought heâd be more scared when you went into labor, but extenuating circumstances aside, heâs not terribly nervous. Sure, heâs got some healthy fear for your and the babyâs lives, but he thinks if you were laid up in a medical centerâs labor ward bed, heâd be fine.
A baby⊠Youâre having his baby. He never thought heâd have this. Truly. He lost his parents, got taken in by the collective Children of the Watch, never quite anyoneâs sole responsibility. He didnât think that he would feel that specific feeling of belonging that he had with his parents ever again.Â
He has Grogu, and he loves him dearly, but Grogu will probably have a dozen parental figures over the course of his very long life. This child you are about to bring into the world is solely his and yours. He contributed his DNA to make up half of this child, and Din will be his only father.
Heâs still deep in thought when he gets out of the shower and pulls his boxers on. Heâs adjusting the elastic when he hears a thud outside the bathroom door and some banging on the door.
Din slams open the door and looks around, only looking down and to his left when he hears you breathing heavily, sitting on the floor and leaning against the wall between the bedroom and the bathroom.
When he makes eye contact with you, your eyes go wide, then they shut as you let out a low groan.
Heâs on his knees in front of you, a gentle hand reaching out to caress your cheek.
âWhat happened?â he asks, an edge of concern present in his voice yet again.
âFuck, you didnât put the helmet back on,â you groan, eyes still pinched shut like youâre trying to wipe the memory of his face from your mind.
Dinâs heart drops to his stomach, then rises again, then probably beats out of his chest, all in the span of five seconds. Surprisingly, he doesnât care about the helmet at all right now.Â
âThatâs not the concern right now,â he says with a shaky voice, his thumb gently rubbing back and forth against your cheekbone.
âDin, are you serious?â you pant, eyes still shut. âOw, fuck, shit. Din, Iââ
He shakes his head, and with his free hand, he puts your hand on his cheek.
âYou know this face,â he whispers. âYouâve mapped out every feature of this face in the dark. Youâve drawn it, cyarâika. This face belongs to you and our children. No one else. This face is yours to look at.â
You whimper and shake your head. Din brings your foreheads together and sighs.
âWhy did you get out of bed?â he asks softly.
âNeeded you,â you whisper.Â
âYou have me. All of me. Iâm here.â
At that, you whimper, and your eyes begin to open. You look him in the eyes and almost melt into him.
âYouâre handsome,â you say softly.
Dinâs cheeks warm at the compliment. He has the urge to brush it off, but doesnât feel like making you put your energy into arguing.
âThank you. Youâre beautiful,â he whispers.
âI⊠Wow.â You pull back and lean your head against the wall to get a good look at him. âWow, I hope he has your nose.â
He chuckles softly and gently presses his lips to yours.Â
âHeâll be perfect, no matter what he looks like,â he whispers.Â
The two of you are granted another minute of peace and calm before another contraction peaks. It has you digging your nails into Dinâs shoulders, pulling his forehead to yours, and whimpering through gritted teeth.
He rubs his thumbs into your hips and whispers words of praise.Â
âThatâs it, sweetheart. There you go. Just breathe through it. Iâm here. Iâve got you. Iâm here, pretty girl,â he whispers, his voice low and gravely and thick with affection.Â
He kisses the tip of your nose, and you sniff. He watches a tear fall from your eye, and the concern inside him grows.
âHey, what is it?â he asks.
âIt hurts,â you whine, your voice broken and riddled with pain.Â
âIâm so sorry, baby,â he whispers.Â
Din looks down and watches your tightened belly soften, then wraps his arms around you.
You bury your face in his neck, and Din tries not to shed tears of his own when he feels yours stain his skin. He brings a hand up to gently caress the back of your head, your hair soft against his palm.
The two of you stay on the floor of the hull between the bedroom and the bathroom for minutes or hours. Neither of you can tell, but eventually, you feel something leak out of you.
âSorry,â you whisper.
It wouldnât be the first time youâve wet yourself over the course of the pregnancy.
But the look in Dinâs eyes is strange.
âWhat?â you ask softly, your face screwing up as another contraction comes.
âYour water broke,â he says.
âHuh?â you grit through your teeth.
Dinâs hands rub your hips, and he kisses the top of your head when you rest your head on his chest.
âThe smell. Plus, itâs still coming. You donât urinate this long.â
Once the contraction passes, you plant your hands on Dinâs shoulders and use his body to stand. The liquid has soaked through your underwear and continues to flow down your legs. Heâs right; the smell is off.Â
âOh.â The word is soft and breathy as it comes out of your mouth.
Din slowly stands up as well and plants his hands on your waist.
Before he can say anything, a grimace appears on your face.
âWhat?â he asks as calmly as he can.
âI⊠Thereâs so much pressure in my fucking vagina,â you say, your voice tight.
You thought all that pressure was from sitting on the floor too long, but itâs distinctly concentrated in your pelvis even as you stand, and itâs different from before.
âOkay,â he says, still trying to stay calm. âIâm going to take your underwear off, okay?â
You nod.
Din hooks his fingers in the elastic of your boy shorts and pulls the wet fabric down your body.
âDo you feel like you might need to push?â he asks, looking up at you through his lashes.
âI donât know,â you admit softly.
âThatâs okay. What do you want to do?â
You take a breath and run a hand through Dinâs mostly dry hair.
âCan we sit in the shower?â you ask. âCan I sit in your lap?â
Din nods, then stands again and carefully walks you into the bathroom. Heâs keeping his boxers on so as not to accidentally stimulate your sensitive privates.
He turns the water on, and once itâs hot enough, he steps in and waits for you.
You take off your shirt, already feeling a bit overstimulated from the wet panties earlier, then step inside the shower.
Din sits on the floor with his back to the shower wall, and you straddle him, your thighs on top of his and your hands on his biceps.
Another contraction comes, and the warm water cascading over your back actually helps some with the pain. Din dutifully rubs his hands over your hips and lets you press your forehead against his lips.Â
When itâs over, you lift your head and bring your lips to his. Theyâre soft and plush, and you think they go so well with the rest of his face. A hand goes to cup his cheek, and the other buries itself in his hair.
âI love you,â you whine against his lips.
Din doesnât respond. He just keeps kissing you, one hand buried in your hair and the other caressing your back.
âIâve got you,â he vows. âDo you hear me, sweet girl? Iâm here for you and our child. My hands are steady and waiting.â
You moan softly and kiss him again, the oxytocin releasing in your brain and easing your pain.
Your moan of pleasure quickly turns into one of pain, and the pressure between your legs is only growing more intense.
âDin, I need to push,â you pant when the contraction passes.
Those words suddenly break down every wall that was left standing inside the usually stone-cold Mandalorian. Yes, he is unbreakable; his hands are steady and waiting, and heâs here for you, and he has you and the baby, but he never thought heâd be here, sitting in his shower with his riduur laboring in his lap, about to push.
Luckily, at the last appointment, while you were in the bathroom, he asked the doctor at the clinic what the important things were to remember should he have to deliver the baby. She instructed him to gently place his hands on the babyâs head when they crown, do not pull the baby out, be mindful of how slippery the baby will be when theyâre out, and immediately put the baby on the motherâs bare chest to help regulate temperature and hormones.
He goes over each step in his head over the few moments he takes to prepare himself, and you, as you wait for the next contraction.
You bear down in Dinâs lap and push with all your might. When the first push is over, Din kisses your face and tells you what a good push it was, how brave you are, and how strong you are.
The last time you spoke with the doctor, she informed you that pushing can take anywhere from ten minutes to three hours.
When twenty minutes pass, the tears start flowing again.Â
âHey.â Dinâs voice is soft and supportive. He brings his thumb to wipe the tear off your cheek, though maybe itâs water. âYouâve got this. Itâs okay if it takes a while. Itâs normal. Youâre doing amazing, meshâla. Iâve got you.â
âDin, this is so fucking hard,â you sob, your arms wrapping around his neck.
One hand rests between your shoulder blades, and the other cradles the back of your head.
âYouâre a warrior, pretty girl. Warriors do hard things. Only a warrior could put up with Grogu and me.â He kisses your cheek.
âI donât know,â you whine.
âWell, I do,â Din says confidently. âYouâve been laboring in a ship that was built before the New Republic, with no pain relief, and only a bounty hunter to help you, all without waking up Grogu. That sounds like a warrior to me.â
You let out a dry laugh at that, which then turns into a soft whine.
âSee? Youâre laughing in painâs face,â he whispers, his voice soothing while his hand runs back and forth over your spine. âYouâve got this, I promise. Now, on the next contraction, youâre gonna push with it. Okay, sweetheart?â
You nod begrudgingly, and Din pecks your lips.
Another hour goes by, and your body goes slack in Dinâs arms. Itâs all too much, and youâre tired and hungry, and you just want this baby out of you.
âI canât do it,â you sniff. âDin, please make it stop. I canât⊠Oh, fuck, it hurts.â
The sight of you sobbing in his lap and the feeling of your body being so weak break Dinâs heart as much as when Grogu left for Jedi training.
âYou can,â he insists, picking your head up with gentle hands so he can look you in the eye. âYou are. Youâve been doing it all night. Youâre so close. The baby is about to crown.â
All of that goes in one ear and out the other. You shake your head.
âSweetheart, I love you, and I wish I could do this for you, but I canât, so I need you to keep being brave and push so you can hold our baby in your arms,â Din says softly, his voice full of urgency.
âYou donât love me,â you whimper, your heart twisting at his words. âYouâre only saying that because you want me to push. If you love me, you wouldâve said it back when I said it the first time.â
Din furrows his brow and gently cradles your face in his hands.Â
âIâve loved you since you started loving my son,â Din says, his voice firm, as if you donât comprehend what heâs saying, he might explode. âThat day I came back from hunting that Ithorian, and Grogu had fallen when he was playing, and you were holding him and kissing his bandage, and telling him how brave he was. Thatâs when I knew.â
You sniffle. That day was two months before you ever slept with him. For some reason, that adds to his credibility.
You still havenât answered, so Din goes on.Â
âI didnât think you deserved to hear from a man like me that I love you. I didnât say it back that night because I didnât feel worthy of saying it, but I know now itâs not about that. Itâs about being what you need. A few nights after you told me you love meââ
Heâs cut off by a contraction. âOkay, okay, push, sweet girl. You got it. Good job. Nice, big push for me. Good, donât forget to breathe.â
When itâs over, you lean your forehead against his and ask, âWhat happened? What were you saying before?â
âI⊠That night we landed in Nevarro, I spoke the Mandalorian marriage vows to you as you slept.â
Your tired eyes widen. âSay them again.â
Din inhales deeply, but is in no position to argue. âMhi solus tome. Mhi solus darâtome. Mhi meâdinui an. Mhi baâjuri verde.â
You whimper as your next contraction peaks. âWhat does it mean?âÂ
âIt means: we are one together. We are one when we are parted. We share all. We will raise warriors,â he tells you, his thumbs still adding counterpressure to your hips.
The contraction dissipates, and you take a deep breath in. âWe are one together. We are one when we are parted. We share all. We will raise warriors.â
Your voice is fraught with tension and pain, but also love, and Din doesnât feel deserving.Â
âThatâs right. We are one,â he vows. âI love you more than life itself, cyarâika.â
You peck his lips. âYou call me that all the time, and I never thought to ask what it meant.â
Din kisses your cheek. âIt translates to sweetheart or darling. Itâs a pet name for oneâs riduur.â
âWhat does that one mean?â
â...Partner, or spouse. Wife.â
He speaks softly, like heâs shy, and youâve come to know that he can be, and you love it.
âYouâre my husband,â you declare.
Din nods. âYouâre my wife.â
It seems like that was all the encouragement you needed, because on the next contraction, you crown, and Din keeps his hands steady on his childâs head as he coaches you through the next contraction.Â
âThatâs it. Youâre almost there. Come on, one more, riduur. Please, just one more. You can do it. Iâm right here,â he assures you.Â
With a soft groan, the head is out.
âHeadâs out, sweetheart. Now the shoulders. You got it; come on, sweetheart.â
Din is in either shock or awe as half his childâs body is in his hands, the other half inside of you still. Itâs the most miraculous experience heâs ever witnessed, and heâs in complete love with you.
âShit,â you gasp when the rest of the body is delivered. âFuck, is he okay?â you ask, your heart filling with joy when you hear your babyâs cries for the first time.
âSheâs okay,â Din assures you. âSheâs a girl.â
A tired laugh escapes your lips as Din places your daughter on your chest for the first time.
A daughter. Youâre thanking your lucky stars. You had been secretly hoping for a girl the entire pregnancy, but recently started referring to the baby as a âheâ in order to minimize any disappointment you would have if the baby were a boy. Luckily, sheâs the most beautiful girl youâve ever seen.Â
âSheâs amazing,â you sigh, a look in your eyes so full of life and hope and wonder.
âShe is. So are you,â he replies, a hand still on the newbornâs body.
âHello,â you whisper down to the baby. âIâm your mama. Hi, baby girl. I love you so much. You are so loved, little one.â
You lean your head down to kiss her head, and her cries seem to quiet.
âYouâre amazing,â Din tells you, his other hand now cradling your cheek. âI love you.â
âI love you, too,â you say, your voice thick with emotion.
âI love you, little girl,â Din whispers to the baby before kissing her head. âI love you with everything that I am.â
Din holds the two of you in his lap for a while, even through the delivery of the placenta.Â
Eventually, your legs catch up with your body, and you need to move, so Din shuts off the water and carefully stands, being mindful of the baby. He wraps a towel around you, then tells you to wait there for a moment.
You lean against the shower wall with your daughter in your arms, the towel lazily draped around your shoulders as you await Dinâs return.
He comes back with a clean knife and cuts the cord connecting your daughter to the placenta and ties it off with a scrap of fabric.
Then he helps you to the bed and finds some underwear for you to wear, and he sticks a makeshift pad into it to absorb the slight bleeding. Then he trades his soaked boxers for dry ones.Â
He feels terrible about how unprepared he was for this, but then you pull his hand, and he joins you in bed with the baby. He wraps one arm around your shoulders and places his other hand on top of his daughterâs back, protective and loving.
An hour goes by, just lying in bed with his girls, before the cockpit sends a signal to the hull that Din has to land soon.
He begrudgingly leaves the bed and dons his flight suit, armor, and helmet, then settles into the cockpit to perform the landing. While he does so, he calls the medical center you planned to give birth in and alerts them of the situation. They arrange for a vehicle to be waiting once the Crest lands.
After the landing is complete, Din helps you dress and haphazardly swaddles the baby before returning her to your arms.
Then he finds Grogu and wakes him up.
âGuess what?â
Grogu coos tiredly in response.
âYouâre a big brother now.â
Grogu perks up and smiles.
âMomâs got the baby in our bed. Itâs a girl. Sheâs very tiny, and Mom is very sore, so be gentle. You understand, kiddo?â
Grogu nods, and Din carries him into the room.
You light up when you see his green face.Â
âHello, little guy,â you whisper from your spot sitting on the bed. âDo you want to meet your baby sister?â
Grogu nods, and Din sits next to you, Grogu in his lap.
Your son smiles at the baby and reaches out the most tentative hand youâve ever seen from him. He gently strokes his sisterâs head and smiles when she grunts in response to his touch.
âShe likes you,â you tell him with a smile.
Grogu seems to blush.
âWeâve got to take Mom and your sister to the hospital. They have to get checked over by the doctors to make sure everything is okay,â Din explains. âYouâll come with us, though. Weâre not leaving you behind.â
Grogu nods, and Din gets a signal that the pickup vehicle is here.
Carefully, he helps you down the ramp with the baby, then he goes back to retrieve the placenta, which he stored in a metal container. He isnât sure what to do with it.
Grogu follows and hops into the car while Din stands awkwardly in front of a nurse with the container.
Once things are sorted out, Din gets in the vehicle and sits next to you, making sure your seatbelt is secure but not too rough on your tender lower abdomen.
After youâre checked into the hospital, itâs determined that you and the baby are healthy, and Din is given a pat on the back from the doctor for successfully delivering his own baby.
âMost men would choke, Mando. Good on you.â
They keep you overnight for observation, and in the morning, they ask if you have a name ready for the birth certificate.Â
The two of you stare at her for what feels like hours before you say it. âSage.â
Din nods. âSage. I like it.â
With the paperwork filed, youâre given the okay to go home.Â
When you make it back to the Crest, Din makes it his mission to make sure you and Sage are comfortable. He doesnât even think to take off his armor until you take his hand.
He looks through the visor at you, Sage in your arms, Grogu at your side, captivated by his younger sister.
âWeâre all okay, Din. Thereâs water on the nightstand and snacks in the drawer, and everyoneâs diaper is dry. Be with us,â you say softly.
He nods, and for the first time, you get to watch him remove the helmet.
Throughout Sageâs delivery, you were fully aware how special it was that Din was showing you his face, however unintentional it was. But you couldnât really take it in. Now, without adrenaline running through you, your hormones trying to settle, you can take in the face of your husband.
He has a strong jawline, a very plush bottom lip, a patchy beard but a respectable mustache, wrinkles both from stress and age, a strong aquiline nose, his hairline is intact, and his brown eyes are soft and welcoming.
You see him in Sage. Her nose seems to be a mix of both her parents, but her lips are all Din, and you canât help but think theyâre the cutest thing ever.
As Din strips down to his boxers, he crawls into bed with you, allowing Grogu to crawl over your lap and give his father a cuddle.
He feels vulnerable now with your gaze stuck on him. Youâre not occupied by contractions or your daughterâs head being lodged in your birth canal anymore. His face has your full attention. Yes, you called him handsome in the throes of labor, but what do you think now, with a clear head?
âThere were times I wondered if I was pregnant with a homely child,â you admit.
Din scoffs and shakes his head.
âItâs shallow, but itâs true,â you go on. âIt wouldnât have mattered, of course. Though now, looking at you⊠Thereâs no way Sage would have ever been homely.â
He smiles softly at that and leans over Grogu to kiss your cheek.
âYeah, youâre not so bad yourself, mama,â he whispers against your skin.
Then he leans his head down and kisses Sageâs head, her downy hair soft against his lips.
She coos softly at the feeling of her fatherâs lips on her head, and itâs the sweetest sound.
âYou wanna hold her?â you ask softly.
Din hesitates. Even though sheâs now thirty-two hours old, he still has yet to hold his own daughter for longer than a brief moment. While waiting to land the ship and transport the two of you to the medical center, he was more worried about regulating your hormones, as well as Sageâs, and he thought the best way to do that was to keep her on your chest.
Now sheâs home, and both of you have a clean bill of health, and you shouldnât have to hold her all of the time. He doesnât want your arms to get tired.
He nods and holds out steady hands to take the baby.
Sheâs only six and a half pounds, but when he lays her on his bare chest, Din feels glued to the spot. He canât imagine a better feeling in the world than the weight of his daughter on his chest.
Grogu coos, needing attention too, so you hold your arms out, and your son readily cuddles close to your side as you watch your husband with your daughter.
Over the course of your pregnancy, you bought a few clothes for the baby, but not a bassinet or anything else a baby might need. It would reduce the Razor Crestâs abilities.
âDin, we need to⊠We canât live on the Crest with a newborn,â you say softly.
He looks from Sage to you. You expect some pushback, but instead, he nods.
âI know. I donât know why I thought sheâd be like Grogu, but⊠Sheâs not. She needs a house,â he says.
Within the week, Din secures the deed to a three-bedroom house on the outskirts of Nabooâs capital. When he takes you to see it, you wonder where he got the credits for it. Then you remember he lived as a single man for over a decade before he took in Grogu. The pros of starting a family later in life.
Din dutifully assembles the furniture for both childrenâs rooms and lets you decorate however you want. Over the weeks you take decorating the house, Din loves watching you walk around, scrutinizing every bare spot with Sage strapped into the baby carrier, her cheek smushed against your chest.
When Sage is a month old, Din comes to bed with a serious look on his face.
âAre you okay?â you ask softly when he pulls the covers over his legs.
He nods and scrubs a hand over his face. âI want to ask you about how youâd feel getting our marriage officially blessed.â
Your eyes widen slightly. âWould it make you happy?â
Din nods again. âThe leader of Mandâalor is Bo-Katan Kryze. I know her. I believe getting our marriage blessed by her would be painless.â
âWell, why wouldnât it be painless?â you ask, your brow furrowing.
He sighs. âIt will be. Donât worry.â
You nod and gently peck his lips before turning off the light at your bedside and lying your head on Dinâs shoulder.
The only way to make getting a marriage blessing painful would be to go back to the Armorer. She wouldnât approve of his situation with you, and while thereâs a part of Din that is upset by that, itâs not loud enough for him to care or to hesitate with you any longer.
Sage is here, and she doesnât yet know how to deal with unpredictability. Her parents need to be officially married.Â
Two weeks later, Din sends a message to Bo-Katan, and she agrees to him and his family coming to Mandâalor for a marriage blessing, though she does seem like sheâd rather be doing something else.
Regardless, when Sage is two months old, Din packs up you and the children and makes the trip.
The entire walk from the Crest to the palace, youâre in awe. Itâs technically Dinâs homeland, but itâs also not, and beyond that, itâs beautiful.
When the two of you stand before Bo-Katan at her throne, another Mandalorian offers to hold Sage for you. You hesitate. Why would you give your baby to a stranger? But Din seems willing, so you carefully hand your baby to the strange Mandalorian and watch Grogu toddle nearby, seemingly ready to protect his sister if need be.
You and Din stand facing Bo-Katan, hands held.
Bo-Katan clears her throat and stands from her throne.Â
âMarriage is a sacred covenant between people in love,â she begins. âI didnât think Din Djarin would ever marry. I must admit that seeing the two of you together gives me hope for the galaxy. I wish you and your family infinite happiness. As the ruler of Mandâalor, I bless the marriage between the two people standing before me. This is the way.â
Din squeezes your hand and turns his helmet-clad head toward you. You smile and kiss the pauldron on his shoulder.
The momentary babysitting Mandalorian approaches you, and Din takes Sage from their hands. You crouch down to pick up Grogu, and your little family is off.Â
At home, you have Groguâs favorite dinner and go about the nighttime routine. Din bathes Grogu while you sit in the nursery with Sage, rocking her and nursing her.
He brings your son in to say good night, and you place a sweet kiss on the green boyâs head. With a gentle hand, Grogu caresses Sageâs head, then heads to his room with Din to be tucked in.
He comes back, just as Sage comes off your breast. Din isnât sure if thereâs a greater sight than his wife nursing his daughter. He kneels in front of the glider chair, kisses Sageâs forehead, and takes her from you to burp her.
All you can think about is that he really looks good. Ever since he unceremoniously revealed his face to you, Din mostly walks around the house in just pants. All the windows in the house are tinted so no one can see inside, and everything is just so perfect.
Sage eventually lets out a loud belch, which brings a smile to Dinâs face before he lowers her into her crib.
He holds his hand out for you and helps you up, bringing you to the bedroom.
The two of you shower together quickly and soon after, crawl into bed.
You lie on your sides and stare at one another.
Itâs been two months since you had Sage, and the doctor cleared you two weeks ago for all activity. She even gave you a birth control implant. You told Din about it, and he simply insisted that you take the lead on your return to intimacy.
The night your marriage was blessed must be as good a night as any, right?
Slowly, you lean forward and kiss him. Kissing never stopped, but this one is heavier.
His hand settles on your waist, and you scoot closer to him.
âI want you,â you whisper against Dinâs lips.
Din moans into your mouth, then kisses down your body.
Your breasts, swollen and full of milk for his baby, have never looked better, in his opinion. Youâd have to agree, and not even from a conceited standpoint. They just really do look that good.
You feel less confident about what lies below your swollen and perky breasts. Your stomach has shrunk down some, but itâs still soft, the skin is still loose, and the new stretch marks donât look as beautiful as they did when they adorned a full belly, in your opinion.
Din feels you tense up beneath him and watches your face turn to the side when he gets to your sternum.
âYou are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen in my life,â he says softly. âHuman or otherwise. There is not a woman in the entire galaxy that I could find more attractive than you, meshâla. You bore my daughter, gave birth to her right in my lap. I watched you grow her for nine months, and you looked so pretty doing it. I love you, and I am not deterred by the current state of your abdomen. I love your body in all its phases. Do you understand me, riduur?â
You turn your head and look down at him. You brush his hair off his forehead and smile.Â
âYeah?â you whisper, your voice giving away how insecure you feel.
He nods emphatically. âAbsolutely. I love you and your body. Youâre perfect.â
âI love you, too,â you whisper, your hand cradling his cheek.Â
Din leans into your hand and smiles softly. âWhat are you comfortable with? I planned to make you come on my tongue first, but Iâll do whatever you want.â
âI want that. Just be gentle,â you whisper.Â
âOf course,â he says, his face schooled into the most serious expression youâve ever seen.Â
You smile again, and Din continues kissing his way back down your body, lingering at your lower abdomen before making it to your inner thighs.Â
He kisses your outer labia, then up and down your slit, then his tongue finally peeks out, and he licks a stripe from your hole to your clit.Â
He licks up and down for a moment, and when you start squirming, he takes your clit in between his lips and sucks.
His hands move up and down your thighs, keeping your legs open and also just feeling you.Â
You moan and gasp softly, and Din drinks it all in. Heâs buried in his favorite place in the galaxy. This is the place heâs spent countless times buried in over the last year and a half, and itâs the place from which his daughter entered the world. There isnât a single thing in the world Din could love more than your cunt.Â
âSo pretty,â he moans in between licks.Â
He looks up at you and asks, âCan I add a finger?â
You nod and whimper out a yes.Â
Din gently pushes his middle finger inside of you, and once youâre accustomed to it, he slowly fucks it in and out of you while his tongue laps at your clit.Â
âFuck, Din,â you whimper as your cunt flutters around his finger.Â
âGood girl,â he rasps. âJust let yourself feel good.â
âIâm gonna come,â you warn him, your voice tight and high-pitched.Â
âI know,â he soothes. âGood girl. Come on my tongue.â
You whimper, and your walls squeeze his finger as his tongue stimulates your clit. He doesnât move away until you yank on his hair.Â
He crawls up your body and gently kisses you.Â
âDid so good for me,â he whispers. âSo good. I love you.â
You smile against his lips and pull to the side to look at his face. Since Sage was born, itâs like all Din can say is that he loves you, and all you can do is look at his face.Â
âLove you, too.â
He lies on his side, and you roll on yours. You reach out and start stroking his cock.
Both of you inch closer and watch as you line Dinâs cock up with your entrance.
Slowly, he pushes inside, one inch at a time, keeping a close eye on your face at all times, watching to make sure heâs not hurting you.
When he bottoms out, you let out a deep sigh of relief. He wraps his arms around you and pulls you close.Â
âFeel okay?â he asks softly, successfully holding back from giving in to his instincts that are telling him to ram his cock into you.
You nod, panting softly. âMhm, Iâm good.â
You reach a hand up to gently cradle his face.
Itâs the first time you get to see Din in his rawest form: fully naked, inside the woman he loves.
âFuck, this is amazing,â Din grits out, his voice tight. âEverything about you is⊠Shit, I canât explain it, but youâve somehow become even more perfect.â
You smile and lean forward to kiss him, your hand creeping up to bury itself in his hair.
âMm. Din, you can move. But gentle, baby,â you moan against his lips. âSlow.â
He nods against your forehead and gently pulls out of you the tiniest bit, then back inside, then he repeats the motion.
âLike that?â he asks softly.
âMhm. Perfect, baby. Youâre so good to me.â
âYouâre amazing,â he coos, keeping a gentle pace, his hands gently exploring your body. âGave me a daughter, made this house a cozy home for our children, nursing the baby, still paying enough attention to Grogu, still making me feel like the luckiest bastard in the galaxy⊠Youâre incredible. Youâre the most spectacular woman Iâve ever met. Plus, youâre gorgeous. Iâm drunk on you,â he babbles.
You hum contentedly and press your lips to his, swallowing his words of praise.
âI love you,â you mutter in between kisses. âAlready knew you were a good dad, but seeing you hold Sage, no shirt on⊠Swear, each time I see it, I could die.â
Din moans and goes to kiss the underside of your jaw. Thereâs no reality where him doing skin-to-skin bonding with Sage is the biggest undoing possible.
âKnow whatâs worse?â he moans. âWatching you nurse her. Youâre so good at it. Always so calm and so pretty, so careful with her. Such a good mommy.â
You gently scratch his scalp as you bury your hands in his hair and start meeting his thrusts with your own.
âYeah? Are you happy you put a baby in me? You like watching my body do everything for our baby?â you whisper teasingly in his hair, his mouth on the top of your breast.
He groans against you, sending vibrations through your body.
Din looks up at you through his lashes and sighs shakily. âYou have no idea how amazing I think you are. Iâve always thought so. You basically gave me no choice but to let you start as Groguâs babysitter, just by talking. Youâre an incredible artist, a good cook, intelligent beyond comprehension, a fantastic wife and lover, and the best mother Iâve ever witnessed. These days, I get hard just looking at you. I love you. I would do anything for you.â
Your eyes glaze over as he fills your ears with praise. You gently stroke his cheek and sigh, pulling his face closer so you can kiss him.
âNothing I come up with right now could even come close to that,â you whisper.
âThatâs okay,â Din says. âI donât need you to say anything. Just feel how much I love you.â
You nod, and he kisses you again, the heat behind his thrusts picking up as he brings a hand down between your bodies to rub at your clit.Â
âMm, fuck⊠You know I never thought about this when I was growing up,â you murmur. âMarriage, having a partner.â
Din furrows his brow, a silent way to tell you heâs listening while he focuses on fucking you.
âI sometimes thought about kids, so Sage⊠That was easy. Barely thought about it when I found out outside of some healthy panic,â you joke. âBut I never thought Iâd have this.â
He sighs and kisses the side of your mouth. âI love you.â
You smile and kiss his mustache. âI love you, and I love our life together, and Iâm so happy.â
Din moans at your words.
âWhat, you get off on my happiness?â you joke, brushing his hair off his forehead so you can see as much of his face as possible.
âAs a matter of fact, I do,â he murmurs, leaning in to kiss you once more, his thumb pressing harder on your clit.
âMm, good.â
The simple response pulls a soft laugh from Din, and he hugs you closer and gently angles his head so he can kiss each of your sensitive nipples, which pulls eager whines from your throat.
âShit, Iâm gonna come,â you whine.
âGood, thatâs good, pretty girl. Come for me. Squeeze my cock,â he rasps in your ear.
You pull him in for another kiss, and he swallows your moans as you clench around his cock.
âDid so good,â he coos. âMy pretty wife. I love you.â
Din kisses you as his cock twitches inside of you. When you come down from your orgasm, you mumble against his lips, âFill me up.â
He moans, and his thrusting picks up speed. His fingers flex against your back, and soon youâre full of his warm cum, watching his brows furrow and his mouth gape as he comes.
The first time youâve ever seen his face when he comes, and all you want is to see it again and again.
You kiss him and whisper, âI love you, Din Djarin. Mhi solus tome, mhi solus darâtome, mhi meâdinui an, mhi baâjuri verde.â
Hearing the Mandalorian marriage vows spoken by you is almost enough to make Dinâs heart stop. He kisses you fiercely and tightens his arms around you.
âYouâre perfect,â he whispers. âI love you so much, I canât even describe it.â
The post-sex haze is broken by Sageâs cries down the hall, but neither of you is even the slightest bit upset.Â
///
When Sage is three months old, Din makes the decision to take a step back from bounty hunting. He still hunts, but less often and focuses more on high-paying bounties. He gets a steady and predictable job working as a pilot for the Royal Space Fighter Corps. You get a job as an art teacher. When you come home and grade projects, Grogu likes to sit and watch, usually doodling something of his own.Â
âLike mother, like son,â Din says.Â
As Sage grows up, there are conversations about whether or not to teach her the Mandalorian ways. Din still struggles with how much of it he even truly believes in, and you donât believe in much of anything besides being a good person.
You both decide on teaching her about as many perspectives as possible and taking her to Mandâalor twice a year as she grows up.
It seems that Sage didnât only complete you, but she also settled something inside of Din. Youâre not sure what, but as she grows up, Din seems calmer than he did when you met him. Itâs like heâs lighter, not so rigid.
Even if his relationship with the way of the Mandalorians is less intense than it once was, one thing is still for certain: you and he are one, no matter where the other is, there are no secrets, and as Grogu and Sage mature, itâs clear. Theyâre growing into warriors.
Read part one here!
all works tags: @person-005 @madpanda75 @tearsweetenedtea
tags for this work: @anqieluv @time-for-my-weekly-spanking @madscamp02
Part One Summary: After two years of working for the Mandalorian as a babysitter for his foundling, you fall into bed with him. Months later, you fall pregnant with his baby. You still haven't seen his face.
Pairing: Din Djarin x Pregnant!Reader
Content warnings: accidental pregnancy, female masturbation, gratuitous smut, porn with plot, use of Mando'a (used this website), inaccurate description of the Razor Crest interior (click here to see my made up floor plan), Din Djarin Removes the Helmet, repressed!Din, touch starved!Din, allusions to religious trauma/guilt, intimacy issues, family fluff, pregnant sex, dirty talk, body worship, armpit sniffing and one kiss/lick, pregnancy kink, breeding kink, angst
Word count: 10,987
Read on ao3 here | Read Part Two Here | dividers by @/saradika-graphics
Author's note: friends, I tried to post this as a long shot like the poll agreed on, but it was too long for Tumblr's formatting :( so here is the first half, and the second half is already posted. anyways, my knowledge of Star Wars lore/their politics is small, but my love for DILF-y Din Djarin is vast. so if something doesnât make sense, pls forgive me. I have been working on this fic on and off since January, and it is literally my baby. this idea has vaguely been in my head since summer 2022 when I was listening to "Moon Song" by Phoebe Bridgers on repeat while reading Din Djarin fanfiction. I have seen the movie; this fic was never meant to follow the movie. even I am unsure of the timeline here, but Bo-Katan and what Din learns from her (helmet/creed stuff) is mentioned and kind of a theme here, and he has Grogu, so I guess this is post s3 with no cabin in Nevarro. anyway, I hope you enjoy, and I love you as much as I love DILFs, <3
You came along with the Mandalorian and the child to provide childcare for Grogu when his father was hunting bounties. Mando allowed you on this ship to take care of his child because you wanted to see the galaxy, and this babysitting job was the best way to do that at a low expense.
He met you when you were a struggling artist. He was at the flea market with Grogu to look for mittens in preparation for a stretch of bounties on cold planets.Â
The mitten booth was next to yours, where you were selling plates, silverware, bowls, as well as paintings and drawings. Everything, at least in his opinion, was very carefully crafted, priced fairly, though maybe a little too fairly.Â
As Mando purchased Groguâs mittens, the green child toddled over to your booth and stroked your painting of a porg.Â
âGrogu, donât touch that,â he scolded as soon as he handed the mitten attendant her credits.Â
He scooped up his son and looked at you. âIâm sorry. He gets excited. He didnât scratch it, did he?â
You shook your head, an easy smile on your face.Â
âNo, itâs okay,â you said, barely glancing at the painting, too transfixed by Groguâs large eyes. âYâknow, your kid looks easy to draw, Mando.â
He scoffed beneath the helmet. âYeah, I guess so. Anyway, Iâm sorry for the disruption.â
He was about to walk away when you asked, âYou need a babysitter?â
Mando stayed silent for a moment. âWhy?â
âYouâre a bounty hunter, and heâs a little kid. Unless youâve got a lady, then I guess⊠Anyway, if you need one, take me with you, wherever youâre going.â
He was shocked at the pair on you. What kind of stranger just asks to babysit? Out of the goodness of their heart? Fat chance.Â
âWhat would you get out of babysitting the child?â Mando asked. âAre your sales that bad?â
You sighed, trying not to give away how much that offended you. âYouâre a bounty hunter, right? I mean, if youâre not, you have to start carrying yourself differently.â
He nodded.Â
âThat means you go all over the galaxy, hunting dangerous bounties. I want to see the galaxy; your kid needs stable childcare.â
Selfish reasons. Mando could accept that. You were right. Leaving Grogu with the nearest person and shoving an obscene amount of credits in their hands wasnât the best idea.Â
âYou may accompany us today. Iâll let you take the reins for the day. Depending on how you do with him, Iâll make my decision,â he said.Â
He watched you take the lead with Grogu that day as if you knew the child from birth. You directed him easily, clearly, and fairly.
When Mando dropped you off outside your apartment building at the end of the night, he told you to pack warm, that heâd be back for you in the morning, and that was that.
///
One night, after working for him for a year and a half, he came back to the ship in the middle of the night after a hunt, limping. Someone threw a knife, and it landed in his leg, particularly in a spot that the beskar didnât protect. Once you fixed him up, you excused yourself. He had whined and moaned and panted the whole time, and it all went straight to your core. You needed to relieve yourself.
He saw right through you.
âDo it here,â he rasped through the voice modulator.
You turned on your heel with a mortified look on your face.
âI saw you rubbing your thighs together the whole time. If youâre going to take care of that ache between your thighs, do it here, in front of me.â
âMandoââ
âTell me youâre not about to slip your fingers under your panties,â he interrupted, âand Iâll let it go. Weâll forget this happened.â
You stayed silent for a moment, then lowered yourself to sit on the floor in front of him.
The Mandalorian lost control that day; he let himself get hurt, and he almost lost a bounty that he needed the credits for to pay you and care for his child. Fear struck him as he realized how much he depended on predictability, on him keeping it together, on keeping you and Grogu safe.Â
Mixed with the fear was something else that made him feel raw in a way he wasnât sure if he liked. Losing control terrified him, meant he was vulnerable, and he wasnât comfortable with that. In that moment, he desperately needed the control back, and you were going to give it to him.
You kicked off your shoes and socks and pulled your pants down. You werenât totally sure where he was looking exactly, but you knew he was focused on you. Either on the way that your nipples began to harden against your thin shirt and bra, the wet spot that grew in your panties, or the tremble in your thighs occurring because of his scrutinizing gaze, or at least what you think is his gaze.
Slowly and tentatively, you sat down on the cold floor in front of the Mandalorian, about two feet of distance between the two of you.
âDo it the same way you do when youâre in the shower,â he instructed.
Your eyes widened. Fuck, he heard that? Fuck.
You started with what Mando could only call a pet to your clothed pussy. You gently repeated the motion a few times, then added more pressure.
âTake them off,â Mando said, his voice clear and demanding.
He watched you bite your bottom lip, probably to suppress a moan or a whine as you pulled your panties down.
Mando let out a soft groan, muffled by his helmetâs modulator, when you bared your cunt to him.
âFinger yourself,â was his next demand, but his voice shook, and the dichotomy of his making a demand with such a pitiful tone of voice was nearly enough to make you come on the spot.
You did as he said, and when he told you to add a second, then a third finger, you complied then too.
âFuck, Mando,â you mumbled softly, your entire body on the verge of convulsing.
Pleasuring yourself was always something you did in private, not shamefully, but definitely privately. But doing it in front of the Mandalorian, simply because he asked, was sending a rush throughout your body that you couldnât explain.
âIâm gonna come,â you whined softly, so as not to wake the child.
âGood girl,â Mando crooned. âGood, show me how you come. Be a good girl for me.â
With a silent shout, you clamped down on your fingers as you came. Mandoâs breath hitched as he watched your thighs tremble uncontrollably as you came down.
Carefully, Mando inched closer to you as you caught your breath. He picked up your discarded panties and gently pulled your hand away from your cunt. He used the panties to clean your own juices off your hand and off your vulva.
Then he tugged at the hem of your shirt, a silent plea for you to remove the garment.
As you stripped naked, Mando unzipped his flight pants and yanked out his devastatingly hard cock, red and dripping pre-cum.
âFuck, I need you,â he rumbled.
His voice, altered by the voice modulator, went straight to your core.
You nodded and lay back on the floor, legs spread so Mando could fuck you.Â
You werenât normally so pliant under the people with whom youâd had sex with in the past, but Mando⊠If the way he shot the man in the leg who made lewd comments about you at a cantina about six months ago was any indication, you knew heâd rather cut off his own arm than hurt you.
He lined himself up and gently pushed inside, checking in with you along the way. He thrusted a few times, probably for less than two or three minutes. Then he was whining and pulling out, coming all over your red, puffy cunt.Â
âShit. Fuck,â he panted. âIâm sorry. Iââ
You shook your head. You knew he was repressedânot a virginâbut definitely repressed, probably more so after he took in Grogu. What kind of single father has time for one-night stands?
âItâs okay, Mando,â you assured him. âIf you want⊠We can have a do-over sometime.â
From there, things escalated. You started sleeping in his bed with him, rather than the hammock in the hull after the night he fucked you in the cockpit.
You had straddled his lap, and the beskar of his thigh plates dug into your ass, but fuck, it was worth it. His gloved hands roamed your body and pinched your nipples through your shirt and bra. You leaned your forehead against the cool metal of his helmet and came with a soft yelp.
As he tucked his cock back into his pants, he said he was heading for bed.Â
When he saw you toeing your boots off in front of the hammock in the hull that youâd called a bed, he gently wrapped a hand around your wrist and pulled you into his bedroom.
He tucked you in, handling you so carefully that you worried he was hallucinating you to be mere inches tall and green-skinned.
Mando instructed you to face the wall, and once you were, you heard the clink and clank of him removing his armor. All but the helmet.
His hands were warm on your body, his arms were strong as he held you. Youâd never felt safer in your life. You could live with never seeing his face.Â
What he allowed you to have of himself was surely ten times better than the whole of any other man.
A few months after that was the first time he fucked you without his helmet. You think thatâs when it happened. He barely pulled out of you, so it made sense.
He had quietly tiptoed into the bedroom after meeting with Karga to collect more bounties.
You turned over in bed and blinked the sleep from your eyes.
âMando?â
âSorry,â he murmured as he began removing the armor.
You sighed and faced the wall again, but stretched your hand out behind you, a silent plea for his touch.
Once Din removed everything but his helmet, fully nude with the exception of his head, he climbed in behind you. He wasnât quite sure then, and still isn't sure, what made him remove the helmet at that moment, but he did.
You heard the soft pull, then the quiet thud of Mando setting his helmet on the floor, which filled the small bedroom.
âMando!â you whispered, your voice tight and clipped, almost panicked.
You froze, your eyes trained on the metal wall, unsure what to do now. To your knowledge, Mando took his religion very seriously, was part of a very devout sect, and would only remove his helmet in the presence of his clan.
Did it not count if you didnât see? What was his plan here?
âItâs alright,â Mando whispered in your ear, his breath warm on your skin. âI trust you.â
That sent a tingle down your spine.
âJust keep your eyes trained on the wall,â he warned softly.
You swallowed roughly, then nodded, the back of your head moving enough for him to see. âOkay.â
Mando pulled at the panties you wore while you removed your sleep shirt, baring your body to him. The idea of being fully naked with him, even if you couldnât see him, was thrilling.
He gently started rubbing your clit, eventually pulling soft whines from your mouth. It was like music to Mandoâs ears.
âOh, youâre such a good girl for me. Youâll do anything I tell you, huh?â he whispers in your ear as he circles your hole with his fingertip. âYou like this? Watching me come undone for you? Huh?â
You gasped out softly when his finger penetrated you. His words were melting you, making you putty in his hands.
âMando, I⊠Oh, fuck, I need you,â you whined, your voice a high-pitched whisper.
The Mandalorian growled in response to your vulnerability. He worked you open with two fingers, but didnât bother making you come. You needed him, and he needed you just as much.
Heâd gotten you wet, but not quite wet enough to take him, so he spit on his palm and rubbed it onto his cock before pushing inside of you.
Mando buried his face in the back of your hair for the first time so he could muffle his groans. It was heavenly, having your soft hair rub against his face.
âFuck, cyarâika,â he mumbled against your hair, squeezing his hands around your body. âOriâmeshla.â
You clenched around Mandoâs cock as he spoke in his religionâs tongue. He was really giving it to you with both barrels. Removing his helmet in your presence and speaking in his native language while he was balls deep inside of you felt like a fucking marriage proposal, but better.Â
âOh, myâFuck, Mando,â you cried.
He started thrusting and set a quick pace immediately. He still hadnât quite gotten the hang of the sensual side of things, and youâd been a bit apprehensive to dare make things more emotional in addition to physical.Â
The dirty talk, though? That just kept getting better.
âYour cunt is so good,â he whined in your ear, one hand busying itself with rubbing your clit, the other groping your breast and rolling your nipple. âOh, shit, I shouldnât want you this much. Iâve never wanted anybody this much,â he whispered.
âOh, fuck, Mando, IâshitâI want you so bad. Your cock is⊠Oh!â you babbled, completely drunk on his cock.
âFuck,â he moaned, sounding absolutely pitiful. You only wished you could see the facial expression that went along with that sound. âFuck. I take off the helmet, and suddenly youâre cock drunk? Huh? You usually donât get like this until round two, sweet thing. What? Does it turn you on knowing all it would take is you turning your head around for me to break my creed? Huh? You like the danger of it?â
You buried your face into the pillow beneath your head and let out the most pathetic whine Mando had ever heard from you. If only you couldâve seen the smirk on his face.
He picked your head up by your hair and made you stare at the wall.
âDonât hide your sweet noises,â he whispered in your ear, his facial hair rubbing against you.
Fuck, he was definitely attractive. No one could act like that and not have the face to match the behavior.Â
âI wonât,â you promised, hissing softly when he pulled on your hair before releasing it from his grip.
âThatâs a good girl. Yeah, youâre my good girl, huh? You feel special because I took off the helmet for you? Hm? You like hearing my voice clear and unmodulated? Did you like feeling my beard rub on your ear? Tell me.â
âOh!â you shrieked. His fingers just pressed harder against your clit. âFuck, I like it, Mando! F-Feel so fucking special. Your voice is soâmmâso smooth and, oh, shit, your beard! Fuck, so sexy, Mando, fuck! I need you!â
He had you right where he wanted you: completely dumb for him. Heâd watched you, a highly competent woman, care for his son when he was away and when he was tired, watched you intelligently converse with store merchants and negotiate for the best deals on clothing or snacks for Grogu, listened to you list off facts about the new planets he brought you to. You were smart, and you had your shit together, so making you lose it with just his body made him feel like a fucking king.
âYeah? Gonna come for me?â he whispered in your ear again, rubbing his cheek against your ear to scratch you with his beard.
âMm! Yes! Oh, gonna come, Mando! Fuck!â you yelped.
Mando began to rub your clit a little faster, and the orgasm he pulled from you was world-shattering.
Your pussy clenched down on his cock so hard that he thought it might fall off.
âWant you to come now,â you panted. âCome on, Mando, use my pussy.â
The Mandalorian whined in your ear and bit down on your earlobe. He took hold of your hips and gently pushed you to lie on your stomach.
âThat okay?â he asked breathily.
âMhm!â
With your okay, Mando started ramming his cock into you, the small room filled with the sound of skin slapping against skin.
âFuck,â he whispered under his breath.
His orgasm overtook him; he was already coming by the time his tip exited your body.Â
âSorry,â he gritted out as he pumped his cock over your ass. âStill have your implant?â he asked, already reaching for his underwear to wipe his cum off of you.
âYeah,â you murmured softly.
Mando tossed his underwear to the floor and turned you on your side, facing the wall. He wrapped his arms around you and whispered, âClose your eyes.â
You did so and mumbled, âClosed.â
He gently brought his hand to your face and turned you toward him. You could feel his breath on you, and you held yours.
When his lips pressed against yours for the first time, it was like ecstasy ran through your body. He was unsure, didnât use his tongue, but you could feel his passion.
He pulled away and kissed your shoulder, then tightened his arms around you.
âThank you,â he whispered, and you werenât sure what to say.
You just took hold of one of his hands and brought his knuckles to your lips.
///
Itâs been six weeks since the Mandalorian barely pulled out of you in time, and youâve been sick a few days over the last two weeks. Unrelated, right? You fucking hope so. When Mando lands the ship, he slips some credits into your hand for shopping, like always, but this time the quantity is greater.
âFind something to make yourself feel better,â he says.
âHm?â You furrow your brow.
âIâve heard you in the bathroom,â Mando says softly. âIf youâre looking after a child as rambunctious as Grogu, you need your energy. Get better.â
âThanks,â you murmur, taken aback.
You watch as he heads down the ramp, then look down at Grogu, playing with his silver ball in the corner.
âHow does a trip to the market sound today, kid?â you ask softly as you walk toward him.
Grogu coos excitedly in response, and you pull your bag over your shoulder, then help the child get situated inside.
Itâs a nice town that Mandoâs landed in. You wish he would take the time to explore it once he collects the bounty; it seems all he ever does is hunt for bounties rather than a shop that carries his new favorite product. He has a hard time enjoying things and taking everything in, in your opinion.Â
The walk to the market is easy. Grogu coos excitedly every once in a while as you make your way through the shops, buying items youâll need for the week.
When you make it to the medical shop to stock up on first aid, you notice a doctorâs business card left by the box of bandages. Why not get a quick checkup for you and Grogu?
When you enter the clinic, itâs empty, save for the receptionist.
âWalk in?â they ask.
âUh, yes,â you reply. âFor the kid and me. I wondered if we could just get checkups?â
They nod, not looking at you as they search for the forms.
âFill these out. Iâll let the doctor know.â
You take a seat, take Grogu out of your bag, and set him on the chair next to you.
âDonât move,â you tell him, your tone stern but loving.
He makes a sound of discontent, but does as you say while you fill out the paperwork.
Then the door opens, and an older man simply asks, âReady?â
Unprofessional at best, but you still pick up Grogu and head down the hall with the doctor.
Grogu goes first. You donât even know what species he is, so the doctor ends up grumbling while taking the childâs history.
Eventually, your green charge is deemed to be in good health.
âAlright,â the doctor sighs after handing Grogu a candy. âFor you? Just a physical?â
âUh, Iâm actually more concerned about, um, just checking my vitals,â you say.
The doctor furrows his brow. âWhat was the day of your last cycle?â
âI guess seven weeks ago. Maybe eight?â
He shakes his head. âLet me go get the bioscan device.â
The doctor steps out, and you turn to Grogu. âYou keep this between us, buddy, and thereâll be extra cookies in your future.â
The child beams at you, then the doctor comes back. He unceremoniously scans your body, looks at the results, then sighs when he looks at you.Â
âCongratulations,â he says. âYouâre pregnant. One human baby.â
Fuck, is all you can think.
âDo you do birth control implant removals?â you ask after a few moments.
The doctor nods.
Once the procedure is done and youâre bandaged up and prescribed anti-nausea medication, you take the kid and split, heading back to the Crest.
Shit, what kind of idiot gets pregnant by a Mandalorian? Wait, thatâs being too hard on yourself. The birth control failed. This isnât anyoneâs fault.
Oh, fuck, what is Mando going to say?
Youâve never seen his face. Never. Not in the two years youâve worked for him. Heâs fucked you senseless, let you touch his face in the dark, even kissed you with your eyes closed, but youâve never seen his face.Â
Sometimes heâll walk around the ship in just his pants, the helmet on. Sometimes heâll even be naked, except for the helmet.Â
Youâve gotten over it. Heâs given you other pieces of himself. His bed, his cock, his trust, as well as his seed.Â
His fucking seed.Â
Youâre pregnant with the elusive Mandalorianâs child, yet you've never seen his face, and you still donât know his name.
When you get back to the Crest, Mandoâs already back, sitting at the small table in the hull, the bounty encased in carbonite.Â
Grogu coos excitedly and jumps out of the bag, toddling toward his father.Â
âHey, kid,â Mando murmurs softly as he picks up his son. âGet everything we need?â he asks you.Â
We. Fuck.Â
âUh, yeah,â you say, setting the bag on the small table. âI even took Grogu to the doctor, just for a checkup. Heâs healthy.â
Mando cocks his head to the side, slightly confused. âWhy did you take him?â
You take a deep breath in through your nose. âBecause I needed to get a bioscan. Figured, since we were there, yâknow.â
He stays quiet, waiting for you to continue as he lets Grogu hold his finger.Â
You thought youâd sit on it for a few days, let the news sink in on your own. Just looking at him is enough to break you. Grogu will still get his cookies; you donât break promises.Â
âI thought I might be pregnant.â Your breath hitches. âI am. The doctor gave me anti-nausea medicine.â
You say it with feigned nonchalance. You may appear stoic on the outside, but on the inside, youâre terrified. These are not technically the proper circumstances to carry a child in, much less to raise a child in, despite the fact that Grogu does so well.Â
This stage of your life, traveling and babysitting, was never meant to be the time you raised a baby. It was meant to give you some perspective on the galaxy, help you get to know yourself.Â
You arenât sure how your baby will fare, raised by a woman who does not yet fully know herself and a man who takes his faction of religion so seriously that those in the same religion consider it to be a cult.Â
But what if this is how itâs meant to be? What if this is how you grow into yourself? What if this child is the last piece of yourself left for you to be whole? There are so many what-ifs, and thatâs whatâs tearing you apart.Â
Grogu may still be technically similar to a human toddler, but heâs also had decades to learn to adapt to life. Youâre not sure how your baby would do with adapting to a new climate so often. It would be entirely different from Groguâs experience; the baby would be human. Whatâs more, what if Mando canât handle this? What if he pulls away?
Heâs said taking care of Grogu has been the greatest honor of his life, and that Mandalorians pride themselves on raising foundlings. What if biological children are seen as less than, as adding a soul to the world who didnât ask for it?
Youâre realizing more and more that you really have no idea how Mando thinks, what his values truly are, and that scares you more than youâd like to admit.Â
Mando still hasnât said anything, and itâs making you uneasy. You wish you could see his face to at least know what he might be feeling.
On second thought, maybe not knowing is better.
Mando eventually leans his elbows on his knees, then straightens up again. Heâs fucking fidgeting. The first time heâs moved in about twenty seconds. âYouâre⊠Okay. Wow.â
Youâve never seen the Mandalorian falter. Youâve never wanted to. You definitely didnât want to be the reason.Â
âMando, I swear I had the implant,â you assure him. âI got it out today, though; itâs obviously shit.â
You lower the hem of your pants to show the bandage over your hip. âSee?â
Mando shakes his head. âI believe you. Itâs okay.â A breath. âSo, anti-nausea medicine⊠You intend to keep the pregnancy?â
You hesitate, then sigh. âI-I guess so. I donât⊠Iâm not sure I could bring myself to terminate. Yâknow, personallyâŠâ
He nods. âThatâs your decision. I⊠If youâre keeping it, I canât allow myself not to be involved.â
Itâs part of his creed to be united with oneâs family. Mandoâs already an amazing father to Grogu; your child wonât have to worry.Â
âI understand,â you murmur softly. âThatâs good, yâknow? Good for the kid.â
A moment of silence goes by, like youâre both silently begging the other to continue or end the conversation. Eventually, Mando is the braver party.Â
âGrogu. Heâs a rambunctious child,â he says, looking at his son in his lap. âWill you be able to continue caring for him when Iâm away? I could get another sitter; Iâd make it work.â
You shake your head. âIâve got him.â
Mando gently sets Grogu on the floor, then stands slowly, rising to his full height in front of you. He places a gloved hand on your shoulder as he takes a step forward. He takes another step and drops his hand.
He turns to face the other way and takes another step toward the bathroom, but itâs like he canât. Eventually, he turns his body ever so slightly.Â
âMy name is Din Djarin,â he says over his shoulder.
Your stomach drops. You never expected he would tell you his name, but then nothing with him has ever been expected.
âI figure you deserve to know the name of the man whose child you bear.â
And then he disappears into the bathroom, leaving you reeling.
///
The night that follows you telling Din that you bear his child, all you can think about is his name. He trusts you enough to tell you his name.Â
Din DjarinâŠÂ
Itâs a simple name, but strong, like him.
That night, after your shower, you find him in the bedroom, clad in boxers and his helmet, sitting on the edge of the bed. You drop the towel and bare your naked body to him. He grunts softly in appreciation and holds his hand out for you.
You pad over to him and straddle his lap. Then, seemingly out of nowhere, you hold up a scrap of fabric.
Live with a man for two years, and heâll know what you mean without you having to say a word. Or at least Din will.Â
Din takes the scrap from you and holds it over your eyes and ties it off behind your head, blindfolding you.
âSo gentle, Din,â you whisper.
He hums softly in response, but otherwise stays silent.
Big day, big news; you understand. You wonât push tonight.
Din takes in your body. He just had you last night. Neither of you knew a child was growing beneath your heart, but now you do know, and it feels different, like someoneâs watching.
You look the same as you did months before. You shouldnât look different quite yet. He knows that. Itâs still too early for any visible changes to your body. Heâll love them; he knows that. Itâll be his seed growing inside of you, responsible for the changes to occur down the line.
This situation feels precarious, and he isnât sure why. All he knows is that whether or not this baby was planned, he needs to protect them with his life and show you all the care and adoration in the world in the meantime.
He doesnât know if heâll be able to spread the ability to be a father between two children, but he knows heâll try. Heâll try with everything he has, regardless of how scared he is.Â
Din slips his boxers off and removes the helmet.
You moan when you hear the beskar hit the floor. Tentatively, your hands go to his cheeks, letting his beard scratch against your palms as your hands make their way to his hair.
Heâs come to understand that his hair, any of itâwhether it be his beard, the mop on his head, arm hair, leg hair, his bush, even his fucking armpit hairâis your favorite part of his body. You fucking love it all.
âCan I kiss you, Din?â you whisper, brushing your nose against his.
The sex, neither of you has a problem with. You know that kissing is another story for him, so youâre in the habit of always asking before you kiss him.
He nods, then remembers that you canât see him.
âYes,â he rasps. âPlease.â
You lean forward blindly, and when your lips meet his, you moan. He seeks entrance into your mouth by tonguing the seam of your lips. He gets better at this every time.
You tug gently on his hair, and he whines into your mouth.
âOh, shit, sweetheart,â he moans.
His hands are all over you. Itâs like heâs mapping your body out, looking for any changes. His right hand eventually stops above your hip. He gently drags his thumb back and forth over your lower belly. Soothing himself? You? The baby? Youâre not sure, but it leaves a pit in your stomach, and you whine into his mouth.
âDin, fuck,â you whine, leaning your forehead against his.Â
You grind on the erection growing beneath you and sigh.
âGet inside me, Din,â you whisper breathlessly.
Heâs quick. You hold your hips up, and he drags his tip through your wet folds a few times, then helps you sink down when the tip is inside.
You throw your head back in pleasure, and Din scooches back on the bed. He wraps his arms around you and lies back, then turns the two of you on your sides so that you donât have to do so much of the work.
Heâs quieter than normal, and it makes you want to overcompensate by talking more than usual, but you hold back. He needs to process in silence. Itâs what heâs used to, so you bite your bottom lip and moan each time your lips want to move.
You whimper and moan when his thumb starts circling your clit, when his other thumb starts tweaking your nipples, so sensitive with the new rush of hormones in your body.
âShit,â you pant. âOh, so good, Din.â
âSo pretty,â Din murmurs to you as he thrusts a little harder.
âOh! Din!â
âI got you,â he whispers before kissing you again.
He keeps a steady pace of his hips, as well as his thumbs, pushing you over the edge in no time.
âDin, shit,â you whine. âFuck, baby.â
He swallows your whines and fucks into you with no abandon as he chases his own high. Youâre carrying his baby. His seed is growing inside of you. He got you pregnant. Oh, fuck just the simple thought is enough to make him come.
He spills inside of you and doesnât pull out halfway through for the first time, and itâs divine. His cum is warm and thick and comforting, and you swear you might want it as a snack later.
You moan softly, and Din watches your ribs rise and fall as you regain your composure. He takes your hand and kisses your knuckles.
âYou like my name,â he whispers.
âHm?â
âYou couldnât stop saying it.â
You shrug.
He smiles.
///
Even with the anti-nausea medicine from the clinic, the first trimester of pregnancy isnât easy. Youâre always so tired and hungry, but you often have trouble sleeping, and pretty much no food ever sounds good.Â
Din is understanding. He keeps his distance, but is sure to show his support.Â
After a hunt on Naboo, Din coaxes you out of bed and out to the flea market.Â
You donât say much, but he figures fresh air and things to look at other than the contents of the Crest might do you good.Â
Grogu makes noises of excitement as he toddles along with you and Din.Â
Usually, youâre much more eager to try the vendorsâ samples and make a few purchases, but you honestly look dead on your feet.Â
âWas this too much too soon?â he asks you in between vendors.Â
Your arms are crossed, hugged closely to your body, just trying not to keel over from all the overwhelming sounds and smells. He tried to do a good thing, a sweet thing, and you know thatâs a little hard for him. Heâs not used to being sweet.Â
âIt was a nice thought,â you whisper softly, squinting as you look up at him, the sun hitting his armor reflecting right into your eye.Â
âI thought the fresh air would help with your fatigue,â he murmurs softly, a gloved hand reaching out to gently caress your bicep.Â
You just shrug. Grogu approaches, his hands pulling on your boot.Â
âHeâs⊠Heâs been cooped up the last two days,â you say softly. âI donât want to ruin his fun. Iâll go into the cantina, try and choke down some broth. Come find me when heâs ready.â
Youâre already walking away, a kind smile on your face.Â
Din shifts his weight awkwardly. Grogu looks up at him like itâs his fault youâre gone.Â
A woman in the booth nearby shoots Din a knowing look. He cocks his head to the side, and she smiles.Â
âThe first trimester is difficult,â she says as Din walks closer with Grogu. âHer body is getting used to not belonging solely to her anymore. Sheâs starving but struggles to keep food down. Tired, but has a hard time shutting off her mind long enough to get to sleep. And it looks like sheâs already got a little one to look after. An energetic one, by the looks of things.â
The woman nods over to Grogu, a few feet away, jumping up and down in front of some children, practically begging for them to share their cookies with him.Â
Din calls Grogu over, then looks back at the woman.Â
âI thought coming here, getting some fresh air and exercise, looking at all the shops would make her feel better,â Din admits, feeling a little silly saying it.Â
The woman smiles. âI sell a tea that is sure to at least ease your wifeâs symptoms.â
Din doesnât even realize that this woman has mistaken you for his wife at first. For a moment, he grapples with whether or not it matters that she knows youâre actually his sonâs babysitter turned dubious hookup turned mother of his second child.Â
âMando?â The womanâs voice is calm, like sheâs making sure his train of thought doesnât take him too far.Â
âRight. Iâll take it,â Din says, glancing over her prices and handing her extra credits. âThank you. Iâm sure myâŠwife will be grateful.â
The woman smiles and watches him walk off with Grogu.Â
Dinâs seriously buzzing under all the armor at referring to you as his wife. Is it wrong? Heâs not sure. But is it so bad to live in that fantasy where everything is plain and simple and easy and not scary and hard and awkward, for just a moment?
He buys a couple of staples for Groguâs snacks, then finds you at the cantina, sitting in the back booth, a half-full bowl of broth in front of you.Â
âHe have fun?â you ask, the bags under your eyes darker than when you left.Â
Din looks at the smiling child, then to you, and shrugs.Â
âHe missed you, mostly. Though, I gave him a cookie to soften the blow,â he tells you, and you let out a soft laugh through your nose.
âFind anything interesting?â
âIn a way,â Din replies. âA woman noticed our conversation before you left.â
You tense slightly in your seat. For some reason, the image of a woman ready to be Dinâs bubbly arm candy, happy to be at the market, ready to replace your cranky, grumpy self, enters your head for a split second.Â
You donât like the idea, and you donât like the feeling it gives you.Â
âShe caught on to yourâŠcondition. She said this tea might help,â he says, pulling the box from the bag. âI can go up to the bar and have them make you a cup.â
Normally, youâd just make the tea on the ship, but the walk from the town to the ship is longer than youâd like, and you feel like death warmed over, so you nod, and Dinâs out of his seat.Â
He speaks to the barkeep for a moment, then stands in wait, occasionally looking over his shoulder at you and Grogu.Â
Just a few minutes later, heâs back at the table with the tea.Â
âItâs hot,â he warns.
You sigh and rest your chin on your knuckles, your elbow on the table. Grogu stares up at you, and you smile.Â
âWanna blow on it for me, pal? Cool it down?â you ask softly.Â
The child smiles and blows air out on your tea, though a little too harshly, making a noise that pulls the first genuine laugh out of you that Dinâs heard in a few days.Â
Eventually, Grogu deems the tea cool enough for you, and gently pushes it toward you.Â
You take a sip, and make a slight face of disgust, then eventually, one of acceptance.
âFuck, I hope that works,â you mutter.
And it seems to. Half an hour later, the three of you are walking back to the Crest, and youâre in better spirits, smiling at Grogu, cracking the occasional joke.
For the first time all week, you take care of Groguâs bedtime routine.
On the inside, Din is buzzing, utterly pleased with himself that the tea has worked.
He takes a quick shower while you put Grogu down, and once youâre washed up for the night, you meet Din in the bedroom, his helmet and boxers down.Â
Once youâre settled in bed, Din removes the helmet and kisses your cheek, spooning you.
âThank you,â you mutter softly. âFor the tea and trying to make me feel better.â
âDonât mention it,â he whispers.
///
When Din realizes youâre showing, heâs feral.Â
Heâs more pleased about the pregnancy than you thought heâd be.Â
As the months have gone on, heâs been silently examining your body every day, scanning for new changes, changes that tell the world that his baby is inside you, growing and healthy.
So when you come to bed tonight, he notices the curve of your stomach, more defined than it was last week, not as soft as when youâre bloated, and he feels all the blood rush to his head.Â
You squint at him. âAm I paranoid, or are you staring at me?â
âYouâre showing,â is all he responds with, sitting on the edge of the bed, helmet and boxers on.
You laugh it off, but then he grabs your hand and pulls you toward him. He has you standing between his legs. He pulls your shirt up and sure enough⊠Thereâs an undeniable bump.
âHm. Guess youâre right,â you mutter.
âHow can you be so nonchalant?â Din asks, disbelief creeping into his voice.
âWhat?â
âYouâre showing,â Din says again. âPeople can look at you now and know, undoubtedly, that you are with child. You are visibly pregnant with my child.â
You furrow your brows, not quite grasping why Din feels so intensely about your bump. âYeah, I knowâŠâ
Din sighs and brings both his hands to stroke your belly.
Heâs just completed a hunt on Umbara, and youâre still here, landed in an isolated area. Sunlight doesnât reach this planet. All you have to do is turn off the soft lamp, and youâll be in complete darkness. Din wonât have to keep the helmet on, and you wonât have to wear a blindfold.
âTurn the light off,â Din whispers, his voice dominant and commanding.
You hesitate for a moment, then reach over and turn the light switch.
Now in pitch black, Din removes his helmet and sets it on the floor.
Youâre already leaking into your panties.Â
He removes his boxers, then gently tugs on your shirt and helps you get it off, then your sleep shorts and panties.
He palms your cunt and moans appreciatively.Â
âAll this for me? All weâve done is get undressed,â he whispers.
âHormones,â you mumble.
In the dark, he smirks, and the tip of his middle finger breaches your entrance.
Your breath hitches, and he pushes it deeper inside.
âIâm gonna make you come on my hand,â Din rasps, âand then Iâm gonna explain to you how amazing your new body is with my cock.â
You moan at his words and clamp around his finger, then his speed picks up just a little. He adds clitoral stimulation, and with his other hand, he gropes your ass. He leans forward and meets your breast with his lips. He wraps his lips around your sensitive nipple and moans around it, sending vibrations through your body that quickly send you over the edge.
âShit, Din,â you whine, a hand tugging on his hair for balance.Â
âGood girl. Did so good letting me get you all wet for my cock. Now, weâre gonna lie down, okay?â
âOkay,â you pant.
Din maneuvers your pliant body with ease. He stands and turns you around, lying you down in the middle of the bed. He may not be able to see your body, but he knows it inside and out, and heâs ready to worship its new changes.
With you flat on your back, Din runs a hand from your cheek, down the side of your neck, over the curve of your breast, to caress your new bump. He shivers when he holds his palm over it. He swears he could die right here. His child is under his hand, and just the thought is making his cock harden.
Your breathing is deep and heavy, and the sound is music to Dinâs ears. He leans down and kisses your belly, just beneath your belly button.
âYou have my child inside of you, visibly growing and healthy,â he mutters against your skin. âDo you understand what that does to a man like me?â
A man like me⊠You canât even begin to understand all the implications there. Din, who has only ever had physical intimacy since his parents died. Emotional intimacy has only been found with Grogu, yet it wasnât enough for Din.Â
To have his child growing inside of you, to see what itâs doing to your body, what his touch did to you⊠He hadnât touched another person in decades, and never the way he touches you.
His touch was one of passion, clearly, and it resulted in the beginnings of new life.
New life that is now palpable.
âThis is so special,â Din whispers as he kisses his way up your body.
He hovers over you, one hand planted next to your body as he lines himself up with your entrance with his other hand.Â
When he pushes in, you both sigh, relieved and excited.
He lowers his face and kisses you as he gets you used to the feeling of him. Itâs almost hungry on Dinâs part, and you love it.
Honestly, you were wondering just last week if he would back off once you were really showing. You wondered if he might be too scared or just uninterested. Evidently, neither is true, because heâs barely controlling himself from grinding against you.
âDin, you can move,â you tell him breathily. âItâs okay, baby.â
Immediately, Din starts thrusting hard, but not too fast.
âOh, shit, pretty girl,â he whines. âDo you have any idea what this is doing to me?â
You just giggle in response, and Din snakes his hands under your body and pulls you up. Now, he has his left foot planted on the floor, his knee hitting the side of the bed, his right knee sinking into the bed. He has you balanced on his right thigh, and you instinctively wrap your legs around his waist and your arms around his neck and shoulder. His hands roam your back and side, and his cock is hitting deeper places inside of you than ever before.
âFuck, you look so incredibly beautiful carrying our baby,â he pants as he goes to kiss your neck.
You moan and arch your back, giving him more access to your neck, and the feeling of your bump pressing into his abdomen makes his cock twitch inside of you.
âOh, shit, sweetheart,â he rasps, his fingers flexing against your skin, his head resting against your clavicle as you both meet the otherâs thrusts.
âFuck, feels so good, Din. Shit!â
All thatâs heard in the small room is the sound of skin slapping against skin and breathy moans and whines. Itâs pure ecstasy, and neither of you wants it to stop.
âSo good to me,â you whine. âTaking such good care of your pregnant slut, huh? Making sure my needs are met, Din? Huh?â
âDonât call yourself a slut,â Din pants, still thrusting. âYouâre perfect. You have my baby inside of you. Youâre all mine. Mine.â
âMm, all yours, huh? Wanna keep me for yourself?â you ask before licking a stripe up his neck.
âMhm. Mother of my baby. Such a pretty mommyâŠâ
You moan and let yourself fall back a bit, pulling Din with you. He has this musk you canât describe, and you need a closer angle.
âSmell so good,â you pant, kissing up and down his neck.
Din grabs your jaw and lazily licks the outline of your lips before kissing you again.
You scratch your nails down his triceps and clench around his cock when he hisses in pain.
He moves his arm so he can cup the back of your head, and you lean in to smell his armpit.
It shocks him, and he gasps, but you moan and hold his arm up so you can keep sniffing.
âFuck, you smell so good, baby,â you moan dreamily.
Itâs taboo, even a little gross, to sniff your loverâs armpit and claim it smells good, and you wouldnât normally do that, but Din knows itâs your hormones. Your hormones are out of whack because of the baby he put inside of you, and now you love the smell of his armpit.
Itâs enough to wreck a man.
He feels your nose brush against his armpit hair, and he shivers. Then you have the audacity to kiss and lick his armpit, and the moan that comes out of you has him blowing his load in under ten seconds, which triggers your own climax.
By the end of it, youâre both sweaty, stupid messes.
Din kisses your bump about eleven times before he finally lies down.
///
Five and a half months pregnant and bored while Din has been on a hunt the last two days, you manage to scrounge up some old sketch paper from a box in the back of the ship.
It seems that since you entered the second trimester, you havenât been drawing as much.
You start with Grogu. He sits beside you while he eats his lunch and plays with his silver ball. Youâre halfway through when he peers over your shoulder and oohs and ahs at it.
âLike it, buddy?â you ask.
He smiles in response and drags his fingers over the ears you drew.
You smile. âAccurate?â
Grogu nods.
Next, you draw your new side profile, hoping it will make you feel a little better about it. Din may be crazy for it, but itâs taking some getting used to for you.Â
You work on it on and off, watching Grogu play outside, then in between bites at dinner. By the end, youâd like to say itâs worked at least a little, in terms of being a confidence booster.Â
After you put Grogu to bed, you sit back down at the table and stare at your paper and pencil.
Youâve mapped out every inch of Dinâs face with your hands. Maybe you could try to sketch his face?
For some reason, that makes you nervous, so instead, you sketch his body, fully nude, and you donât forget even a single scar.
Youâre so into it that you donât hear the ramp open and close or Dinâs footsteps when he approaches you from behind, a hand resting on your shoulder.
You jump in your seat and turn around, your heart beating out of your chest.
âShit,â you laugh softly to yourself.
âYou were in the zone,â Din remarks, sitting next to you, looking over your shoulder just as Grogu had done earlier.
Like father, like son.
âIs that me?â he asks softly when he notices the scar youâve sketched on the figureâs right side.
âYeah,â you answer simply.Â
He stares at the drawing for a moment, eyes squinting inside the helmet.Â
âMy cockâs not that big,â he mutters softly.
You snort out a laugh, then cover your mouth in embarrassment. You smile and look from his crotch to his helmet, hopefully making eye contact with him.
âDin, yes, it is,â you manage to say in between laughs.
He shrugs and focuses back on the drawing, then notices youâve started drawing his jaw and wonders how far youâll go with that.
âDo you think you can draw my face?â he asks.
You inhale sharply and consider it for a moment.
âIâm not sure.â Then you look up at his helmet-covered face. âWould it be okay if I tried? You wouldnât have to tell me if it was right, or close, or anything.â
Din sighs and removes one of his gloves, then reaches out to rub your belly, something he does lately when you say something that makes him think.
âIâd actually like to see what you come up with,â he says.
You smile, pick your pencil back up, and get to work with the rough sketch.
As he watches you draw, he scoots his chair to be behind yours, his arms settling on top of your bump, his hands able to roam the globe of it while you work.
He watches you sketch sparse hair on the cheeks for his patchy beard, the almost exact slope of his nose, the messy waves of the mop on his head. You get close to the size and shape of his eyes, his chin. All of it isâŠstrangely close to accurate for someone whoâs never seen his face.
Din doesnât say anything until youâre finished, and you hold the piece of paper up for him to assess.Â
Youâre almost nervous by how long heâs been silent; then he speaks.
âYouâre a hell of an artist, sweetheart,â he murmurs before standing from his chair.
That night in bed, you shut your eyes and move your fingers over his facial features once again, as if youâre trying to identify any mistakes you made in your drawing, and also the parts you got right.
///
The first time the baby kicks, itâs the middle of the night.Â
You feel some pressure on your bladder and are mentally preparing yourself to blindly crawl over Din to get to the bathroom without catching even a glimpse of his face when it happens.Â
A little flutter.Â
You gasp and bring your hand to the side of your belly. With a gentle press against your skin, you encourage another flutter, which pulls a breathy laugh from you.Â
Behind you, Din stirs, his hand flexing on your hip.Â
âOkay?â he mumbles tiredly.Â
You take his hand off your hip and push it against your stomach.Â
Dinâs eyes are barely open as you drag his hand over your belly. Heâs always down to feel your bump, but heâs not quite sure why it has to be now.Â
Then he feels it.Â
âThatâs them?â he asks, his voice rough with sleep but full of awe.Â
âThatâs our baby,â you whisper, staring down at the small ripple of your skin under Dinâs hand.Â
Thereâs a lump in both your throats. Youâve both known this was happening for months, that a baby was on the way. Dinâs been in a state of perpetual protectiveness since you told him you were pregnant, and it got worse when you were showing, and now the baby can move, and you can both feel it and see it, and itâs miraculous and amazing, and neither of you feel worthy of this child.Â
Din kisses the back of your neck and peers over your shoulder, his beard rubbing against your ear as he watches the small movements made by the baby in your belly.Â
âWhat does it feel like?â he whispers. âOn the inside, what does it feel like?â
You inhale deeply as you think about how to answer.Â
âKind of like when your leg twitches, or maybe tiny taps, but from the inside,â you mutter softly, your hand on the top of his forearm while he gently strokes back and forth across your stomach.Â
âIt doesnât hurt?â
âNo. No, itâs just strange. Itâll take some getting used to.â
Din hums contentedly and kisses the top of your cheek. The two of you just stay like that for a few moments, your hands roaming your stomach, following the baby as they roll around in your womb.Â
He kisses your ear and lets you gently push his weight off of you.Â
âI have to pee,â you whisper, turning your face toward him with your eyes closed.Â
He chuckles softly at the sight and takes your hand, carefully guiding you out of bed and out to the bathroom. He dutifully waits outside the door for you. While he waits, he feels the phantom movements on his palm, like his hand is still on your stomach. In all his travels, Din has experienced a great deal of amazing things, but nothing has come close to feeling his child move in your womb.Â
When you open the door, eyes shut and your hand held out for Din, he takes it and guides you to the bedroom. He pulls the covers over you both once youâre in bed and holds you until you fall asleep.Â
Slowly and carefully, Din pulls the covers down for just a moment and leans down to kiss your stomach. Heâs not sure why he does; he just feels the need to. Like when Grogu sits on his lap, and he carefully squeezes his sonâs little body.Â
He nuzzles his nose against your belly and sighs. Thereâs an urge to speak to the baby like he often catches you doing these days, but he isnât sure what to say, plus he doesnât want to wake you up again.Â
So Din presses another kiss to your belly, then straightens out his body again, his hands cradling your stomach as you sleep. With one more kiss to the back of your neck, he shuts his eyes, ready to fall asleep again.Â
///
Din just completed a bounty yesterday, but he hasnât set the course for a new destination yet. You donât have any complaints; traveling has fucked with your stomach for the last month. Seven months pregnant and constantly flying in the Crest canât be the healthiest way to live while pregnant, but you donât have another choice.Â
Or maybe you do, but you just donât want to make it.Â
Youâre sitting outside the Crest on a smooth rock in front of Grogu, whoâs currently focusing on moving his silver ball with the Force. Itâs actually going pretty well, and you cheer him on when the ball moves even an inch.Â
The ramp is open, and you can see Din inside the Crest, flight pants and helmet on. Nothing else. The fucking tease.Â
You like that he feels comfortable enough to bare even just the top half of his body. In the three days youâve been set up here, not another soul has shown up.Â
âAny progress?â Din calls out, leaning against the opening of the ramp, crossing his feet, his arms around his chest.Â
âA little,â you reply, leaning back on your palms.Â
He chuckles softly and walks down the ramp toward you and Grogu. He takes a seat next to you and lets his pinkie brush against yours.Â
âHeâs getting stronger every day,â Din remarks.Â
You nod. âTough little green guy.â
That pulls a soft chuckle from the Mandalorian. You lean your head on his shoulder. Quiet intimacy, something that began when you got pregnant.Â
You didnât realize you had been doing it, but Din did. It startled him at first, but he was often tense when you touched him anyway, so you didnât think much of it. Eventually, he relaxed when you leaned into him.
There are a few moments of comfortable silence before Din slowly brings a hand to your belly. He still finds himself feeling awkward initiating the casual side of intimacy, but he knows you need it. You need the reassurance that heâs there for you and the baby, that heâs not just here to get his dick wet and fulfill his biological duty.
The baby rolls under your skin in reaction to their fatherâs touch.
âMm. Always so excited to tell you hello,â you murmur, adjusting your weight as you sit, your body upset at the babyâs movement. âMmph.â
âAre you alright?â Din asks, an edge of concern in his voice.
âThe kidâs energetic at the moment,â you say, your voice calm and even, which lets Din lose some of the tension in his shoulders. âRestless, like their father.â
Din scoffs softly at that.
âItâs true.â You shrug.
Underneath the helmet, Din smiles.
After a few more minutes of play for Grogu, Din heads into the Crest to get dressed in his flight suit and adorn his armor.
The three of you are seated rather quickly. No one wants to make the pregnant woman, accompanied by a wordless Mandalorian, wait.
Thatâs one of the things Din appreciates about you; you do all the talking with strangers. If he can help it, he prefers silence and observing.Â
When he met you, you basically offered the role of Groguâs babysitter to yourself. You were a struggling artist who only sold one piece worth enough to feed you for a year, but you sent that money to your parents to pay off their debts. After that, you hit a rough patch until you met Din and Grogu. You talked your way out of that rough spot, and Din still admires you for it.
Halfway through the meal, an elderly woman approaches your table with the biggest smile on her face.
âMy dear, you are positively radiant,â she exclaims, taking your hands in hers.
âOh, thank you,â you reply kindly, giving her a soft smile.
âI havenât seen a woman carry as beautifully as you are in ages,â she continues.
Across from you, you know Din is tense, anxious about the attention youâre receiving, scared that this woman will pull you to the floor, maybe take the unused knife from his place setting, and stab you in the belly. He can tolerate the simple congratulations you often receive, but getting interrupted at dinner to hear about how you carry so beautifully is making him uneasy.
âThatâs very kind,â you say.
The woman keeps beaming and notices Grogu.Â
âAh, the little one will soon not be the littlest one. Going from one to two is a whirlwind, I must warn you,â she cautions.
âWell, weâve been preparing, so hopefully it wonât hit us too hard.â
The woman sighs and looks from you to Din. âWell, if I know anything about Mandalorians, Iâm sure your husband will at the very least protect all of you with his life. Good luck to you and your sweet family, dear.â
And then sheâs off, but thereâs something hanging in the air now.
HusbandâŠ
Is Din even allowed to be your husband? Who even are you to him besides the mother of his second child, who also happens to love his first with all your heart?
After dinner is wrapped up and the walk to the Crest is complete, Din goes about Groguâs bedtime routine while you wash up.
When he meets you in the bedroom, youâre sitting up, your back against the metal wall he makes you face every night.
âAre you alright?â he asks softly as he removes his gloves.
You shrug.Â
âIâm fine. I just canât stop thinking about that woman mistaking you for my husband,â you admit, your hands gently caressing the sides of your bump.
âOh,â he says, removing the armor from his arms.
âOh? Thatâs it?â
Din sighs and leans back against the opposite wall. âIâm not sure what to say, sweetheart. I⊠I didnât know until recently that Mandalorians could marry outside our religion, that thereâs the possibility of living while showing your face to the world.â
You donât say anything for a moment. Din chews on the inside of his cheek and removes the armor from his legs, then from his front and back, now just clad in the helmet and flight suit.
He sighs again and inches toward the bed, sitting on the edge, but turning his body to face you. He takes one of your hands from your belly and holds it.
âI never had intimacy before I met you,â he whispers softly. âSex, sure, but not intimacy. I want to do right by you, make sure you receive what you deserve.â
You take a shaky breath in and then exhale.Â
âI can go at your pace,â you whisper, your voice breaking.Â
Dinâs heart thumps roughly in his chest at the sound of your voice breaking. He wishes he could wrap his arms around you and protect you from everything bad in the world. You, Grogu, and the baby in your belly are all he cares about.Â
âI know,â he whispers. âAnd you⊠Youâre amazing, sweetheart. Better than I deserve.â
You let out a soft whimper at that, too emotional to rebuke his statement, but so, so capable of doing so.Â
Din sighs.Â
âCan I kiss you?â he asks softly.Â
You nod and shut your eyes, awaiting the sound of his helmet coming off, but instead you hear his voice.Â
âKeep your eyes open,â he murmurs.Â
Your eyes open, and he tips back his helmet, revealing his chin, his bottom lip, then his top lip and cheeks.Â
Just the bottom half of his face is so utterly beautiful, you think you might be sick.Â
You sniff, and with his free hand, he pulls you closer and presses his lips to yours. He tastes a tear on your lips and licks it up.Â
In the past, you had mapped out his features with your hands in the dark. You knew his bottom lip felt plush and slightly curved, but to see it, and to see the patchiness of his beard, to see the shape of his chin⊠Itâs all overwhelming.Â
When he pulls back, he reaches up to kiss your forehead, then lowers the helmet again.Â
âI love you,â you whisper through your quiet tears.Â
Dinâs heart almost bursts in his chest. He feels sick upon hearing your words. Heâs dreamed of hearing that for months now. He tries to make his lips move, tries to say it back, but heâs paralyzed.
Heâs scared heâs upset you further, frightened that youâre about to turn over and shut your eyes for the night, but you donât.Â
What actually happens breaks his heart even more.Â
âDin Djarin, I love you. I wouldnât change a thing about you. Youâre the love of my life,â you say in between sniffles and wiping your eyes. âYouâre the greatest man Iâve ever known, and our children are lucky to have you as a father.â
His stomach twists, and you give him the kindest, softest smile heâs ever seen, and then you lie down, pull the covers over your body, and face the wall.
Read part two here!
all works tags: @person-005 @madpanda75 @tearsweetenedtea
tags for this work: @anqieluv @time-for-my-weekly-spanking @madscamp02
True Love Never Has To Hide (Wildest Dreams Finale Part 2)
12.6K / Din Djarin x Princess!Reader
Summary: Din finds you, but is it too late?
Warnings: 18+ Content (MDNI pls) Itâs all good, babes - just fluff after the angst, and a HEA as promised (Emily wouldn't do you dirty like that! đ ). Starts with Dinâs POV. Kissing, brief allusions to smut, Mandoâa nicknames, and a surprise S1/S2 guest appearance at the end.
A/N: UH sorry about the WC 𫣠and thank you, thank you for coming with me on this journey! Iâve wanted to write this story for so long and am so lucky to have had such kind support, as well as the The Mandalorian and Grogu press tour for inspo (I also can't tell you how thrilled I am that the series can still be read as canon compliant post movie release - yeee)! There is still a smutty little epilogue coming, and a drabble/HC or two, but for now, this is their happy ending. Thank you for holding out â hope you enjoy!
He knew coming back to Solana was a mistake the moment he saw you walk into the room in that wedding dress.
Kriff, he knew it was a mistake when he received your fatherâs communique, but still accepted the invitation to return, somehow managing to convince himself that he would be able to handle it.
That was a mistake, too.
Din one hundred percent does not have a handle on it, himself or anything else.
He understood the danger he was opening his heart to in coming back, fully knowing that he would have to leave you again - which is why he didnât bring Grogu; he thought he had properly weighed that inevitable torture against the heaven of seeing you again, hearing your voice once more, just being in the same room as your perfume â he could endure it. He told himself he had to.
Unfortunately, Din had grossly underestimated the hold you still have on him, while overestimating his own fortitude.Â
From his very first glimpse of you stepping into the room, all reason flew out of the Mandalorianâs head. Your graceful figure stopped his heart dead while the glow of your beautiful countenance shocked it back to life in an endless cycle. You carried the silk masterpiece draping off your body so well, it was you who was the work of art, not the garment; barely breathing, Din likened this moment to visiting a painting after having only seen it in a holofilm â his memories and dreams of you didnât hold a candle to the real thing. The feared warrior was about to keel over and all you had done was walk across the room - you hadnât even noticed him yet.
It was only when he heard your breathy thanks for his assistance with your dress that Din truly understood the magnitude of his error. Thatâs all it took: you speaking to him one time and he was ready to throw away all semblance of decorum and honour, get on his knees and obey your every wish and desire - no matter how disastrous for either of you. With great difficultly, Din forced himself to avert his gaze from your beautiful face - for fear that he might see some sign from you, real or imagined, that would give him permission to haul you over his shoulder and steal you out of the room.
This was the moment Din Djarin reconciled with the truth that he was indeed, a weak, weak man. And a fiend. Since that chance meeting with you on Coruscant, the absence of you dominated his every waking hour and plagued each sleepless night somehow more persistently than ever. He was an addict, and you his drug of choice â after that sweet hit months ago, his mind, body and soul were constantly jonesing for more.
At the same exact time, Din realized the risk he exposed you to by returning. To be in such close proximity and not be able to touch, kiss, or hold you was asking a level of restraint and control that he could no longer promise to embody. If, for even a nanosecond, his heart believed he could reclaim the life he once shared with you, Din would surrender to his desires completely and discard any remaining sense of duty, decency.Â
He had no qualms admitting he would happily sacrifice himself if only to taste the sweetness of your kiss again, to feel your soft body fold against his, to see you arch as he made you come over and over, hear you whimper his name as he filled you. He would do it all even fully knowing it could be but a brief dream, a spelled mirage that would be broken once you married and he left again â the last time having nearly killed him, would Din have the strength to survive such a devastating blow twice? He loved you enough to be willing to find out.
Dank Farrik. Perhaps his own downfall he could accept, but Din was unwilling to subject you to that same fate. On Coruscant, in your inebriated state, you had been so candid and unguarded in admitting how deeply you had grieved, how hollow his leaving had left you â how could he force you to suffer the pain of separation again? The sadness and hurt he witnessed in your pretty eyes that night haunt him to this day still â only a villain would risk your chance for future happiness just because he couldnât control his damn self.
No, for both of you to survive, Din needed to cut himself off at the knees. As unnatural as it felt, he had to build a defensive wall between you and his heart, blockading any hope of affection and tenderness, if he was to have a chance at protecting what was left of your peace. You and him were always destined to end, but he would suffer now, alone in silence, if it meant lessening your agony in the future.
While your father made polite small talk, Din vowed himself to be a stranger to you so there would be no chance of falling into familiar old patterns, of seeking the intimacy of your company. He steeled his body, tone, thoughts, and even his unseen facial expression to one of impassibility and indifference. If the fires of his love for you did not burn so intensely, the coldness he forced himself to exude might have actually frozen over his heart.
He hid from you for as long as he could after leaving the East wing parlour, afraid of what even one moment alone with you would do to his defenses - but fateâs cruel sense of humour caught up with the Mandalorian as surely as did you in that stairwell. Din drowns in his own regret and shame as he thinks back to this last conversation with you, likely the last the two of you will ever have â your palpable confusion and hurt had sent his heart reeling and beating violently against its Beskar cage, screaming and begging to be heard.
*****
âDin.â
âPrincess.â Â Yes, cyare. Cyarâika. Meshâla. Riduur.
âDin, can we go somewhere to talk?â
âWhat would we need to talk about, Princess?â Anything you desire, meshâla, but may I ask, only talk? I wish desperately to hold you in my arms and kiss the honey of your lips once more.Â
âWhy have you come, Din?â
âYour father recalled me to review the adequacy of the security plans for your wedding; Iâm here to ensure that your nuptials proceed without disruption.â  I missed you too much and Iâm not strong enough to stay away anymore. Every single day for the past year Iâve fought against it, but my path has always been to return to Solana and reunite with the part of myself that I left here with you.Â
âYouâve come to help give me away?â
âSolana called, and I am here to fulfill my duty to its people.â I would rather die, but I donât have a choice.
âI thank you for your service, General.â
âIs there anything further, Princess?â Â Please donât cry, cyare - it kills me to hurt you like this.
âIn your haste to leave previously, this was left behind; now that youâre here, General, it can be returned to its rightful owner.â
âI thank you, Princess.â  This pendant, as with my heart, is yours and always will be. I will find some way to return it to you so you will always have a piece of the Mandalorian who loves you, even if you hate me. Ni kartyli gar darasuum (I love you).
*****
Din does everything in his power to avoid you for the rest of the day, but the image of your crestfallen face and the despair with which you proclaimed heâs forgotten you follow him like an unrelenting wraith, gloomy and accusatory. Even when he goes to the training grounds to reunite with his former comrades, the invisible string that tethers him to you for always tugs until he cannot ignore its pull any longer â he instinctively looks up to the southside tower and sees you waiting for him, as you have so many times before, in that secret spot.
The Mandalorian wishes to go to you more than anything - it would be so easy for him to take off and fly into your waiting arms, but the consequences of doing so keep him firmly grounded; the ripping of his heart would only be temporarily mended if he gave in now, just to tear open later into an merciless chasm of pain that would swallow you both. So, Din pretends not to see you - he fists his hands so hard his palms hurt, just so he isnât tempted to adjust his helmet display to zoom in on your beauty, and he distracts himself with the comradery of the men under his former command. When it comes time to file into the castle, he forces himself to do so without checking if youâre still on the turret.Â
Dinner comes and goes. Din is in equal measures disappointed and relieved when Serene announces that youâve retired early after a full day, and heâs still conflicted when the time comes to bring his plate back to his old room to eat alone. But once inside his former quarters, self-flagellation wins out â the knowledge that youâre somewhere near, hurting, and he cannot comfort you sits like a pit in Dinâs stomach. That you truly believe him to no longer care for you unsettles the Mandalorian to the point of nausea â appetite gone, he cannot bring himself to eat even one bite.
He decides to go for a calming walk around the castle instead. Thereâs a storm rolling in now; the percussive sounds of rain and thunder a welcomed accompaniment to the wild beating of Dinâs heart. Heâs loved Solanian rainstorms ever since that night in the Solana countryside when he bore the skin of his body to you for the first time, while the outside torrential downpour enveloped and muffled the sounds of your perfect first lovemaking.
About to do a third turn of the hallways in the West wing, Dinâs sensors pick up on the commotion of scurrying feet above him, the addition of harsh, frantic tones lead him upstairs to investigate. His instincts kick in at the sight of Serene and Oliviaâs panicked expressions and pleading gestures to a small group of the Royal Guard; upon hearing the thunder of the Mandalorianâs approach, the crowd falls silent and turns towards the noise.
âGeneral!â The guards stand at attention and both your ladyâs maids look relieved at Dinâs appearance.Â
âWhatâs wrong?â The Generalâs heart pounds â it already knows the answer.
The two women look at each other, unsure, before Olivia pipes up, âItâs the Princess, General. Sheâs missing and we cannot find her anywhere.â
âWhen and where is the last time she was seen?â
âIn her bedchambers. Right afterâŠâ Olivia falters awkwardly, not sure how much to reveal in front of the Guard; Serene saves her, â⊠after you left her on the stairs this afternoon, General.â The anger in her voice is unheard by most among them, but not Din; to him itâs loud and well deserved.
But he cannot dwell on that right now. Military precision and strategic mind snapping into place, Din lays out a search plan to cover as much area as possible in as little time as possible, then dispatches his men. He himself runs straight to the South tower.
The rage of the outside storm provides cover for the echoing boom of his heavy footsteps, but nothing can quiet the yell inside Dinâs head as he races through the castle, no, no, please no. He reaches the door to your secret meeting place in record time, hoping against hope that another member of the legion has already found you.
The door is stuck.Â
Din pushes and pulls the jammed handle. He throws his weight against the thick paneling. The narrowness of the spiraled staircase leading to this remote area of the castle prevents him from getting the leadup he needs, but still he tries over and over to shove his way through to the outside. Huffing and out of breath, Din adjusts the infrared reader on his internal display to see whatâs beyond the door.
Nothing. Thank goodness. Out of habit, he does a secondary scan to make sure before turning to go.
Wait.
Barely perceptible and flickering so quickly he nearly missed it, a subtle flush of warmth shimmers small and faint on Dinâs HUD. The Mandalorian recalibrates his sensors so that the heat signature materializes slightly more in focus; now that he knows where to look, he can make out a shape on the ground. It barely glows, dimming and flashing erratically. Itâs dying.
No!
Ready to burn down the door, Dinâs blaster is out of his holster faster than he can think; he shoots at the lock until itâs mangled and smoking and then shoulders his entire body weight against the door until it splinters open. He fights against the howl of the wind now rushing to enter the castle in order to get to you, cape whipping around his body, rain slicing against his visor.
Skidding across the slippery wet stone floor, the great warrior drops to his knees in one frantic motion to hover over your unmoving body, trying to shield you from the rain. It makes no difference, your clothes and hair are so drenched and waterlogged they practically pin you to the floor, every part of you is wet and youâre so, so cold.Â
âCyare, please, wake up, please, please,â Din pats your face gently, trying to dry and warm your cheeks with his gloves to no avail, âwake up, please. Come back, come back to me.â You make no response, face ghoulishly unmoving, unnatural hue taking over your countenance.
Fear like heâs only ever felt when Groguâs been in harmâs way grips onto Dinâs insides and twists.Â
No, no, no, please, no. It cannot end like this. I cannot lose you like this. Please, Maker, no.
With a surge of super human strength, Din lifts your limp body and cradles you close to his chest, protected and treasured, âMeshâla, we need to get you dry. Iâm going to get you help. Youâre going to be okay. You have to be okay. Donât leave me, please.âÂ
Then, he runs.
At the bottom of the Southside tower stairs, Din starts yelling for help as he runs towards where he last saw another soul, anyone. It feels like the castle is an empty labyrinth tonight and despite the racket heâs making, help does not meet him quickly enough - Din doesnât think, he just keeps going, muscle memory taking over as his feet bring him to your bedchamber doors where luckily, both Olivia and Serene have heard his call and rush to meet him.
âPlease,â he begs, âsheâs so cold.â Heâs not in the right mind to explain further or do anything other than hold you as directed while your maids strip and try to dry you. After laying you in bed, Din stumbles until his back hits the wall, paralyzed by the worst-case scenario fears running rampant through his mind.Â
What if he were to never see your eyes sparkle again, either with mischief, in wonder, or full of lust? Never hear the melody of your voice cooing sweet praise and encouragement to his son? What if that cold, unfeeling utterance of your title was the last thing he ever said to you? What if your final thoughts of him were that he didnât love you, that he didnât live and die by the very thought of you?
What if everything he had forced the both of you to suffer since returning had all been for naught, that even when trying to protect you he could only hurt you?
People attempt to get his attention - they suggest he leave to get some rest, give you some privacy, tell him thereâs nothing more he can do for you right now, but Din hears none of it. Doctors, nurses, Serene, Olivia, servants, his Lieutenant â he pays none of them any heed; all Din knows is there is only one voice that can send him away and thatâs yours. He might actually growl this at the doctor.
Din remains in your room, an ever-vigilant gargoyle looming fierce and protective, his eagle eyes scrutinize every move made near or to you, his approval necessary to proceed. He is immovable, unapproachable, ferocious, inconsolable â a sentinel on guard with nothing to lose but the treasure over which he keeps watch. The Mandalorianâs stubbornness yields small results but results nonetheless; after a few hours of being bundled up and all manner of heating pads and blankets being added to your bed, you look better, definitely drier. Dinâs helmet readings confirm those of the medical equipment: your body temperature is slowly, but steadily rising, your heartbeat is once again strong enough to be picked up by his sensors.Â
But you donât wake up.
The doctor says to be patient, the nurses say he doesnât need to stay; the former is more difficult than Din anticipated, the later impossible. He sits vigil by your side, barely blinking so he doesnât miss any changes in your condition, frustration growing when nothing does. By hour six after having found you, Din is ready to send for his son and ask Grogu to Force heal you.
Who needs sleep when he has worry and guilt? Din knew you were up on that turret all by yourself, and he knows why you were there. He knows heâs the reason youâre lying in this bed right now, fighting for your very life. He should have gotten to you sooner. He should have never let you wait up there alone. What if Serene and Olivia hadnât told him you were missing? What if he hadnât conducted his second scan and you had been locked out in the rain overnight?
What if⊠what if⊠what ifâŠ
Din drops his head, cradling his helmet in his hands, unable to stop the spiral of his thoughts and the turmoil of his heart. Maker, please, please let her be okay. Iâll do anything, give anything - she just has to be okay, please.
If youâre not awake by morning heâs going to call Grogu.
---
Slowly, you try to blink your eyes open, the bright lights of the room sharp and stinging â all you can manage is to squint; only able to turn your head in tiny increments, you haltingly scan your surroundings until coming upon the imposing, armoured figure waiting at the bedside.
âDin?â you barely recognize the scrape of your own voice.
âMeshâla,â panic and relief flood through the Mandalorianâs modulator in equal measure, âYouâre awake. How are you feeling? Does anything hurt?â
Adjusting your body in small measures, each ache and every soreness catching you by surprise, you manage to shimmy up slightly into a sitting position with Dinâs help. It takes you until now to realize youâre in your own bed; still disoriented you manage to croak out, âEverything hurts? Din⊠what happened?â
âThe door on the Southside tower⊠it was locked and you got trapped outside in the storm. No one could find you⊠when Olivia told me you were missing, I⊠I tried to get there as fast as I couldâŠâ Din chokes on his words as he relives the fear of those moments.
Recollection flashes behind your eyes as you start to remember â the wedding dress viewing, giving back the Mythosaur pendant, fleeing to the tower, letting go, the numbing cold of the rain - you nod in comprehension, âYou saved me. Thank you, Din.â
âI do not deserve your thanks, cyare. It is my fault you were up there, my fault you got hurt,â Din drops his head in shame, âIâm so sorry, meshâla. I was avoiding you and shouldnât have⊠I knew you were up there and didnât go to you⊠this is all my fault⊠you were out there in the cold for so long⊠who know what could have happened ifâŠâ
âBut it didnât happen. You found me,â Dinâs obvious guilt chips at your heart, âThereâs no need for apologies, Din. Itâs not as if we made an agreement to both go to the tower â I was there of my own free will and you were under no obligation to come meet me. None of this is your fault, really, General. Feelings change. I understand.â
Feelings changed?? Â No, you didnât understand at all.
The absurdity of your words necessitate the only action Din deems to be appropriate, as bold and brutal as it is.
Clang!
Dinâs helmet is ripped from his head and thrown to the ground so quickly youâre nearly unable to squeeze your eyes shut in time. âDin!â you gasp, shocked.
Grimacing as your muscles scream in protest, the effort to sweep your hands up to your eyes hurts more than you want to admit â but that pain is nothing compared to your fear of the harm it would do to see Dinâs face uncovered.
Rough leather envelops your hands and gently pulls them away from your face, âPrincess, itâs okay.â You shake your head as adamantly as you can, keeping your eyes closed. Dinâs gravely baritone remains gentle and reassuring, âTrust me, cyarâika. Open your eyes.â
Even with his explicit permission, you still feel hesitant; slowly, you open your eyes but keep your gaze lowered, focusing on the gentle way Din holds your hands - his thumbs rubbing gentle circles over the backs as he patiently waits for you to look up. After a short while, you cautiously peer through your lashes, still nervous and uncertain until your eyes snap all the way open in recognition. Disbelief and confusion overtake your face as your hands leaves the cradle of Dinâs to touch the visage before you.
âI know you,â you whisper, blinking with wide-eyed astonishment, half expecting this image to disappear before you can comprehend its existence. Din nods indulgently, his smile as gentle as his eyes, letting you take your time in putting all the pieces together.Â
âCoruscant,â you say definitively, your memory sharpening as your heart leaps, âthat wasnât a dream?â At the shake of Dinâs head, you melt even further, âYou were really there. You took care of me.â
âOf course, meshâla,â as his eyes crinkle, the browns of Dinâs irises fleck with an enchanting hue of gold, âI wish to always take care of you.â
âBut,â your thoughts struggle to form as you become distracted by how handsome the man is; your fingers run over the soft and hard lines of Dinâs face, caress the curves of his smile, a cheeky finger pokes at his dimples, âwhy did you let me believe it was a dream? Why didnât you want me to know that we had met?â
As the Mandalorian sighs, his features soften and his eyes deepen with emotion â their expressiveness captivates you, âPrincess, do you remember what I told you that night about why we couldnât meet again?â Of course, you remember - you had memorized those romantic words and replayed them in your head countless times since that night; itâs only now you fully realize that poetic declaration of love wasnât of your creation, but Dinâs. Heart blossoming, you nod and Din continues, âI admit what I said was dramatic, but the sentiment behind my words has always been true. I am so incredibly weak for you, meshâla.â
Your mouth opens to object, but Din anticipates you; he pulls your hands back into his, âI know you would say that Iâm strong, cyare, but itâs simply not true when it comes to you. Strong for you, yes, strong in your name, always, but when it comes to my heart, my soul? They obey only you; I am, forever at your mercy.â
You may not agree, but a Mandalorian being vulnerable and exposing his soft underbelly is not something to scoff at; you squeeze Dinâs fingers and continue to listen patiently as he closes his eyes in recollection. You miss their warmth immediately.
âThis past year without you has been excruciating, meshâla. Itâs all I could do to scrape enough of myself together to be the father Grogu needs, but otherwise, I was barely living. Food had no taste, drink was without spirit, and the absence of you was an ever-present weight on my chest that made it hard to even breathe at times,â Din nearly chokes, needing a minute before he can force himself to take in air properly. âI missed you every waking moment of every single day and retreated into my memories of you during each sleepless night; I was hollowed out, half of a man, tortured by the memory of true happiness and the knowledge I would never find it again,â Din finally opens his eyes and his look of sad resignation hurts your chest.
âThe reason I didnât want you to know I was really on Coruscant is the same reason Iâve tried not to be alone with you since coming back to Solana,â anguish overtakes Dinâs voice, âTo have even one true moment with you, anything remotely resembling what we used to share, would be like giving a sip of water to a man dying of thirst. Once I had a taste, my weaknesses would prevail and then nothing could hold me back from quenching the thirst Iâve been living with as my constant companion. I would not have the strength nor would I want it, to resist my heartâs deepest desires any longer.â He looks apologetic.
âIf we shared any real closeness, however briefly, I would have no choice but to throw all caution to the wind and beg for you to take me back, let me into your life again,â Din hangs his head in shame, âand that wouldnât be fair to you, meshâla. I have no right. No right to ask for connection or intimacy from you, to beg you to love me, when I have no more to offer you than I did when I left. I have no right to risk all that youâve worked for, to allow my own lack of restraint to spell ruin for your future and maybe even Solanaâs.â
âIn short, I am weak, so I ran,â a weight seems to have lifted off Dinâs shoulders, âbut Iâm not running anymore, Princess. I thought that hiding my feelings from you would save the both of us from a deeper wound, but now I know that was cowardice speaking - and our love deserves bravery. Cyare, I may not be strong enough to thwart fate, but I will never abandon you again. From now on, anything that needs to be faced, I want to face with you, together. As long as you are willing to have me, I promise I will remain by your side and carry you through whatever may come.â
Din wishes he possessed more eloquence, but he is a mere bounty hunter appealing to real grace; he watches as you process his confession with thoughtfulness and sympathy before your angelic features relax into a familiar, affectionate look - one heâs dreamt of many times this past year, the beauty of which could only be surpassed by the words you say next:
âNi kar'tayl darasuum gar, Din.â
Until this moment, Din Djarin did not know what true peace in oneâs soul felt like. âNi kar'tayl darasuum gar, Princess,â he lets you pull him closer by the back of his neck until his uncovered forehead rests against yours for a helmetless Keldabe kiss.
âI thought you didnât love me anymore,â you sniffle quietly, though your tone is one of tremendous relief.
âI could no sooner stop the rotation of a planet around its star, cyare. Iâm so sorry for letting you believe that, and even more so for having hurt you,â Dinâs remorse crushes his heart, âI beg your forgiveness, my Princess, and will accept any such punishment you deem fit.â
Unable to look at you, the stoic hunter attempts to shrink; you truly believe there is a part of Din that wants you to discipline him for his transgression, and that all of him believes he deserves it â your Mandalorian has always been so hard on himself. With a playful little grin, you duck down slightly so you can meet Dinâs eye, âI wonât lie, General, there is no one in the known worlds who can shatter my heart and mend it so completely. Iâll let the offense go unpunished this one time, but would warn you not to do anything of the sort again.â Chuckling, more generous than cheeky, you reassure your beleaguered warrior, âI am happy, Din. Thereâs nothing to forgive.â
The way the tension melting from Dinâs features transforms his face from world weary to that of a man ten years younger is nothing short of stunning; his voice, however, remains gruff, âItâs more than I deserve, meshâla. Though I admit I cannot think of any worse torture than seeing you in that wedding dress and knowing it wouldnât be me receiving you at the end of the aisle. That nearly killed me.â
Throwing your arms around Dinâs neck, you bury your face in the scrunch of his neck cowl and burrow in deep and safe, comforted by your Mandalorianâs familiar scent and the sheer colossus of his being, âI hate that stupid dress.â
Din chuckles, rasping in your ear, âYou looked beautiful. An absolute dream, cyare.â
Snuggling in even further, you press yourself against the strength of Dinâs Beskar, seeking sanctuary in the only place youâve ever truly found peace; as you cocoon yourself in his arms, a question you canât seem to reason out on your own continues to gnaw at you. Looking up, you rest your chin on the heart of the Generalâs armour, âDin, thereâs one thing I still donât understand. Even if I thought you merely a dream, why did you show me your face on Coruscant? How was that allowed? How can you show me your face right now?â
Not without some reluctance, Din lets you leave the safety his embrace and helps you sit back comfortably on the bed; still holding your hands in his, the General rests his forearms on his thighs and leans forward, serious, âI was raised to follow the Amidalor (The Way of the Mandalore) and since speaking the Creed, have lived by the tenet to never show my face to another living being. You know that I broke this rule previously for Grogu and as a result, was deemed an apostate and stripped of my standing as a Mandalorian. Though I broke the Creed of my own volition, and I have never and nor will I ever regret anything I do for my son, my resulting exile was one of the most difficult times of my life â rivalled perhaps, by this past year away from you. It was only after I redeemed myself in the Living Waters of Mandalore that was I able to shed my shame and guilt, and truly regain my sense of self and identity.â
Your chest tightens, remembering; even when Din first told you the story, his sense of loss and anguish at being excommunicated by his covert came across so fresh and acute - seeing your big strong warrior still triggered by such a painful time in his life had nearly broken your heart.
âHaving done it, violating the Creed again is not something I wish to consider in my lifetime. Iâm saying all this so you know I do not take lightly to the act of removing my helmet and revealing my face,â Din says gravely. You nod along, but all this you already understood.
âIn my covert, there has only ever been one known exception to the rule and that is for oneâs riduur. Even this is not widely accepted among all sects, but⊠I believe This is the Way and choose to live by it,â Din hard swallows; sometimes he still feels like that young foundling from Aq Vetina trying to find his footing among his new people, terrified of stepping out of line, âAmong all the star systems in this galaxy, there will only ever be one being to whom I will pledge myself as a lifelong partner and who I would ever consider my spouse. Though we never said the vows to one another, I belong to you, Princess, as one belongs to their riduur. Only to you will I ever commit a lifetimeâs devotion, only with you do I ever wish to be equal in partnership, and to you I am so bonded that I will never raise warriors with anyone else. You see, cyare, in my heart, you are already my riduur and so my face, as with all of me, is yours.â
Youâre crying now.Â
Though these are not the Mandalorian marriage vows Din taught to you, the sentiments of his speech so closely mirror those words on commitment, partnership, and devotion, you can easily imagine them recited at an altar in front of loved ones. If only you were not so overwhelmed with emotion right now; you wish you could find the words to properly express the magnitude of your own feelings and pledge your everlasting fidelity and love to the only man in the universe you will always give your everything.
Din sees you needlessly struggling; he doesnât need any verbal confirmation to know you are of one mind â the pureness of your heart is written all over your pretty face; he tries to lighten the mood, joking, âI hope you understand now, meshâla, why I took great offense to what you said earlier - when it comes to my riduur, feelings do not, in fact, change.â
You cry even harder.
Pulling you back into his arms, Din hums soothing noises into your hair and rubs gentle circles on your back as your tears cascade down the slope of his Beskar like a glittering waterfall, soaking into his flight suit. Only after your breathing evens and your body relaxes into his hold does the General let you pull away, âWhat happens now, Din?â
âNow, you rest and recover, cyar'ika. And after,â he pauses to kiss the back of your hands, a devoted knight swearing his allegiance, âwe take it day by day, together. There is no being or force in this galaxy that can tear me away from you ever again; I will not, cannot, leave your side save by your say so, Princess.â
How youâve missed this â the way the steady confidence of this man and the surety of his words always give you strength. With him, youâre allowed space to be unsure, vulnerable, even lost, able to rely on him to lead you to the right path with his unwavering support. Never are you more certain of who you are and what youâre capable of than when youâre with Din.
âI cannot marry him, Din.â
âNo, you cannot,â his tone has the same finality, the same conviction as yours â the way one might repeat a fact as simple and true as the gravitation bond between planet and moon. Finally making this declaration out loud feels like setting your heart free from a cage; the knowledge that Din is behind you, ready to catch you, sends your spirit soaring high and into his space so that you can crash your lips to his.
This kiss, the first youâve shared in over a year feels like coming home; itâs bathed in the relief of belonging, steeped in the comfort of knowing and being known, powerful in its own quiet calm. Euphoria washes over your entire being like an ocean, drowning you in its embrace.
Your lips move together in a well practiced choreographed dance, the two of you falling in sync easily after all this time - but there is nothing routine or neat about the way Dinâs mouth devours yours. He presses into you, passion-filled, unruly, barely restrained; everything is too much and not enough, vividly felt, yet hazy and dreamy â all the most wonderful of contradictions. The Generalâs tongue is punishing while worshipful, each stolen breath is urgent but never-ending, this kiss feels like forever and yet could never be long enough.Â
You chase the end of such a kiss with a series of soft pecks, unwilling to sever the connection of your lips, except to whisper sweet affirmations to one another.
Iâve missed you.
I love you so much.
Never letting you go ever again.
Sense and practicality return too soon to your Mandalorian. âCyare, I know I just promised never to leave you,â Din starts, chuckling at your anticipated whine of protest, âbut you must allow me to fetch the doctor. And either Serene or Olivia to tend to you. Likely both as they are equally worried about you.â
âAnd youâll come back?â You know he will, but there is such a comfort in the reassurance that only Din can provide.
He knows this; he knows you, âI will always come back, Princess.â
Satisfied, you let Din press one more promise to your lips before you watch him put his helmet back on and slip out the door.
---
In the hallway, Din waits for your door to fully close behind him before releasing a ragged sigh of relief, letting loose the very thread that seems to have been stitched throughout his body, holding him together this entire time; tipping his head back, Din finally lets himself properly breathe, every inhale and exhale slow and deep.
It will take more than just this moment for Din to fully embrace his new lease on life, now that the tension thatâs been pulling him taut and sharp for the past year has finally dissipated - but he is content. Smiling to himself, happy, hopeful, Din is pushing off the door in the direction of your maidsâ quarters when heâs stopped in his tracks by a familiar voice,
âGeneral.â
Din turns to see the king emerge from the shadows of a nearby alcove.
âIs there something I should know about you and my daughter?â
---
Din follows His Majesty into the closest study in silence, already kneeling in fealty by the time the older man turns around to face the Mandalorian.
âTell me, General. How long have you been in love with the Princess?â
Din does not miss the hint of accusation in the Kingâs tone â he resigns that the truth will serve everyone best, âSince the moment I met her, Your Majesty, and more so every day since.â He knows this is not what your father is really asking, âI had already known the Princess for several weeks when you bestowed upon me the rank of General.â
Astonishment colours your fatherâs expression as Din continues, âPlease forgive me, sire. There was no conspiracy on either of our parts to deceive anyone, especially you, or proport ourselves inappropriately. When I first met the Princess, I was unaware of her rank and drawn to her kindness and good nature alone. It took very little time for me to fall beneath the spell of her wit and charm, and to be enraptured by the purity of her heart. By the time I learned of her royal identity, I was already head over heels for the woman who held the title.â
The king sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose, needing some time to process this information, âAnd the entire timeâŠ?â
âNearly, Your Majesty,â Din still cannot meet the gaze of this man who he respects and venerates so much, âAfter I accepted the New Republic assignment, the Princess and I attempted to put a stop to our feelings, agreeing to remain within the boundaries of our stations - to be royalty and devoted knight only. But the enormity of our respect and admiration for one another could not ultimately be contained, and after months of slowly failing restraint, we gave in to our affections for one another.â
Shaking his head, your father asks, confused, âBut why would you choose to hide your relationship? Why would you keep it from your king?â
âBecause,â Dinâs head snaps up in surprise, he would have thought the multitude of reasons were obvious, â⊠she is the Princess. The hierarchy of court and kingdom is rigid â our love would never be accepted; its very existence could tarnish the Princessâ reputation and diminish the majesty of your royal house. And even if by some miracle it did not, I still cannot be the future you envisioned for your daughter.â
The Mandalorian bows his head again, missing the way your fatherâs mouth curls with amusement, âThe Princess is, by her own admission, someone with great political and diplomatic worth; membership into your great house is coveted by many in the galaxy. Your Majesty, you must have had some expectations as to the type of person who would be deserving of marrying her? Certainly, someone of importance, with their own respectable standing in the kingdom if not the galaxy. Perhaps even a title or belonging to an esteemed and celebrated lineage? At the very least, you must wish her marriage to bring political or security advantage to Solana. The Princess expects no less of herself.â
âAnd that, General, is how you see my daughter? What you deem her worth?â
âNo, sire. As much as I respect her rank, the Princessâ title has no place in the esteem I hold for her,â Dinâs modulated voice fills with emotion, his admiration evident to your father, âTo me, she is⊠ethereal. Truly one of the humblest, genuinely compassionate beings Iâve ever met â that she wields the power of her position with such grace and thoughtfulness is Solanaâs great fortune and its true source of strength. Your daughter is smart and funny, and despite her immense privilege she does not shelter herself â she exhibits such genuine zest for life and affection for people of all walks. Her spirit is strong and full of grace, but she can be feisty and stubborn â there is never a dull moment with her. Beyond everything, the Princess is open with her mind and generous with her heart - I cannot say there is another like her in all the worlds.â
It feels incredible to be so effusive about your amazing qualities. Due to the secret nature of your relationship, Din has never espoused his never-ending admiration for you out loud to anyone except for Grogu; to be able to do so to your father, a man to whom Din credits many of your merits, feels like a gift, âIf it were up to me, Your Majesty, the Princess would only know love and reverence for her character and not her status - she should have a partner who worships the very ground she walks on. But duty comes first, and that is not something either of us would have her hide from. Your daughterâs marriage should strengthen your great house and raise the glory of Solana, keeping her safe and prosperous. And I cannot offer any of that. I am no one.â
âAre you sure, General?â The king straightens his posture, standing regal and self assured, âThat you are no one?â
Your father gestures for the Mandalorian to rise and holds unwavering eye contact with the dark T-visor as his most revered commander gets up, âHow can you say you are no one, General? Are you not the leader of my armies? Do Solanaâs military forces not look to you as their shining example of exemplary combat skill and strategic intellect? They trust you to lead and support them in training, demonstrate for them conduct befitting the deepest, truest sense of honour, duty and valour. And why would they not? You treat your brothers in arms like equals and protect their families like your own despite having no ancestral ties to this land or personal reasons to pledge allegiance to their sovereign. Are you not a hero of the Battle of Planoor, where you led our troops to victory over Imperial insurgents? Did you not repel the scourge of the galaxy and their attacks on Solanian freedom at great personal risk to yourself? If Iâm not mistaken, you bear a permanent souvenir of that day on your body that would have dealt a lesser man a much more tragic fate.âÂ
The gentle warmth of your fatherâs eyes and the pride that shines from their depths is undeniable, âGeneral, even if I had not decorated you for these accomplishments myself, I would still hold you in my esteem as one of the finest men in the galaxy. You came to our planet a stranger and took every citizen of Solana under your protection; Iâve personally witness you defend and care for my subjects as if they were of your own Creed. Never does the core of one's character ring clearer to me than in the way they show up for the innocent and defenseless; you, General, stand for whatâs right and fair, always with compassion, and ever respectful of the dignity we owe to all living beings. Decency, General, is your greatest strength.â
âTell me this, General,â the kingâs tone grows indulgent and paternal, âWhat type of man gives so selflessly to those from whom he would never consider asking for repayment? The same that exhibits bravery and perseverance in the face of insurmountable odds, I would think. A man who fights through his own struggles to approach even the most daunting of challenges head on in the name of justice and truth. What chance does evil and tyranny have against this type of man who willingly puts his life on the line and never backs down from a righteous fight? Who leads by tireless example and inspires an entire nation to do the same? General, I can not fathom how a man such as you are could view himself as no one or think himself unable to offer Solana prosperity and safety.â
Though, to most, he is generally considered a man of few words, Din has never found himself to be truly speechless until now. He was raised to be honourable for the sake of honour, brave for braveryâs sake, and that even if a Mandalorian had nothing, he would always have his integrity; praise for living The Way is something that will always catch Din off guard. While heâs still absorbing the generosity of your fatherâs words, the older man flabbergasts him yet again, âGeneral, did you truly think I requested your return to Solana in order to review security plans?â
Behind his visor, Dinâs eyes grow to the size of saucers, his attempts to speak fall flat; the modulator of his helmet picking up only awkward stuttering as the Mandalorian opens and closes his mouth repeatedly.
âI admit it took me longer than it should to make the connection between your leaving and my daughterâs change in demeanor. She is, as you say, strong and spirited; and while she hid her sadness well, I know my own daughter and it was clear to me that something within her had broken,â the king speaks freely, the anguish of being unable to comfort his own child still an open wound, âI did suspect her upcoming marriage was the source of her dread, and privately, considered cancelling the betrothal entirely if she should wish it. It baffled me that she was trying to hide her obvious unhappiness with the arrangement, and the more she insisted she was fine, the less I believed her.âÂ
Scratching his head, your father mentally retraces his own steps, âAny which way I thought about it, my daughterâs misery could be traced back to the date of her engagement, so I saw no reason for her to continue denying it⊠that is, until I realized it was also the same day you abruptly left Solana. Up until that moment, I did not suspect there was anything more to your attachment than respect and a general fondness, but once I started to seriously consider your departure as the trigger for the Princessâ melancholy, I had to rethink everything I thought I knew. Was it possible that your leaving and my daughterâs betrothal were not as unrelated as you had made it seen?â
Din is nodding along now, but the proper response to your fatherâs story still eludes him. âI needed to know for certain. I could not let my daughter sink deeper into a sorrow that she would not even admit to, so I sent you the invitation. Forgive me for my duplicity, General â I knew that as a loyal son of Solana you would heed my call, even if it caused you what I was beginning to realize would be great pain,â his Majesty does look slightly sheepish, âYou arrived and almost immediately proved my theories correct â perhaps you thought you were being subtle, but the effect you and the Princess had on one another in the East Wing parlour was tangible, electric â it charged the very air of the room. There could be no doubt about it, there was something powerful between the two of you, I just didnât know the extent and depth of that connection, of that love â or rather, I didnât know until I overheard the two of you just now when the Princess work up.â Upon finishing, your father looks satisfied, relieved.
âI love her, Your Majesty.â Itâs the truth. And the only thing Din thinks is worthy of saying right now.
âI know.â  The kingâs tone is full of fondness for his General, âAnd I cannot think of anyone better to whom I could entrust my daughterâs heart than the protector of the realm she loves so much. But neither of us can nor should we speak for the Princess. Come, let us hear what she has to say on the matter.â
---
Din paces the hall outside of your room for what feels like hours. Heâs been out here alone since your father left him at the door, except for the doctor who came and left, and the few appearances by Serene and Olivia as they rushed about their duties.
The General is still in a state of shock over whatâs transpired since he found you on the Southside turret; from the complete dismantling of all his emotional walls, to your forgiveness and the reconfirmation of your love, then unbelievably, your fatherâs revelations â every development has felt overwhelmingly surreal. Never in all of Dinâs wildest dreams did he imagine that he would find himself in this position â and on top of everything, something even more unexpected and precarious has started to roost in his chest, a stealthy assassin that shadows his every thought: hope.
The door to your room opens to your father exiting while bidding you a swift recovery and a good night; though Din cannot hear the manâs exact words, he can tell they are full of paternal affection. When the king turns, he makes for Din directly; expression poignant, eyes misty and full of wisdom, he clasps a hand to the Mandalorianâs shoulder pauldron, âSheâs waiting for you, son.â
Thereâs no time to linger on the significance of the endearment, nor the litany of emotions that surge through the Mandalorian upon hearing it, because from inside the room you call to him, voice full of song, âDin!â
He leaves your father to saunter down the hall with a renewed lightness in his steps, and rushes to your bedside, kneeling once more before the ruler of his grateful heart. You receive the collapsing frame of the strongest man you know in your open arms and tuck yourself into his covered neck, ecstatically crying. Cupping your face, Din brushes his leathered thumbs over your wet cheeks, âMeshâla;â he waits for you to speak more, afraid still of his own hope.
âDin! I am to be engaged no longer,â the joy in your eyes sparkles like the most brilliant of constellations, your cheeks are flushed as if you had pinched them in disbelief, and your rosy lips quiver in hopeful excitement. Din thinks this might be the most beautiful youâve ever looked. A celestial glow radiates from your very being, âFather says he will meet with our bannermen tonight and cancel the betrothal. He will explain Iâm not yet ready to be a wife and that the anxiety has been affecting my health. They are old family friends of court, so he believes they will be understanding, but he is fully prepared to offer and provide all necessary rewards and compensation for any trouble or distressed sustained. Father has tried to reassure me all will be okay, but I admit to some feelings of guilt.â
Hugging him tightly before pulling back to gaze into the welcoming abyss of Dinâs visor, your fingers gently caress his helmet as you would the lines of his handsome face, âWill you stay now, Din? On Solana? With me?â
The silver dome tilts forward and its vocoder cannot mask the sincerity and conviction of Dinâs pledge, âMy place is and will forever be, by your side, Princess. My weapons are yours to command, my heart is yours to hold; I fight in your name, I love in your name and the honour of doing both will forever be a part of my own personal Creed.â
Your poetic warrior. There are no words that can properly express the immense joy and gratitude you feel for being so well loved, not only by the great man before you, but the other great man in your life, the king. How lucky are you? To have such a benevolent, compassionate man as your father, your mentor, and to be the chosen partner of a man who equals him in courage, decency, and selflessness?  Itâs all you can do to keep from bursting into tears again.
And just when you think that this is the happiest a person could ever feel, Din, still down on one knee, holds out his Mythosaur pendant in offering and says in a voice so hushed it could almost be mistaken for his natural, unmodulated baritone,
âPrincess. Cyarâika. Though it is only very recently you find yourself engaged no longer, would you bestow upon me the honour of being engaged once more?â
Itâs a dream, this must be a dream, you think, as you whisper back, âYes.â
Unable to hold back the flood of happy tears any longer, you let them fall freely and press your forehead to your future riduurâs helm, sealing in your forever with a Keldabe kiss.
1 year later
On any other planet (save Mandalore, and possibly Nevarro), a Beskar covered warrior strolling casually through an outdoor market might look out of place, but not on Solana. As Din walks down the main fairway, a head taller than every one else, he does garner a fair bit of attention, but itâs of the most welcomed variety.
âGood to see you, General!â
âSolana is glad to have its General home!â
He waves to every well wisher, shakes a few hands, and accepts offers of food and other wares from the local vendors; he has to struggle with a few to convince them to accept payment, but at the end of the day, itâs a rare being who can say no to a Mandalorian. On a few occasions, Din has to excuse himself hastily, cutting the small talk short on account of needing to keep an eye on Grogu who wanders the market ahead of his father, also happily accepting gifts - mainly of the food sort.
Father and son are heading in the direction of the National Library to surprise you with an early return from their latest mission for the New Republic. Halfway to their destination, Din spots a familiar figure leaning over a vendor table, examining its goods â slightly bemused and genuinely curious, Din saunters over and looms behind his unsuspecting target for several seconds before uttering, low and dangerous,
âMayfeld.â
The bald-headed man spins around, wide-eyed and stunned, âMando!â Out of habit, he raises his hands in the air to show that heâs unarmed, innocent, âWhat are you doing here?â
âThe General lives here,â the vendor interjects in a tone the suggests the answer should be obvious, âWelcome home, General.â Din and the vendor exchange polite nods before the latter goes to help another customer. Meanwhile, Mayfeld purses his lips into a smile, amused by this newly acquired information, âGeneral, eh? Listen, Mando â Iâm not here for any trouble! Iâve been living the straight and narrow life sinceâŠâ he shrugs and turns his palms upward to make a gesture that Din assumes is meant to indicate Mayfeldâs prison break, faked death, or both. âIâm just trying to find a place to settle down, have a nice, quiet life. And Solanaâs known to be friendly to those looking to make a fresh start! I swear I didnât know that⊠whoa, whoa⊠wait a minute!â Mayfeldâs expression turns panicked as he spots the Royal Guard change the direction of their march and make a beeline to where heâs standing with Din.
âRelax, Mayfeld,â chuckles Din, âtheyâre here for me, not you.â
The synchronized footsteps of Solanaâs finest come to a halt a few feet from their fearless leader, standing in the position of attention, they salute in unison, âGeneral! Welcome back, General!â
Din returns their salute with an invitation to be at ease, then warmly greets the Lieutenant who steps forward with a clasp of forearms, âLieutenant, right on schedule. Iâm happy to inform you that I can grant you and your men early dismissal from your duties today.â
The uniformed man tuts jovially and nods in understanding, âThe offer is appreciated, General. If itâs all the same to you, the Guard will accompany you to the library, and from there, you can relieve us of our charge.â
Din gives his second-in-command a hearty clap on the shoulder to indicate his appreciation and agreement with this plan; at their commanderâs approval, the troops resume their previous course, with Din also preparing to move once he confirms that Grogu is still wandering ahead in that same direction.
Mayfeld has yet to recover from the wonder of this exchange when Din addresses him again, âLetâs go, Mayfeld. If youâre serious about settling down on Solana, itâs best you come with me.â Even if the man thought that the Mandalorian bore him ill will (which Migsâ gut tells him he does not), he would be a fool to refuse after having just witnessed Dinâs command over the planetâs security forces.
A few minutes of walking in silence is all Mayfeld can manage, âSo, Mando⊠these guys work for you?â
âWe all serve the King of Solana.â
âRight, right. But, like, youâre their leader?â
âIâm their commanding officer, yes.â
âDid you have to⊠I dunno, fight and defeat the previous General for the position or something?â
âNo.â
âHey, is that your little green guy up ahead?â
âYes, thatâs Grogu.â
âOkay, okay! Heâs bigger than the last time I saw him⊠you remember? We were on that⊠you know what? Never mind where that was, heâs definitely bigger! Heâs a growing⊠boy?â
âYes, boy.â
âAnd you know, Mando⊠just in case, you were worried, I want you to know, I kept my promise⊠Iâve never told anyone I saw your face or what you look like⊠as far as Iâm concerned, that never happened.â
âI wasnât worried.â
âRight, right⊠and you still donât do that, right? Show anybody anything?? I donât mean any disrespect to the Creed! It just seems like a lot of things have changed since the last time we⊠hung out? Took out some Imps? You know what Iâm getting at, Mando?â
And so on and so forth, the primarily one-sided nervous chattering is non-stop for the entire walk. Din canât pretend he isnât amused, but his Beskar covers it well. He keeps his answers short and clipped, mainly to mess with Migs, but also so he can keep his attention on the library building as it comes into view.
The General knows youâre coming out before he even sees you because he hears an adorable squeak emanating from his son, followed by Grogu turning into a little green blur scurrying at an impressive speed up the libraryâs front steps.
âLittle love!â Your voice rings out sweet and melodious as you exit the front doors, quickening your own steps forward to meet the small green fur ball that force jumps into your arms. You cuddle him close and flutter kisses all over his happy face, âYouâre home early!â
âAre you okay? Did you get hurt?â You fuss lovingly over your son, letting him coo back his reassurances, then tickle him adoringly - the two of you purring and giggling in reunion, oblivious to all those around you. Nuzzling your nose into the top of Gorguâs soft head to smell his sweet scent, you ask the single most important of questions, âAre you hungry?â followed by, âWhere is your father?â
As an answer to the latter, Grogu points to where Din is standing, and to the former, he drops from your arms and waddles over to a captain of the Royal Guard who had somehow been relegated to holding all your sonâs collected market snacks.
You pick up your skirts and run straight for the General, flying into his arms with a force that would have knocked a lesser man onto his back. But he isnât a lesser man, he's your man. A Mandalorian. Your smile is so wide and bright, Din thinks for a moment his helmet HUD has been blinded â but perhaps itâs simply that his own eyes have crinkled closed from smiling so hard himself.Â
To be back in Dinâs arms after nearly three weeks apart, your longest separation since his official return to Solana, feels like a homecoming; all the tension and worry floats from you body as he lifts you off your feet and you melt into the brilliance and safety of his armoured embrace.
To be in Dinâs arms at all, out here in the open, is something you will never take for granted.
Your father had supported discretion â in his experience, the general population preferred to be spared the messy details of palace life, and very rarely reacted well to multiple announcements of change; it would be best to wait and let Solanians come around to the cancellation of the royal wedding in their own time, before springing anything new on them. Â Â
Behind the closed doors of the castle, however, there was no need for any such prudence. You were free to openly hold Dinâs hand, express you admiration and appreciation for the man, praise him, tease him in front of others, shower him with affection. Even this liberation was more than you had ever dared to dream for your love; to this day, you continue to cherish every open touch, every uninterrupted embrace, every endearment spoken in front of others. Your attraction and desire for one another you still kept private, sacred for just the two of you, but now there was no more need for pretense, no more false goodbyes at the dinner table, no more sneaking into your bedchambers via the balcony.
Finally, your love could just breathe; it could blossom in the light, instead of shrinking into the safety of the shadows. You and Din could touch, comfort, even look at one another without being mindful of who was around, how much time had past, that it might be the last time. For all of the privilege and fortune of your title, there is nothing you will ever prize more than an unhurried morning spent with the love of your life, restful and worry free.
In public, everything remained above board; you kept things subtle and formal, Din remained close and protective - the most devoted knight to his Princess. You really ought to have given the people of Solana more credit.Â
That Dinâs return to the realm and the dissolution of your betrothal occurred in short order was neither here nor there, barely registering to your subjects as mere coincidence. What they did notice was that their Princess appeared happier, lighter, no longer beleaguered by the unknown sadness that had plagued you for the past year. You once again exuded the joie de vivre that they had so missed, exemplifying the passion and optimism that many consider the foundation of Solanian culture; they were getting their Princess back.
The General, long admired for his strategic brilliance, combat skills and strong leadership, Solanians welcomed back on his own merits. But it wasnât long before his public appearances with you drew eyes to him in a way they had not previously. His protective positioning over you was one of a supportive shield, always gentle, never aggressive or oppressive â he hovered at the ready without ever interfering with your authority; you were free and safe to be your authentic self, a bright star around which his calm, steady presence naturally orbited.
His intuition always place him right where you needed him to be, anticipatory and respectful. He doted over you.  Quietly spoiled you. He cared for you a great deal - that much was obvious to those with eyes to see. Over time, Capital inhabitants who would describe themselves ranging from inquisitive to flat-out nosy, noticed that the General would often reach for you before catching himself, that the unseen eyes behind the black T-visor lingered on you longer than necessary, that the press of his guiding hand on your back was more affectionate than instructive. After several months of observed âevidenceâ, confident in their powers of deduction, Solanians collectively concluded that the General was indeed in love with their Princess; and rather endearingly, united in their hope that the Princess may one day return his affections.
To the absolute delight of the now invested realm, it appeared that you were slowly opening your heart to the hardened warrior. His quiet words made you laugh out loud and his thoughtful attention drew from you the most breathtaking of smiles. His soft touches were allowed to linger longer and then longer, and eventually, you began returning them with you own. You faced each other, walked side by side â no longer royalty followed by a knight in her service, but equals, trusted confidants. The day you took Dinâs arm while strolling through the capitalâs market place, the glassware vendors won a handsome wager from the weaving merchants. As the encouraging smiles and approving glances from the public grew bolder and more apparent, so did your public displays of familiarity and affection, until hand holding, long embraces, and forehead to helmet touches while amongst your people were all common place.Â
You could not have been more grateful for their support, but to your subjects, loving their sovereign as well as she had always loved them, was an honour. For Solanians, the sight of their Princess happy and safe in the arms of their General was cause for celebration â and so, without any formal announcement, your attachment was a secret no longer.Â
You murmur into where the fabric of Dinâs cape meets his cowl the same questions you asked his son, âAre you okay? Did you get hurt?â Fingers digging and groping all the soft spots between the Beskar, you nuzzle in deep, ready to hibernate in Dinâs warmth after so many long days apart. Din squeezes you back tightly, âIâm perfect now that Iâm back with you, meshâla. No injuries this time.â
His modulated husk sends shivers down your spine and you wiggle in the Mandalorianâs strong grip with a little bit of cheek, âIâll feel better when I check you over myself later.â
âMe too,â Dinâs voice is liquid velvet, his words a promise.
The two of you share a private chuckle before he presses the helm of his silver dome to your forehead and holds the kiss for a quiet moment. Only when Din unhands you do you notice the stranger next to him eyeing the two of you with what can only be described as incredulous shock. To your surprise, Din acknowledges him directly, âMayfeld, let me introduce to you the Princess of Solana -â
Mayfield bows, somehow both in awe and disbelieving that his old acquaintance can make such a fortuitous introduction, âYour Highness, itâs an honour-â
â- my wife,â Din finishes, grin evident to anyone within earshot.
Tossing all attempts at decorum aside, Mayfeldâs head snaps up to stare confoundedly at the Beskar-clad man, practically screeching, âYour wife?!?â
You canât help but look over at Din in amazement as well, unable to conceal the thrill and pride that runs through you at having being claimed out loud and proud.
You and Din had quietly married six months ago in a small ceremony attended by only a handful of your closest friends and family; then honeymooned for ten blissful days on Nevarro, just the two of you. Trading in your titles and rank for domesticity and the simple life of Dinâs cabin on the lava flats, you donât think youâve ever felt quite as carefree or relaxed in all your life as you did as a newlywed in the Outer Rim. Your days were spent leisurely: meeting Dinâs old friends, breaking bread with Magistrate Karga, giggling with the Anzellans who called you âPretty Ladyâ (âGood job, Big Guy!â), long and lazy blurrg rides over the planetâs rocky flats and hills, perusing for souvenirs in the Nevarro City market, coming home to the isolated quiet of your cozy abode. Your nights were equally as varied, with Din taking you at all hours in every manner, on each and every surface of his house. There was much to be said for the freedom to be as loud as you wanted, as wanton in your cries of ecstasy as you needed, as prolific and unrestrained in your lust for your riduur as you desired. Helmet on, helmet off, it didnât matter â the man you rode for hours, naked and dripping wet in the planetâs volcanic hot springs was yours and you didnât care who heard.   Â
Upon return from your little slice of heaven, there didnât appear any obvious reason to announce your marriage. If their past behaviour was to be any indication, your subjects would likely figure it out in time â there was no rush, if you were happy, they were happy; as far as Solanians were concerned, their Princess had already selected the future King consort and they wholeheartedly approved.
Accordingly, the opportunities to be announced as Dinâs wife have been few and far between; you study this Mayfeld with tremendous curiosity - who is this man to Din that he would so openly and happily share such an intimate detail about your lives?
âYes,â you nod happily, âI am his riduur.â
The man resumes his awkwardly low bow, âCongratulations, Your Highness! Uh, and well done, Mando⊠I mean, General.â
Dinâs large hand rubs your lower back lovingly as you bend over to pick up Grogu, who after satiating his craving for Solanian delicacies, has come seeking your attention; as you straighten, Din pats a still stunned Mayfeld on the back and answers your unspoken question, âMayfeld helped me obtain some critical Imperial intel at great risk to himself. Without him, we would not have so quickly rescued Grogu from Moff Gideon.â
âOh!â Your eyes widen in understanding, âThank you, Mr. Mayfeld! Thank you for helping rescue my son!â Familiar with most parts of the tale, youâre incredibly interested to learn more about this man and his role in Din and Groguâs life before you, but more than that, youâre truly grateful, âPlease join us at the castle for dinner tonight! Have you yet to find lodging? If not, you shall be our honoured guest until you do. And if you should ever decide to extend your stay on Solana, I will personally do what I can to help you settle in as comfortably as possible.â
You slide your arm through Mayfeldâs as he thanks you and tells you to call him Migs. Then Mayfeld, you, and Grogu in your arms, form a chain and start heading towards the castle, the Royal Guard walking alongside in perfect formation. Din admires the sway of your hips and the graceful glide of your movements for a few minutes before shifting his soulful gaze to his son chirping happily in your arms, safe, full, loved.
Following from behind, Din is catching up on military reports and capital news with his Lieutenant when heâs distracted by the sight of you throwing your head back in laughter, genuinely amused by something Mayfeld has just told you â likely an anecdote that the Mandalorian might prefer to stay buried alongside Mayfeldâs prison record. Both you and Mayfeld turn at the same time to look at Din; you with a cheeky grin and a cute little shrug before you turn back around, Mayfeld looking absolutely gobsmacked while dramatically mouthing, âYOUR WIFE?!?!?!â then returning his attention to you.
Din maintains his pace, keeping an adoring and protective eye on you and his son, his family, from a comfortable distance; grinning broadly beneath the helmet, he murmurs to no one in particular, proud and content, âMy wife.â
Found the truth beneath your lies
And true love never has to hide
(True love never has to hide)
I'll trade your broken wings for mine
(Trade your broken wings for mine)
I've seen your scars and kissed your crime
(Seen your scars and kissed your crime)
All night long
Love, all night long
Sweet love, all night long
Sweet love, all night long
All I wanna, ain't no other
We together, I remember
Sweet love, all night long
They say true love's the greatest weapon
To win the war caused by pain (pain)
But every diamond has imperfections
But my love's too pure to watch it chip away (chip a-, chip a-, chip away)
Boy, nothing real can be threatened
True love breathes salvation back into me
With every tear came redemption
And my torturer became my remedy
All night long
Love, all night long
Sweet love, all night long
Sweet love, all night long
All I wanna, ain't no other
We together, I remember
Sweet love, all night long
How I missed you, my love
A few tags for those who have commented or reblogged that I tortured them with the angst - I am sorry again and thank you for supporting me and this series! @okiegal68 @bishtrouille @johnssherlock221 @baronessvonglitter @la-vie-est-une-fleur29
part one â part twoá”á” â part three â part four
pairing â jack abbot x fem!reader
summary â loving jack always had a price. you just assumed youâd seen the worst of it.
warnings â 4.7k words. ex-spouses with a major case of unresolved feelings, toxic relationship dynamics, codependency, unplanned pregnancy, discussion of abortion (itâs both a genuine deliberation but it can be read as reader using it as a weapon in the argument), vague flashbacks to the divorce (not detailed), emotional cruelty from reader, referenced emotionally painful marriage. reader can be read as too mean plz bear with her
authorâs note â yayyyyy part two i hope you guys are enjoying it
There was a certain dichotomy youâd realized was present in you when you presented Jack divorce papers eighteen months ago, yet were now incapable of denying his touch. You had been the one to end it. You were also the woman whoâd left her door unlocked at two in the morning for months because if you had locked it, it wouldâve said you wanted to keep the person on the other side out. Both things lived in you at once and never fought, there was no war in it. Youâd divorced him cleanly and you wanted him constantly; the two facts just sat side by side in you like organs, each doing its quiet work, neither aware of the other.Â
âYouâve got work,â you said, and you knew that was far from refusing him.Â
Jack heard that, and it took him slow seconds to fold into the gurney beside you. âIâve got time to spare.â
He didnât, and both of you knew that.
It was a gurney built for one, and he was not a small man. You watched him fail to make it work and do it anyway; he got an arm behind you, easing you forward off the rail so he could fit himself into the few inches of mattress. He arranged his own bulk around you with none of the certainty his hands often had. He bumped the line in your arm and went still, careful of it, then moved aside.Â
He folded himself beside you like the eighteen months hadnât happened. He settled you off your left hip without a word, the way he'd done it for years, the way his hands knew to do before the rest of him had weighed in. You let him. You hated that you let him. You were too emptied out to do anything but let him, and some part of you that you'd stopped trying to govern wanted the weight of him more than it wanted to win.
The dog tags swung forward when he leaned to get comfortable, and then they were against you; they settled cold at first, against the side of your throat, then went warm as they sat. Your felt your body do the obscene traitor thing of recognizing it as the sound that meant you were allowed to stop being awake.Â
âThis doesnât fit,â you said. Your voice came out wrecked and small, nothing like you usually used.
He only hummed.
The curtains opened again, then.
Robby came through the gap with his eyes already half-down on the tablet, mouth open on whatever heâd rehearsed walking over, then it stopped. The room wasnât the same one heâd left, for this one had Jack folded onto a single-width gurney with his arm behind you and his whole body curved around yours like heâd grown there.Â
Jack stayed exactly where he was; there was no startle or guilty peel-back, nothing that wouldâve held onto the cover. He turned his head, slow, and met Robby over the top of yours, and his arm stayed exactly where it was. If anything, it settled with a small claiming pressure against your hip.
You watched Robbyâs whole earlier misread come apart behind his face, all of it landing wrong now against the actual picture in front of him. He'd come for something else and he visibly decided to stay on task, because the task was the only safe thing in the room.
âJack,â he said. âItâs six. The boardâs yours.âÂ
You felt the small tension go through Jack as his body registered the pull of the thing that had always, always won. Six oâclock; the department on the other side that was indifferent to what had just detonated in here, the one that needed its attending the same as every night, that had been needing him the entire time heâd been folded around you pretending the clock wasnât running.
The job, the oldest competitor youâd ever had for him that used to take him out of bed at the worst hours, out of arguments mid-sentence, and out of the marriage by degrees, reasserting itself now, on schedule.
âGive it to Shen for an hour,â he said, almost flatly.
âShenâs not on till eleven.â
Jack breathed in sharply. âThen give it to yourself for an hour,â he said, and there was an uptick at the end of his sentence.Â
Robbyâs brows went up a fraction, because Jack didnât hand-off. Jack had built an entire reputation on being the one who never had to make anyone elseâs Friday night worse, the one who stayed past his own shift so the next attending walked into a clean board, the one who'd missed two of your anniversaries and a Christmas because someone had to be the one who didn't go home and Jack had decided, permanently, that the someone was him.
Robby had worked beside him for years. Robby had probably never once heard the words come out of his mouth.
You felt it land in you, too, and you hated the place it landed. That had been the thing about Jack and the job; itâd never been about the laziness or ambition or even the easy excuse of patients needing him, though God knew heâd hidden behind that for years. The floor was the one place he was allowed to be needed without being known. Down here, he could pour himself out completely, give everything, be the steady voice and unflinching hands and the man who stayed without it costing him the things staying did with you.Â
The department took everything he had and never once asked him to say a word about himself. It was the perfect marriage, one he could survive, and heâd chosen it over the one he couldnâtâevery single timeâuntil you stopped making him choose.Â
You wanted to tell him not to bother, that you knew exactly what an hour was worth from a man whoâd spent your whole marriage proving the floor came first, and that one borrowed hour eighteen months too late didnât undo a single missed Christmas. You wanted to be cruel about it the clean way.Â
âYeah, alright. Iâve got the hour,â Robby said finally, still watching him with almost curiosity. He paused and looked at Jack a moment longer, something unsurprised in it, like heâd suspected for years Jack had a far side and just had it confirmed. âTake your time.â
He pulled the curtain halfway behind him, then stopped and looked at you. âHe gives you any trouble,â he said, nodding at Jack, âtell me. Iâll have him removed.â
The rings dragged shut behind him before Jack could say anything, and it was just the two of you and the drip and the impossible four inches of mattress, and Jack let out a breath you felt move all the way through him, the held-rigid thing in him easing by a fraction now that the door had stopped calling his name out loud.
âGo,â you said into his chest, voice coming out hollow. âI donât need you here.â
You felt him take the wordsâhe absorbed them instead of returning themâand decided, against every reflex in his body, to stay anyway.
âOf course you donât,â he said into your hair. âI need to be here, though.â
You sucked in a sharp breath. âOne hour.â
You should have pushed him off. You had all the right words for it. But his heart was going too fast against your cheek, scared still, and you were so emptied out; the crying and the floor and the thing growing six weeks inside you. The traitor warmth was rising again underneath the grief, and you were just too tired to clamp it down this time.
You stopped holding yourself up. Your weight went all into him all at once, the same surrender and failure of the legs. You felt the breath go out of him as his arm came all the way around. He gathered the dead weight of you in against his chest like it was the thing heâd been waiting to hold.
You thought, distantly, you should be cataloguing this so you could be appropriately disgusted with yourself later. You should hold onto this fact of his fear, the fact that none of it was free, that a man could hold you like this and still have been the one who had completely torn you apart.
âThere,â he murmured, a broken relief. âOkay, Iâve got you.â
There was a part of you, quietly insistent at the back of your head, that this was the first time you were letting yourself fall asleep near Jack since the divorce. No, before that. Long before the papers, since the last year of the marriage had become two countries with a cold strip of sheet for a border and youâd both lain on your sides pretending to sleep.
You hadn't slept like this in two years. Maybe longer. You couldn't pin the last time because you hadn't known to mark it, the way you never knew to mark the last time anything good happened until you were standing a long way past it.
You were going under, the room pulling far and soft the way it had before you hit the floor. The last thing you felt before you lost it was his heart slamming and his body rigid and wide awake beneath you, holding himself together by main force so you could come apart, and you let yourself go anyway, because you couldn't not, because his chest was the only place the floor had ever held and you were too tired tonight to pretend it wasn't.
This was far from safe. You knew that. He was the least safe place left in the world.
You woke to a ceiling you didnât immediately recognize in a dark room with the lights dialed to their lowest setting, not off, never off in this building, but dimmed to the brown-amber of a monitor on standby. A family room, you placed after a second. The one off the back hall with a couch that folded out. Jack had moved you there, probably carried or walked or wheeled you to a room where you could sleep without the overheads cooking you awake. The knowing of thatâthat heâd thought it all throughâsat in your chest like a swallowed stone.Â
There was a blanket over you that was heavier than the cotton waffle-weave they kept in the warmer. It had a cedar scent, faint, the same one that had lived in his locker for years because he sometimes ran cold and refused to admit it.Â
The line was gone from your arm; someone had pulled it and taped a cotton ball into the crook of your elbow, the tape overlapped carefully. It was in Jackâs way, only his. Your shoes were by the couch, set together, toes to the wall. Your badge was on the side table, clipped to nothing. Heâd unclipped your badge so it wouldnât dig into anything while you slept.Â
Heâd done all of it without waking you. A man could take his ex-wife down a hall and do a dozen tending things with his hands, and never have once met her eyes while he did them. Youâd been unconscious for the only version of Jack that knew how to take care of you.
The space beside you was cold. Your hand went looking before youâd decided to send it, flat across the vinyl where his heat should have been, and there was nothing. Your fingers drifted up to the side of your throat next, the hollow under your jaw where the tags settled their weight when he leaned over you, and you found your pulse instead.Â
What came up firstâbefore the griefâwas relief.Â
It was cowardly and it filled you to the back of the teeth. He was gone, and his being gone meant you wouldnât have to do the other part. You wouldnât have to sit up and find his face going blank. You wouldnât have to acknowledge youâd sobbed yourself empty into his shirt then accounted for it over the top of a paper cup of bad coffee.
Heâd left, and that handed you the one thing you were good at holding: the version that none of it happened.Â
You sat up, and the room slid bright then dim at the edges. Underneath the dizziness was the other fact, the six-weeks-old one, riding quiet under your ribs through every gray-out, and you breathed around it and stood anyway. You got down to your shoes where heâd left them and worked them on.Â
You folded his blanket over the arm of the couch and you didnât let yourself hold it to your face first, though the wanting was right there, quick and humiliating. You clipped your badge back to your waistband and left the family room. The hall caught you in its fluorescence all at once, that flat ER light that made everyone look a little dead, and you kept your eyes down and aimed for the ambulance bay doors because the lot was through them and the car was in the lot and the car was the whole plan.
You made it past the supply alcove and the second set of doors before you heard your name.
âOh, good. Youâre vertical.â Ellis, coffee in hand, fell into step beside you. âPark had to finish your consult, by the way.â
âYeah.â You didnât have anything for it. âIâll find him.â
âYou donât look like youâre finding anyone,â she said, the words coming out easy but still slowing to match your pace, which told you what she actually thought. âYouâre off home?â
âUnless someoneâs found me a second job to faint at, yeah.â
âSmart.â She was already peeling off the way she came. âDrink water. Drive safely.â
You let out a laugh devoid of humor. âNo promises.â
She lifted the coffee at you and turned to go. Her eyes caught on something past your shoulder, and you felt it before you heard it, the way the air in a hallway shifted when he walked into it.
âYouâre up,â Jack said from behind you.
Ellis took in the picture and quickly decided that she wanted to be anywhere but here. âIâll leave you to it.â
You stopped because your body stopped before you'd ruled on whether to, and you turned and there he was at the mouth of the corridor with a chart in his hand he was not looking at.
He came down the hall and toward you. âHowâs the head?â
âFine. I slept it off.â You hitched your bag higher on your shoulder, which was a small flag to say you were leaving, and he caught it.
âYou donât have to bolt.â He stopped a few careful feet off, close enough to lower his voice while being far enough to not corner you in. âGive me twenty minutes. Iâll finish on a patient and Iâll drive you. You shouldnât be behind the wheel after going down.â
âIâm okay to drive.â
âYou went gray today,â he said, his voice even. He raised a brow at you, like he was trying to make you see his point. âTwenty minutes. Iâll get you a real meal first. Or I take you home and we get something on the way.â
A muscle ticked in his jaw when you went quiet. âOr Iâll call out. Iâll call out, Iâll come with you, you donât have toââ He stopped himself when you started shaking your head in the middle of his words, recalibrating in real time, hearing how much of himself had spilled into the offers.Â
âJust because Iâm pregnant doesnât mean Iâm helpless,â you said.
His thumb moved against the edge of the chart, finding the corner and working it. âI didnât say that.â Â
âThen what is this?âÂ
A tech rolled a cart past behind him and he shifted his weight to let it through without ever moving his eyes off you, still like he was making sure he wouldnât flinch.Â
When he spoke again, his voice had dropped out of the hallway and into the register that had no audience in it, the one aimed directly for you, and hearing it out here under the lights with his clothes on did something to the floor of your stomach.Â
âCan we talk about this.â It came out as anything but a question. His eyes dropped to your middle then back up, so fast you wouldâve missed it had you not been trained in him.Â
Your brows narrowed as your hand went over your stomach. To shield it or simply try to erase it from his view, you werenât sure.Â
âThereâs nothing to talk about,â you said flatly. âNot for another seventeen weeks anyways.â
You watched him take the sentence and turn it over for the meaning, and you watched the number do its work behind his eyesâthe number, the window he knew to the day because of course he knew itâand you watched the second it arrived.
âAre you actually considering that?â His voice had gone rough, like he was forcing the words out.Â
Theyâd set themselves into your orbit wrong, because there was no doctor left in himânothing neutralâand there was only the bare thing underneath, the disbelief that you were going to close the door.Â
You let out a laugh that sounded more like a broken breath. âBye, Jack.â
Three days later, Jack came to get Kevin.
He texted firstâheading over for him, 20 minâwith no question in it, because Kevin was the one thing the two of you could still do without negotiation. Wednesdays were his.
You buzzed him up without saying a single word back. You heard him on the stairsâyou knew the weight of him on the staircaseâand youâd already got the leash, the half-bag of food, and his joint chews lined up by the door so the handoff would be thirty seconds, so it could be nothing. You needed it to be an exchange where two reasonable adults move a dog between them and donât bleed on each other doing it.
You opened the door before he knocked; he had his hand half-raised and lowered it slowly.
âHey,â he said.
You handed him the leash. Kevin was already losing his mind at the sight of him, the whole back of the dog going, and Jack crouched to take the assault of it with one hand buried in the scruff, his eyes coming up to you over the dogâs head. Youâd handed him the food and the leash and were holding the door like that said the rest of it.
He looked at the door, at you, and then you watched him decide to not take the easy exit youâd built for him.Â
He stood up, making Kevin get on his hind legs to scratch at Jackâs hip. âSo, weâre not even gonna say hi now?â he said looking at the bag of food that had found its way into his hand.Â
âHi, Jack,â you said, fingers tightening around the door. âThereâs his food. Heâs been scratching at the left ear again, soââ
âI am not asking you about the ear.â
ââso you might want to have someone look at it, or I will, on Friday.â
âOh, my godââ He stopped, and his jaw worked. Kevin sat down between the two of you and looked up, ready, leash in his mouth now because heâd learned to carry it himself, oblivious. âYouâve been like this since you found out. You wonâtââ He exhaled through his nose. âI texted you about a gynoâI sent you a name. A good one. You didnât evenââ
âI didnât ask you for a name.â
âNo. You donât ask me for anything.â It came out before he could quiet it down, and you watched him hear it and land in the air with more weight than heâd meant to give it. âThatâs sort of the problem.â
There it was, the door youâd held open so carefully, and heâd walked past it into the apartment anyway.
âDonât,â you said.
âWe both did this.â He held the bag of food in his fist, and he didnât try to come past the doorway. âI keepâyou keep looking at me like I did this to you. You were in that bed too. You let me in. You donât get toââ
âWe both did not do this.â Your hand came off the door and flat to your stomach before youâd told it to, and you saw his eyes track the motion and stick there, and you hated that youâd explicitly brought attention to where this lived. âYou want to split the bar tab, fucking fine, Jack. Split it. But this partâs mine. And Iâll fix it. For both of us, since youâre so big on both.âÂ
Something in his face went pale. âI donât want you to,â he said, low and stripped. âI donât want that.â
You should have let that be the last thing. You knew that the merciful move, the one a better-built woman would make, was to close the door on the both of you. But heâd carried his weight up the stairs and the meanness was already loaded somewhere under your tongue and you'd already decided, without deciding, to fire it.
âWhy?âÂ
He blinked as he moved around his mouth, a nervous tell. Kevin had given up on the both of you and flopped down across the threshold, half in the hall, his ribs going up and down, the leash still hooked in his teeth out of some loyalty to the idea of a walk.
âWhy donât you want me to do it?â You stepped in off the door, which was the wrong direction and toward him. âGo on. Say it. Tell me.â
âYou know why.â His thumb found the rolled top of the bag and worried it, the same restless thing his hands did to a glass, to a pen, the tell he didn't know he had and you'd had years to learn.
You felt something behind your ribs knot at that. The pen sliding back across the table at you.Â
You say it. Youâve always been the one that says it. You do it better.
Youâd said âI love youâ into the dark of a call room first, twenty-nine and stupid with it. Youâd said âletâs just go to bed, weâll talk tomorrowâ a hundred times into the back of his neck. Youâd said the word âdivorceâ first, out loud, because heâd stood across from you with it lodged behind his teeth and made you reach down your own throat to pull it out into the air where it became real. Five years of finishing Jack; a whole marriage being his interpreter, translating his silences into things he never had to put his name under.
âNo.â Your voice gave at the seam and you let it go rather than fight it in front of him. âNo. You donât get toânot this time. You canât get away with it this time.â
âPlease.â His voice went low, lips moving like there were a million things behind them caged. âJust think about this. Letââ It died there, and he started over. âDonât do anything yet. Thatâs all Iâmâjust donât do it yet.âÂ
âDonât tell me what to do.â
âIâm notââ
âIf I keep it, itâs not for you,â you said, shaking your head slowly, and felt the words come out colder than the room, cold enough that some small lucid part of you flinched away from your own mouth even as the rest of you reached for the next one. âDonât ever get that twisted.â
His thumb stopped on the bag.
âAnd you donât get to ask me for anything. Not when you canât even say why.â Your voice came out even, which took everything and cost more than crying would have. âYou want it? Say one true thing.â
He didnât. Down through the floor came the muffled bassline of the couple below you, the ordinary Wednesday of people whose lives didnât face the same detonation every day. Kevin had given up on the walk entirely and was now turning to his side on the threshold, pawing at the ground.
âRight,â you said, nodding.
He stood in the frame of your door with the food against his hip, and that one muscle going in his jaw, and you wanted to take it off his face with your bare hands, wanted to get under the flat of him and find the thing it was sitting on top of, the way you used to be able to, the way only you ever could.
âThatâs funny,â you said, teeth grinding slightly. âYou had a lot to say once.â
You watched the color go out from under his stubble in that same downward draining, the blood leaving a face by degrees, and his hand came up off his hip an inch and hung in the air of your kitchen with nowhere it was allowed to come down.
Because there had been one time in five years Jack got a sentence out whole and clean on the first pass. The one time heâd looked at you across a living room of the house you no longer drove past and said the thing he meant, all of it, so evenly.Â
Youâd asked for it; youâd stood in front of him with your hands shaking and begged him to tell you, and he had. Of every sentence caged in him, of everything he might have finally let out, he'd been articulate about that one. On his first try with no problem at all.
Youâd asked for honesty and heâd handed you the single cruelest true thing he owned, and then heâd gone quiet again for the rest of it and made you do the housekeeping; the divorce, the paperwork, the saying-out-loud. Because apparently that was the deal, heâd said the unsurvivable thing and made you carry it the rest of the way.
âYou know I didnât mean that,â he said, voice hoarse.
âI donât,â you said, heat building up behind your eyes. Youâd go back down on the floor before youâd cry in front of him again. âI really, really donât, Jack.â
Some part of you had wanted him to fight it. Some animal part that had been hoping for a wall to throw yourself against, and heâd given you what he always gave you instead, which was the absence of one, the open air where resistance should have been, so that you went through it and kept going and there was nothing on the other side but the cold.
âIâll have him back before six on Friday,â he said to the bag. âIf thatâsâif that works.â
âIt works.â
Kevin, hearing the word Friday, hauled himself up with a groan and pressed his skull into Jackâs knee. You watched Jackâs hand go down to the dogâs head without looking and he scratched the spot behind the left ear, the bad one, and Kevin leaned his whole stupid weight into it. For a second, the two of them just stood in the doorway, the man and the dog, the only easy thing left between the two of you.
You cleared your throat. âGet the ear looked at.â
âI will.â
He clipped the leash and straightened. There was a momentâyou felt it comingâwhere he looked like he might try one more time, might reach back into himself for the sentence he'd left in halves on your kitchen tile.
âAlright,â he said finally, which was nothing. He got the dog to the door. The cedar of him moved past you in the chokepoint of the hall, close, close enough that your body did the unforgivable thing it always did and tipped a half-degree toward the warmth before you caught it and stood it back up straight.
At the top of the stairs he paused without turning around. You saw his shoulders rise with one of those breaths he took that bought him a second he didn't have, and you braced for whatever it was.
Then he let the breath go without anything riding out on it, and went down, the right side favored, the uneven weight you'd have known in the dark in any building in any life, the tags ticking, the dogâs nails on the stairs, the whole sound of him getting smaller by degrees until the street door went and took the last of it.
part oneá”á” â part two â part three â part four
pairing â jack abbot x fem!reader
summary â loving jack always had a price. you just assumed youâd seen the worst of it.
warnings â 7.1k words. MINORS DNI!! explicit sexual content (unprotected piv sex), divorce, ex-spouses with a major case of unresolved feelings, toxic relationship dynamics, codependency, alcohol use, unexpected pregnancy, discussion of abortion and reproductive choice, crying, emotional distress, also the past relationship details are left vague
authorâs note â whipped this up bc i could not stop thinking about this plot đŹ yk i love a gooood angst + this one should be multiple parts!!
If you knew your ex-husband was going to be at the bar, you would have gone straight home. The only point of getting drinks after a shift was to stop being a person whoâd had that shiftâto sit in a sticky booth with people whoâd seen the same bad day and let it dissolve into something cheapâand Jackâs presence anywhere had the effect of making you more yourself, not less; a woman performing being completely okay for an audience of one whoâd seen you cry over burnt lasagna on your two-year-anniversary and had the terrible indecency to remember it.
But you didnât know. Dana had said a few of them were going to the bar after the night shift took over, and youâd heard it would only be a few of them and not done the thinking on whoâd be working the night shiftâyouâd assumed him, because he was always there, always fucking there. So you walked in already loosened, your badge clipped to your waistband, and you were three steps into the warm beery dark before you saw the back of his head in the corner booth.
He was nursing a bourbon heâd probably make last the entire night and he was half-listening to Langdon tell some story, his leg stretched out into the aisle, and he hadnât seen you yet. You had a second. You could have turned around and texted Dana some bullshit excuse of getting the full eight hours and walked back to the parking lot to go home to your dog and half your bed.
You never did, though. You told yourself afterward it was because the leaving wouldâve told the table something. But the truer thing, the one you didnât want to look at directly, was that an evening without Jack had started to feel like a room with the bulb burned out. Youâd gotten that bad.Â
âThere she is,â Dana said, twisting around in the booth, already sliding to make room. âSit. I saved you the good side. It doesnât wobble.â
You sat, and the good side put you diagonal from Jack, close enough that his stretched-out leg was a fact you had to arrange your own legs around under the table. He hadnât acknowledged you yet. He was letting Langdon finish; Jack always let people finish, it was something that made patients trust him and made you, toward the end, want to put a plate through the wall because heâd let you get to the bottom of sentences youâd have killed to be interrupted out of.
But you watched the back of his neck change as his shoulders went from loose to aware. When he turned, his eyes found yours like a bad number on a monitor, faster than he couldâve chosen. For half-a-second, before his face caught up, he looked so completely undefended. Then it was gone and he looked at you like you were weather he'd been told about.Â
âHuh,â he breathed, picking his bourbon back up. âThey let your department fraternize with the help now, or are you slumming?â
âDana kidnapped me.â You reached over and took the lime off his rim. Heâd never once in his life used itâhe hated citrus in bourbonâand only got it because Marlene behind the bar had been putting it in each time. Jack had decided somewhere around your wedding that debating her on it was more than what the lime was worth.Â
You bit it and set the rind into his napkin where it went, where it had always gone.Â
His eyes tracked you as you did it without any comment. The better half of five years of the lime and heâd never once said anything, only bought you the garnish on his own drink.Â
âHow was your floor?â you asked.
âSlow.â He turned the glass a quarter-turn on the table, an old tell, the thing his hands did when he was trying very hard to keep his words scarce. âKnock on something.âÂ
âBut I like watching you suffer,â you drawled.Â
He huffed at that. âI know.â
That was it. He was good at letting things sit, it was the worst of his habits, the way he could absorb a thing you said and just hold it instead of returning it. Half your sentences to him used to end in a silence you'd eventually have to fill yourself. You'd forgotten how much work it was. You'd forgotten you used to do all the talking and call it conversation.
âYou got Kevin this week?â Dana asked from beside you.Â
Jack, without a beat of hesitation, said, âSheâs got Kilo this week.â
Javadi, the new and curious med student in the ER, looked between both of you with furrowed brows. âSorry. Kevin or Kilo? Is thatâare those two dogs?â
âOne dog,â you said.
âYup. One dog,â Jack agreed.
âThen whyââ Javadi started.
âHis nameâs Kilo,â Jack said.
âNo, his nameâs Kevin.â
Javadiâs head went between you as though she was watching a tennis match. The table laughed because theyâd heard this a hundred times and it never stopped being funny to them; the divorced two doing their oldest bit, the one argument that had outlived the marriage that spawned it.
âHis papers say Kilo,â Jack said in Javadiâs direction.
Robby, whoâd been completely invested in his own drink, said, âAnd your papers say divorced.â
âAnd we very much are, thank you,â you said, picking it up before the laugh had finished.
Jack stayed silent then. Robby, heâd have something for. But this was you saying it, easy and completely certain in front of everyone. The leg that had been stretched into your space this entire night drew back slowly, a small retreat nobody at the table except you couldâve felt. He turned the glass a quarter-turn.Â
Youâd done it on purpose. Youâd felt the whole night immediately tilting into the warm dangerous fiction of it and youâd reached for the one sentence that would shut it, and youâd swung it at the only person whoâd actually feel the blade.Â
The facts of your divorce were no concern to anyone but the two of you at the table, but you could feel Jack flinch inwardly by the announcement that blanketed it all; that you now lived in separate homes, that the dog was scheduled like a custody hearing; that the word âweâ had a tense and it was past. None of it was news. Heâd signed the same papers you had in the same flat conference room, with the same pen the mediator kept clicking until you'd wanted to scream. He knew the facts better than anyone. And still you'd watched him wince when you said it out loud.
He'd built a whole life on the difference between a thing being true and a thing being spoken; it was how he ran a trauma bay, how he told a family the worst news in the world in a voice that never broke, how he'd ended your marriage without ever once saying the words that would've made it real, just withdrawing by degrees until you were the one who had to say them for him. He'd made you do that too. He made you do all the saying. And now you'd said this, and he was sitting there absorbing it the way he absorbed everything, quietly, like he'd decided long ago that taking it without a sound was the least of what he had coming.
âJust fucking do it, Jack.â
And he didâfinally, finallyâpush into you with a single long stroke that dragged a sound out of both of you, his coming out through his teeth, and yours into the pillow. His forehead came down between your shoulder blades. He stayed there for a second, breathing, one hand splayed wide over your hip and the other braced into the mattress beside your hips. His weight settled onto the left leg the way it always settled, a decision his body stopped having to make years ago. You could feel him shaking with the effort of not moving yet, of dragging it out, because he always did this, he always made you ask twice.Â
âChrist,â he breathed into your spine. âYou feelââ he started, and let the words die as his teeth gently pressed into the bone at the top of your shoulder. It was then he started to move.
He fucked like he did everything else with his hands; he was methodical, attentive, and so devastingly present. He went in believing there was always a correct rhythm, and he intended to find it just to ruin you with it. Heâd learned by repetition until it stopped requiring thought, until he could play you without looking, and the worst partâthe one youâd never say out loudâwas that it worked. It always worked. He knew the exact angle that made you stop being a person with opinions about him.Â
That long stroke dragged slow on the way out and snapped deep on the way back in, and your whole body misfired around him whether youâd given it permission to or not.
His palm slid up from your hip to flatten between your shoulder blades and pressed, folding you down into the mattress, taking the choice out of your spine. And the new angle had you gasping into the sheets because heâd done it on purpose; he always did everything on purpose, and now he was hitting that place that made your fingers curl and your thighs shake and a thin embarrassing whine climb out you that youâd have died before making it sober.Â
Jack felt the exact second your control went and he leaned into it, hips grinding deep and unhurried, holding you right there on the edge of too-much like he was reading everything under your skin.Â
âThatâs it,â he drawled out, his voice low and even, the bastard, like he had all night, like he wasnât already wrecked behind the voice. âYeah, Iâve got you.â And he did. He had you exactly where he wanted you and you let him, because no one had ever taken you apart this precisely, this patiently, like your falling apart was the only thing on his list and he intended to do it right.
The dog tags swung forward and dragged close across your back when he leaned over you, then warm when they settled against your skin, and you thoughtâstupidly, with the part of your brain that shouldâve been offlineâthat you used to fall asleep listening to that chain shift when he breathed. You thought there had been a version of this where afterward he stayed. You shoved that thought down. You arched your back into him instead and he made a punched-out noise, low in his chest, his grip going tight on you to leave the marks.
âSlow down,â he muttered more to himself than you, but he didnât. His hips stuttered out of their careful rhythm because this was the one place his composure failed; it was the one place where the sealed-up, gallows humor, watching-you-over-the-glass version of him came apart at the seams.Â
Youâd figured this out over the months. This was the only place Jack was honest. Heâd never say the things across a table, in daylight, with his clothes on. But here, with his cock buried inside of you and his composure shot, the truth leaked out of him in fragments he wouldnât be accountable for later.Â
âMissed this,â he got out, ragged, his mouth at the back of your neck now, words pressed into your hairline like he could bury them in there. âMissed you, fuck. Youâve got no idea, sweetheart, the things IââÂ
âDonât.â You didnât want it. You wanted it so badly your chest ached and that was exactly why you didnât want it, because you knew what it was worth in the morning, which was nothing, which was a text about whether youâd remembered to walk Kevin. âJack. Donât talk. You canâtââ You let out a gasp as he pressed his hips completely flush against yours, chasing you to the hilt, as if he could physically expel the words out of you. âCanât fuck me into being with you again.â
You felt him falter at the words, just for a beat, the rhythm catching like youâd reached back and put a hand flat on his sternum. He slowed, dragged himself almost all the way out and held there, trembling, his whole weight coming down over your back so his mouth was now at your ear and you could feel everything against the shell of it.
âI know,â he said, words ragged. âI know I canât. Doesnât mean I canât try.â
His hand moved around the dip of your waist, and he pulled out of you slow, the loss making you bite down on a sound. Then he was rolling you, one palm flat and insistent on your hip, turning you under him onto your back like it was the easiest thing in the world.
âNoââ You got an arm up, forearm against your own eyes, because you knew what he wanted, and you werenât going to give it to him. The face, the looking. From behind, you could keep it what it was; turned over, youâd have to be there for it. âJack, leave it. I donâtââ
âHey.â He held your wrist, thumb working into the soft inside of it where your pulse was going stupid. âCâmon. Move the arm.â
âNo.â
âYou wonât evenââ He let out a low laugh, disbelieving, almost wounded. âYouâll let me do every other thing but you wonât even look at me?â
âThatâs different.â
âYeah.â He went quiet for a moment, and his hand slid up the inside of your thigh, holding you open, patient as anything. He knew exactly what the looking was and exactly why you were hiding from it, and he was going to wait you out. âI know it is. Move the arm anyway.â
He braced over you on his arm, the other hand drawing slow idle circles high on your thigh, his cock notched against you and not pushing in, just there, the threat and promise of him, while he looked down at the arm over your face. You could feel him watching.
So you did move the arm, mostly just to spite him by giving him exactly what he wanted. His face was right thereâjaw tight, eyes gone dark and fixed on you like you were the only lit thing in the roomâand the second you met it, the slight smugness melted clean down the middle and there was just the wanting underneath, naked and his.
âThank god,â he breathed before pushing back into you. His eyes tracked your face scrunch up at the familiarâtoo familiarâpleasure like heâd been starving for exactly this. His hand left your jaw and found your knee, hooking it up higher over his hip. Heâd always known your left hip sat wrong, that this was the angle that didnât ache after; the same way you knew, without ever being told, to take the weight off his right side, the two of you arranging yourselves around each other the way you always had. âKnew you were in there somewhere.â
âDonât get sentimental, Jackâ you said, breathless. âYouâll pull something.â
He huffed a laugh against your jaw. Your hand had gone to his left shoulder and you pressed your thumb into the knot that always sat under the blade after a long shift, working it slow while he moved in you. He groaned low and helpless at the unexpected mercy of it.
âMouthy,â he managed to say. âEven now.â
âYouâre soâso insufferable.â
His mouth found the corner of yours and his hand slid up your ribs so his thumb could catch the underside of your breast exactly where he knew; your back came up off the mattress for him. âYou married me anyway. Whatâs that say about you?â
You got your fingers to his hair and scratched once at the base of his skull, the thing that used to put him to sleep in under five minutes, something youâd done about a thousand times in a bed you no longer shared. You watched his eyes go briefly unfocused with how much his body remembered it meant being safe. You hated that youâd done it.Â
The easy heat in him went somewhere graver, and his hand came up to cover yours where it rested in his hair. He pinned it there, keeping the touch on him, like he couldnât bear for you to take it back.
âWhyâd youââ His hips stuttered. âWhyâd you have to go, huh?â
âDonât,â you said quickly, and your hand came out of his hairâyou made it come down, fighting the pin of his fingersâand you planted your palm against his chest to put an inch back between the two of you. âDonât talk. Justâshut up. Jack, shut up andââ
He took in a breath, lips still parted like he wanted to talk. Youâd expected it. Jack was fabulous at saying everything important while inside you or when he was halfway asleep.
âYeah.â He nodded shakily. âYeah. Okay.â
He got an arm under the small of your back and hauled you up into him, and the next stroke was just deep and selfish, like heâd stopped trying to make his point and now was only trying to get somewhere. The slow ruinous tenderness burned off into something with no thought left in it, and your body surged up to meet itâGodâyes, this, you could do, this didnât ask you for anything youâd sworn off. This was just the white-hot animal fact of him and you could be all the way in without losing a single thing.Â
âThere,â he ground out, forehead dropped to yours, both of you breathing into the same inch of air. âThereâfuckâthere you go.â
Your mind went black. That was the mercy of getting it like this; the part of you that counted the times heâd said your name, that totted up what the morning had cost, went quiet, drowned clean in the simple overwhelming good of him. You grabbed at his back and pulled him in past where there was room and made a strangled noise.
His hand found yours where it was fisted in the sheet and laced through it, knuckles white, pinning it down beside your headâneeding the anchorâand you gripped back just as hard. The bed was loud. Neither of you cared. You'd gone past the place where you could have stopped even if the smarter version of you had walked in and ordered it, both of you just chasing the finish now with a kind of grim mutual desperation, like if you got it done fast enough you wouldn't have to deal with what it was.
âClose,â you breathed. âJack, Iâm closeââÂ
âI know. Câmon, let me feel itââ His hand let go of yours and dropped between you, fingers finding you without a second of searching, the muscle-memory of you deathly absolute. âBeen thinking about this all night.âÂ
He worked you up to the edge with his face buried in your throat and his hips snapping. The whole thing finally cresting into something neither of you could've talked through if you'd tried.
You went over first, the peak tearing through you with your nails dug into his back and your spine bowed clean off the mattress. He fucked you through every second of it, hips ramming, dragging it up past the point you could stand. And right at the end of yours his rhythm broke and went erratic, deep and grinding and graceless, and you felt the exact moment it caught him.
His arms hooked tighter under the small of your back and hauled you up into him so there was nowhere for him to go but deeper, like the thought of any distance between the two of you right now was a thing he couldnât tolerate. Your legs wrapped around the backs of his thighs anyway, your heel pressed into the base of his spine.
âGonnaââ His voice came out shredded, into your throat. âSweetheart, Iâm gonnaâfuckââ
With a low broken sound, his whole weight crushed down and his hips gave those last helpless grinding pushes, burying himself to the hilt, spilling into you with his face shoved into your neck and his hand fisted in your hair. He continued moving even then, small, greedy rolls of his hips, working himself deeper through the aftershocks, wringing every second out.Â
âGod.â He shuddered out the word against your pulse, hips still flush, seated as deep as he could get. His arms came around you completelyâthere wasnât any inch he wasnât holdingâand he stayed there long after he finished, unwilling to give up the last of it. Greedy even now, especially now. Jack would take every second he was handed and a few he wasnât.
His heart slammed against your ribs. His breath dragged itself slowly back down. For a moment, you let him have it. You let him stay heavy on and inside you, and you stared at the ceiling.Â
After a minuteâbecause thatâs all you could grant him, a mere sixty secondsâyou put your palm flat on his chest, over the spot where the dog tags had settled cold against his skin, and you pushed.
He came up on his forearms and he looked down at you. That was the hundredth mistake of the night, letting him be that close to your face with the lights of the street coming through the blinds in stripes across him. He looked at you the way he looked at you in the one place he ever did, like you were something he'd been allowed to hold and was already being asked to set back down, and the wanting in it was so total and so useless that you had to look at his collarbone instead.
Then his fingers came up to your chin, tilting your head up gently to meet his eyes again. âI wish you werenât so cruel to me in front of people.â he said, voice coming out so rough.Â
You knew exactly which part of the night he was talking about. Heâd carried it the whole way hereâthrough the parking lot, through the drive, through all of this, your body still humming with himâand heâd held onto it the entire time, only to let it out now because now was the only time he could.
âItâs not cruel if itâs true,â you said. âNobody thought it was cruel.â
âNo, nobody thought anything.â He caressed your jaw just slightly, and you stilled under the grazing touch. âI still felt it.âÂ
Maybe it was the hour, or the drinks still thinning in you, or just the unbearable fact of him looking at you. Regardless of what it was, the lid you kept on the old thing slipped, and you didn't get it back down in time.
âDonât talk to me about cruelty, Jack,â you said quietly, holding his eyes even though you could feel your own burn. You could do it for once, because he was the one that looked like he needed a collarbone to fix his gaze on. âIt was your cruelty that did this.â
His thumb stopped at your jaw. And then, instead of the stillness youâd expected, his hand slid back into your hair and his arm came around you and he pulled you in, the whole weight of him bearing down. His face went into your neck.Â
You froze under him, suddenly hating him all over again for making this harder and harder each time.
âGo home,,â you said, and it came out lower than youâd wanted it to.
He let out a shaky breath against your skin. âIâd like to stay with you for one night. If you asked.âÂ
Your hands came up to his shoulders. You gently pushed. âIâm asking you to go.â
He came up off you slow, by degrees, and the cold rushed into every place heâd just been. He never argued; he only gave you offers where with the condition of you having to ask welded into them. He sat up on the edge of the bed with his back to you and reached for his shirt off the floor.
People at the hospital had a word for you and it was âdifficult.â Youâd made peace with it years ago. What you didnât have a word for was the tired. Youâd been tired before; this had a different grain to it, bone-level and sitting-behind-your eyes. Twice this week the floor had gone soft and far away when you stood up too fast. Youâd put a hand on the counter and waited it out and told no one.
You hadn't eaten, either. The granola bar was still in your bag. So when you stood up from the workstation to walk the corrected units down yourself, the room didn't gray at the edges this time. It dropped. The whole thing tilted bright then dim, your hand reached for the counter and missed it by an inch, and the next clear thing was the floor being closer than it should be and a hand hard around your arm.
âOkayâIâve got you. Sit.â Dana, you recognized. Of course it was Dana; she had a sixth sense for the exact second a person stopped standing upright. She steered you down to a chair before youâd finished falling. âHead down. Between the knees. Youâve told a hundred people to do thisâdo it.â
âIâm fine,â you said, voice coming out depleted. âI just got up tooââ
âYeah, youâve been getting up fast a couple times this week.â " Her hand was on the back of your neck, two fingers at your pulse, and she wasn't looking at your face, she was looking at her watch, counting, and the professionalism of itâthe way she'd switched you from colleague to patient without asking your permissionâmade something cold go through you. âWhenâd you eat, hon?â
âI ate.â
âWhen?â When you stayed silent, she said, âThatâs what I thought.â
She straightened up and you heard her turn. âHey! Somebody grab Robby. No, heâs notâjust grab him.â She turned back to you, and gentler than you wanted, in a way that told you exactly how bad you looked, she said, âWeâre gonna put you in a room. Donât make a face. Weâre gonna put you in a room, run some fluids, check a couple things. If itâs nothingâthank godâthen itâs nothing, and you can be insufferable about it for weeks. But you went down, sweetheart, and Iâm not arguing with you about it.â
You wanted to argue; you wanted to refuse the chair and go back to work instead of occupying a bed at work. But you were so tired. You were tired, and some animal part of you had already known that for two weeks and had been waiting, with a patience that frightened you, for someone to make you stop.
So you let Dana walk you to the room. You let her pull the curtain. You sat on the edge of the gurney in a department you'd worked in for over a decade and let a colleague put a line in your arm, and you stared at the corner of the blood pressure cuff and did not let yourself think the one thought that had started, very quietly, somewhere underneath the tired, to assemble itself, and would not finish assembling until Robby came in twenty minutes later with your labs and a look on his face you couldn't read, and asked you, carefully, like a man stepping onto ice, when your last period was.
Youâd seen him tell a people about death with more steadiness than he was managing right now, standing at the foot of your gurney with a tablet he wasn't looking at, asking you about your cycle like the answer was already on the screen and he was just giving you the courtesy of arriving at it yourself.
âWhy?â you asked flatly.
âJust humor me. Tell me.â
You told him and he had no reaction, and that was how you knew. Robbyâs face had gone completely neutral.
âOkay,â he said, setting the tablet down. âYour labs came back. Everythingâsâthe anemiaâs mild. Thatâs the lightheadedness and not-eating. Weâll sort that out.â He paused, took a breath in, and the cold thing that had gone through you on the floor came back and sat down in your chest and stayed. âYour hCGâs elevated.â
You felt your body run cold then.
âThatâs the pregnancy hormone,â he said gently. He was a teacher before anything, and that reflex was still on, even with you.
âI know what hCG is, Robby,â you said, the words coming out sharp, voice cracking the last word in half. You saw him nod sharply as he decided to ignore it. âIâI know what it is.â
âItâs early,â he said. âNumbers are consistent with early, which means youâve got time. Thatâs what Iâm saying. Youâve got time to think about whatever you need to think about.â He was being so careful. âI didnât put it into anything yet. I wanted to talk to you first.â
Early. Youâve got time.Â
He picked the tablet upâdone being a doctor about it now, the official part handledâand leaned a hip against the counter, and his voice changed, going off-duty.
âHey,â he said. âCongratulations.â
You nodded, your mind already distant.Â
âYou gonna tell Jack?â
Your mind sharpened. For a second, you genuinely didnât understand the sentence. Your brain refused it wholly, turned it over to look for the trick. There was no way Robby knewâthere was no way anybody knewâbecause youâd been so careful, the whole thing happened in the dark precisely so it wouldnât seep into the light, so nobody could say a sentence like that. Your stomach dropped through the gurney.
âHuh?âÂ
Robby looked at you, then shrugged. âI just figured, because you two still talk. Heâd want to know. Big life thing.â Then, he added softer, misreading your face completely, âI guess itâs really over between the two of you then?â
You felt your breath hitch in your throat. That was what people would think when it got out, that the door has finally shut. Theyâd think you were getting clear, a baby with somebody new means the Jack-of-it-all was finally done, mercifully done. That youâd moved on and met someone, that you were building a thing past the divorce you survived. This was supposed to be proof of it. The sad civilized arrangement nobody named, ended at last by a life you were starting without him.
Robby had it exactly backwards and he had no way to know it. It was the furthest thing from over. It was likely the most permanent thing that had ever happened to you, and it had Jackâs name and only Jackâs name. The thing Robby believed to be your way out was the thing that could mean thereâd never be a way out. Not anymore, if you chose to have this child. Not ever. Youâd be tied to Jack Abbot. A year and a half of getting clear by inches.
You realized Robby was still standing there and that heâd asked you something. He was waiting for an answer you didnât have the throat for.
âCan you give me a minute?â Your voice came out hoarse. âJustâa minute. Please. And donât put it into anything yet. Justâdonât let anyone know.â
Robby nodded, probably thinking you needed a beat to let the good news settle, to feel something private and large before the world got its hands on it. âCourse. Iâll hold the room, keep people out. Take your time.âÂ
His hand found your shoulder on the way past, squeezing, and then the curtain rings scraped along the rod and he was gone.Â
It all came up at once, fast and without warning. Your hand was flat on the edge of the gurney and you watched it shake, and you made it stop. You could always make your hands stop. What you couldnât do was make the rest of it stop. The rest of it was the thought you wouldn't think of, thinking itself anyway, and the worst part was the voice it came in, your own, flat, professional, the one you used to walk a frightened patient through their options without ever letting it shake. You could end it. It's early. Numbers consistent with early. You knew exactly how early early was. You knew the window, the way you knew the shelf life of a unit of platelets down to the day. You knew how clean it was, how legal, how completely nobody's business but your own. There was a door. Right now, there was still a door.
There was a door. There was, right now, still a door; it was the realest door, the one that actually led all the way out that would let you walk back into the life where you got clear of Jack Abbot for good and never had to share a child or a custody calendar or a name with him. He would give you Kevin, you knew that. Over would mean over, for good, where in five years youâd be a woman the hospital remembered being married once, to the ERâs night shift attending, you know the one.
You could take that door. It was yours to take. Nobody even had to know.Â
You sat in the small bright room and made yourself look directly at the door and waited to feel the relief of it, yet it didnât come. What came instead, rising up under the grief like a second tide, worse than the first, was a thing you had no word for and no right to and could not, would not, look at straight on, was that it was Jackâs.
You wished you could see it as a curse, and somewhere in the last thirty seconds it had turned over in you and come up as something else; a small, traitorous, and warm thing. It was the exact warmth that had locked your ankles around him, the same warmth that had opened the door for him every night. A piece of him you could get to keep, that no amount of divorce could put back in its box. The one version of forever you two were going to get. And a part of you, a part you despised with everything you had, wanted it. More than the baby in the abstract. His, specifically and unforgivably.Â
You put your hand over your mouth as you felt it all come up, and you criedâthe real way, the way you hadnât since the lawyerâs office. You cried a cry that came up from the root and shook you apart, alone, in a place where you worked, with only a curtain covering you.Â
You couldnât have heard the shift change happen on the other side of the curtain. The hospital had kept turning around your little curtained box, that somewhere out there it had ticked over into evening and the day people were handing the floor to the night people. You hadnât heard any of it.Â
You hadnât heard Dana catch him at the board, and she would haveâyou know she would have triedâput a hand flat on his chest the second she saw which way he was moving. You only heard the curtain rings scrape against the rod.Â
You looked upâruined, mid-breath, your hand still pressed over your own mouth with your face holding an expression no one had ever seen you do. And there was Jack with one hand still fisted in the curtain he'd thrown back, stopped dead in the gap of it.
Heâd come in braced, almost with the same register he came in when there was a level 1 trauma, except this one was a case of lightheadedness. His sleeves were shoved to his elbow, jaw already set, and heâd walked in expecting to find blood or something else equal to that, a thing heâd be able to clean up and fix. He had a hand half-raised for it, and it stayed there, hovering, for it had nothing to fix.Â
You knew his face better than your own; thereâd never once been a thing he couldâve kept from you, not even when it felt like he was hardly your husband, especially then. You watched the readiness dissipate off of Jackâs face, watched the doctor leave him by degrees until what was left standing was just Jack.Â
Just Jack had no protocol for this; there was nothing heâd been taught to do with his face when you were crying because you didnât cry.
He of all people knew so. Heâd sat at a conference table with you while a mediator clicked a pen and you signed your name with a hand that was too steady. Heâd carried his own boxes down to the truck while you watched from the upstairs window, dry-eyed, because tears would have made it all real and you refusedâout of spite, out of the last thing you hadâto make it real where he could see.Â
His mouth opened, and his throat worked around words, any word. When he finally spoke, it was just your name, and it came out cracked down the middle, like a plea and a prayer.Â
He had no idea. It made you sob slightly louder than you wouldâve liked, the realization that he was standing there gutted with fear for you, scared past the edge of himself, and he did not know. Jack could not have known that he was the answer, that you were the answer. If heâd asked you what had happened, the whole truth would have been his name and your own; it would have been the thing youâd done together in the dark a couple dozen times and called nothing.Â
âI hate you,â you said, because the only thing youâd been capable of doing was throwing up a wall, driving him out with your own two hands. And it didnât work, because the words had come out between sobs, wet and wrong, the cruelty falling apart on the way out.Â
He didnât argue it. He never argued the ones he thought were true. He just took it the same way heâd taken every other blow youâd ever landed, without ever lifting a hand to stop it, as though heâd decided a long time ago this was the least of what he had coming.
Still, something moved through him when the words hit, a flinch, a wince that started behind his eyes and pulled his whole face down with it.Â
He came the rest of the way to you anyway, and your hand came up between youâfar from a hit, there was nothing left in your arm to make one, just the heel of your palm landing against his chest, more sob turned outward than strike. It pushed against nothing. Jack didnât even rock with it. And then your fingers were curling into the fabric over his sternum instead, gripping when youâd wanted to shove, the same failure of your hands as two weeks ago; pushing him away and hauling him in, your body unable to decide which.
âYouââ Another blow, glancing off his chest. âWhy did we haveââ
âOkay.â He let you continue, letting the first ones land, face stricken and bewildered as he absorbed the blows for a crime he couldnât name. âOkay. Okay, heyââ
You drew back, and when your hand closed in again, his own came up and closed around your wrist. You couldâve pulled freeâheâd left you room for itâbut you let him keep holding it there against his chest where youâd been striking him.
âWhat happened,â he said, words coming out quietly, not even a question. âWhatever it is. Talk to me. What happened?â
He started to move into you, closing the space between you by inches, his other hand coming up to your face, your shoulder, somewhere, anywhere, his whole self trying to fold into your orbit the way it always had. âJust tell me,â he said, closer now, voice dropped lower, into a register it stayed it when it was only the two of you. âLet meââ
âNo.â You twisted your wrist in his hand and turned your face away from the one coming toward it. âYou canât justâI wonât let youââ
His forehead had dropped down to hover over your temple, the warmth of him crowding into every place youâd been trying to wall off. âIâm not. Iâm not doing anything. Iâm just hereâlet me be here.â
Here. Heâd said the word so softly, with so much surety, like it was a small thing to ask, like it had been a place heâd ever once been. The wall you'd been holding with both hands didn't come down so much as it went out from under you, the way the floor had two weeks ago, all at once and without your permission.
You stopped twisting away. You felt him feel the fight going out of your wrist under his fingers and felt the new alertness move through him.
âYou want to be here,â you said into his chest, where your fists were still knotted in his shirt, the words coming out muffled aimed at the fabric. Then, through a disbelieving laugh devoid of any humor, you said, âYou want to be here?â
âYeah,â he breathed out. âYeah. Iâm here.â
âFuckingââ The laugh that tore out of you was anything but one. âCongratulations, then.â Your forehead pressed down hard against his sternum, your eyes squeezed shut, because you couldnât say it and knew you were going to anyway. At least you wouldnât have to watch. âFuckâYouâre gonna be a father.â
Everything that had been moving stopped all at once; the hand at your jaw, the thumb that had been working slow along your wrist, the whole restless warmth of him trying to fold into you went motionless. For a second, he didnât even breathe.
You forced yourself to look up. You wanted, somewhere mean and small and ten years old, to see it touch Jack. You wanted to finally watch something get all the way through.Â
You got it, and it was worse than youâd let yourself imagine.
The first thing that fell of was the part that told you he was ready to fix this, fix you. It fell clean off, his brows furrowing in worry, a tell that looked too tiny for something this large.Â
For a secondâless than that, before he could pull the reins on itâsomething that had no business being there moved under the fear. You knew it because youâd felt the exact same thing only a few minutes ago, alone, the warm traitorous thing rising up under the grief. It was there, on his faceâunguarded, naked, wantingâand you watched him catch it. You watched his whole face wilt as he understood, in real time, that he wasn't allowed to feel it, that the wanting was obscene standing next to your wreckage, and you watched him put it away. He got it back behind the wall fast, the way he got everything back behind the wall.
Only his hands gave him up. The one at your jaw had started to shake.
He let out a choked sound, like he was trying to lift the words out of his chest but they kept getting stuck halfway.Â
âYouâreââ He stopped himself and swallowed, not being able to get the back half of a sentence out of his own throat. âWeâreâ?â
âYeah.â
His fingers around your wrist pulled it closer to his chest, as if he could press it through his body and into wherever the words wouldnât come from.Â
âLet meââ he said, and stopped. Every possible word was too big to get a mouth around. âJustâlet me.â His forehead came down against yours, and his eyes shut, and you felt the whole of him shaking now, not just the hand. âPlease.â