You had to admit, you felt horrible every time this happened. You were Sherry’s babysitter, not a working girl, Leon didn’t pay you to sleep with him, he paid you to take care of his daughter.
It didn’t make it any better that you were at least 15 years younger than him. At least you assumed- you never asked, not wanting to make yourself feel worse.
But it was just so good-- you couldn’t deny him, not when he came home tired and angry and in need of some sort of outlet. You were always happy to be that for him.
Sherry had just been put to bed, and you were sat on the brown leather couch, watching some slasher with the volume too low to enjoy the movie, a pillow clutched in your arms when he returned home.
He looked rough. He was tired, that practically perpetual frown on his face, his dark coat covered in mud and god-knows what else. Tossing that and his keys off to the side, he made his way to the kitchen without acknowledging you, cracking open the fridge, not even the fluorescent lights of it making him look bad in your eyes.
Picking at what seemed to be some cold chinese left overs, he muttered something under his breath and tossed them back into the fridge, instead replacing them with a beer. Finally turning to you, he said, “Beer?”
You give him a little shrug, to which he takes as a yes, and heads over to the couch, practically tossing himself on it, a dip in the cushions from his weight, and he hands you the beer.
“Terrifier, really?” He asks as he cocks up a brow in your direction while using his palm to open the top. It always baffled you how he did that, so you simply tilted your beer in his direction for him to do the same.
“It’s scary,” you reply with a slight frown.
“Turn it off,” he asks, not stern or demanding, more so pleading. You meet his eyes for a moment, taking the controller in one hand and clicking it off, which prompted him to look at the darkened tv and take a deep swig of the beer, downing almost half of it in one drink, his adams apple bobbing as the liquid went down his throat.
You just take your own, much smaller sip, his eyes on the way your lips wrapped around the tip of the bottle, making him set down his own just in front of the couch.
He shifts a little closer, and places his hands on the pillow you hold on your lap. You just nod lightly as you place your beer elsewhere, as if to give him permission to move it. And so he does, tossing it to the other side of the sofa.
Taking a moment to admire your form in the simple pyjamas, he sighs, as if the baggy shirt you wore and the small, heart printed shorts were enough to make his day that much better.
“I hope you it’s okay I took one of your shirts- I dropped some pasta sauce on my own while cooking Sherry’s dinner,” You say, breaking his trance, tired ice blue eyes searching your face before cracking a small smile.
“It’s more than okay, y/n,” he practically mutters as his hands find your waist. “You look amazing.”
His words make you smile back lightly to him, placing your hands on the meeting between his neck and his shoulders. Palms find their way under the hem of your top, well his, technically, but nevertheless, the callouses on his hands send shivers down your spine as they trace up your sides, around your shoulders.
“Can I?”
“Mhm,”
Those same callouses run over your breasts, the peaks hardening as he kneads the flesh, his gaze glued to the way the fabric shifted over his knuckles as they flexed and unflexed.
Your breath hitched when his thumbs brushed over your nipples, slowly circling, trying to wring out a gasp from you.
“You’re always so warm,” he murmured, voice gravelly, thick with exhaustion. “So fucking soft.”
He leaned in, pressing a kiss just beneath your ear, then another down your neck, tracing along your jaw. Each kiss was slow, warm, lingering.
You tilted your head, giving him access, and he took it gladly, mouth dragging down over your collarbone, leaving a wet trail of heat that made your skin goosebump.
His hands moved with purpose, sliding down from your waist to the hem of your shorts, fingers hooking under the waistband, eyes flicking up to meet yours. “Can I take these off?” he asked, voice low
You nodded, cheeks already flushed, pulse pounding in your throat. “Yes,” you breathed, barely audible. “Please.”
That was all he needed. He pushed himself off his seat and knelt before you on the carpet, hands slipping your shorts down, peeling them away like he was unwrapping an expensive gift.
You lifted your hips slightly to help him, the cool air of the room brushing over your now bare legs, only intensifying your sensitivity. He discarded the shorts somewhere behind him, his eyes drinking you in from between your knees, which he gently pushed apart.
“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, rubbing his hand over his face like he was trying to steady himself. “You don’t even know what you do to me.”
He ran his palms up your inner thighs, large and warm and just rough enough to make you shiver. He pressed a kiss to the inside of one thigh, then another, working his way up slowly. Painfully slowly. The stubble on his jaw scraped softly against your skin as he moved higher, his index finger pushing the cloth of your lace thong aside, and when his breath finally hit your core, you nearly whimpered.
He hovered there for a moment, not touching, just taking you in, eyes locked to yours as if waiting for some last-second hesitation. When he saw none, he dipped forward slightly, slowly dragging his tongue through your folds with a low, needy groan.
Your hands gripped the couch cushion beneath you, gripping it as your back arched lightly. His tongue was hot and slow, lapping at you with the kind of focus only Leon could possess, like you were the only thing in the world that could bring him peace.
“You taste so fucking good,” he rasped against you, voice muffled by your body.
He wrapped his arms under your thighs, pulling you closer to the edge of the couch, locking you in place as his mouth worked on you.
His tongue slid up and down, teasing your entrance before moving to circle your clit in tight, deliberate strokes. You gasped, hips jerking, and he only held you firmer, pressing his mouth tighter to you, like he needed it—needed the way your body responded to him.
The soft, wet sounds of his tongue mixed with your uneven breathing, the occasional whimper escaping your lips as the pressure built.
He shifted slightly, sliding one hand from your thigh to rest on your stomach, holding you down as your hips bucked beneath his mouth. His other hand moved to your folds, parting them carefully so his tongue could focus directly on your clit. He sucked it into his mouth, slow and firm, before flattening his tongue against it and moving in slow, heavy circles.
Your thighs quivered against his shoulders, a broken moan slipping from your lips, which you attempted to muffle with a gnaw at your lip. You looked down at him as a hand threaded into his hair, his eyes were on you, always on you, dark and heavy. His mouth glistened, jaw flexing as he pushed deeper, eating like a man who hadn’t been fed in days.
It was intoxicating, the way his tongue pushed in and out of you, the way he held you open so he could drink in every last drop of you.
“Leon—shit, Leon, I’m—” Your voice faltered as your body started to tense, hand clenching the locks of dirty blonde hair, waves of pleasure building fast and hot and deep.
He didn’t stop. If anything, he doubled down, speeding up his strokes, tongue relentless and perfect and so much. His thumb pressed down on your stomach gently, grounding you, while his mouth sent you spiraling. The pressure in your belly tightened into something unbearable.
And then it snapped.
Your climax dragged through your entire body, dragging a cry from your lips that you almost didn’t catch with your hand, and Leon moaned into your cunt like it was the best thing he’d ever tasted.
He stayed there, lapping at you as you pulsed and spilled against his tongue. Every drop of slick that dripped from you, he chased, tongue stroking deeper, lower, like he was determined to clean you out.
He drank you, shameless and unrelenting, until your legs shook and there was nothing left for him to take, drawing every last tremor from your body until you were collapsing back against the cushions, boneless and dazed.
Even then, he didn’t move right away. He gave you a few more gentle, teasing licks, ensuring he more affection than arousal now, before finally pulling back with a satisfied grunt. His chin was slick, his lips swollen, his eyes glazed over with hunger and pride.
He kissed the inside of your thigh one last time, then rose slowly from his knees, hands gripping the couch back on either side of your shoulders.
“You alright?” He muttered, you on his breath.
A nod was your only reply before he leaned down to kiss you, deep and filthy, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.
When he finally pulled back, he was smiling faintly, that rare, exhausted softness in his expression.
The door clicks shut behind you, and you lean against it for a second longer than necessary. Work drained everything from you. Your feet ache, your spine hurts, and your brain buzzes with a faint static. You'd forgotten it was your birthday until your coworker had offered a dry “Happy whatever,” over their shoulder before clocking out.
You hadn’t expected anything. Not after the week Leon had also had.
The apartment was dark, the only semblance of light being a faint orange glow from the kitchen bleeding down the hallway. You pause. There’s a scent you can’t place. Smoky, a bit burnt, maybe garlic? A soft scrape of something moving around comes from the kitchen.
Your brow furrows. “Leon?”
He doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, you hear a sharp mutter
“Shit.”
Then, the clatter of a pan hitting something it definitely wasn’t supposed to.
When you step into the kitchen, you stop cold.
The place is a mess. Dishes stacked in the sink. Tomato sauce splattered near the stove. A wooden spoon lies abandoned on the floor. But in the center of it all, there’s a table, cleared off and dressed with two candles and two plates of something resembling pasta. There’s a bottle of wine beside them, the good one you’d been saving.
And Leon.
Standing at the stove, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, shirt wrinkled, a smudge of sauce near his temple. He glances over his shoulder for a moment before returning to the stove, just exhaling quietly and killing the burner. “You’re home early,”
You blink, then gesture around faintly. “What... is all this?”
He finally looks at you, his eyes soft and steady, blue eyes catching yours as he wipes his hands on a kitchen towel.
“You said last week you missed home cooked meals.”
You hadn’t remembered saying it. It must’ve been one of those offhanded comments, something small, tossed into a conversation.
But he remembered.
You step forward slowly, past the chaos, letting the warmth of the room settle over your skin. “You cooked this?”
“Tried,” he mutters, a slight chuckle escaping his lips. “It’s edible. Probably.”
You smile despite yourself. You know him—he listens. He notices. And he tries, even when it doesn’t come easy.
“I didn’t think you’d do anything.”
He walks over, tossing the towel off onto the counter and stops just close enough for you to feel the heat radiating off him. One hand rests on the side of your neck, the other on your jaw. “You’ve had a rough week. Figured someone should do something about that.”
You just give him that small smile, as if silently thanking him, his eyes on yours for a moment before taking your lips onto his, soft and appreciative.
As he pulls way, you both remain there for a moment, feeling his breath on yours. Leon steps back, making his way to a chair and pulling it back for you.
“Sit,” he says. It’s not a command, exactly, more of a suggestion he doesn’t expect you to argue with.
You do so, him pushing it back in place as you ease into the seat. He grabs the wine bottle and pours a glass with practiced hands, his movements efficient and smooth.
He sets the glass down in front of you.
“I bought that tiramisu you like from the Italian place,” he adds quietly.
You glance up at him, face softening even more.
That gets the smallest twitch of his mouth, as if unable to help himself as he saw you smile.
The pasta’s overdone. The sauce is strong, a little too salty. But you eat it anyway, and he does too, both of you sitting in the low candlelight, the room heavy with unsaid things.
For a while, it’s quiet, just the occasional scrape of a fork or the soft sound of him adjusting in his chair.
You feel him watching you when you reach for your wine. Not staring. Just... observing. Reading you the way he always does, like he’s taking in every detail: how tired you are, how your shoulders slump a little more than usual, how your fingers fidget and twist the base of the glass.
“You shouldn’t work so late,” he says.
You snort softly. “And you shouldn’t get shot at for a living.”
“Thats not fair,” He laughs gently.
You just shrug, procuring another beat of silence.
“I’m sorry I’ve been gone so much lately.”
You glance over at him. He’s not looking at you when he says it, voice low, guarded. Like it physically hurts him to admit he truly has been gone so much.
“I know you’ve been dealing with everything on your own. You deserved a night off. A week, if it was my choice.”
Something tightens in your chest. Not guilt. Realization. Realization that he sees you more clearly than you thought.
You reach across the table and lay your hand over his.
“Thank you.”
He looks up, and there it is, that flicker in his eyes. Heat. Intensity. Want, buried just beneath the surface.
He stands slowly, the legs of his chair scraping softly against the floor, and walks around the table. You glance up at him, expecting something. Maybe a half-smile, maybe a sarcastic remark about the food. But he doesn’t say anything.
When he stops beside you, he doesn’t say anything right away. His fingers ghost over the curve of your shoulder, then drop to your waist. The way he looks down at you isn’t urgent, but focused.
“Come here,” he says, voice low, soothing.
You rise wordlessly, letting him guide you towards him with a hand at your back. His touch is warm, grounding, thumb tracing idle lines through the thin fabric of your shirt.
He leans in close, not rushing, his forehead nearly resting against yours as he lets out a soft breath. “You’ve been running on empty all week,” he murmurs. “I’ve seen it.”
You swallow. His presence is overwhelming, but not in a bad way. It fills you, settles something inside you. Like he’s not just looking at you. He sees you.
“I wanted tonight to be good for you,” he continues, fingers sliding down to your hip, easing you closer. “Maybe it wasn’t perfect, but…” His lips ghost against the corner of your mouth. “Let me make the rest of it count.”
Then he kisses you.
Slow. Deep. Not hungry yet, he doesn’t rush. He lets the kiss linger as he slides one hand down to lace his fingers with yours, his other staying low on your back, keeping you close.
When he pulls back, his lips linger near yours.
“You’ve had a long day,” he murmurs.
You nod, still catching your breath.
“You always take care of everyone else,” he says, pressing his lips against your shoulder and breathing in the scent of you. “Let me take care of you tonight. Just you.”
“Come with me.”
You follow without hesitation, your hand still tucked in his, and he leads you down the dim hallway. The flicker of warm light spills out from the cracked door of the bedroom, soft shadows dancing along the walls.
He nudges the door open.
Your breath catches.
There, laid out across the center of the bed, is a bouquet of white roses, your favourites. The petals practically glow in the amber light of the bedside lamp. It’s simple. Romantic. Not flashy. Him.
You step closer, loosing his hand, fingers brushing the soft petals. “Leon…”
“I know you don’t like big, loud surprises,” he says from behind you, his hands coming to rest lightly on your hips. “But I wanted you to have something waiting for you. Something that lasts longer than dinner.”
His lips graze the back of your shoulder. Then again, lower, slower.
You shiver under the warmth of his breath as his hands begin to rise. They skimmed under the hem of your work blouse, knuckles dragging lightly against your stomach.
“Let me?” he murmurs against your skin.
You nod, and he peels the shirt off inch by inch, careful, deliberate. He drops it to the side and takes a step back just to look at you, his gaze drinking you in like it’s his first time again.
“God,” he mutters, more to himself than to you, eyes heavy with reverence. “You’re beautiful.”
He comes closer again, fingertips brushing the strap of your bra. He slips it off your shoulder with a touch so gentle it nearly makes your knees go weak. His hands don’t grope. They glide. Exploring. Admiring. Memorizing.
You reach to help, but he catches your hands, gently lowering them back to your sides.
“Let me do this for you,” he says, voice thick. “Just relax. Let me show you what you mean to me.”
He leans in, lips pressing over your collarbone, then lower. Reverent kisses that trail warmth across your skin. His hands slide behind you, unfastening your bra with ease before letting it fall away, leaving you bare to the soft glow and his unwavering attention.
He sinks to his knees in front of you, looking up with calm intensity as his fingers hook into the waistband of your pants. He slides them down slowly, your coming along with them, him tracing the backs of his knuckles over your thighs as he goes.
He kisses the inside of your leg, then looks up at you again with quiet awe.
“Lie back. I’m not going to let you lift a finger tonight.”
You do as he says, crawling slowly onto the bed, the scent of the roses heady around you, silk sheets cool under your back.
Leon follows you, slow and unhurried. He kneels between your legs, eyes trailing up the length of your body as if he’s cataloging every part of you he’s about to touch.
He presses his hand on your calf and bends it as he pushes your legs a part just a bit more, placing a kiss to your knee. Then higher as he lowered his body more. One to your inner thigh. Then the other. His hands smooth up and down your legs, over the curve of your hips, thumbs brushing gently along your skin.
His breath is warm, and every kiss he places makes your pulse race a little faster.
You shift your hips just a little, aching, hoping he’ll take the hint.
He does. But instead of moving faster, he lets out a soft exhale that’s almost a chuckle, brushing his lips just barely over your center, so light it’s almost not there.
And then he moves away again, leaving a trail of kisses up your stomach instead.
“Leon…” you breathe, a quiet plea.
He glances up at you from between your legs, eyes dark and full of heat.
“I know,” he murmurs. “I’m getting there.”
His arm slides under your hips, lifting them just slightly, adjusting you like he wants everything to be perfect for you. And still… he presses another kiss to your hip, then the inside of your thigh, then right next to where you want him. Again.
You whimper softly, biting your lip.
He’s practically worshiping you. But the way his mouth just misses your most sensitive spot again and again is driving you crazy.
He kisses the crease of your thigh. The top of your mound. His breath ghosts across your folds, but he doesn’t quite put his mouth on you yet. He looks entranced, like he’s trying to memorize you before he even begins.
It’s sweet. It’s loving. But it’s torture.
“Leon, please…” you say, this time more breath than sound, hips rising toward him before you can stop yourself.
That finally gets him. His eyes flick up, locking with yours, and you see the moment the restraint breaks.
“Fuck,” he whispers, and then his mouth is on you.
Warm, soft, confident.
His tongue parts your folds with devastating precision, licking a long, slow line up the length of your sin before focusing right where you need it. His mouth seals around your clit, tongue moving in gentle, deliberate circles, not too fast, not yet, but hard enough to make you gasp.
He moans low in his throat at the taste of you, the sound vibrating right into your core, a moan escaping your flushed lips. His grip on your thighs tightens slightly, anchoring you as he devours you, turning hungry now, urgent with need.
He doesn’t pull away. He doesn’t stop to tease anymore.
He’s all in now, focused entirely on your pleasure, like he wants to give you everything you’ve been too exhausted to ask for. Like he wants to ruin you with love, and nothing else matters tonight but this.
The movements of his tongue are steady, shifting in intoxicating patterns, circling and flicking with just enough pressure to make your thighs tremble against his shoulders. He listens to every gasp, every breathless moan you give him, adjusting as if your body were a language he’s fluent in.
And when you finally come for him—hips arching, hand gripping the sheets, his name falling from your lips—he doesn’t pull away. He stays there, drinking in every last wave of your release like he never wants it to end. Lapping you up, slow and thorough, grunting into your cunt until your body is shivering from overstimulation.
“You taste delicious,” He utters.
Only then does he lift his head, lips slick with you, and presses one more kiss to your thigh.
You’re still catching your breath when he climbs up over you, settling between your legs like it’s where he belongs. And it is.
His hand finds your cheek, brushing your hair back gently, eyes locked on yours.
“You okay?” he asks, voice low.
You nod, heart still fluttering, and wrap your hands around the back of his neck. “More than.”
Leon stays still for a moment, watching the way your chest rises and falls, like he’s grounding himself in the sight of you before moving. Then he straightens slowly, rising a bit more on his knees beside you, and your eyes follow the way his hands move to the buttons of his shirt.
One by one, he undoes them, never rushing. His shirt falls open, revealing the lean, strong lines of his chest, the subtle scar near his ribs, muscles prominent from years of service.
You sit up slightly on your elbows, watching as he pulls the shirt off completely and drops it to the floor. Then his belt, the sound of the metal coming off the leather loud in the comfortable, intimate silence of the bedroom.
Then his pants, unzipped with a practiced motion, pants sliding down over his hips. You can’t help the way your thighs shift a little, anticipation building all over again.
He notices, of course. He always does.
The last of his clothes fall to the side, and for a moment, he just looks at you. Bare. Open. Every inch of him bared to you with no hesitation, no shame.
“y/n,” he murmurs, that familiar rasp in his voice, “you looking at me like that… it’s dangerous.”
You smile, cheeks flushed. “You’re one to talk.”
He moves toward you, then, crawling up the bed, every movement deliberate and heavy with intent. When he lowers himself between your legs, skin to skin now, the warmth of him makes you melt further into the mattress.
You feel him, heavy and hard, against your thigh, but he doesn’t push into you yet. He presses his forehead to yours, hands cupping your face.
“You okay?” he asks again, even quieter this time. “I don’t wanna rush this.”
“You’re not,” you whisper. “Just… don’t stop.”
That’s all he needs.
He kisses you, deep and slow, as he finally slides into you, hips rocking forward with exquisite care, the stretch making your mouth part in a soft gasp.
He groans low in your ear, voice thick.
“Fuck… you’re incredible.”
His hands find your waist, your thigh, your face—he can’t seem to not touch you. And even once he’s fully seated inside you, he still doesn’t move at first. He just holds you, breath warm against your cheek.
He starts slow. Deliberate. Like he’s feeling you, not just fucking you. Like he wants to stay in this exact moment forever.
You moan softly, your hands sliding down to grip his back, legs wrapping around his waist. He sinks deeper, angling his hips until he hits just the right spot and stays there, grinding gently, eyes never leaving yours.
“Right there?” he murmurs.
You nod, barely able to speak.
His thrusts stay measured but purposeful, rocking into you with just enough power to make your breath hitch, but never too rough. He never lost that tenderness. One hand cradles the back of your head. The other stays low on your hip, guiding your rhythm, syncing it to his.
“Tell me what feels better,” he whispers, brushing his lips along your earlobe. “This…” He rolls his hips deeper. “Or…” He changes the angle slightly, nudging your sweet spot with pinpoint focus.
You cry out softly, back arching. “That. That—Leon…”
“There it is,” he breathes, kissing edge of your jaw. “I’ve got you.”
His pace quickens just slightly. More pressure, more heat. But still careful. Still giving. He watches every reaction, adjusting his hips, his hands, his mouth on your neck, your chest, your lips, all just to hear you fall apart again.
“Let go,” he whispers, voice thick with love and lust. “I want to feel you. All of you.”
Your release builds fast, tighter than the last, more overwhelming, the slow roll of his hips making it impossible to hold it back. Every thrust hits right where you need it, and the sound of his voice, whispered so roughly, tips you right over the edge.
Your body arches beneath him, fingers digging into his shoulders as the climax crashes over you, sudden and intense. Your walls clench around him, tight and desperate, and the moment it hits him, Leon groans into your neck, raw and broken, like he’s been holding himself back just for this.
“Shit—fuck, baby—”
You feel it as he starts to come, burying himself to the hilt inside you. His hips stutter just slightly, but he doesn’t stop. Even through his release, breathing ragged, he forced his body to keep moving with long, gentle rolls of his hips.
He’s trying to carry you through it. Let you feel everything.
You cry out softly, legs tightening around his waist, body shaking beneath him as the waves of pleasure ride out longer than you thought possible. It’s too much. Not enough. Perfect.
Leon’s forehead stays pressed against yours, his breath hot and uneven against your lips, his hands bracing your hips with steadying care.
Still moving inside you in slow, dragging thrusts, he murmurs something against your skin, you can’t quite catch it over the rush in your ears, but it sounds like “I’ve got you.”
You do. You let it happen. Let your body tremble and melt against his, overwhelmed and full and safe.
Eventually, his pace slows even more, until he’s just rocking with you, barely moving, your bodies locked together in heat and sweat and something too deep for words.
And then he stops, staying inside you as he leans back slightly to look at you.
Your cheeks are flushed, your lashes heavy, your lips parted as you try to catch your breath. His expression softens.
“Hey,” he murmurs, his voice barely more than a whisper.
You let out a soft, breathless laugh, your fingertips still curled against his back. There’s something so genuine in the way he says it, like it’s all he can manage after being so overwhelmed by you, like it’s the only word he knows right now that won’t fall apart in his throat.
You tilt your head just slightly and whisper back, “Hi.”
He smiles, slow and soft, with his lips still pink and parted from how hard he came, and that small twitch of amusement in the corner of his mouth, like you just made his whole week.
You stay there, tangled together in the warm hush of the bedroom, your skin flushed and damp, the scent of sex and roses still hanging in the air. His thumb strokes absent circles into your side.
You can hear his heartbeat slowing against your chest, syncing with yours.
Eventually, he eases off you, careful and slow, pulling out slowly, murmuring an apology as you flinch from the sensetivity. He presses a kiss to your stomach before slipping off the bed, grabbing the nearby towel he left folded by the nightstand and dipped it in a small bowl that lay beside it.
He planned this, clearly, even if the kitchen disaster said otherwise.
When he returns, he kneels beside you, gently wiping between your legs with warm water. “You’re okay?” he asks, his voice quieter now.
“I’m great,”
“You deserve so much more,” he says softly, setting the towel down on the side and pulling you into his arms, fingertips idly brushing your spine, lips brushing your hair. “A real birthday. Something better than a wrecked kitchen and cheap candles. I just needed you to know how much I love you.”
You glance up at him, the candlelight dancing in his tired blue eyes.
“I do,” you murmur. “I know.”
His hand stills at your back, fingers curling with a quiet exhale.
Your assassin droid, IG-11, kept up, sending blaster shots towards the Mandalorian whenever you stumbled on your steps, reminding you of just another business deal you'd made with the man. He’d traded the droid to you after a piece of the Crest had malfunctioned, all since you'd refused to take his credits, determined on acquiring a bodyguard instead. People knew not to trust you and what you sold. Half of the time it was broken, or defective, you being too lazy to fix it. But you were one of the only people in the galaxy to have certain parts, so they landed on faith. It didn't get many of them too far. It made you hated, and a couple of unlucky sales later, it made you wanted.
You managed to evade the bounties thanks to Mando’s IG-11, but you knew it was he, himself, who’d come after you if you ever did such a thing to him. But you needed the credits, and a functional engine capacitor was just not in your cards when he came asking.
A quick turn of your head revealed a green blaster shot heading straight for the droid, hitting the coolant pipe on his left arm. Fuck, you thought to yourself as thick gray liquid began to pour form the punctured pipe. IG-11 wouldn't last long without it, especially not in the Naboo heat.
And you were right, nearly 10 seconds later, it crumbled to the ground, leaving you no backup and a shitty aim to hold the bounty hunter off. He was relentless. No wonder he was so notorious. Notorious was not what you wanted after you right now.
“Mando,” you yell without looking back. “Ill fix the fucking piece for cheap,” you try to reason with him, though you’re quickly shut down by a blaster hitting your close right, shuffling dust and debris on the ground, making you yelp, “for Maker’s sake, Mando!”
“Free,” he gruffed, you not realizing just how much he’d gained on you without IG-11 holding him off. “Yes, fine, fine- just put the blaster down,” you say, slowing down, turning around to see him slow to a walking pace as well. You back up, keeping distance between you.
But he doesn't set his blaster back in its holster, rather pointing it directly at your temple and saying, “get on the ground.”
“What?” You practically blubber. Did you just fall for a false promise?
“On the ground” He repeats, his voice a bit louder now through the modulator in the helmet.
Without much of a better choice, you do as asked, lowering yourself to your knees, your hands up in surrender, eyes where you'd imagine his own were under the visor.
Approaching you, he pushes your shoulder down into the dirt, removing the cloak off you and tossing it aside.
He looks down your body, searching for any weapons, the useless blaster you'd been trying to shoot at him having been dropped somewhere along the way.
With one hand, he pats down your sides, your legs, the edges of your boots. You wished you’d stored that knife in the footwear today, even if you knew it would make no difference against him.
With a pleased grunt, he cages your hands with cuffs, which you knew better than to question where he procured from.
“Mando, please,” you utter as he pulls you to your feet, though keeps that insolence beneath the mask, straight backed and not bothering to look at you as he practically paraded you down the street.
Heads turned and whispers shared, some of the men you’d stolen from, and some you’d sold to, cheering.
It took more than a comfortable amount of walking to reach the Razorcrest, parked in Pell Motto’s workshop, and seeing the hunk of metal it was truly made you wonder what it would feel like to be frozen alive.
You spot her, pit droids chirping at the sight of you restrained, and she gives you a solemn nod, greeting you before your imminent death. She was one of the only few people you purely sold undamaged goods to, so she had no problems with you, though she knew interrupting a Mandalorian from a bounty was not a good idea.
As you pushed towards the door of the Crest, he instead threw you off to the left, towards the engine, which he’d needed the piece for. “Fix it.” He commanded.
Your eyes turn to him for a moment, and you let loose a breath you didn't know you were holding. You felt like rambling of your thankfulness and extensively cussing him out at the same time. Instead, you settle on offering him your hands to remove the restrains.
It took hours under his intense gaze, sweat and grease on your face and clothes and hands by the time you finished, an assortment of tools and metal scraps all around you. Turning back to him finally, silently commanding him to run it.
He simply nods, the helmet dipping as he walks towards the hull’s entrance and disappears inside, a roar in the metal making you jump and retreat away from the ship.
After a moment of steady humming, he turns it off once again, standing at the top of the ramp and saying, “Come here.”
You're conflicted wether trying to run again or actually following direction. You knew that if you tried to escape him, you wouldn't get far, not without IG-11.
So with slumped shoulders, you stride, ever so slowly, into his ship.
He doesn't make move to restrain you again, leading you through the cockpit, past the carbon freezing chamber, and towards a small cot, him resting his back on a storage container.
“Like to play with your food, or..?” You ask, clearly a bit intimidated but not afraid enough to not poke at him as you usually did.
“You pull some bullshit like that again, y/n, and I swear-- a bounty won’t be why I kill you.”
The words make you sink back into the wall a little bit, his helmet fully trained on you, all dirty and disheveled after being chased, pushed, and forced to work.
“You need to work better on who you trust then,” You respond through the clenching in your gut.
You could tell immediately that he did not like that. As he takes a step forward, you raise your hands up in surrender for the second time today.
“Business is business, Mando, and unless you think I’m pretty enough to be a working girl-- money is made however it needs to be made.” I say with a shrug of my shoulders. “I fixed it, didn't I?"
“After I wasted my time on you.”
You scoff. “That was a great chase, im not sure what you’re referring to.”
He took a long pause, not to agree, but also not to disagree. “You better get IG-11 before the Jawas get to him first.”
You took that as the last free pass you'd get to leave the ship alive.
It only took him a few weeks to return to your shop, if one could even call it that. It was a small hut set up near the outskirts of town, near the landfills, so that anyone passing by would think what lay surrounding your home was nothing more than scraps. The assassin droid had let him in, though his blaster had remained trained on a joint in the armor as the Mandalorian approached your work bench. You were hunched over the droid’s broken temperature regulator, a worn welding mask over your face, stick welders on either hand, melting a tube to the side of the device to replace the one Mando had broken.
Right now, IG-11 had some scrap piece you knew would break down within weeks, something to hold him off while you worked on his actual replacement.
“I need a landing foot.”
Not hearing his words over the buzzing of the wands or noticing him from the blocked view of the mask, he hunkered behind you, gripping the wire running power to the equipment and pulling it. As they shut down, you look back, confused, and catch a glimpse of the beskar on his thighs, letting out a sigh that made him aware of your resignation.
“Landing foot. Now.” He repeated as you raised the mask, your only response being, “1400 credits.”
He let out what sounded like a smug chuckle. “Ill give you 400.”
You twisted your face in slight offence “Are you insane?” your tone a lot more disrespectful than you knew you could afford to be to him.
“400 or I take you in.”
Huffing, you say, “With his gun on you? I don’t think so,” gesturing towards IG-11.
“Oh, please, he makes one move too sharply and that haphazard tube will pop out of his arm.” He replies just as fast. “Don’t think the helmet is too thick for me to realize what a coolant device looks like.”
Watching him for a long moment, you get up and walk towards a pile of opened boxes, unorganized scattered pieces inside. “1050,” You finally say as you pull out a piece of clean metal, wide in your hands, the strip to support the ship the size of your abdomen alone.
“600”
“1000”
“800”
“900”
The mandalorian pauses for a moment. “850”
“Fine.” You utter, tossing the mask hovering over your head onto your desk, placing the foot in front of him, stretching out your hand.
“Ill transfer you after it’s installed into the ship.” He says as he looks down at your palm, calloused and covered in cooling liquid.
“Its a fucking landing foot, Mando, how could it be defective?”
“You always manage to find a way.”
“Maybe you just like me,” You shrug, knowing better than to tease him but unable to help yourself.
A scoff from under the helmet and a shift in the cape around the skin of his neck, “Don’t start.”
And so, he made you come back with him to the ship.
Kneeled under the raised hull, you twisted the wrench with a push to loosen the heavy screw, the muscles in your arm aching with the resistance of old metal. You gritted your teeth, finally feeling the bolt give, and reached back without looking.
“Smaller one,” you muttered, hand blindly searching.
He let out a grunt, clearly unamused by your tone, but passed you the thinner screwdriver from the box beside him. The thick fabric of his gloves grazed your palm, the contact hot despite the barrier. You felt it. You knew he did too.
“You're breathing on me,” you muttered, annoyed, but not enough to actually shift away. He was close. Looming, really.
“I’m not leaving you unattended,” came the low, flat reply.
You snorted softly. “Afraid I’ll sabotage it again?”
“No. Just know you like to test people when they’re not looking.”
Your hands paused.
You twisted your head over your shoulder to glance at him. He hadn’t moved. Still standing solid behind you, close enough that if you pushed back even slightly, youd hit hard, cold beskar.
“You always assume the worst,” you say, fingers still moving as you twist the next piece into place.
“I’m usually correct.” His voice dropped slightly. It wasn’t harsh if it was a simple fact.
You felt heat curl up the back of your neck. Maybe it was the sun. Or the proximity.
Still working, you asked, “Get tired of watching me yet?”
A long pause.
“Not yet.”
“Fuck,” you yelp suddenly, bumping back as a hinge from the top of the rusted landing foot almost lands on your stomach, making you drop the screwdriver, your back now pressed hard against the armor.
He reached his hands under your arms to catch you from stumbling back further, his visor trained on you, as if silently asking if you were alright.
“I’d bet all my credits this is the closest you’ve been to a girl in m-”
“You don’t want to finish that sentence.”
The stern words made you swallow whatever smart-ass remark you’d tried to make, his commanding presence practically beckoning you to never speak again. But his hands remained on you, one splayed across your ribs, the other just a fraction lower, right above your waist. His fingers had a firm grip on your shirt, as if you'd just fallen, as if he wasn't quite ready to let go.
Still, you swallowed whatever begged you to just shut up and finish the job.
“Didn’t take you as the handsy type,” You say with a mocking smile, head tilted up to be able to meet the helmets view.
“I’m not,” he replied, though it was low and cut short.
He still hadn’t moved. The beskar pressing into your spine, the silence thick enough that you could hear the faint hum of the ship behind you, the sound of your own breathing. You were sure he could hear it too.
You twisted slightly in his grip, just enough to glance over your shoulder.
“Then let go.”
His hands didn’t budge.
“You’re reckless,” he said simply like it explained everything.
“And you’re still here,” you shot back, barely a whisper.
Silence.
“Turn around.”
Your heart jumped. It wasn’t loud. Wasn’t threatening. But something in the way he said it, unreadable with that authority of his made you move before you even realized what you'd been doing.
You turned. Slowly, hesitantly, rotating in the tight space between him and the hull, until your chest brushed the curve of his chestplate. You had to look up to meet the black of his visor.
He didn’t step back.
The space between you felt too small now, filled with dust and tension.
“I’m not going to run,” you said, voice quieter than before.
“I know,” he replied.
His helmet tilted, just a fraction, as if scanning you. His gloved hand lifted and hovered near your jaw. Like you were a malfunction he couldn’t fix, just had to keep coming back to.
He didn’t touch you. Not yet. Just traced the air near your face like he was deciding something.
You didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe.
Then, his voice came again, no less sharp.
“You think this is a game.”
You blinked once, slowly. “No,” you said. “I think it’s a job.”
His hand lowered to your side, settling at your hip, possessive in its stillness.
“I should lock you in the carbon chamber,” he muttered.
You smirked. “But you won’t.”
Another beat. Another breath.
“No, I won't."
You raised an eyebrow, heart thudding loud in your chest. “Then what?”
His hand slipped down, enough to curve around your lower back.
“You fix things with your hands. Break them, too.”
A pause.
“I’m still trying to figure out which one you’re doing to me.”
Your mouth opened, but you didn’t have a witty comeback for that. Not when his hand stayed right where it was, not when his body was a wall of heat and beskar mere inches from yours.
“I’m not doing anything,” you murmured.
He leaned in just slightly, visor inches from your face, voice sharp and quiet through the modulator, “Exactly.”
Then his hand shifted once again, curling tighter on your waist, the leather of his glove warm now from your burning skin under your shirt. He leaned in, not enough to touch, but close enough that you felt the air shift when he spoke again.
“Inside. Now.”
It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t even a threat.
It was a command.
You swallowed hard, smirk twitching at the edge of your lips. “You ordering me around on my own sale?”
“You're not selling me anything.”
His voice was measured, dangerous. You didn’t push further as he took a reluctant step back, his hand falling to his side.
Stepping out from under the ship towards the ramp, you became aware of his steps behind you. The ship loomed, a dull silver in the afternoon sun. The air felt heavier with each footstep.
By the time the Razor Crest’s ramp closed behind you with a few clicks on the control panel at his wrist, your breath was shallow and your palms were sweating.
You turned, maybe to tease, to ask what the hell this was, but he was already a breath too close again.
“Don’t play dumb now.” His voice was a rumble at your ear, the modulator not doing much to mask the timbre in his voice.
You tilted your head up at him, biting back a smile. “I thought you didn’t come back for second rounds.”
A beat passed.
“Neither do you.”
The words between you sparked the memory; oil-stained hands on your hips, the sharp edge of your workbench digging into your stomach, biting back moans because his hand was over your mouth. The fact that you hadn’t spoken of it since made it burn hotter.
“I figured you were too proud to admit you liked it,” you murmured, stepping back toward the wall of the hull, letting it catch you, letting him corner you again once again.
He didn’t take the bait. Of course he didn’t.
Instead, he just stared. Helmet angled slightly, like he was assessing damage, or weakness. With a scoff, he took a step forward, knowing he was letting you win. His gloved hand came up slowly, dragging two gloved fingers along the underside of your jaw.
“You talk too much.”
You smirked, chin lifted. “You do too little.”
His hand moved in a blur, catching your wrist as you attempted to pull him closer, pushing you back, your spine thudding gently against the wall behind you. His other hand was already sliding down your side, trailing across waistband.
“Still remember how to beg?” he asked, tone flat, unbothered, his hand dipping under the pants and palming your ass roughly.
You refused to flinch. “I didn’t beg last time.”
He laughed, not much more than a sharp huff of air through the modulator, and bent forward, voice low.
“You know you did.”
You opened your mouth, something defiant on your tongue, but it turned to a breathy curse when his gloved hand raised back up, hooking on the loop of your pants and pushing them down, just enough to see your simple black underwear, expecting you to do the rest.
Which you gladly did, hastily removing them and tossing them god-knows where while he removed his gloves and discarded them as well.
His warm hand ran slowly down your thigh, hooking on your knee and raising it to give him access to your cloth-covered cunt.
Once raised, you knew, placing your thigh on his hip, calf wrapped around the back of his thigh as his hand traced back up, thumb kneading the soft flesh.
But he just kept going up and up, thumb pressing into sticky fabric, tracing slow circles over your already throbbing core.
“Already soaked,” he murmured. It wasn't a compliment, more like a confirmation to suspicion.
“You gonna stand here narrating it, or—”
His fingers wrapped around your throat, gentle but not soft, thumb pressing into the edge of your jaw. He leaned in close again, visor nearly touching your skin.
“You’re not in charge here, mesh’la.”
You shivered. It hit you harder than it should’ve: the nickname in that voice, underlined by steel. You remembered the first time he used it, gritted out under his breath as he fucked you from behind, fingers tangled in your hair. You’d asked what it meant, and he’d told you it was the word for “beautiful” in his language. You hadn’t been able to forget it since.
Now, his hand slipped between your waistband and skin, calloused fingers dragging rough over you as he pushed further down.
“You remember how to say thank you?” he asked.
Your breath only hitched.
“No?”
Two fingers pressed your clit teasingly, refusing to give you what he knew you needed as you practically dripped precum.
“Then I’ll make you remember.”
“Mando,” You utter, eyes lowering slightly, refusing to show him how good he made you feel without even being inside you. You knew he could tell anyways, skin burning and heartbeat pounding southward.
You can practically hear the smirk in his voice when he responds, low and demanding.
“Say it.”
“Come on,” It’s an annoyed tone you take with him, and it makes him squeeze your throat just a bit tighter, dip the tip of one finger into you then remove it just as quickly to let you know exactly what you were missing.
“God- Please,” you beg, whinier than intended.
“Please what?”
His voice was silk over steel, a rasp because of the modulator that somehow made everything worse. Or better. You couldn’t decide.
You tried to shift your hips against his hand, chase the friction, but his arm locked around your waist and held you still.
“Use your words.”
You scowled, even as your breath trembled. “You’re such an—”
He slipped two fingers into you, sudden and deep, and your insult died as a strangled moan instead. His other hand held you firm, pinned with nowhere to go but onto him.
“Don’t start something you can’t finish, mesh’la,” he growled, voice low and amused, but there was a warning in it too.
You clenched around his fingers, hips rolling instinctively. It wasn’t enough, not with how slow he moved, not when he deliberately avoided that one spot you needed most.
“I didn’t know you were such a tease,” you gasped.
“I’m not teasing,” he said, curling his fingers just slightly, dragging a delicious moan from your lips. “You’re the one who begged last time, remember?”
Your head remained tipped back as you bit into your bottom lip to keep from groaning again. You hated that he remembered that. You loved that he remembered that.
Still, your voice came out sharp, defiant. “And what? You think I’ll beg again?”
His hand withdrew entirely, leaving you clenching around nothing. Cold air hit your slick skin.
Your eyes flew open. “Wait- !”
He tilted his helmet. “You were saying?”
“Fuck you.”
“Eventually,” he said, tone maddeningly casual.
You tried reaching for him, grab his wrist, to drag him back where you needed him so desperately, but he caught both your hands in one of his and pinned them to your chest. His other hand dipped back down slowly, so, so slowly, and you squirmed against the wall, practically panting.
“You don’t get to take,” he said, pushing your thighs wider with a knee, “until you give.”
You let go of your lip with a slight pop. “Fine.”
A pause. Then, “Please. Touch me.”
And Maker, he did.
His fingers worked you open with ruthless control, stroking slow and deep, your whimpers caught against the inside of your teeth. The sound of your slick was obscene in the silence of the ship, each motion dragging you closer to the edge.
“You’re gonna come like this,” he said, helmet pressed right at your ear now. “Just from my fingers. And next time…”
His hand slipped lower, thumb grinding over your clit, puffy and pink as you bucked against him.
“You ask nicely from the start.”
Your hands curled against his chestplate, nails scraping the cool beskar, desperate now.
“Say it again.”
“Please—fuck—please, Mando, don’t stop—”
“Good girl.”
That did it.
Your legs shook, body clenching tight as the orgasm hit you sharp and fast, his fingers never slowing. You gasped his name again, louder this time, barely caring how wrecked you sounded.
He didn’t stop until you were twitching, breath gone, head falling back against his shoulder.
Then, finally, he eased his fingers out and wrapped both arms around you from behind, holding you steady.
“Are you going to be good now?” he murmured, voice still dark, still in control.
You were already nodding, a little too fast.
Your legs still felt weak when he pulled you toward the back of the ship, your shirt pushed halfway up your abdomen. He didn’t give you a chance to fix it, only guided you forward with a hand firm on your hip, thumb stroking once through the fabric as if to remind you who put you in this state.
“Box,” he ordered simply, nodding toward one of the metal crates bolted down along the wall. You recognized it; some forgotten supply locker you’d helped him dig through once, heavy with scrap and spare parts. Now it looked like an altar.
He turned you around, hand on the back of your neck, pushing until you were bent over it, the metal seeping cold onto your chest flush against it.
“This feel familiar?” he asked, voice thick through the modulator as his fingers hooked onto your panties, pulling them off this time. “Last time it was a workbench.”
“Yeah,” you muttered, breathless. “You didn’t even buy anything.”
“Didn’t need to.” His hands ran down the curve of your back, stopping to grip your ass in both palms. “You offered.”
“I didn’t—fuck—”
He cut you off with a sharp slap to your ass, making you jolt forward with a gasp.
“Offered,” he repeated. “And begged.”
Your fingers dug into the edges of the crate as he spread you open with both hands.
His thumb slid between your folds again, spreading the mess you’d already made. “Still soaked.”
“You gonna keep stating the obvious?” you shot back, trying to regain some control, even with your knees trembling and your spine curved just right.
Another slap. This time lower. You cried out.
“You gonna keep talking?” he said.
Then you heard it: the sound of his belt unfastening, that familiar shift of armor plates as he freed himself just enough.
A rough hand wrapped around your waist, hauling your hips back slightly, angling you where he wanted.
“Stay still.”
You barely nodded before he pushed inside—slow at first, thick and long and unrelenting, stretching you until you could barely breathe.
“Fuck—Din—”
He didn’t answer, only groaned low behind the helmet, hands tightening around your hips. His thrusts started slow, controlled, brutal. Every motion shoved you harder into the crate, the joining of your stomach and your thighs hurting from the sharp edge, but you didn’t care. All you could feel was him.
You could hear the restraint in his voice when he finally spoke again, his voice rough with strain.
“You act like a brat just to get fucked like this?”
You moaned, louder than you should’ve. He snapped his hips harder.
“Answer me.”
“Yes—shit—yes.”
“Good.” His hand reached up, fingers tangling in your hair, yanking your head back just enough to see your face as you moaned for him.
Each thrust hit deeper, timed with the curve of your spine and the helpless gasp you let out every time his hips slapped against the backs of your thighs.
You couldn’t find words anymore. You just breathed, shuddering and barely holding yourself up on the crate as he used your body exactly how he wanted.
“You like being taken like this, huh?” he muttered. The modulator distorted his voice just enough to make it darker, more guttural. “Bent over. Obedient.”
You whimpered. Nodded. That was all you could do.
He fucked into you harder for that. One sharp thrust that had your toes curling inside your boots.
“I didn’t say nod.” He let go of your hair just long enough to slap your ass again, the sound echoing off the hull. “Use your voice.”
“Yes,” you choked out, teeth sinking into your bottom lip as your neck gave out, forehead now resting against your crossed forearms. “Yes, fuck—yes.”
“Good girl,” he growled, and you felt the shiver that rolled down your back like he’d pressed a cold blade there.
Then his hand returned to your hip, anchoring you in place, while the other found your clit again, fingers still bare, working quick, tight circles that had your thighs shaking.
“You’re gonna come like this,” he ordered. “Just like last time.”
You remembered last time. The mess. The way you’d been too dazed to speak after. And now, with his body pressed so tight behind yours, with his cock filling you just right and his fingers coaxing every bit of sensitivity from you, you were close, too close.
“Din, I—I can’t—”
“Yes, you can.” His voice left no room for argument. “You will.”
Your body snapped.
You came with a cry that wasn’t a word, wasn’t even a thought. He didn’t stop, kept fucking you through it, letting you tremble, fall apart around him, squeezing tight, soaking his cock as you pulsed and gasped under him.
And only when he felt you start to come down, did he finally taper off. His hips slowed to a halt, body tense, hands gripping you hard enough to leave marks.
The air was thick with heat and the scent of pleasure. The only sound was your breathing, rough and shaky, and the low mechanical hum of the ship.
He didn’t speak. Just rested a hand on your upper back, slow and grounding, tracing along your spine with the pads of his bare fingers like he was checking that you were still whole, still alive.
You stayed like that a moment, bare and used, before finally murmuring, lips curved against the crate:
“So... do I get a bonus?”
But he moved. Stepped back, adjusted his armor with a quiet huff through the modulator. A moment later, something soft landed beside you on the crate. Your pants, folded haphazardly. Then your underwear.
And then the jingle of credits. A small handful of them, tossed down casually onto the same box you were still bent over.
“Keep the change,” he said flatly.
You turned your head to glare at him, but he was already walking off. Composed again, like nothing had just happened.
He paused at the threshold of the cockpit.
And with just the tilt of his helmet over his shoulder, voice low and dry, he added, “Next time I won’t let you overcharge me.”
Then he disappeared into the piloting room, the door sliding shut behind him.
Leaving you half-dressed, a little wrecked, and already thinking about that “next time.”
The cold had crept in overnight, turning the dirt of Beaver Hollow to frozen mud and reducing the fire from the pit. Morning had come slow through the trees, gray and pale. Arthur returned just after dawn, boots soaked from the slush, rifle slung over one shoulder and a limp rabbit hanging from the other.
He coughed once, attempting to bury it in his sleeve, before stepping into camp.
No one paid him much mind, most of the camp still asleep. Pearson, who was supposed to be standing guard, muttered something about stew from his spot on a log.
But one pair of eyes lifted.
y/n sat by the fire, fur lined coat drawn tight, hands wrapped around a mug. She didn’t call to him, didn’t smile. She only watched, like she always did. It was quiet and steady, like the way snow falls when you’re not looking.
Arthur dropped the rabbit near the wagon and gave Pearson a short nod. When he turned again, she was already standing.
She held out her mug toward him. Still warm.
He hesitated.
After a beat of silence, he took it, fingers brushing hers. Her hands were cold.
“Thanks,” he muttered, voice rough. Another cough worked its way up his throat, but he swallowed it down with the coffee.
She didn’t press. Didn’t ask where he’d been or why his face looked paler this morning than the last. She just stepped beside him, shoulder to shoulder, and stared into the fire with him.
Arthur sipped slow, as if the warmth might reach someplace deeper. She was close enough to touch, but didn’t. She didn’t need to. It had never been like that between them.
They didn’t spill feelings into the air. They didn’t say “I missed you” or “I worry.” Let alone “I love you.”
They just… stayed.
He glanced at her from the corner of his eye. The way her brow furrowed slightly when the wind picked up, slashed her face like airborne needles. The faint red on her nose from the cold. The holed leather gloves she’d never bothered to replace.
She noticed him looking. Didn’t say a word. Just leaned a little closer, as if shielding him from something he wouldn’t name. Maybe the wind. Or even words.
Arthur looked back to the fire.
He wanted to say something—You should stay away from me. I’m not long for this world. But his throat closed around it.
So instead, he finished the coffee she’d given him and handed the mug back.
She took it without a word. Let their fingers linger for half a second longer than needed.
The morning didn’t hold onto peace for long.
By midday, Dutch’s voice had risen over the camp, cutting through the cold. Another botched supply run. Another overgrown trail. Another excuse to send someone out scouting in the snow. Arthur didn’t argue. He just saddled his horse.
It wasn’t until y/n swung up onto her own, already cinching the strap on her rifle, that she saw him stiffen in the saddle.
“You?” she asked, tone light, but not unknowing. “Dutch sent you to come with me?”
Arthur adjusted his gloves, eyes on the trail ahead.
“Didn’t have a choice,” he muttered. “Said he needed someone dependable to ride with you.”
She studied him for a long second, her horse shifting beneath her. “You haven’t wanted to ride out with me in weeks.”
Arthur didn’t answer.
The wind had picked up again, whistling through the trees. He gave his horse a soft click of his tongue and started forward. She followed, wordless.
They rode in silence for the first few miles, snow crunching beneath hooves. Arthur didn’t look back. Not once. But he didn’t ride too far ahead either.
Eventually, the trail led into a ridge line, where a half-buried hunting cabin leaned against the slope. Arthur pulled up.
“Rest here. Get outta the cold,” he said.
y/n followed him through the creaky wooden door, guns drawn, though the cabin seemed to have been empty for some time.
Dust clung to the corners, but someone had left behind firewood, and the hearth looked intact. She moved to light it while Arthur pulled off his gloves, flexing his stiff fingers by the window, pressing it shut.
“Dutch say how long we’re supposed to be out?” she asked casually.
Arthur grunted. “’Til sundown maybe. Just scoutin’.”
“Right.” She knelt by the fire, feeding the growing flame.
“You still won’t look at me.”
That stopped him.
He turned slowly. Met her eyes for the first time since they’d left camp. His jaw was tight.
“Don’t know what you mean.”
“You do.” She stood, brushing soot from her hands. “You’ve been distant, Arthur. For weeks now. Barely talk to me. Don’t ride out with me. You didn’t even sit by the fire last night.”
“I’ve been busy.”
“You’ve been scared.” Her voice wasn’t harsh. “You think I haven’t noticed the way you’re breathing lately? The way your hands shake after a ride? You don’t eat. You barely sleep. And you think if you push me away, I won’t see it.”
Arthur looked back toward the window, snow shooting diagonally beyond. Seemed as if they’d have to wait out a storm.
She stepped closer, not touching him, just watching. His shoulders tensed like he expected a punch but didn’t know how to dodge it anymore.
“I don’t need you to tell me what’s wrong. I just need you to stop pretendin’ I’m nobody.”
Arthur’s throat worked around a knot of words he didn’t say. He rubbed a hand over his jaw, then exhaled through his nose.
“I ain’t scared for me.”
y/n tilted her head. “Then who?”
He didn’t answer. But his eyes flicked toward her for only a second. And that was enough.
She nodded, once, like she understood more than he wanted her to.
“Never needed you to protect me, Arthur.”
“Yeah, well.” He stepped back, putting an inch more of space between them. “Don’t mean I ever wanted to see you hurt neither.”
The fire cracked behind them. For a moment, they didn't speak.
y/n turned back toward the hearth. “Then stop freezing me out.”
Arthur didn’t follow her immediately. But he didn’t walk away, either.
He just stood there, watching the firelight move across her face. He wanted to say I’m trying. But it didn’t come out.
y/n settled onto the warped wooden floor, shrugging off her coat, her expression unreadable as she held her hands towards the warmth.
Arthur stayed standing by the window, arms crossed, as though bracing himself against more than just the cold.
“You always been this stubborn?” she asked, quiet, not accusing.
Arthur glanced at her. “Guessin’ you wouldn’t still be around if I wasn’t.”
She gave the barest hint of a smile at that. It didn’t reach her eyes.
“I’m not tryin’ to make you say anything you don’t want to. But you keep holding me at arm’s length like you think I’m gonna break.”
“I ain’t—”
“Arthur.”
That stopped him.
y/n stood and crossed the room slowly, until she was close enough to reach for him. She just stood there, watching him the way one watches a wounded animal.
“You think I don’t notice the way you wince when you breathe too deep? Or how you start coughing soon as you think no one’s lookin’? You’re hurting. And I don’t know how much of it you’re gonna let me see.”
Arthur swallowed hard. He didn’t meet her gaze. “You don’t get it. If I… if I tell you, or let you in too close... you’ll carry the weight of it. I can’t do that to ya’.”
“You have,” she said, softly. “I’m still here.”
The silence between them pressed close. Arthur looked down at her. There was something in his eyes that cracked. Weariness. Want. Fear.
Her hand came up, gentle, resting against his jaw. He didn’t flinch, but his breath caught.
She leaned in.
He stopped her with a hand on her waist. Not rough, just firm.
“I can’t,” he said, voice hoarse.
His hand moved to her shoulder, pushing her away lightly.
“I don’t know what it is yet. But I’m sick. And I ain’t about to give you whatever’s killin’ me.” He shook his head.
“I just want to be close. Even if it’s just for tonight.”
He closed his eyes like it hurt to hear her speak like that. Like she wasn’t afraid of what he was. Of what he’s done.
He leaned forward—not to kiss her, but to rest his forehead against the crook of her neck. And he just stayed there, letting her hands move over his chest like she was grounding him into the moment.
Arthur didn’t stop her when she reached for the buttons of his shirt. His breath hitched, but he didn’t pull away. Her fingers worked slowly, undoing the fabric one button at a time.
When the shirt fell open, it revealed a chest marred by scars and lean with the kind of hunger that came from too many missed meals, her eyes didn’t linger in pity.
Just love. Quiet, steady, unspoken love.
He let it fall, his hands hovering like he wasn’t sure whether to touch her or not.
“Cold?” she asked gently, nodding toward the fire, crackling and seemingly sparking brighter at her query.
Arthur gave a tired, one-shouldered shrug. “Don’t feel much of anything lately, ‘less it’s pain.”
y/n let that settle for a moment, then reached for his hand, lacing her fingers through his. “Come to the fire.”
The hearth burned low and warm, casting a soft golden glow across the wood as they knelt beside it, shoulders brushing, then more.
Arthur’s hands were hesitant when they reached for her coat, then her shirt. He peeled it away like it might break in his hands. Every inch of skin revealed made something in him tremble. With desire, but mostly reverence.
She helped him. Let him take his time.
When they were down to bare skin, the chill returned, and Arthur leaned back against the hearthstone, y/n tucking herself to his side, letting his heartbeat steady against her ear.
“I didn’t think I’d ever have this,” he murmured, voice low, almost ashamed.
“What?” she asked, eyes half-closed.
“This.” He gestured vaguely to the silence, to her, to the way she fit beside him like she’d always belonged there. “Peace.”
Y/N didn’t answer.
“C’mere” he rasped, voice low and thick.
She just rose to her knees beside him, straddling his thighs slowly, carefully. He blinked up at her, breath catching in his throat again. Their skin touched slowly, deliberately—thigh to thigh, chest to chest, warmth pooling where their bodies met.
When she kissed the edge of his jaw, he let out a breath that sounded more like surrender than desire.
“You don’t have to—” he started, but she silenced him with a look. Not a command. Just a promise.
“I know you’re tired,” she said softly against stubble. “Let me take care of you.”
Her hands trailed down his chest, then lower. y/n had reached down between them, guiding him to her with a gentleness that felt almost sacred. When he slipped inside, he cursed under his breath, forehead pressing to her shoulder like he couldn’t bear how good it felt. Or how much it meant.
She moved with careful control, rocking slowly, hips rolling with an intimate rhythm that let them feel everything. every inch, every pulse, every shiver. There was no rush.
Arthur’s hands gripped her hips like he was holding onto something slipping away. He looked up at her like she was the last soft thing left in the world.
She moved slowly, as if she could take the pain from him one breath at a time. She cradled his face, thumb brushing over the crease between his brows.
His body wasn’t strong the way it used to be, hips inconsistent as they thrusted up into her, but he gave her everything he had left. His heart in the way he gripped her, his sorrow in the way he gasped her name. And she took it all, held it like a lifeline.
He came with a quiet, guttural groan, holding her flush to his chest like she was the last safe place in the world. His entire body trembled, arms wrapped around her as if she might disappear if he let go.
And still, she didn’t kiss him.
She just stroked his hair, her thighs still wrapped around him, letting the silence settle again between them.
After a moment, Arthur pressed a kiss to her shoulder, then her collarbone, then the hollow just above her heart.
When he spoke again, it was barely a whisper.
“Don’t reckon I deserve this.”
“You don’t have to,” she said gently. “You just have to let me stay.”
And this time, he didn’t argue.
He just held her close, his cheek resting over her heartbeat, and let the warmth sink in.
One second, you were curled up against his side, the quiet hum of the movie filling the room, your head on his shoulder. The next, your eyelids fluttered open to the soft blue glow of the TV screen and the slow, rhythmic sound of his breathing.
He was out cold. Arm slung lazily around you, chest rising and falling with every breath. Your hand was still tucked beneath his hoodie, fingers curled into his warm side.
You smiled and shifted slightly, careful not to wake him.
“Mmm…” he stirred just a little, pulling you closer without opening his eyes.
“You’re clingy,” you whispered, even though you weren’t trying that hard to escape. Your voice was teasing, but your body melted into his touch.
“Not true,” he mumbled, nuzzling into your hair. His voice was rough with sleep, and the low rumble of it sent a tiny shiver through your spine.
The room was dim except for the soft flicker of the TV’s end credits. It must have been running through autoplay, silently playing through horror movie after horror movie while you two dozed. You turned your head just enough to glance at his face. His lips were slightly parted, lashes soft against his cheeks.
You couldn’t help but smile again.
You carefully grabbed the remote from between the cushions and clicked the screen off, plunging the room into full darkness.
He shifted again and murmured something unintelligible.
“Go back to sleep,” you whispered.
“Only if you do,” he said, wrapping both arms around you this time. His embrace was warm and lazy, protective in the way they always were with you when neither of you had the energy to pretend you weren’t completely in love.
“I wasn’t really planning on moving,” you mumbled, cheek pressed to his strong chest. The steady beat of his heart was the most soothing sound you’d heard all day.
There was a long pause before he spoke again.
“I like when we do this,” he said quietly. “Just you and me. No phones, no plans.”
“You like falling asleep on top of me?”
He chuckled sleepily. “I like you falling asleep on top of me.”
You nudged his chest lightly with your knuckles. “You’re such a sap.”
“Only for you, baby.” He replied teasingly.
Your stomach fluttered at the nickname. Even after all this time, it never failed to make you feel warm all over.
The two of you stayed like that, breathing in sync, neither of you moving or speaking again for a long while. It wasn’t quite sleep, not yet, but it was that dreamy middle space where time didn’t matter.
Eventually, his fingers found yours under the blanket, weaving together without a word.
And just like that, you drifted back to sleep, wrapped in his arms, the quiet night stretching out before you.
“Miguel—Miguel!” Lyla’s voice blared, crisp and chipper, far too bright for the state he was in. Her holographic form flickered inches from his head, projected from the node on his wristband.
Miguel didn’t move. His cheek was half-smashed into the cool marble of the kitchen island, a nearly empty bottle of whiskey still loosely cradled in his palm. His free arm hung limp at his side like a dead weight. His brows twitched slightly at the interruption, but no effort was made to lift his head.
“Vamos, Miguel!” Lyla shouted again, raising her volume, her accent horrible and more irritating to his deaf ears. “You’ve been passed out for fourteen hours, and you’re not even regenerating. At this point, your metabolism is just being lazy.”
A low, guttural groan vibrated from deep in his chest. He waved a sluggish hand in her general direction, as if shooing away a fly.
“Five more minutes, Dana...” he slurred, the name a ghost from another life, slipping from his lips like a breath he hadn’t meant to take. The words were muffled against the stone countertop, each syllable tinged with the heavy weight of sorrow.
Lyla’s projection stilled for a beat. Her expression faltered, softening.“That’s not my name, and your grieving process is really starting to cut into your productivity.”
Miguel cracked one bloodshot eye open, glowering at her through dark lashes.
“Cállate, Lyla,” he muttered darkly, “before I shut you down manually.”
“Rude,” she replied flatly, before a cartoonish trumpet horn replaced her hand. With gleeful spite, she blasted it full force beside his ear.
Miguel jerked upright with a sharp grunt, the sudden motion sending the back of his head crashing into the low-hanging light fixture above the island. The lamp swayed from the impact, but stayed intact. Barely.
“Carajo,” he hissed, hand flying up to rub the sore spot as he glared daggers at her.
Lyla blinked innocently. “That’s what you get for decorating your kitchen like a minimalist torture chamber when you’re built like a semi-truck. Maybe don’t skimp on head clearance next time.”
With another deep, ragged sigh, Miguel dragged himself to his feet, joints protesting every step as he trudged toward the hallway. He passed the cracked-open doorway to the room he hadn’t dared to touch in months. The blush-pink walls still peeked through the gap in the door, undisturbed, untouched.
He didn’t look inside. Not yet.
His own bedroom was no better, cluttered and dark. Piles of clothes littered the floor, crumpled uniforms half-thrown over the back of an office chair, the floor, the foot of the bed. He stepped over them all without care, heading straight for the bathroom.
Flicking the faucet on with more force than necessary, he splashed cold water over his face. It did nothing but sting.
He looked up.
The man staring back from the mirror was a stranger; his complexion sallow, bags under his eyes, a week’s worth of unshaved stubble clinging to a rigid jawline. Red-rimmed eyes stared hollowly back.
The water ran, forgotten.
He’d told himself he could fix it. That being Spider-Man, being better than Spider-Man, meant he could earn it back. Balance the scales. But the scales were shattered long ago, and all his genius ever got him was destruction. Loss. Mutation.
Alchemax had given him the serum. But he’d kept taking it.
Needle after needle, mutation after mutation. It had started as desperation. Then necessity. Now it was... routine. Compulsion. A high. The synthetic spider genome coursed through his blood like venom.
And even now, after everything, he still hadn’t stopped.
A faint chime echoed through the bathroom. Lyla’s voice again, this time quieter. “Are you okay?”
Miguel simply closed his eyes.
No. No, he wasn’t.
“I’m fine,” he said, but his voice came out thin, raw.
“You always say that,” Lyla replied, appearing behind him in the mirror’s reflection. Her pixelated arms were crossed, hip cocked. “And then you spend the rest of the day eating nothing but empanadas and your feelings.”
“The empanadas make do.”
“Do they?” she asked flatly. “Because your blood sugar levels are so far off baseline it’s a miracle you’re not on the floor again.”
He ignored her.
Walking back into the bedroom, he began to peel off the neural wristband off, lyla blinking out with a sarcastic, “Oh no, please don’t disconnect me, I’ll just be here, alone, caring about your wellbeing.”
Silence. Sweet, heavy silence.
He opened the closet and pulled down a matte-black case. It was slender, long, locked with a biometric keypad and a single manual code slot. He sat down on the edge of the bed, brushing a tangle of shirts and pants aside to clear space.
His fingers hovered over the keypad.
2...
0...
9...
9...
Click.
A soft hiss escaped as the seal broke. Inside: A pistol. Next to it, a clip of bullets.
He took the gun in one hand, the grip molding to his palm like it remembered him.
“Today,” he whispered.
He rose like a ghost, drifting through the apartment toward the pink room. The moment his fingers touched the doorframe, time stalled.
He pushed the door open.
Everything was exactly as it had been. The bed was made, corners still tucked the way Dana liked. The scent was gone, scrubbed out by time. But the memories were sharp. Crayon scrawls still danced along the walls, doodles of butterflies, lopsided suns, a three-person stick figure family.
The latter drawing caught his eye.
Three figures, labeled in her blocky handwriting. “Mamá” “Yo” “Papá”. The “Papá” figure had broad triangle shoulders, cartoonishly exaggerated, and on his chest, a little spider emblem with eight squiggly legs. She used to giggle every time she drew it.
His breath caught.
He backed up until the backs of his knees hit the edge of her bed, then sank down. Dust rose in the air. He reached behind him, where a plush bear he’d won for her at the fair rested.
He cradled it, gun in one hand, bear in the other.
“Te amo, mi princesa,” he murmured, voice cracking. “Te voy a ver muy pronto... vas a tener a tu papá otra vez.”
(I love you, princess. I’ll see you again soon… you’ll have your father once again.)
He pressed the barrel to his temple. Hands trembling. Breath short. Finger twitching.
But nothing.
He couldn’t.
He couldn’t.
The gun trembled harder and—
BANG.
Fluff exploded from the plush bear’s chest. The shot echoed through the apartment like thunder. The bear sagged, limp in his arms, a smoking hole where its heart used to be.
“Chingada madre!”
(Mother fucker!)
He surged up from the bed, pacing the room with wild, angry steps. A sharp kick sent the toy chest across the floor, contents scattering—dolls, glitter, tiny hairbrushes.
“Pinche Alchemax, y Tyler! Todo esto es por ustedes!”
(Fucking Alchemax and Tyler! All of this is because of you!)
He smashed the gun against the bedframe in a rage before letting it slip from his hand and slide beneath the bed.
He stood there, panting, claws out, fingers buried into his scalp. Blood beaded beneath his nails.
Then—
“Hey.”
Lyla. She was there again, her small frame perched atop a pyramid-shaped device on the nightstand. Her voice was quieter now. Gentle. Almost maternal.
Her holographic hand hovered near his back. It passed through him, offering no warmth, no comfort.
“Don’t,” Miguel snapped, voice rough. “Don’t act like you care.”
“I do,” she said softly. “Even if you won’t let anyone else.”
He didn’t respond. Just stared at the bear in his hands, the smoke curling upward from its chest.
“Maybe next time,” he muttered bitterly, “I’ll code a glorified chatbot. One that knows when to shut up.”
Lyla smiled sadly. “I'll order your empanadas. And maybe a therapist.”
She vanished.
And Miguel stood alone, in the pink room, surrounded by the ruins of what he once was.
The crackle of interrupted dough filled the quiet as Miguel sank his fangs into an empanada, tearing off a bite with mechanical disinterest. It wasn’t about the taste. It was about doing something, anything, to stop thinking.
Across from him, Lyla hovered midair in a glimmering projection, pacing, thinking. Her image glitched occasionally, not from error, but out of habit. A flair to be nothing less than dramatic.
“I updated my firewalls, added two new subnet partitions for faster data processing, and… ooh! Wrote a new anomaly flagging system for your multiverse interface,” she chirped. “Basically, I’m twice as smart and ten times more charming.”
Miguel grunted. Barely a nod. Clearly, he hadn’t absorbed a word.
Lyla paused, blinking, her voice lowering slightly. “Miguel?”
“Mhm?” he replied around a mouthful of food.
“I’ve been... running simulations. And I think I might have a working theory about why that universe unraveled after your interference.”
The word hit him like a slow stab to the ribs.
His jaw stiffened. He stared down at the half-eaten empanada in his hand, the filling now cold, tasteless. He didn’t want to hear this. Not now. Not ever.
But he swallowed and said, voice gravelly, “So?”
She hovered closer, her tone shifting from casual to clinical. “Every Spider-Man across the multiverse follows a pattern. What you might call a canon sequence. Fixed events. Pivotal moments that define their growth, solidify their identity, and maintain the structural integrity of their universe.”
Miguel exhaled through his nose. “You’ve said this before.”
“Yes, but let me explain it better this time.”
He narrowed his eyes but let her continue.
“Imagine the universe as a machine assembling a shirt,” Lyla said, conjuring a floating diagram with moving thread lines and mechanical arms. “Now, each thread is a canon event.” A zoom in on the diagram, the threads ravelling together.
“Maybe the death of a loved one, the moment they gain their powers, a sacrifice. Without those threads, the shirt stars to weaken.”
Her eyes dimmed a fraction. “If one of those threads snaps, the shirt might still hold together. But if too many threads break? If the wrong, important ones break?”
The holographic shirt unraveled midair, dissolving into static.
“Then the whole thing falls apart. The machine breaks. And the manufacturer, or reality itself, goes bankrupt. The company ceases to exist.”
She gave him a second to absorb it.
Miguel didn’t look at her. Just kept chewing, jaw tight.
“The universe doesn’t just collapse,” she added softly. “It’s erased. Gone. Like it was never there.”
His throat worked, swallowing hard. He set the empanada down, forgotten.
“You’re saying...” His voice was quiet. “Because I was there... because I killed myself in their universe, their Spider-Man was never made? And that missing thread broke the fabric?”
Lyla nodded once. “Theoretically, yes.”
His eyes darkened, red irises glowing faintly in the low light. “So I had to do something in that universe… for their Spider-Man to be created?”
Her projection floated in front of his face, a small hand tapping his nose. “Maybe not necessarily you. But someone. Someone that you encountered that made them do something. The canon needed an action. And it didn’t get it.”
“Don’t do that,” he growled, brushing her away.
She smirked despite the weight of the conversation. “Someone’s cranky.”
“Do we know what these canon events even are?” he asked finally, voice quiet but urgent. “How do we identify them?”
Her smile widened, more pleased than she should’ve been. “I was hoping you’d ask.”
She swiped through a glowing interface with a flick of her wrist, projections dancing in the air. Timelines, event branches, variables.
“We’d need to travel across multiple universes, collect cross-referential data, analyze anomalies in Spider-person origins, and reverse-engineer the consistent moments. Think… government records, archived media, and first-hand recon.”
“Then—bam—we write an algorithm to detect probable canon points. Complicated. Tedious. Insanely fun.”
Miguel gave her a flat look. “Does it have to be a we activity?”
She scoffed. “Of course, silly. You think you’re going to sort the multiverse out without your genius co-pilot? Not a chance.”
He leaned back in his seat, huffed, and muttered a quiet: “Fine.”
Lyla, adjusting the cuffs of her holographic fur coat, stopped mid-flick. “Wait. wait. Was that a yes?”
He didn’t say anything, ignoring her as he took the empanada once again, bit, and kept chewing.
Lyla’s eyes widened behind her pixelated heart-shaped glasses. “It was! Oh my God, it was! You finally agreed to a collaborative project! I’m logging this moment—”
“Calm down,” he muttered, brushing crumbs from his chest. “It’s not a celebration.”
Her smile dimmed slightly as he lowered the empanada, voice quieter now.
“If we do this right... if we map this thing... we can stop others from making the same mistake I did.”
Lyla nodded. “Yeah. But we can’t do it alone.”
Miguel glanced up, red eyes meeting her holographic gold.
Miguel descended from the geometrical portal above the skyline, his claws digging briefly into the steel of a radio tower before he pushed off, landing silently atop a rooftop. The city below was still waking up, morning sun brushing the mountains beyond, the early hum of traffic echoing through narrow streets.
Lyla flickered to life beside him in a burst, heart-shaped glasses slightly askew.
“Alright, boss. Welcome to Earth-92131,” she said, spinning midair like a showy presenter. “Warm, humid, highly biodiverse, and currently dealing with a villain near the north quarter.”
Miguel adjusted his mask. “Target?”
Lyla swiped open a 3D profile. “Codename: Spider-Venom. Civilian identity: Adriana Rodríguez. Twenty-four years old. Colombian national. Freelance illustrator by day, menace by night.”
The hologram displayed a flickering image of Adriana in full suit: sleek black armor-like fabric accented by thin, purple-glowing webs etched along the limbs. Her mask resembled the traditional Spider insignia but with sharper, more angular eye lenses and a faint sheen that resembled oil slick over black.
“Spider powers,” Lyla continued, “plus symbiote mutation. She creates independent spider constructs out of the same matter as her webs; think sentient surveillance drones with teeth.”
“Any intel on how she got them?”
“Radioactive spider got mixed up with an alien symbiote. Bit her during a science demo she wasn’t supposed to be attending. Now she’s a one-woman mash-up of Parker and Brock.”
Miguel squinted at the profile. “So no Venom in this universe?”
“Nope. She is Venom. If Venom had a moral compass and artistic hobbies.”
He said nothing for a moment, letting the data process. “Is she stable?”
“Psychologically? Relatively. She’s not... chatty. Tends to work alone. Has trouble with trust and authority. So basically the perfect candidate for the Spider Society,” she said, then muttered, “assuming she doesn’t try to bite your face off first.”
A sudden scream cut through the city below.
Miguel was already moving.
Two blocks down – the North Quarter
The air sizzled with tension as Adriana hit the ground hard, black webs flinging outward in wide arcs to catch falling debris before it could crush the civilians fleeing behind her. Smoke drifted through the broken street, thick and choking, the smell of scorched pavement lingering in the air.
From the wreckage emerged a hulking figure; Mechanic, a tech-obsessed arms dealer-turned-villain, draped in makeshift armor cobbled from construction mech suits and repurposed drone tech. His helmet sparked as he stomped forward, one gauntlet twitching erratically where she'd already hit a power node.
“Still standing?” he rasped through the voice modulator, voice distorted. “You’re more stubborn than the last time.”
Adriana didn’t answer. Her breath was ragged in her mask, fingers flexing as the symbiote rippled along her arms like oil under her skin. One of her conjured spiders, skeletal and jagged, rose from her shoulder and launched at Mechanic with a snarl of static.
He fired a sonic pulse that shattered it midair.
She didn’t flinch.
She was running dry, she could feel it. But she wasn’t about to let this bastard level half of the north quarter. Not again.
She flung a webline to the corner of a traffic light pole, swinging herself into the air, aiming for his exposed flank, only for a jolt of electricity to surge up her web and knock her off-balance. His systems were adapting.
Midair, he swung. His gauntlet caught her square in the ribs, sending her flying back into a brick wall hard enough to crack it.
Pain bloomed. She groaned, trying to get her footing, but something moved faster than either of them.
A blur of red and deep navy streaked through the smoke, slamming into Mechanic with enough force to lift him from the ground. The stranger’s claws tore through the armor plating with brutal precision, tearing circuits, slicing hydraulic cables, leaving the villain crumpled on the ground, unconscious but alive.
Sparks danced around his broken suit as the systems whined and powered down.
Adriana’s breath hitched. She staggered up, half-expecting the mystery figure to strike her next. He didn’t.
She stared at the figure. It was tall, broad-shouldered, masked in something sleek and unfamiliar.
Black and red. Talons. Glowing lenses. His silhouette looked like hers. But not.
“What the hell?” she hissed, already rising into a defensive stance.
Miguel turned to face her, unfazed by the accusation. “You were about to lose.”
Her eyes narrowed behind the sharp purple lenses of her mask. “I had it handled.”
Behind them, Mechanic let out a garbled, unconscious cough, twitching once before going still again.
“You were on the ground.”
Adriana flicked her wrist and opened her comms. “Spider-Venom reporting. Mechanic is down, non-lethal. Call in retrieval before he gets cute again.”
She cut the channel and looked back at the stranger, still standing at ease, as if this whole thing hadn’t phased him in the slightest.
“Who are you?”
“No one you know. Not yet.”
“Seriously. What are you supposed to be?” she asked.
Miguel deactivated his mask.
The sight of his face, a man she’d never seen, clearly older, clearly... something else, gave her pause. But only for a second.
“Cute face,” she muttered dryly. “Still doesn’t explain why you’re dressed like a knockoff version of me.”
“I’m not,” he replied coolly. “We just have more in common than you think.”
She stared at him, trying to read his face. His expression remained carved from stone.
“You from some secret government agency?” she asked, tone mocking.
He didn’t respond.
Adriana stepped back, one hand subtly coiling web at her hip. “You better not be another failed Oscorp experiment.”
He tilted his head slightly. “I’m not the experiment.”
That made her scowl harder. “You think you can just drop in here and act like you know how this works?”
“I didn’t come to fight you,” Miguel said plainly.
She stayed silent, already backing toward the fire escape. The symbiote over her shoulders flickered, spider constructs twitching with tension, but held.
Miguel didn’t chase her. He just watched.
She paused at the ledge, one boot on the railing. “Stay out of my city.”
Then she was gone.
Lyla flickered onto Miguel’s shoulder a few seconds later, her expression wide-eyed.
“Well, she was charming.”
“She’s smart. Suspicious. Good instincts.”
“She also thinks you’re a cosplay enthusiast with boundary issues.”
Miguel looked in the direction Adriana had disappeared, eyes scanning the skyline.
