#posts this and runs away

[nastyzombii]

How Often Do You Feel Lonely? (Remmick x F!Reader)

summary: you live alone in the middle of the woods, just how you like it. at least that’s what you tell yourself. your peaceful night in is interrupted by a knock at the door. a man, pleading to be let inside just to catch his breath… but of course, that’s not all he’s after.

wc: 14.5k

warnings: 18+ MDNI, explicit depictions of sexual acts! little plot mostly smut, vampire sex, p in v, oral (both giving and receiving), lots of drooling, spit drinking, face fucking, mutual masturbation, creampie(s), face down ass up, hair pulling, claws and teeth drawing blood/leaving marks, blood tasting (he’s a vampire… duh), fingering, multiple orgasms, threats of violence, manipulation, mentions of voyeurism, abandonment and death.

A/N: special thanks to @eternalstrigoii for beta reading, @spikedfearn for inspiring me to get back into writing smut, and of course everyone in the remmick discord for cheering me on and filling my head with wonderful filthy ideas <3 love u guys | translations for gaeilge provided at the end.

The sun had finally set, nestling itself amidst the spiraling, twisted trees. The sky shifted from a crisp orange to a comforting blanket of dark purple, the stars winking from a distance. Clouds hung lazily, dotting the starlit night with blots of grey. The moon, half-full, occupied the sun’s empty throne. 

Although the sun drifted to its nightly embrace, the air still hangs heavy with the humid summer heat. You kept the windows open, though it wasn’t much help. Even keeping the door open a crack didn’t aid in letting air into the stuffy house. 

The dark, empty house - lit only by the soft moonlight and a few candles scattered on the mantle and other various surfaces - creaked. Not unusual for the old place you call home. You live alone, but the creaks and groans didn’t bother you much. Not anymore, at least. You’ve grown used to it, the sounds kept you company, especially at night. A delightful symphony in comparison to the deafening silence that surrounded you most days. 

Sometimes that’s all you need. The familiar creaking of the house, the serene night sky, a good book, a myriad of flickering candles, and some refreshing tea - iced or hot, depending on the weather and your mood. Tonight it was iced, on account of the sticky summer heat. 

Despite having what you need for a peaceful night, you knew deep down in your heart that something was missing. It troubled you to ponder what exactly left you so empty inside, but you regularly stifle that feeling. 

No use thinking about that. No use at all.

You grab your freshly brewed tea, take a sip and set it down on the nearby coaster. You snatch the most recent book you’ve started digging into from the shelf and sit in your typical spot by the window. It was the perfect spot. You could see the moon and stars coalescing in the clouds, their soothing light shining just bright enough through the window for you to read peacefully. Your chair was wooden, but the throw pillow on the seat made it perfectly comfortable.

You curl open the book, a classic Bram Stoker novel, right where you left off. You slide the bookmark from its place and set it down on the table in front of you. Taking another hearty sip from your glass, you begin reading to yourself: 

“I pray to you, be seated and sup how you please. You will, I trust, excuse me that I do not join you; but I have dined already, and I do not sup.”

A shadow, swift and sudden, passes by the window. You barely spot it out of the corner of your eye. You twist your head to catch a better glimpse, but the presence went as fast as it came. 

It was probably just an animal. A wolf or a vulture, maybe even a bear. It’s hard to say. Plenty of animals congregate around your humble abode. Living in the middle of nowhere meant that any movement outside was normally a woodland creature just drifting through on their way back to their family or catching their prey… or running from a predator. Nothing more. Except for the occasional birds flocking to your outdoor feeder, they stick around longer than most animals - longer than any guest you’ve ever had, really. 

However you couldn’t shake the feeling that the passing shadow might have been something different. A stillness sets in, yet the candles continue to dance in the darkness, the blazing waltz reflecting in your eyes.

You inhale a sharp breath and try to perish the thought. The loneliness is really getting to you tonight. You shift your eyes back onto the page but a sound startles you before you can begin reading again. 

Your ajar front door creaked. A different creak than you’re used to. There was no wind, not tonight, yet something caused the door to sway and moan. Something was lurking out in the woods. Or worse, someone.

An unfamiliar chill runs down your spine. An animal… that’s all it is. A hungry animal. A scared animal. Reluctantly, you leave your perch once more to shut the door, setting the book page down in your chair. You were determined to not let these noises get under your skin. Not while you’re trying to enjoy a quiet night of reading. You could do without the willies tonight. 

You press one hand on the rustic wooden door frame, the other on the knob. Your eyes travel to the crack, peering out into the darkness. Nobody was there. Nothing was there. Just your overactive imagination getting the best of you. A wave of relief washes over you. 

The door shuts with a groan. Finally… back to peace. You take a step to the side, primed to dive into your reading and enjoy a relaxing night without distraction. Without issue. Peace and quiet, just how you like it.  

Right as you’re about to settle in your chair, you hear a loud knock.

KNOCK KNOCK

Your heart thuds in your chest - it was an unusual sound for you. Nobody comes to visit, not very often. Certainly not at this hour. Fear ripples in your throat as you take in a gulp of air. You just checked outside with no sight or feeling of a presence on your doorstep. How is that possible?

The moisture from the summer heat mingles with the nervous sweat on your forehead. Your heart thrums faster as the rapping on the door continues.

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK

“Hello? Hey, is-is anyone home?” The choked voice of a man breaks through the barrier of your door. A southern twang riddled the man’s gravelly inflection. It didn’t sound natural though, more like someone mimicking an accent they’d heard once before. “Hello? Please, I need some help.”

The begging stranger continues knocking at the door, his pleas growing louder. His pounding grows more urgent. You didn’t want to answer. Anxiety claws at your chest. A man? Here? At this hour? I didn’t see him when I peeked outside. I was sure there was no one there.  

“Please, p-please,” The man’s voice is desperate, calling to you like a siren. Your breath trembles as he cries out. “I know you’re in there. I can see your shadow movin’ around.”

You inhale a deep, staggered breath and inch closer to the door, the heavy wood shifting with the man’s incessant knocking. Your hands shake as you slowly open the door - just a hair, to get a look at the man at your doorstep. 

His eyes, a soft but wild blue, meet yours. He wasn’t as imposing as you imagined. Far from it, actually. 

Dark hair sits messy on his sweat-slicked head. He sports a sleeveless, collarless white shirt that clings to his broad shoulders - drenched in what looks like perspiration and god knows what else. A golden chain drapes around his thick neck. His dirty, torn work pants are accentuated by undone suspenders that hang loosely around his sides, as well as a worn out leather belt with a metal buckle - suspenders and a belt? Strange fashion sense, you think to yourself. 

A pungent odor wafted from him - you aren’t able to make out what the exact scent is. A mix of body odor, singed flesh, old blood and pure death. Unpleasant, to put it lightly. 

“Oh, miss. I am terribly sorry to bother you this time of night but I-I’ve been runnin’ for what feels like hours,” he speaks, his voice a low rumble, cracking between every word. Running for hours… that would explain the copious amount of sweat beading on his forehead… and the smell. “I didn’t mean to frighten ya. I-I saw your house in the distance and thought you might be able to help me out of a pinch.” 

“Why were you running?” You ask. A man running in the woods, in the dark, didn’t bode well. Something about this stranger strikes you as suspicious. His stammering and disheveled appearance didn’t help much. ”Mighty strange for a man to be running around the woods at night.”

“I was bein’ chased,” he huffs. “I-I was hopin’… well I was hopin’ I might be able to catch my breath at this quaint little house here.”

“Chased? By who?” Your curiosity piqued. 

“That don’t really matter,” his voice a hushed rasp. His eyes focus on yours, their blue sheen flickers with the dancing candlelight on your mantle. “M-may I come in? Only for a moment. I just. I need a second to breathe, maybe somethin’ to drink, and I’ll be on my way. I swear it.”

“It’s not very smart to let strangers in, you know,” your eyebrows furrow, concern scribbled on your face. Not just any stranger, but a man. Not only a bad decision but potentially a dangerous one. Surely he’d understand your hesitation. “Especially at night.”

“I know, miss,” he whimpers, his eyes glistening with despair. He seems desperate to get inside. Whoever, or whatever, he was running from must have really shaken him. “I-I know. I know, and I empathize. Letting a stranger in… never a good idea, no ma’am. I know. I don’t mean to be a burden, but I just… oh, I just need a quick respite. Please, I’m beggin’ ya.”

“Why should I?” You hiss, your hand faltering on the door knob. He notices the way your body is shaking, the door trembling with you. A pout forms on his plush, pink lips. He falls to his knees with a hopeless sigh. The shredded holes of his pants force his bare legs to scrape against the hard wood of your porch. You almost feel bad for him. Almost.

“Oh… I know you don’t got a reason to let a strange man like me in, but I will do anything,” he puts his veined, calloused hands together in a weak prayer. “Anything at all.”

You didn’t respond. You watch his lips quiver as he bows his head - you could see how soaked his unkempt hair was with sweat. Little strands of his dark locks spiked out towards the back of his neck. You feel a bizarre sense of power watching a man crumble like this at your doorstep. You were used to men making you crumble. 

“I-I can give you money,” he falters, scrambling his hand down into his front pocket. He pulls out two sparkling coins - from what you could tell, they didn’t look like any sort of money you were used to seeing. They looked like solid gold. Ancient. The coins shake in his palm, clinking together. ”It’s not much but it’s all I got. You can have it. I don’t want nothin’ from you other than a place to stay for just a moment… somethin’ to drink. Then I’ll get outta your hair. I swear to you that’s all I ask. Please.”

He shuffles near the crack in the door, his hand rattling the coins for you to get a closer look. They were definitely real and you weren’t the type to deny money. Not like you needed it that much beyond grocery trips and occasional house repairs. Still, you can’t help but find yourself enticed by the shining currency and the man’s choked pleas. He’s easy on the eyes too - an added bonus. 

“You sure that’s all you want?” You ask, still suspicious of the strange man kneeling before you. Out of everything you’ve learned in life - men only ever want is one thing - has rang true the most. 

“I promise,” he croaks. His body trembles on the floorboards of the porch, the old wood squeaking beneath his weight. He looks up at you, his gaze wet with distress and yearning. You’d never seen a man look so… pathetic. Weak. His promise feels sincere - he didn’t seem so dangerous to you anymore. 

You sigh and open the door all the way, pulling the ample wood inward and fully revealing yourself to the stranger. He looks you over, darting eyes studying you up and down. A pleasant expression washes over his angular features, almost like he was amazed that you accepted his offer… and all it took was a bribe and some begging for you to fold. His smile is as soft as his eyes, with imperfect teeth lining his gums. His canines glint in the candlelight as his grin widens at the sight of you. 

Something about him charms you. Maybe it was his blue-eyed gaze filled with wonder and a touch of sorrow or maybe that cute, crooked smile. The way his voice cracks desperately while he pleads. The way his body trembles and prays at your doorstep as if you were a goddess made flesh. The way the candlelight dances around his handsome face. Maybe it was the money… no, no… there was something else. Something more carnal. It’s not entirely clear to you, but whatever it is, he charmed his way inside your house. 

“Alright, you can come in,” you exhale, beckoning the stranger into your home. What am I thinking? What am I DOING? Oh god, oh GOD… Your mind races as you watch the man lift himself off the porch. His heavy boots carefully take a step forward through the entryway, hesitant to fully stride in. 

“Oh, oh thank you. Thank you, miss. Thank you,” he repeats his gratitude over and over again, nodding his head continuously like an overzealous puppy. His hands snap back into a prayer position to further emphasize his appreciation. He takes another step, broad shoulders pushing past the threshold of your home. His awestruck eyes never leave you. “Thank you.”

“Don’t make me regret it,” you smirk, shutting the door behind him. It’s too late to turn back now. “You have a name, stranger?“

“You can call me Remmick,” he murmurs, setting the two gold coins in your open palm as he continues his voyage into your personal space. His hand is drenched with sweat. You recoil as the moisture coating the coins kisses your skin. The coins are heavy, definitely real gold. You place them down on a nearby console table by the door and wipe your hand on your pants while his back is turned. 

Definitely an unusual currency for someone to be carrying along with them. The name Remmick… also unusual. You’ve never heard a name like that before. It was different, but you like the ring of it. Remmick. 

“Alright, uh. Remmick,” you nod. “Take a seat, I’ll get you somethin’ to drink. Water or iced tea?”

“Thank you, again, miss,” Remmick’s grin hadn’t faded. If anything, it grows wider as he continues to speak with you. “Water’s fine. I ain’t too picky.” 

“Comin’ right up,” you smile back at him. The stranger takes a seat in your reading spot after moving your book onto the table. He gives you a friendly nod. Great. He’s gonna stank up my favorite chair. You try to shake the thought of your peace being disrupted as you stride to the kitchen. It’s only for a moment, then he’ll be on his way. 

You reach into the cupboard and snatch the closest glass. Did I make the right decision letting this guy in? You can’t help but ponder the outcome of your choice as you let water fill the cup. What if he IS dangerous? What if he just tricked me by acting helpless and scared? Am I going to regret this? What am I thinking…? Why did I let him in?

Water overflowed onto your hand while you were musing. Maybe you’re just overthinking things. Not all men are bad, surely. Maybe he is just passing by. Maybe he was getting chased by something in the woods. What are the odds that a good man just randomly shows up on your doorstep…? Give him a chance. You dry your hand off and try to clear your head. A chance… Everyone deserves a chance. Even smelly weirdos carrying gold coins.

As you make your way back into the living room, you see Remmick holding your book, his eyes scanning the sentences. He hears the creak of your footsteps and turns his attention to you. He’s sitting lax in your chair, making himself right at home. His legs are crossed and propped up on the nearby table. The candlelight accentuates the veins in his hands and the furrow of his brow. A sly smirk creeps across his face.

“Dracula, huh?” He scoffs, flicking his wrist so that the cover of the book faces you. He lets out a little chuckle and cocks an eyebrow as he reads a passage out loud. “Listen to them - the children of the night. What music they make!”

“What’s the problem?” You bark, unamused by his seemingly mocking tone. He quickly reels back.

“Oh, I didn’t mean nothin’ by it,” he pauses. “I just hear it’s… a little scary, is all. You ain’t scared?”

“Hard to be scared of somethin’ that’s not real,” you sneer, inching closer to the strange man in your chair. You hand him the glass of water. Instead of taking a swig like you’d expect a parched man to do, he places it down next to your iced tea - the collected condensation dripping onto the wooden coaster. “Besides, I like a good monster story. I recently read through Frankenstein and it was a hoot!”

“Oh?” Remmick grins, tilting his head to the side. “What makes you think monsters ain’t real?”

“The only monster I know is men,” you snap back. “Vampires, werewolves, stitched together abominations - they’re just fairy tales. Fiction.”

Remmick contemplates for a moment, his fingers still curled around the book’s spine. He looks back at you, his eyes gleaming in the light. They almost looked like they were shining a different color - crimson. But it was nothing more than a trick of the light. 

“Hey now, fairy tales ain’t always fiction. Always a little truth to ‘em,” he teases. He sets the book down pages first on the table, making sure you didn’t lose your place. “‘sides, if you ever met a real monster… oh, I guarantee you wouldn’t be leavin’ your door open or your windows cracked. I wager the heat is safer than the possibility of somethin’ evil creepin’ down the hall.”

Something about the way Remmick spoke of monsters troubles you. His eyelids drooped halfway, hiding his intentions under their shadow. He stares at you, his gaze never wandering from your trembling body, burning into your core and twisting your stomach in knots. Your eyes drift to his left finger - the light of the candles drawing attention to a ring. A wedding ring?

“You married?” You change the subject as quickly as possible, the less talk about monsters the better. His eyelids perk back up. He looks directly at his ring, almost as if it’s the first time he’s noticed it’s there for quite some time.

��Once,” he murmurs quietly. A somber expression plastered on his face, his eyes shying away from you. He didn’t seem to want to talk about it further. “You?”

“Once,” you reply. You lied. You were never married. You were engaged once - but the man you once considered your life. Your soul. Your very home. He has long since abandoned you. All alone in this empty house. Remmick didn’t prod.

“Do you live alone, miss?” Remmick inquires. His tongue licks his front teeth before he shuts his mouth. He still hadn’t taken a sip from his glass of water. You weren’t sure what to say. You didn’t want this stranger to know that you did, in fact, live alone. Better make something up. 

“No, but… I am alone for the night,” you continue to lie. You weren’t always the best liar, and you were almost positive Remmick could tell, but you carry on. “My sister is out in town with her fiancé. They won’t be back for a few hours.”

Remmick nods, sinking into your chair with a hearty sigh. He looks over at you, studying you once again. His eyes pierced through your skin, as if he was looking directly at your soul. Even from a distance his gaze gives you goosebumps.

“But you ain’t alone right now, are ya darlin’?” his eyes soften as he speaks. The polite southern cadence sung through his charming smile. He swapped his gracious honorific for an informal term of endearment. You feel your gut clench when this stranger refers to you by a pet name, followed by a fluttering sensation in your chest. It’s been awhile since someone spoke to you like that. “How often do you feel lonely?”

What a strange question, but one you think about more than you’d care to admit. It’s like he was digging into your brain with a venom-encrusted shovel, asking just the right things to make you squirm.

“Not too often. I don’t mind being by my lonesome. I think I’m good company,” you laugh awkwardly. “Why do you ask?”

Remmick pauses for a moment. You couldn’t pinpoint the expression on his face, but you could see him turn to the window. He stared at it longingly, still silent, still thinking. You could slice the silence in the room with a knife. 

He begins to sift in the chair, uncrossing his legs and setting his boots down on the floor with a heavy thud. Remmick’s head swivels back towards you. 

“I ask because,” he starts, standing up. His shadow flickers on the floor with the dancing candlelight, enveloping you in shifting darkness. “Well… I sure don’t like bein’ lonely.”

Remmick’s voice falters, his words stricken with a hint of sorrow. Your brows knit together. Concern and fear pool in the pit of your stomach as he slowly approaches you.

“And I been lonely for a very, very long time,” his voice cracks slightly. A low growl rumbling deep in his throat. “It’s hard to find good company for someone like me.”

“Someone like you?” Your eyebrow cocks upward, concern simmering into curiosity. Be careful. Curiosity never fails to kill the cat. 

“A monster,” Remmick exhales. He marches forward, his head bowed down to the floor. The air grew heavier the closer he lurched. You wanted to back up, but something was stopping you. An invisible force holds you in place as this stranger continues his pace forward. This stranger, that you let in, stomps closer and closer. Your entire body tenses with every step he takes. “And I ain’t good enough company for myself. Never have been.”

By the time his feet meet yours, you could feel a yelp blossoming beneath your breath. You stifle it the best you can, gulping it down with a hard swallow. Your heart hammers in your chest and your hands grow clammy. He lifts his head, ever so slightly - a droplet of sweat dribbles from his glistening forehead. His eyes flicker maniacally in the candlelight. 

“I’ve seen so much death. War. Famine. Lost so many loved ones. My wife… killed right in front of me,” he rasps. “I can still hear her screams in the silence… echoin’ in my head.”

You didn’t know how to respond to that. How COULD you respond to that? This stranger who went from imposing, to pathetic, to sincere, right back to imposing - unloading his trauma on you completely indiscriminately, completely out of nowhere. What was he expecting from you? What exactly does he want?

You remain silent. Silent enough that you could hear the candle wicks crackle. This seems to agitate Remmick, the corner of his upper lip twitching. 

He looks deep into your eyes, his pupils dilating like a wild animal. His eyes shift violently between blue and crimson. You weren’t so sure if it was a trick of the light anymore or if his eyes were literally changing. Either way, it was unnerving. 

He reels himself back a bit, a sharp inhale filling his nose as he lifts his head up to meet your eyes. Your body shudders with anticipation for whatever comes next. 

“I’m so sorry, darlin’. I’m bein’ a real wet blanket, ain’t I?” He chuckles a little, realizing his emotional outburst might have been a bit too intense. “Forgive me. I just uh. I get a little emotional when I take in the sight of a pretty thing like you. You… you remind me of her, is all.”

He gently reaches a hand out and cups your cheek. The sudden touch, chilling and coarse, makes a tingle twist down your spine. He caresses your face softly. The rough pad of his thumb traces circles on your lips. He stares deeply into your eyes again, honing in on the emptiness in your heart - something the two of you seem to share.

Your eyes twinkle in the candlelight as you gaze back at him. You could sense a deep pain buried underneath his rough and tumble exterior. You weren’t entirely sure how to feel in this moment… on one hand, you missed the touch of another human on your skin. On the other, your sneaking suspicion was starting to rear its ugly head. This guy might be dangerous, or worse - he might want something more than he let on. 

Something in your mind pleaded with you to let it happen, begging for the attention you’ve denied yourself. The need for connection. The need for embrace. 

You decide to welcome Remmick’s touch. You raise a hand and plant it firmly over his. A smile forms on his roguish face, those crooked teeth baring themselves. His hand was unnaturally cold, but the feel of it against your face brings you a sense of comfort you’ve long since missed. 

His intense eyes burned into your very being, hypnotically enticing you to stare back. That odor you whiffed before letting him in washed away with his touch, now all you could smell was the burning wicks of the candles and the night air rolling in from the open window.

“Her eyes sparkled exactly like yours in the right light,” he speaks tenderly, musing on his lost love while delicately stroking your face. “Her lips pursed in a way I’d never forget, either.”

He leans in close, his hand never leaving your face. You could feel his hot breath on your skin, his lips nearly brushing yours. 

“May I kiss you?” He whispers, polite as ever. He hovered close enough to your lips that he could lay one on you if he really wanted to. He at least had the courtesy to ask permission. You pull away briefly, contemplating whether or not allowing yourself the embrace would be worth it. But nothing was worse than the fear — what happens if I DON’T? 

You nod, but before you can open your mouth to say anything, his lips crash into yours. His warm mouth covers yours with a searing sweetness. You could feel the stubble on his chin rub against you.

A flurry of emotions caught in your chest. The cold caress of his palm on your face coupled with the warmth of his lips coalesced into a strange sensation, but you weren’t complaining. 

He lets out a soft purr as you purse your lips to return the same fervor, matching his passion. Your eyelids flutter closed as you lean deeper into the kiss. His other hand reaches behind you, splaying ever so gently on the curve of your back. His fingers languidly stroke your back. Without warning, you feel his tongue slither between your lips. You exclaim softly, feeling Remmick’s lips twist into a satisfied smirk as he delves his long, flat tongue deep into your mouth. 

It flicks at the back of your teeth, as if he were tasting your last meal. You let out a breathy, unprovoked moan as his tongue completely wraps around yours in a wet, slimy embrace. He chuckles, thrilled that you’re enjoying this, even a little bit. His hand that cupped your face shifts up into your hair. He takes hold of you gently, pulling you even deeper into the kiss. His fingers knot into your hair as he continues his relentless exploration of your mouth.

A tight, swelling warmth pools in your stomach. This man, this stranger - kissing you with a passion you hadn’t felt in so long, if ever. You were right about one thing. Men only want one thing, but maybe… just maybe, you did too. You allow your tongue to coil with his, melding together in a glorious harmony.

“Santaíonn mé thú…” Remmick whispers into your mouth in a language you’ve never heard before. His tongue hadn’t ceased moving along yours, saliva mixing together with a furious momentum. The hand caressing your back slides further down, nearly grazing your rear.

Your senses begin to come back to you, causing you to pull away - a strand of spit still connecting your lips. He looks at you, eyelids half shut, lips still pursed together.

“My sister and her husband will be home soon,” you say with a hush. He shoots you a look, his hands still gripping you. His lips curve into a devilish sneer.

“Thought you said your sister had a fiancé?” His grasp tightens in your hair. He gives a wicked chuckle that bellows deep from the confines of his throat. “‘sides, I ain’t worried. Your sister don’t live with ya. And she ain’t comin’, not tonight.”

A chill shivers down your spine. You were right again, Remmick could tell you were lying. 

He leans in close, his burning gaze paralyzing you.

“I’ve been watchin’ you for a while now, darlin’,” he growls. “You ain’t ever felt these eyes on you? Heard noises at night outside your window? That was me. Keepin’ ya company when no one else would.”

Panic swirls in your mind. You’d never felt his gaze before today. Not that you could recall. Was he just messing with you? Or was he actually watching you… waiting for the perfect moment to strike… when the loneliness of this empty house had finally caught up to you? 

“Don’t you worry, sweet thing,” he coos, his gaze and his grip softening. His hand trails back up and massages small circles on your back to put you at ease. “Ain’t gonna hurt ya. Don’t wanna hurt ya. I sensed how alone you were. Could sense the hurt in your soul. Thought maybe you needed someone. Needed me.”

His lips peck your cheek, planting a soft kiss. His lips travel further, kissing down to your slender neck. 

He remains there, perfectly still. You could feel him deeply inhale, breathing in your scent like a beast teasing its prey before the kill. Before you could react, his tongue juts out, licking your neck. You shudder as the slimy appendage leaves a trail of spit on your exposed neck. He sighs at the taste of your skin. 

“You know, I wanna thank you,” he mutters. His hot breath weighs heavy on your throat. “I want to thank you for letting me in. Thank you for indulgin’ me. Quenchin’ me.”

“Quenching you?” Your eyes dart to his full glass of water, the condensation nearly soaking the table it sat on. “B-but you didn’t even drink the water I gave you.”

He let out a dark, foreboding laugh. He met his eyes to yours, the blue color you recognized had been completely usurped by a reflective crimson. Your heart thuds ferociously beneath your breast as his grin grows wide, damn near ear to ear - but it was different this time. 

Instead of crooked, imperfect human teeth was a row of pointed, twisted canines. Fangs. 

His fangs glint in the candlelight, sharp and horrific. Saliva began forming from the corners of his mouth, dribbling down to his scruffy chin. Thick and viscous like a snake’s venom. 

“Aw, you sweet girl,” he takes a breath in, the clamp of his fingers in your hair and on your back growing tighter again. Constricting you and forcing you close against his body. So close you could feel something thick and warm twitching against your groin. Close enough to feel the faint, slow beat of his heart. “I don’t got a need for water, as kind as it was for you to bring it to me. My tastes are more refined. I can lie too darlin’, I am picky and I wasn’t runnin’ from anythin’… I was runnin’ to you.”

His lips meet your throat, fangs grazing delicately along your sensitive skin. You could feel his tongue slither down your neck like a mindless slug. You couldn’t move, paralyzed by fear. 

“I wanna taste you. Just a taste. I ain’t gonna bite too hard… not yet,” he mumbles into your flesh. A sharp prick digs into you before you even have a chance to protest or process what was happening. It doesn’t hurt, but it definitely stings. A warm drop of blood drizzles down your neck. Remmick’s tongue is quick to lap up your essence as it trickles out of your fresh puncture wound. He moans into your throat, hands still gripping onto you as if you’d vanish the second he lets go. “Mmm, like heaven.”

His face journeys upward, his nose sniffing you deeply as he kisses you. Tiny little pecks peppered up your neck, to your cheek, and all the way back home. His lips meet yours once again, the coppery taste of your own blood bitter on his tongue. 

Your mind races. Afraid, aroused - all at once.

He lied to you, he lied to get inside, betrayed your already fragile trust… and yet, the thrill is utterly insatiable. You were petrified but you didn’t want him to stop. The conflicting emotions subdue you, giving into the sweet surrender this monster, this man, was lulling you into. You couldn’t speak, could barely think straight. 

“God… you taste… exquisite,” Remmick licks his lips after leaving yours. He sniffs at the air, his nose working overtime as if tracking the scent of something stronger. Something even more delicious. His hand slides from your back and slides its way to your stomach leaving goosebumps in their wake. It splays wide, the length of his fingers enveloping your womb. “Mm. I wanna taste all of ya.”

With a sudden movement, Remmick scoops you up into his arms, cradling you tight against his chest. He picked you up as if you were weightless. His chin nuzzles your head as you sink into his arms. You don’t try to fight it. It’s not like you had much choice. 

This man that you let into your home was dangerous, you were right to be suspicious. Your intuition rarely fails you. You let your guard down and now you’re being whisked away, carried like a sack of potatoes in your own home. 

The worst part is… you didn’t hate it. In fact, you like it. 

“Which way to the bedroom, darlin’?” His voice a low, husky rasp. You knew exactly what he wanted, and if you didn’t give in, it’s likely something horrible was going to happen to you. A part of you wanted it too… desperately. 

You bite your lip, your body shuddering in his strong arms as you point in the direction of your bedroom. Right down the hall. The loneliest, darkest room in the house.

He strides towards it, not skipping a beat as he kicks the door open, no longer in need of an invitation. The musty smell of old furniture fills your nostrils as he places you gently on the bed. His red eyes shine faintly in the dark. Still hungry. Starved, even. 

“Stay put,” he says, exiting the room for a moment. Remmick’s brief moment of absence, this little moment of peace, left you feeling that empty pit in your stomach again. Perhaps you really were more lonely than you thought. More empty, more longing. It was a feeling you shoved deep down, in hopes that keeping to yourself and enjoying your own company was enough for you. 

But in reality, it wasn’t. 

You see two orbs of orange light bob down the hallway. Remmick, carrying two of the candles from the living room, makes his way back through the door. He sets one candle down on the left night stand, the other on the right. 

“I want you to see me,” he croons, kneeling down onto the bed. His lean, muscular frame canvases you as you decline further into the bed. His broad shoulders cast a mountainous shadow. The light of the candles prance around his features - his soft, wicked smile a ballet across his face. The light bounces off of the gold chain dangling helplessly from his neck. “I want you to see all of me. Every emotion on my face. Every drop of ya on my lips.” 

Your heart fluttered at the last sentence. He lowers his face down to you, mapping kisses along your cheeks, down to your neck where the puncture wound was still fresh. He kisses your wound delicately. 

His cold hand creeps underneath your blouse, navigating up to your sensitive breastd. You let out a surprised breath as his hand caresses the supple mound. His other hand lifts your shirt upward and over your head, revealing your naked torso. He inhales sharply as he soaks you in. 

“Faith and begorrah…” he mutters under his breath, his southern cadence cracking into something more foreign. Brogueish, if you had to guess. His hand is still clutching desperately at your breast, fingers kneading it gently. Drool trickles from his open mouth, his hand picking up the pace. He catches your rigid nipple between his fingers, pulling it forward. 

You let out a whimper, a pleasurable little sound, as he continues to play with your breast. The heat of the summer and the heat of your pleasure started to swelter, sweat causing your hair to stick to your forehead and your breath to develop into a pant. 

Remmick shoves his lips onto yours, his hand rhythmically circling the sensitive skin around your nipple. His other hand raises to your neck, gently wrapping around it to deepen the kiss. His tongue matches the beat of his hand, swirling around yours in a duet of pure bliss.

He inhales deeply again, his nose twitching. He smelled something on you. Something sweet. Something intoxicating. Something delicious. His lips leave yours, his hand not far behind. The strand of spit connecting your coupling breaks apart as he opens his mouth to speak. 

“You smell that?” he asks, his nose huffing the air like a hungry dog. His face travels down your body before finally reaching the apex of your thighs. He takes a mighty whiff again before letting out a sharp whine. “Ohhh, darlin’ you smell divine. You smell like nectar. Warm, exquisite nectar. A sweet honey the bees could only dream of producin’.”

Remmick’s fingers curl around the hem of your pants, pulling them down in one swift succession. His hand finds your panties - a pool of warmth already seeping through the thin layer of cotton. You feel a sense of shame thinking about how much you were enjoying this. His eyes widen as he traces a finger along the lines of your folds through the sopping fabric. 

“Mm. I knew I smelled somethin’ sweet,” he giggles, bringing his dampened finger to his mouth. His tongue wraps around the length of his digit, swirling around the coat of fluids. He moans, the taste of you washing a current of ecstasy over his face. “Ohhh. Wow. Even better than blood, baby. Heavens above, I need more. May I? May I taste you?”

You nod, your body quaking underneath him. Was this really happening? You could feel your cheeks burn hot with anticipation. 

His veined hand tears your panties away in one hurried motion. You let out a wince of surprise as he exposes your sex to the open air. He quickly lowers himself, his face eye-level with your lower half, eager to plunge himself into you. 

“I want you to look at me,” he demands. His hands possessively grip the outside of your thighs. His eyes blazing wildly in the light as he stares up at you. “Watch me, like I’ve watched you, sweet thing.”

When your eyes draw to him, his grin widens as he licks his lips. With no more hesitation, his mouth encloses around your cunt. A jolt of electricity hits your body as the warmth of his mouth encases you. His nose sat comfortably on your clit while his tongue playfully twists at your folds. You could hear him moan into you, tasting every inch of your tender entrance. His tongue pushes forward through the threshold, lapping up all of the juices that flowed from you. 

You shudder. No man has ever done this for you. No man has ever tried to make you feel this way before. It wasn’t a feeling you were used to but, by god, could you get used to it. You let out a moan of your own as he pushes onward, letting yourself fully succumb to the pleasure. 

Remmick’s grip on your thighs tighten, his nails digging red crescent shapes into your skin. His tongue dove as deep as possible into you, circling your walls with an intense dedication. His fangs tease the curve of your cunt, not enough to hurt but you could feel the sharpness graze you. 

You look at him, as he wished. His eyes were shut, mouth working over time solely to please you. You take the reins, reaching down to grab onto his messy dark hair. The greasy strands tangle around your fingers as you pull his face deeper into your heat, anchoring yourself to him. The two of you moan in tandem as you hold on for dear life. He shifts beneath you, digging his hips into the bed as he ground his sopping face against you, licking with all of the power he could muster. 

One hand slips from your thigh and onto your sensitive clit, rubbing delicate circles as he continues his feast. His tongue snaking faster into your walls, keeping up the pace of his thumb on your little bundle of nerves.

You could feel an intense, broiling heat swell deep in your groin. The pace of his thumb and his tongue rapidly increase along with the grind of his hips. The old bed creaks beneath the two of you. You could feel the warmth of his breath as he pants heavily against your entrance. 

“That’s it, baby,” he groans inside you, the tips of his fangs poking at your flesh as he speaks, his voice a low growl. He could feel your release coming, the way your walls fluttered against his tongue. “Sing for me.”

As if spurred on by his words, you feel the tension of your climax overwhelm you. An explosion of pleasure unleashes from you, your body spasming from the intensity. You scream as your walls clamp and contract around Remmick’s tongue. 

He lets out a triumphant grumble as his tongue wiggles furiously inside you, lapping up every drop of your essence as if it was his sustenance. The fuel for his undying fire. 

As your climax ebbs out, Remmick lifts his head, fixating his sights on you. His mouth, wet with your slick, hangs open. Your juices and his saliva dribble down his chin, licking his lips to savor the flavor. He slides two of his long fingers into your dripping, sensitive cunt. He brings his face up close to yours. 

“I want you to taste yourself,” he says, his fingers sliding in and out of you with a similar pace to his tongue. Your body ripples with delight, still recovering from your overwhelming climax. “Taste this delicacy.” 

He crashes his slathered face into yours, his tongue finding itself back home inside the pillowy warmth of your mouth. You have trouble describing the taste, but it was uniquely yours. You’ve never felt anything quite like that, not from any of your partners. No one else has made you feel like that. Remmick was different, really different. Eager to please.

Your heart pounds in your chest - but not from fear anymore. From pure, unmitigated pleasure.

The pace of his fingers falters before he fully removes them, the sloppy sound echoing in the room. You felt something heavier grinding at your groin. Remmick, still fully clothed but baked in sweat, grinds his hips against your quivering cunt. You could feel his pants grow tight against his body, constricting his throbbing girth. His pants are swiftly soaked with you as he continues to rub on you, slowly and meticulously. 

“Mm… feel that?” he moans into your mouth. “Do ya feel what you’re doing to me?”

He snatches your hand and cups it on his clothed length. You could feel it writhe in your grasp. It was big, bigger than you’re used to. You squeeze it, causing Remmick to let out a breathy groan. 

“Oh… le do thoil… let me free,” he rasps, his southern drawl once again breached by a melodic lilt, the heavy brogueish accent riddling his growling voice. You like how it rang in your ears, how desperate he sounded. You oblige him, his needy and wistful eyes piercing into yours as he watches you undo his belt with a metal CLICK.

In a rush to release his throbbing arousal from its clothed prison, he unzips himself. He pulls his pants down past his ankles and onto the floor, slipping his boots off in the process. He wasn’t wearing any undergarments. 

You could see it amidst the dark and unruly pubic hair - his weeping, twitching cock springing free, bobbing up and down. Thick, blue veins bulged on his thick shaft. The slit on his crown leaks, excited to meet you. Your mouth starts to salivate as you gawk at the massive girth before you.

He swiftly removes his shirt, only opting to keep the chain around his collarbone. His chest was bare, not a single hair or scar to be found other than a large cross tattoo etched into his left side. Ironic, you think to yourself. A sinning saint. 

He leans into you, his body looming on top of yours. His crimson eyes, glowing with desire, lock onto you. His mouth dangles open, sharp teeth peeking out. A thick strand of pearlescent drool trickles from the corner of his mouth. The sweat on his skin glistens in the candlelight. 

He maneuvers the head of his cock to your entrance. It twitches and leaks as it sits gently between your folds. He teases it against you, using your combined slick to rub it up and down, kissing your sensitive clit with every stroke. He bends his head down, his slimy drool dribbling carelessly onto your lips. 

In the heat of the moment, you stick your tongue out and lick the viscous slobber pooling onto your lips. Remmick lets out a surprised gasp. 

“God damn,” he mutters, a dumbstruck smile worming across his face. “Shit darlin’, you want some more?” 

With your eyelids half-lidded, gazing at him seductively, you open your mouth wide. He’s taken aback by this, but more than happy to fulfill your twisted desire. He puckers his lips and allows a controlled stream of saliva to cascade from his maw. The slow, painfully slow, drip of his thick spittle eventually finds its way onto your tongue. 

You swirl it around as it flows into your mouth. The taste is oddly sweet, combined with the taste of your own juices and a slight hint of coppery blood still lingering. It was warm, syrupy, and you hate to admit it, but you fucking loved it. 

He lets the last drops of his drool hang from his chin before wiping it off, only for you to grab his hand and lick the excess smear from his palm. You utter a soft moan, making sure you swallow every last morsel. He smiles a wide, sinful grin. His cock twitching even more violently against you.

“Christ,” he laughs, elated by your lewd gesture. “Fuck, you’re perfect. Ohhh I knew I liked you.”

He leans in for another open-mouthed kiss, mixing more of his saliva deep down your throat. His cock still nipping at your entrance, but not pushing forward. As if an invisible barrier stopped him from penetrating you.  

“Tell me I’m allowed in,” he whimpers into the kiss, sweat sprinkling onto you as the sticking heat of his forehead touches yours. “Invite me into you, baby. I need to hear you say it. You gotta let me in.”

This plea gives you the same sense of power you felt the first time he begged at your door. He wasn’t allowed to fuck you until you gave him the power to do so. He had permission to walk inside your house, permission to kiss and devour you, but fucking you was an entirely different boundary he needed access to. 

You let him linger there, staring up at him with doe-like eyes as he shudders and shakes. He breathes a heavy pant as he sits there idly, cock leaking on your folds. You feel it throb and writhe. He wanted this more than anything.

You remain silent. The silence was agonizing for him. Desperation painted on his face. Just waiting for you to give the word. He balls his fists and grips onto the sheets, anchoring himself to the bed. 

“Please baby, please don’t leave me hangin’ like this,” he whines, the despondent cry of his voice choked from his lips. His eyes began to water, starved by desire and longing. “You want me to beg again? You want me on my knees, prayin’ to the heavens? Prayin’ to you?  ’Cause I’ll do anything, sugar. Anything you want.”

He bites himself with his fangs, a trickle of his blood beginning to flow from his lower lip. He lets out tiny whimpers as he trembles above you, his cock impatiently yearning to claim you. His brows knit and his lips shape into a pout.

“Please, please, please,” he begs, his cock driving onto your clit, nowhere else for it to go. He rocks back and forth. His engorged head smooches your little bundle of nerves over and over as he incessantly repeats his begging, sounding more desperate by the syllable. He glides on your slick folds errantly. “Please, ohhh please. Please, please please. Please. Please. Pleeeeaaaase.”

His pathetic, needy whines awakened something in you. The thought of bringing a man to this state of desperation spurred on your own desire. His whines and whimpers, pleading just for you. The thrum of his cock against your sensitive nub marching onward. His damp crimson eyes flutter open and closed, tears starting to form on his eyelashes. You could feel both of your fluids mingling together as he leaks helplessly against your folds. You love every second of it.

Finally, you say it.

“Come on in.” 

Those three little words were all Remmick needed. He wipes away the desperate tears and looks down at you, smile growing wide enough that you could see the gleam of his mouthful of fangs in the warm candlelight. A fiery, emboldened glint flickers in his crimson eyes.  

He got exactly what he wanted, and now? He could enter you as many times as he pleased. There was no going back. And you were more than okay with that. 

With no further delay, he guides the head of his cock into your entrance. A quiet, staggered breath escapes your lips as the crown stretches you open. The gripping, wet heat welcomes him inside.

“Fuuuck,” Remmick moans, his voice a low grumble. His eyes roll back into his head as he slowly begins to drag his girth deeper. He stops for a moment once his cock is shallow in you - halfway inserted and yet the stretch of him was beyond your usual capacity. It twitches eagerly between the tight cushiony enclosure. Every vein and ripple caressing your insides. “You feel like home.”

He sheaths the rest of his arousal into your warmth with a single, powerful thrust. A hoarse cry escapes his throat once he completely buried himself to the hilt. Your soft, slick walls squeeze and flutter around him as you let out a squeal of your own. His girth fills you completely. Fills that emptiness in your core. It feels good. Real good. 

He remains still, taking in the heat of you around him. Taking in every inch of your body. The curve of your hips, the shape of your breasts. The way your eyes flirt with the candlelight. The sounds of pleasure squeaking from your lips. He commits it all to memory. 

“Beautiful,” he whispers. One hand taut around your thigh, the other reaching out to touch your face. His head lolls to the side, eyes closed and lips pursed. He pulls back ever so slightly only to smother his cock in you again. He splays his hand across your womb so you could see the bump of his cock buried deep inside you. “Ya see that? See how deep I am?”

The obscene sound of flesh meeting flesh echoes in the room when he begins to pick up his pace. His thrusts slamming waves of pleasure into you, the friction driving you further into a blissful abyss. 

Remmick drags his cock out to get a look at the fruits of his labor, his tip still hitched in your entrance. The shine of your juices coat his shaft. He grunts, almost inhuman, before snapping his hips back into you. 

A guttural noise escapes your throat. With every roll of his hips, brutal thrust after brutal thrust, you could feel the tension begin to spin deep within your body. Your steady moans in sync with his ceaseless rhythm. 

He pants heavily, tongue drooping from his mouth like a ravenous mutt. Drool continues to cascade from him. He lets it fall onto his pistoning cock, lubricating it even more as it continues plowing into you. You could see the immense pleasure plastered on his face - eyelids fluttering, jaw hung open, lips curved into an expression of pure, unbridled ecstasy. 

He lifts up your leg to push himself as deep as he could possibly go, this new position allowing him to plunge into that perfect hidden place inside you. The swollen head of his cock kisses your sweet spot with every swing of his hips, bringing you closer and closer to your peak.

Your chest tightens, heart rabbiting in your ribs. Your insides stretched and pulled. A burning, boiling heat brewing deep in your chest, rippling throughout your entire body. It coils in your groin, every nerve ending set alight and ready to burst. 

“Fuck,” you mutter under your breath. Remmick hears you and slams into you harder. Faster. The intensity of him hitting your sweet spot, more and more, over and over, was unbearable. Your fingers clench onto the bedsheets. The headboard of the bed rocking into the wall with each roll of his hips. 

“Don’t fight it, sweet thing,” he coos, the relentless drag of his cock pushing you further and further over the edge. He circles his hips, making sure he hits every nook and cranny within you. “I wanna feel you squeezin’ ‘round me. I wanna feel you close in. Your body seizin’. Ohhh, I can feel it comin’. Come on, baby. Come on and come for me.”

In an instant, a rush of ecstasy flows through you. You let out a loud, gasping sob as your climax crashes into you like a tsunami. Your hips buck and wince. Your walls clamp around Remmick’s cock. He sits idle, his eyes watching your body seize around him, convulsing like a live wire. A devilish, satisfied sneer spreads across his face. He was loving this, but he wasn’t done with you yet. Not even a little bit. 

As your climax starts to dwindle, your body still involuntarily jerking, Remmick continues to drive his hips forward. The sounds were messy. Filthy. The wet, sloppy sounds of his skin slapping against yours, indulging in the mess you made, filled the air. 

His breath grows ragged, his chest heaving. He was close. You could feel it. 

“So warm… so wet… tá tú chomh tais… fuck,” he moans through gritted teeth, brogue accent and foreign words slipping out of his lips. His eyes roll back into his head again, his pace otherworldly fast, growing erratic and uncontrolled. Hitting your perfect spot hard enough to spur on another mini-climax of your own. “Fuck, fuck, FUCK!”

With a final, brutal thrust - he buries himself entirely, howling louder than a wolf, as he forces himself deep enough to reach your cervix. You feel an overwhelming heat flooding deep inside you. His cock pulsates and his hips buck, filling you to the brim with the molten flood of his passion. 

His body tremors, folding over you like origami. His head rests between your breasts. You could feel the wetness of his mouth as he moaned on your skin. Cock still sheathed, still pumping its thick essence into you. It leaks down your ass crack onto the sheets. It seemed endless. His cock continues pushing, instinctually prodding his seed even deeper. 

A sharp pain in your thighs causes you to wince. You peer down to see Remmick’s fingernails - once human and crescent-shaped, were now sharp. Ferocious. Monstrous. Digging deep enough to make you bleed. He gripped you tight, holding you in place to make sure not a single drop of him was wasted. 

“God… damn,” he murmurs, his face still planted in your chest, his breath heavy on your skin. “Holy shit, that was… god damn.”

He kisses your chest before lifting himself off of you. He noticed how deep his claws were digging into you. A look of surprise washes over his sweat-bleached face. He removes his claws - his fingers had grown long and gnarled, dripping with fresh blood. He sticks his bloody fingers in his mouth, tasting your divine essence, quietly moaning as he licks himself clean.

“I’m so sorry darlin’, didn’t realize what I was doin’ to ya. Got carried away. You’re just so… mm. Intoxicatin’,” he sighs, mouth still red with blood and moist with saliva. 

You hear the wet sound of his still-erect girth slithering out of you with a squelching snap. You could feel the excess releases seep out of you, warm against your skin. 

He climbs his way closer to you on all fours until he straddles your chest with his chiseled thighs. His aching, dripping cock twitching over your naked body, leaving a trail of your combined fluids in its wake. 

”Open wide for me, sweet thing.” He nudges the drenched tip of his cock to your lips. The salty mess smears a thin, slimy layer on your mouth. His slender claws tangle in your hair. “Go on and clean me up now.”

Delirious, you follow his directions and open your mouth, your tongue laying flat on the tip. He bares a toothy grin, slowly pushing himself into the warmth of your mouth. He lets out a soft moan as he feels the wet embrace of your tongue wrap around him.

“I’d say watch the teeth, but… well, that’d make me a hypocrite wouldn’t it?” he chuckles, shoving himself deeper until you could feel him teasing the back end of your tongue, a drawn out rasp ripping through his throat. He holds you in place, sharp tendons clawing at your scalp. 

You taste the bitter, savory flavor of your combined excretions as he ruts his cock back and forth on your tongue, slathering it deeper. His cock continues to twitch and throb with each thrust. You could feel every ripple, vein and texture of his skin on your tongue as it glided itself in and out of you effortlessly. 

“Mm. Fuck. I wanna feel my cock in your throat,” he growls, his pace increasing and the grip on your hair tightening, animalistic urges overtaking him. His voice became harsh and cruel, like gravel underneath a steel-toed boot. You look up at him with watering eyes, streams of saliva dribbling down your chin. His red eyes sear back into you with a needy and insatiable glow. “I wanna feel your pretty little throat constrictin‘ me.”

With a sudden movement, he thrust himself deep down your throat. You gag the moment the crown of his cock hammers into the back of your esophagus. A surplus of spit leaks out of the corners of your stretched mouth, coating his balls with a frothy sheen. All you could do is breathe out of your nose and wait for it to end.

He stalls there briefly. Completely still besides his quivering cock. It trembles wildly against your tongue. His claws tighten in your hair, keeping you trapped close to him - your nose squashed against his pelvis. His girth damn near choking you to death.

“Ohhh, fuck, you fit me like a glove. My sweet, filthy girl,” Remmick croaks. He begins to rock his hips slowly at first, each thrust touching the very depths of your throat.  “It’s like you were made for me.”

Your mind starts to blur, the intensity of his strokes making you dizzy with lust and lack of proper oxygen. The corners of your vision grow dark as you swallow him whole.

“Just like that,” he snarls, losing himself with every deep stroke of his cock. Your throat expands and massages him as he smothers himself in you. Your mouth wrapped taut around his length, breath coming in hot, quick puffs against his skin. “Juuust like that, sweetheart.”

His hips continue to rock, a little bit faster with every roll, your moans and muffled sounds reverberating along his shaft. Puddles of your saliva pool onto your skin and down to your breasts. His sounds of pure euphoria were all you could hear amidst the wet sounds of his cock slamming into you and his balls smacking your chin with every stroke.

“We taste good together, don’t we?” He moans. You feel his cock twitch and squirm on your tongue, the swollen crown leaking salty precum down your throat, ready to explode at any moment. His claws tighten their grip in your hair, keeping you steady against his gyrating groin. 

With a thunderous, beastial roar, he heaves himself deep into your mouth one final time - the pulsing head of his cock spewing thick, hot waves of his desire down your throat. His body shudders as he holds you close against his hips. You feel the never-ending eruption pulsating and painting your throat a shade of white. 

As if nature itself told you to, you swallow down his release, swirling your tongue around him as he continues pumping his essence into you. He lets out a squealing moan as you work your magic, cupping and massaging his balls with your hand, coaxing every last drop out of him. Frothy saliva oozing out of your mouth - snot bubbling from your nose as you struggle to breathe through it. You feel the thrashing of his cock slow down, his own breath steadying.

His grip on you finally loosens. He slowly pulls himself out of you, inch by excruciating inch, until the swollen head of his cock escapes your lips with a loud pop. You cough and gasp for air before one last weak spurt of his pearly white passion pumps onto your face. The warm, salty taste of it coats your lips. 

“Oops,” he chuckles, clawed fingers pressed to his mouth, a playful smile hiding behind it. He bends down until his face is eye level with yours, one hand still clutching your hair - much more softly now. 

His tongue presses flat on your lips, lapping up the light layer of his own release, moaning as it glides between them. He weasels his way back into the warmth of your mouth, pushing and swirling his remaining spillage onto your tongue and down your raw throat. 

You could feel the twisted fingers of his free hand reach back down to your dripping heat, cupping it gently. One finger presses onto the swollen nub of your clit, rubbing small circles until a familiar jolt of electricity surges through your body. The claws retract so they wouldn’t scrape you too harshly. 

“Mmm, darlin’,” he mumbles into your mouth, his finger still tracing sensual rings on your devil’s doorbell. He pulls his face away from you, a strand of spit still connected on your bottom lip.

His hand frees your hair from its grasp before slowly and intimately grabbing hold of your hand. He keeps it there for a moment, interlocking your fingers together. His hand is large, even larger with the gangly claws. He sighs longingly. A sweet, soothing sound after the chaos he just put you through. 

“Darlin’… oh, you sweet, sweet girl,” he coos, his eyes meeting yours. The harsh red tint glowing in the candlelight, searing deep into your soul. He looked like he wanted to kiss you again. Instead, he places your hand on his still-throbbing length. It’s still hard, still aching for your touch. “I know how bad you been wantin’ this. Almost as bad as me.”

One hand wraps around yours, guiding you up and down his length. It dribbles more precum, allowing your entangled hands to slide smoothly around the throbbing shaft. The other hand continuously presses your button, two fingers slipping in and out of your slick entrance. Your body tingles from the dual sensations.

“I know how you been hurt," he whispers, his grip around your hand tightening as he jerks himself with your palm. “I know how many sleepless, lonely nights you been dreamin’ of someone there with ya. Nights where you pleasure yourself, all by your lonesome. But you weren’t alone - not really. I was there, outside, waitin’. Waitin’ for the perfect night.”

Your hips buck in tandem, waves of pleasure uniting the two of you. His cock twitches in your grip, the friction from your movements causing his breath to catch in his throat. The rubbing on your clit and fingers in your depths picking up speed. His words are a blur as your focus narrows onto the way you’re feeling in the moment. The feeling of pure, unmatched ecstasy - the heights of which you’ve never climbed before.

“Waitin’ for the perfect night where your loneliness was at its worst,” he groans, feeling his climax building with every stroke of your hand on him. “Ohhh, I been waitin’ ever so patiently for you. I’ve dreamt of ya. I could sense your achin’ heart, sweet thing. Your achin’ cunt. I know you were dreamin’ of me too.”

Drool drips from the corner of his lips as he speaks. Your mind in a haze of lust, the unbearable intensity of pleasure consuming your every thought. Maybe you have dreamt this stranger before. His glowing, red eyes lurking in the shadows of your brain. His sharp, hungry smile just itching to sink into your memories. Haunting you from the inside-out. Deadly desire that woke you up, soaking and aching. Aching for him. 

Maybe he was always there in the back of your mind, and now? He’s here with you. In your bed, by your side. His cock in your hand. You always knew, deep down, that you wanted something like this, but never allowed yourself to let it in. Until now. 

“Achin’ for someone like me,” Remmick continues, his breath faltering. He releases his hand from yours, allowing you to tug on him at your own pace. His tongue lolls from his mouth, the coupled pleasure at the mercy of each other’s hands bringing you both to the brink of another release. “I’m here now, darlin’. I’m here to give you the lovin’ you deserve. Make ya feel whole. Make ya feel complete. Loved.”

With one last buck of his hips, another round of hot release spills onto you. It pumps into your hand. Warm, sticky seed drenching your fingers and your breasts, splattering on them like paint on a blank canvas. He plunges his fingers deep into you, adding a third and hitting that sweet spot hard enough to make you surge upward. Your own climax sweeps over you. You writhe and convulse on his spindly digits, feeling the gush of your fluids careening onto the sheets. Both of your mouths gape open, synchronized moans flooding the room. His fingers slip out of you as both of your orgasms fizzle out. 

The room reeked like sweat, sex, and the faint earthy scent of the burning candles. His hand cups your cheek, lightly petting you with his thumb. He twists your head to the side, showing him your slender neck - open, tantalizing, irresistible. Blood pumping through your veins with the thud of your heart. 

“Grá mo chroí… love of my heart,” he purrs, voice low and sultry. “You ain’t my long lost love, no, but… oh, you make me feel the same way. Make me feel things I ain’t felt since I was human.”

“What… are you, exactly?” you weakly pant, your glazed-over eyes gazing desperately into his. Your body trembles a bit. You already know the answer but you want to hear him say it.

“I told ya, sweet thing,” he laughs, baring his fangs at you. The candlelight only serves to make them look sharper, even more dangerous. And yet? You weren’t scared of him. Not entirely. “I’m a fuckin’ monster, baby. A creature of the night. A creature of desire, a cold-blooded killer. Blood-hungry beast. That book you were readin’? Well, consider it research.”

In a single, swift movement, he flips you onto your hands and knees. He shoves your head down into the pillow, arching your back and presenting your ass like a freshly cooked meal. The surprise of the sudden shift startles you, causing you to stumble - but he catches you. His hands wrap around your stomach, holding you close to him. 

You could feel his hips pressing up against you. His still-hard, still-weeping cock twitching against the meat of your flushed backside. The ridges of his girth rolled against you, smearing his leaking head all over your ass. 

“The things you do to me, darlin’,” he whispers, sweet words pouring into your ears like honey. “Never felt a cunt so perfect in my life.”

He maneuvers the head of his cock towards your glistening folds. It nudged insistently - prodding you, begging to be welcomed back and embraced into your gripping heat. His other hand sits firmly on your ass, the claws digging into your flesh as he teases you - gliding his engorged crown across your glistening folds with ease and precision. 

“I don’t need an invite anymore,” he rumbles, his voice low and coarse. You feel him pumping his cock with his hand - it brushes against your entrance with every movement of his fist. The slick head helplessly sobbing. “I can come in… anytime I want. Your home, your mind, your mouth, your perfect cunt. You’re mine now, sugar. All of ya. And I don’t think you mind one bit, do ya?”

His hips buck, plunging the head of his cock into you. You let out a gasp as he slides the rest of him as deep as possible, sheathing himself to the hilt. Your body adapted so easily to his size. It molded itself to him, gripping him like a vice that didn’t want to let go. Holding onto him like he was always meant to be there.

“Aw, look at ya,” he jeers, pulling himself all the way out of you. “Look at her. I leave her for one second and she’s already quiverin’ for more.” 

Was he… talking about your pussy? Your hazy mind thought for a moment, only to be overtaken by a searing pleasure when he slams himself back into you with a wicked snap of his hips. A guttural noise escapes your throat as he continues this teasing motion.

All the way out. All the way in.

Out.

In.

The rhythmic rolling of his hips punctuated by obscene smacking sounds. His claws grip onto your ass, pulling you into him with every deep thrust. You didn’t mind the pain anymore - the pleasure was all-consuming, encompassing your entire being with electric energy.

You were under his spell. 

“Mm, that's a good girl,” he coos. Drool continues to drip from his mouth, falling carelessly onto your bare cheeks. He wipes it off and smears it onto his cock for additional lubricant, not like he needed it. His praise and his drool only amplifies the pleasure he was already pumping you with. You couldn’t remember the last time someone praised you. “Takin’ me so good. Takin’ me so deep.”

One hand detaches from your reddened ass and tangles itself in your hair. He pulls your head from the pillows, arching your back even further. A choked groan escapes from your lips as his thrusts only grow more rapid, slamming deeper into you. You could feel the head of his cock kissing your cervix, nearly deep enough to break through the sensitive barrier and into your womb. 

The tension in your loins begins building again. Sweat pouring from both of your pores as he relentlessly fucks into you, the smack of his balls on your clit only ramping up the heat broiling in your core. Moans and filthy sounds of coupling flesh flooded the room. 

“Say my name, baby,” he leans into you, his voice a gentle whisper. He flicks his tongue out, licking the shell of your ear as he speaks. “Scream it to the heavens when you come undone. I know it’ll sound real pretty comin’ outta yer lips.” 

“R-Remmick,” you whimper. He thrusts into you - HARD. The sudden, powerful motion makes you hiss out of clenched teeth.

“Pretty, but you can do better,”  he demands, the grip on your hair and ass tightening. “Louder.” 

“Remmick,” you moan, almost teasingly. Another brutal thrust. 

“I said louder,” his voice shifting to a hoarse growl. He puts his mouth to your neck, his fangs making contact with your skin. If you don’t scream his name, he was going to rip your fucking throat out. “Louder or I’m gonna shred this pretty little neck of yours to pieces. Gonna drink my fill of you. Drain ya dry. Make ya scream my name one way or another.”

The pressure rose to unparalleled heights. He continues relentlessly pounding into you as hard as he could without completely splitting you apart. His fangs poke at your neck, raking against you as he moves. His hot, broken breath puffing onto your skin. Tongue pressing flat against you. 

You could feel his mouth start to close in, sharp teeth ready to rip you open. Shivers spark down your spine. There was a chance he was bluffing, teasing you into submission, but you weren’t willing to take that risk. 

Your body tenses, tingling with that familiar sensation. You feel your walls close in, squeezing his cock as it rams into you with no sign of stopping. He unclaws his hand from your ass and slides it down to your clit. His gnarled finger twirling rigorously around your swollen nub.

The pain of his claws poking at your sensitive nerves and his fangs fixed at your throat paired deliciously with the pleasure of the drawn out circles being drawn on your clit and his cock furiously driving deeper and deeper into your sweet spot. It’s unbearable. It’s searing. It’s fucking bliss.

In the heat of the moment, when the tension swells to its highest possible peak, your floodgate bursts open.

“REMMICK!” 

A mischievous smile stretches across his face against your throat at the cry of his name out of your lips. Bursts of color and light flash in your eyes as your entire body convulses on him. A powerful gush of arousal rushes out of you, coating Remmick and the already soaked sheets below in a glossy, sopping wave of relief.

“Ohhhh, fuck yes, sweet thing,” he rasps, leaning back from your neck, holding himself steady inside you. He watches as your release completely unravels you, taking in the beauty of the rapture he unleashed. He absolutely loved watching you wriggle and writhe underneath him. He slowly pulls his cock out just enough to see how drenched you left him. “That’s what I’m talkin’ about. Like music to my ears, baby.”

He hilts himself back into your spasming warmth, the sloppy squelch as he reimmersed himself tears a breathless moan from his heaving chest. Both of his hands mindlessly slide back to your hips, pulling you tight against his pelvis. The swollen head of his cock twitches against your battered cervix, as if begging to push past it. 

“You’re mine, now, sugar,” he rumbles, punctuating his words with every deep, passionate roll of his hips. “I ain’t ever lettin’ you go. Gonna visit you every time you’re feelin’ lonely. Every time you’re scared. Gonna keep you close to me, darlin’. Ain’t—ever—gonna—let—you—go.”

The movement of his hips grows erratic, uncontrollably plunging into your still-fluttering depths with animalistic abandon. The sound of his rasping moans mingle with the wet, obscene sounds of his thrusts. 

You’re still dizzy from the throes of your multiple climaxes. Your face flops back into the pillows, eyes glazed-over and drool all over your face. Usually, the only person who could do that to you was yourself. Your own hands, your own tools. Rarely ever has a man been gracious enough to send you into such a euphoric state of bliss - let alone more than once in a single night. 

“You’re so fuckin’ beautiful, ya know that?” He says through ragged breaths, his own climax gearing up. His voice shifts back and forth between that southern drawl and melodic lilt. “Perfect. Perfect body. Perfect face. Perfect… so perfect. Tá tú ar foirfe. Perfect.”

He pulls out of you almost entirely before hilting his entire length into you one last time. He lets out a deep, bellowing roar of pleasure as his cock throbs violently within your core. His entire body shakes and shudders above you. His claws hook deep into your skin. 

You were enraptured, captivated by the way his body tremors against you. The way his moans fill your ears like a symphony, a song meant to serenade only you. The way the scalding splatter of his release floods every ridge, every crook of your depths. His cock pumps endlessly, stirring his seed as deep as he could with every weak jerk of his hips. You feel as if your belly is swelling with how much of his thick essence spills into you. 

When the aftershocks of his climax finally begin to fade, he collapses onto you. He releases his grip on your flushed ass and wraps his arms around your waist. He pulls you down onto the sheets with him, laying you down on your side. His softening cock still buried in you, plugging you up so none of his pearly white proof of passion would dare to escape.

He nuzzles into the nape of your neck. His sweat-soaked forehead rubbing gently on the back of your head. Soft purrs of satisfaction slip through his closed, smiling mouth. 

He starts leaving gentle trails of kisses along your neck, stopping at the knicks he left with his fangs. He kisses them even softer, apologizing for the damage he inflicted on you. 

“I could get used to this,” he sighs. His arms caressing your naked body as the two of you lie side by side, still conjoined at the groin. His hot breath brushes against your shoulders.

“Me too,” you hum. You turn your neck to face him, gazing longingly into his crimson eyes. This sets his undead heart aflutter. You feel it beat gently beneath his chest. Your own heart thuds wildly against your rib cage.

The quiet was palpable for a moment. The chaos of your coupling had finally settled. The candles continue their dance around the room, illuminating the curves of your entwined bodies.  

“You mean it?” He murmurs. A soft smile melts onto his face, eyes twinkling with awe. He sounds stunned by your words. Surprised that you’d reciprocate. “You really mean it, darlin’?”

“Remmick,” you start, fully twisting your body to face him, careful not to let his softened cock slip out of you. His arms are still wrapped around you in a warm embrace, eagerly waiting to hear what you were going to say. “I can’t remember the last time I’ve had this much fun. I’ll be honest… you terrified me at first. You terrified me every time you had your fangs in my throat. But I don’t know... it… it thrilled me. I liked the danger. I’ve spent so long cooped up alone to protect my peace that I started to miss spending time with another person... thank you.”

He looks at you, a shimmer of what you could only describe as longing glistening in his eyes. His wide, crooked smile radiates a sense of comfort. Despite the danger, the fear he caused you, you feel safe in his arms.

“Oh, sugar,” he whispers, one hand freeing itself from your waist to cup your cheek. His thumb lovingly brushes over your lips as he stares deep into your eyes. “How sweet of ya. I do apologize for frightenin’ ya. It’s in my nature, y’know. But… oh, it warms my cold dead heart to hear that comin’ from you. Thank you.” 

He captures your lips in a searing, passionate kiss before reluctantly sliding himself out of you. You feel his absence instantly, already missing the way his rigid girth perfectly squeezes into your walls. The remains of his essence drip down onto the drenched sheets. 

“I should get goin’, the sun’ll be up in a few ticks,” Remmick sighs with a hint of uncertainty. He didn’t seem to want to leave your side, but he starts to unhook himself from your waist in an effort to get up. You grab his retreating arm before he can completely let go.

“Stay. Please,” you beg. You caress his arm, soft hands kneading small circles across his skin. He studies your face with wistful, misty eyes. He didn’t want to leave, even if he felt like some kind of invisible force was pressuring him to. As if nature itself called for him to scurry off into the night and hide from the dawning sun. “I have a cellar you can stay in. No windows, so light won’t touch you. There’s even a little cot in there for you to sleep on… big enough for two.” 

Silence permeates the room between you. That emptiness you felt, the lonely feeling you tried so hard to shove deep down, vanishes with his touch. It disappears with him by your side. 

You didn’t care that he was a monster. You saw past that. He brought you back from the depths of isolation, and you knew, in your heart, you did the same for him. 

“Ohh, darlin’, I’d love to, I really would, b-but,” he stammers, desperately trying to fight against nature pulling him away from you. “I still gotta feed before the sun comes up, can’t go to bed on an empty stomach. I’ll be back tomorrow night, I promise. I promise you I will. Cross my heart and hope to die. No more lyin’.”

You gaze at Remmick as he slowly lifts himself from the bed. He picks his clothes up from the floor and starts to dress himself, his eyes refusing to leave you, as if he wanted to commit every ridge of your face to memory in case he’d never see you again. As if your body was a beautiful, one-of-a-kind painting that he wanted to soak in for hours.

He ties up his boots and zips his pants back up, fully prepared to head back out into the fray of the night. Before he finishes fixing his suspenders, you climb to the foot of the bed and reach for his hand.

You interlock your fingers with his. The gentle thrum of your heartbeat pulsing underneath your ribs. You slowly tilt your head, presenting your neck to him. His eyes widen with surprise and his mouth starts to salivate. He quietly descends, kneeling down to face you. He presses his lips against your supple flesh. Instead of sinking his fangs into you, he simply peppers your throat with delicate little kisses.

“No,” Remmick whispers into the crook of your neck. “Not tonight, sweet thing. When I drink from you, I wanna make it special. I don’t wanna turn ya on our first meetin’ like this, as much as I’d love to. It just don’t feel right.”

Despite saying he wouldn’t bite you, he takes your finger to his mouth and pricks it on his fangs ever so slightly. He puts your finger between his lips, suckling on the tiny droplets of blood that trickle from the small puncture. He lets out a broken moan from the flavor of your sweet scarlet nectar before releasing your finger, wet with his saliva. His eyes glow a blazing red, the fires of his feral hunger stoked from the mere taste of you. 

“Exquisite, simply exquisite,” he gently strokes your face with his calloused hand. “I swear to you, darlin’, I’ll be back tomorrow. And even though I don’t need it anymore, I’ll still beg for ya to let me in. I’ll beg like it’s the first time I’ve ever laid eyes on a beauty like you.”

With that, Remmick plants one long, tender kiss on your lips. He holds your head in both of his hands, pushing his mouth closer into the intimate embrace. He pulls away slowly, his eyes burning into yours. A touch of sorrow gleams in his crimson gaze. His hand takes yours to guide you out of the room with him.

The two of you make your way down the dark hallway. The darkness starts to embrace you, knowing that once he walks out that door, its over-encompassing reach will consume you as it always does. Your heart sinks to your stomach at the thought. 

Remmick stands at the door, his free hand twisting the knob. You take a good look around your living room. Your private little space, your personal sanctuary. Your tea and his untouched glass of water completely soaked your coasters with their condensation. Your book sitting idle in the same position Remmick left it. The candles had burnt nearly down to the holster, the dying flames petering out, their dance coming to an end. 

The night air is still humid, but a crisp breeze wafts through the opening door. Remmick stands still for a moment. His clammy hand is still firmly, possessively gripping onto yours, afraid to let go. 

He turns to you, hungry eyes gazing into yours. His hand slowly starts to release from your grasp, pulling your heart along with it. The stars twinkle dimly in the sky behind him. The crickets chirp, the nocturnal animals chitter and howl, and your old house… your old, soon-to-be-empty house creaks and groans as it always has. As it always will. 

“Until tomorrow?” 

“Until tomorrow.”

Remmick walks back out into the night, his body fully enveloped by the darkness. He leaves you, for now. But he left with a promise, something no man has ever followed through with. You were confident that this time, this man - this vampire - would come back. Tomorrow. 

Tomorrow. You’ll see him again tomorrow. 

translations provided by both google and @fuckoffbard ------------------------------- Santaíonn mé thú - I want you Faith and begorrah - by god / expression of surprise le do thoil - please / "with your will" tá tú chomh tais - you're so wet for me Grá mo chroí - love of my heart Tá tú ar foirfe - you are perfect

[messrmoonyy]

- rest stop

Joel miller x Fem!reader

Request- Hiiiii. You one write a fic of reader x Tess trying to be quiet even travelling with joel and Ellie. And I was wondering would you do something like that with reader and Joel. But also make it car smex 👀👀 maybe when they’re camping out in the woods and Ellie’s asleep but Joel and reader get busy in the truck they take from Bill? Please

A/N- long time now post huh! This is my first time writing Joel. Which is wild after being in the fandom so long and because I really wanna fuck that old man . But the Joel x reader girlies scare me a bit lmao ( why are so many of you children? ) anyways. So this is my first attempt at Joel and kinda became like if you put Troy’s Joel and Pedros Joel in a blender. And it spit out this Joel. My Joel. Enjoy.

Warnings- 18+ MDNI || implied age gap( reader is mentioned to be born pre outbreak and was too young to drive pre outbreak too. Making reader at bare minimum 20 years old ), smut: car sex, unprotected p in v, fingering ( reader receiving ) prawn with a bit of plot. ( wc- 5.3k )

AO3 | Masterlist

“- if tanks were so damn useful why would they just abandon them on the road like this? Oh right probably for road blocks right? I heard they used cars and trucks to block people trying to leave cities and towns but wouldn’t that just make things worse? I think- “

Ellie had been yapping for the better part of 2 hours. You didn’t know how she constantly had something to talk about. It was as if she could link any subject to something else with just a beat. One moment be discussing the comic she’d stolen from Bills and then somehow end up on a 45 minute tangent about tanks. 

You’d all been driving most of the day and she’d been talking the majority of it. The only silence had been when she’d given into sleep for a couple hours around lunch time, but woken up and gone straight back to it. It was fascinating to you how much she’d opened up in a short space of time. 

Joel looked ready to screw up his other ear too to fully drown her out at this rate. His hands grasping the steering wheel so hard his bruised knuckles were blanching. You felt a little bad for him, he truly was getting the brunt of it after you’d let Ellie take the front seat. She’d been so excited about being in a car and so you’d let her claim the front seat for a while. 

You’d gotten quite the glare from Joel for that. 

“ - I think if I had a car I’d like one like this. Like a truck. You know? You can fit more stuff in it. Hey, did you have a car?” Ellie’s head popped around the car seat to look at you in the back with a bright smile on her face 

“ no Ellie. My dad had a busted up work van but that was about it. I wasn’t old enough to drive. Joel was though, weren’t you Joel? “ you smiled and she laughed at that 

“ right. Did you have a truck? You must’ve cause-“ Joel caught your eye in the rear view mirror, a mildly pissed expression on his face at you directing the conversation right back onto him. You just gave him a wink and went back to flicking through one of the magazines you’d stolen from Frank's pile back in Lincoln- which were thankfully far more PG than the ones Ellie had found belonging to Bill. All ancient gossip magazines, celebrities having their red carpet looks ripped to shreds. It made you smile a little to try to imagine any of them now. Was there a clicker stumbling around in shredded haute couture? 

After another 30 minutes or so Joel seemed to have finally reached his daily limit of Ellie’s roadside ramblings and declared it was time to stop for the night. 

“ alright. That’s it for today. Goddamn kid “ he grumbled and slowed down a little as he turned off the highway and through a bumpy field- that Ellie found highly amusing as she jostled in her seat- and into a stretch of woods. Thankfully the trees were wide enough for him to manoeuvre Bills ancient Chevy deep enough in that it couldn’t be spotted from the road. Not that you expected anyone else had a damn car this far out from a QZ these days. 

And after an equally talkative dinner of long expired tinned ravioli, in which Joel tried and failed to teach Ellie some table manners like the true southern gent he seemed to be deep deep down. You all set up and settled in for the night. 

You were used to sleeping on the ground. 

Whether that was from the weeks it had been since leaving Boston. Or from the times you, Joel and Tess had travelled your ways over to Bill and Franks. Hell even your bed back in the zone may as well have been the ground with how fucking uncomfortable it was. 

But for some reason you just couldn’t drift off tonight. 

Ellie had had no trouble once Joel had promised her they’d be safe out here. She was flat out in her sleeping bag, mouth hanging open, snoring softly. You’d think the kid was in a luxury hotel, not a musty sleeping bag on the forest floor. 

You looked up at the dark night sky above you, the trees blocking out the majority of the view. It was a little spooky, just like Ellie had secretly whispered when you’d all been settling down to sleep. 

You turned your head, trying to locate Joel. He’d insisted on there being a watch. You thought it was pointless, you were all out in the middle of nowhere. No where close to any towns or cities that a group of raiders could have set up camp in. There’d be no infected out this way either. But he’d been his usual stubborn self and declared they needed a watch. And he’d go first. Of course. Because that meant he could stay up all right and ‘forget’ to switch with you. 

Stubborn bastard through and through. 

And so there he was now, sat up in the truck. 

He had one of the camping lanterns he’d taken from Bill propped on the dash, softly illuminating the space so he could see what he was doing. His face stern in concentration as he tapped the end of a pencil against his scruff covered chin. 

He was taking this job seriously for a man that didn’t want to do it. 

But Tess had always been the driving force in your little trio. She was the brains. You were more often than not the distraction. And Joel the braun. It had worked so well. Until well… it hadn’t. And Joel respected Tess enough to fulfil her dying wish. 

Even if that was taking this random kid half way across the damn country chasing a lead so half cooked it was basically raw. 

You watched him for a while longer. How handsome he looked in the dim lamp light. The frown lines that seemed permanently engraved into his face, the way his brows furrowed as he concentrated - creating the little wrinkles in between

You missed kissing those lines. Tracing your fingers over them in the half lit apartment you’d shared in Boston, close enough to the outside wall that there was a constant chunk of light from the watchtowers seeping through the half destroyed curtains. 

God you missed him. Curling up to him for warmth. His large hands tracing soft patterns on your back, whispering lowly in your ear when you woke up from a nightmare. 

He’d never been one for PDA. And then with the whole… Tess thing. And Bill and Frank thing. And well… everything. He had barely touched you since that morning before you’d ended up with the kid. And that was weeks ago. 

Maybe it was a little silly. In the space of a few weeks you’d lost three friends. Gained a kid. Gained a whole fuck load of responsibility for said kid… and yet here you were lusting over Joel in your sleeping bag? Stupid. 

Or… maybe not. Maybe it was… what was needed. A distraction. Something good in the shitty shit pile you’d found yourself in. 

Well that’s what you told yourself anyway as you double checked Ellie was still snoring. And climbed out of your sleeping bag. 

You pulled open the passenger side door of the truck, climbing up into the seat and closing the door carefully behind you. Joel had the map spread out on the dash in front of him, flask of coffee in one hand and a pencil in the other. Because coffee had been dubbed very important in the ‘ only grab the essentials ‘ talk before they’d left Lincoln. Obviously. 

“ ain’t your turn for watch yet darlin’ “ he mumbled, not looking up from the map. It had a bunch of scribbles and arrows. Clearly his nonsensical version of directions that you would no doubt have to try figure out tomorrow. It also seemed like Ellie had gotten a hold of the pencil at some point, some of the areas Joel had crossed off as suspecting to be total no goes in terms of infected, now had little monster faces scribbled beside them. 

“ I know. Can’t sleep “ you said as you slumped back in the seat and glanced back out towards Ellie. Still out like a light, the little camping lamp by her feet casting a soft glow over their makeshift camp. 

He hummed a response. Setting his flask into the drinks holder and letting his hand drop absentmindedly onto your thigh instead. 

“ Tryna figure out the quickest route from here to Cody but… most of these highways here will probably be blocked off from way back when “ he pointed with the pencil at some of his scribbles and lines. “ some of these smaller towns might not be so bad for bunking down for a night but can’t be too sure. Close to highways. Good for raiders “ 

And he’d know all about that wouldn’t he

You’d joined the little group heading for Boston right at the last hurdle. Had only partook in one or two raids. You were young. Pretty. They’d throw you out as a distraction to lure people in and the others did the most of the dirty work. But you’d heard the stories. And you’d been around Tess and Joel long enough to know what they were capable of. What you were capable of now too. 

“ sooo… that way?” You asked, pointing at what seemed to be his planned route for now. But if you were honest. You weren’t focussing on the map at all. Or what he was talking about 

“ what? No. That’s a no go. Absolutely fuckin not. Look here- “ his thumb started rubbing soft circles into your jean covered thigh and it was like an off switch had flipped on your ears. Not taking in a single word he was saying to you. Not when he was touching you for the first time in weeks. Even if it was just a tiny pathetic thing like that. 

It made your mind drift. Memories of his lips right there. The soft tickle and burn his scruff would cause as he kissed your skin. It made your pussy throb just thinking about it. 

“ - there’s likely to be infected here. And here. Which leads us with no choice but to head up here to KC. But big city like that was probably locked down, ain’t really heard much on it so I don’t know if it’s even still an active quar- you even listenin?” His hand squeezed your thigh softly and you cleared your throat blinking quickly 

“ what? Sure I’m. I’m listening. Ugh KC. KC. Kansas city?” 

“ lucky guess “ he grumbled and let his eyes drift back to his map “ why don’t you try get some sleep?” 

His hand was still on your thigh, his thumb back to rubbing soft circles. God how was something so tiny making you want to scream?

“ not even tired “

You closed your eyes a moment letting out a slow, deep exhale. Get it together you idiot. 

But Joel knew you well. Knew your body well. And you didn’t have to open your eyes to see the smirk on his face when he spoke again 

“ oh. I see how it is baby girl “ you wanted to scoff. Or scowl. Or tell him maybe he should get some sleep because clearly he was imagining things. But then his hand moved up. Deft fingers unbuttoning your jeans and pulling down the fly. 

He really could read you like a damn book couldn’t he?

 “ this the real reason you came in here huh?” He murmured as his thick fingers slipped through your slick folds, dragging the slippery mess you were making up to your clit. 

Your eyes fluttered closed for a moment, your head tipping back against the worn leather of the seats headrest “ asked you a question there babygirl “ 

You whined in response. How could you possibly form a solid thought- never mind a sentence- when his finger was working at your clit like that. Slow but purposeful circles that were making your legs feel like jelly already. 

God you were pathetic. A couple weeks without his cock and this is what it was doing to you? 

“ so what if it was?” You whispered, your hips involuntarily rocking up against his hand. 

Even just the slightest touches from him made you want to cry out in a mixture of frustration and pleasure. Like there was an open nerve, exposed and raw, and his focussed touch sent sparks shooting up your spine. 

“ naughty little thing “ he murmured as he kept working at you with his thick fingers, wrestling the the tight constraints of your jeans to try get his hand in a little more “ tell me what y’need “ 

“ you “ you whined without a moment’s hesitation “ you Joel you “ 

He was always such a smug bastard. The smirk on his face at your response made you want to jump right out of the car just to piss him off. But you didn’t have the self control for that. Not even remotely. Especially when you had his fingers pressing at your entrance like that, the muscles already contracting as if trying to pull him in. 

But two could play that game. 

You reached over and flicked off the lantern. The last thing you needed was this being visible if Ellie woke up. And then your hand moved over to his half hard cock starting to tent his jeans. 

He gave a soft grunt of a sound as you palmed at him through the worn denim. 

“ acting like you’re not in the mood for it too old man?” You whispered, already a little breathless just from his fingers. 

He doesn’t answer you with words. But one of his fingers pushed into your welcoming warmth, making you gasp and your eyes flutter closed for a moment 

“ look at that “ he murmured as he carefully added a second with a slightly embarrassing amount of ease “ suckin me in so tight… tryna keep me right here doll? Right here?” your soft velvety walls squeeze around him in answer. Desperate for anything after weeks of absolutely nothing. 

Everything about Joel was so big. You were damn sure not a single other person could make you feel this good with their fingers alone. Your own fingers never even made a dent in the sensations he gave you. Your cunt stretching around his digits almost obscenely. Gripping onto him in a way that was down right pathetic. 

“ there y’are. Relax f’me sweet pea “ he mutters, feeling you open up more as warm waves of pleasure washed over your body. The space inside you welcoming him back home after so long without him “ good girl, open up f’me… there we go “ 

Your hand was still idly palming at his crotch, but god damn was it hard to focus when he was speaking to you like that. Touching you like that. 

Your free hand grasped onto his arm as he kept steadily fucking you open with his fingers, soft sopping sounds filling the truck in a way that made you whimper softly. The tendons and muscles in his arm flexing under your finger tips with every purposeful curl of his fingers. 

“ Joel “ 

“ I know baby I know “ he crooned “ gonna come on my fingers? “ you nodded eagerly, writhing around in the seat, eyes closed as you focused on how good he was making you feel and nothing else. Not even embarrassed at how fast he’d gotten you to the edge. You’d been lusting after him for two weeks without getting anything, so you weren’t much surprised.  

“ y-yeah. Gonna come for you Joel “ you whispered as his fingers curled up, his thumb pressing against your clit. It made a choked sound escape you in some hopeless attempt to keep your volume levels down. “ fuck- Joel “

“ shh shhh nice and quiet. Don’t need ya wakin the kid before I’ve even had you on my cock sweet pea “ the half promise of finally getting something more than his fingers was enough to spur you on. To have your hips rocking up to meet the pumping motions of his fingers. Just enough to have you tumbling over the edge. 

Your fingers digging into the tanned skin of his arm as you bit down on your bottom lip, back arching off the worn leather as your orgasm washed over you in a powerful, blissful wave. Trying as hard as you possibly could to be quiet. But some soft squeaks and whines slipped out your throat anyway “Joel”

“ there we go. That’s my good girl. Nice and quiet “ he murmured as he worked you through it, pumping his fingers in and out as best he could with your jeans still on “ makin a fuckin mess of my hand. Reckon I ain’t ever see you this wet “ he teased as he gently brought his hand to a stop when your death grip on his wrist released. Little crescent shaped marks left in place of your fingers. 

“ fuck you miller “ you panted softly which made him chuckle. That deep rumble of a sound that often sounded more sarcastic than joyful. But you could usually drag some kind of joy out of him. Usually. 

“ I do plan on it babygirl “ he smirked as he pulled his hand free, his fingers soaked up to the knuckle. The shiny sticky mess catching on the thin chunk of moonlight making its way through the trees and into the truck. 

Maybe he had been right. Smug bastard. 

You watched him with half lidded eyes still catching your breath, as he sucked them clean. It made your blood boil hot, your cunt clench around nothing. Missing those magic fingers of his deep inside you already.  

“ missed your sweet taste babygirl “ 

oh the things you’d do to have him between your thighs right now. That familiar sensation of friction burn from his beard, his strong hands keeping your thighs spread. Refusing to let you close them until he’d made you come on his face multiple times. Not stopping until your were a shaking sobbing mess. 

But that would have to wait for Jackson.  

Your hand still laid idle on his now clearly fully hard cock in his jeans and a gentle squeeze of your fingers made him grunt. 

“ get over here. Now “ he muttered, you didn’t need to be told twice. 

It was not even remotely as easy or sexy as the books you read made it out to be. In fact it was damn right awkward. Wrestling your jeans off in the small space, especially when you were still trembling just a little. Clambering your way onto his lap as he wrestled with the stiff seat lever to try shove it back and give him more space.  

“ goddamn piece of shit Chevy “ Joel huffed and finally managed to get the seat to shift back a little. It was only a couple inches extra room. But it was better than nothing. 

Now wasn’t particularly the best time- or place- for making it last or wasting anymore time on foreplay. So you settled in his lap and immediately reached for his belt, tugging it open. 

“ aw. Come in your pants old man?” You grinned as you unbuttoned his jeans, noticing a small damp spot on his boxers. Clearly only pre come. But you’d never miss an opportunity to call him old. 

“ shut up, brat “ he grumbled, grasping your hips and squeezing in a silent request to lift up. Right. You were in kind of a rush here. Ellie could decide to wake up at any minute. And you weren’t in the mood to be interrupted.  

You lifted your hips as he wrapped a hand around his leaking cock, gently rubbing the tip back and forth between your slick folds. The action making your breath hitch a little, still so sensitive “ you want it?” He murmured, coating himself in your wetness, occasionally notching himself at your entrance for just a second before moving again “ tell me. Tell me how bad this pretty little pussy wants it “ 

“ god Joel “ you whispered, pressing your forehead onto his for a moment “ need it so bad. Been thinking about it every damn day “ He just chuckled and stole a kiss before gently nudging his blunt tip to your weeping entrance again. 

“ yeah? This what you need baby?” He said as he gently pushed in, hands tight on your hips to ease you down inch by tantalising inch “ that’s it babygirl let me in... So fuckin wet f’me… “ he murmured, pushing gently against the resistance of your cunt. Shushing you softly when a sweet whimper escaped your lips as he slipped in deeper and deeper “ shit you’re always so goddamn tight f’me “ 

Your lips part in a steady exhale as he eases his way in, stretching out your soft warm walls as your body welcomes him back home. Settling into the space inside you like it was carved out exactly for him, made for him. Maybe it was. 

He fit with you so perfectly. Your hips flush as his tip kissed your cervix in a way that would’ve been painful if he was even a half inch bigger. It was truly the most perfect fit. 

“ y’okay?” He murmured because sure Joel liked to fuck you like an animal in heat most of the time. But he was nothing if not a gentleman when it came to consent. 

Southern charm and all that. 

“ Hell yeah “ you whisper with a soft laugh that makes him chuckle as you wriggle your hips a little, reminding yourself how incredible it felt to have the thick weight of him inside you again “ missed this. Missed you “

“ missed my cock more like babygirl “

“ it’s one and the same “ 

“ maybe “ he scoffed and rubbed gentle circles onto your hips with his thumbs as he let you adjust as long as you needed. Sitting there completely stuffed full, the pressure almost overwhelming at first. 

You start to move after a few moments, your hands resting on his shoulders for leverage as you push yourself up and down on his cock, building a painstakingly slow rhythm. You had to take it slow. No matter how many times you’d fucked him it always took you a minute to get used to him again. 

You could tell he wanted more. In an ideal world he’d have you bent over the hood of the truck hammering into you like his life depended on it. One hand yanking your hair the other squeezing your hip. Or pinning your hands behind your back if he was feeling like being a real dick. 

But this wasn’t an ideal world. So he’d take what you could give him. And he wasn’t a total bastard. He knew you needed to take it at your own pace right now. So he’d let you. 

“ that’s my girl. Take it easy “ he murmured, his breath warm on your face, your lips just a few inches apart “ look how pretty you look takin my cock like that “ he brushes his thumb across your bottom lip for a moment before he pulls you to his mouth, your lips pressing together hungrily in a eager kiss. He swallows your soft whines and moans “ nice and easy doll. Nice and easy. Quiet f’me “ he murmured against your lips, pressing more soft but determined pecks between his words 

Once you were reacquainted with his cock stretching out your cunt just right. You gave him a small nod and shifted in his lap to let him take over. And your thighs were already starting to burn from the awkward angle

“ made for me ain’t you baby? “ he grunted as if reading your mind. Feeling the way his cock fit inside you so perfectly. Each careful rise and fall of your body letting you feel every ridge. Every vein. Rubbing against your insides in the most delicious way. “ just f’me “

“ yes Joel “ you nodded because truly you felt you were. He’d ruined you for life. You were damn certain no other man could compare. No other man could make you feel this way. 

“ that’s my good girl, takin it so well f’me “ his hands still grasped the plush flesh of your hips, letting you go at your own pace. For now anyway 

“ i miss our shitty bed “ you whispered breathlessly into his neck, you hands grasping his shoulders as he lazily started to fuck up into you, keeping your pace but helping you out just a little. And unable to control himself. Still keeping it slow, probably more on account of the fact you were useless at being quiet. And Ellie was only a few feet away “ a roof over our head “

“ I know baby girl “ he grunted giving you another squeeze “ second we find Tommy I’m takin you to the closet fuckin bed I can find “ at least he was still being optimistic that Tommy might still be in the settlement he’d mentioned exactly once before going radio silent. 

A bed sure did sound nice though. 

You missed lazy morning sex when he’d wake you up with his hand rubbing you through your underwear and his morning wood poking your back. Or having your body damn near folded in half as he pounded into you so hard your brain turned to utter mush, legs hooked over his shoulders like a rag doll. 

“ promises promises old man “ you whispered, shifting in his lap so that your clit brushed the soft thatch of hair at his base in the most delicious way “ shit “

“ that’s it baby girl. Take what ya need “ you rocked your hips, your slick making his curls sticky and warm. He met your pace, sensing your growing desperation, thrusting up into you quicker. Harder. You looked down at where your body’s joined, the way your pussy lips spread obscenely around his thick length. A hint of creamy whiteness starting to stick to his greying curls, more than likely the evidence of your first orgasm. 

“ y’like that huh baby?” He murmured as he caught you watching, that stupid fucking smirk on his face again that you could never be certain if you wanted to kiss it off him. Or slap it off him “ lookin at how messy you're bein f’me?”

“ yeah” you panted, squeezing down on him, your walls fluttering around the deep intrusion of him. Gripping him. Sucking him in. 

“ keep doin that shit and I’ll blow right now “ he grunted, making you smile as you squeezed down on him again just for good measure 

“ easy there old man “ 

“ I’ll give you old fuckin man “ he muttered and readjusted his grip on your body, his hands splaying over your hips as he shifted in the seat “ old fuckin man “ he pushed your body down on his cock with more force than before.

Clearly done being patient. 

You gasped loudly, clamping a hand down on your mouth when you realised just how loud you’d been. Desperately grasping at him with your free hand as he used you like a damn fleshlight, his grip on your hips bruising rather than gentle now. 

And god did you hope it’d bruise. 

“ that’s it baby girl. Take it. C’mon it’s what you wanted ain’t it? You been thinkin about this? Layin out there too fuckin horny to even sleep? Ain’t that right?” He’d always had a damn filthy mouth. Always knew exactly how to make your cheeks flame and pussy throb. Which had surprised you at first. For a man so silent and grumpy in public, he sure could get vocal in the bedroom. Or the truck you figured  “ this what you needed? Needed fillin up babygirl?” 

You nodded eagerly, your brows furrowed and eyes closed as his decelerate thrusts knocked every whisp of air out your lungs. Your brain going foggy. Lost in the sensations of his cock stretching you out, hitting the most devastating spot inside you with every thrust of his hips. Every drag of the heavy weight against your sensitive walls, still sparking like a live wire from your first orgasm“ use your words. Tell me “ 

“ god- Joel. “ you could barely form a sentence with him fucking you like that. The truck shaking with the efforts. Creaking softly like a scene from one of those cheap and cheesy 80s movies Joel has shown you before. 

“ c’mon now. Use that pretty mouth of yours. And tell me “ he said firmly. Mockingly. Still slamming you down to meet his deep thrusts 

“ y-yes this is… what I needed “ you panted out, eyes fluttering closed as you clawed at his shoulders , face falling into his neck “ missed you so bad. Missed your cock Joel “ you whined pathetically, muffling your sounds against his skin

“ yeah baby I know “ he whispered, breathless himself “ I know. Needed it so bad huh? Needed this pretty pussy fillin up. I know “ 

His hand slipped down between your bodies and he started working at your clit again. Quick and purposeful movements that matched the rhythm of his ever increasingly frantic thrusts. You were so wet he could barely even find any friction.

“ fuck Joel I’m- “ you moaned loudly against his neck, cutting yourself off as you felt your body growing hotter. The knot deep in your belly getting tighter and tighter 

“ I know sweet pea. Gonna come all over my cock? Yeah? “ he grunted and you knew that tone of voice. That breathless, husky tone. He was just as close as you were “ gonna be a good girl f’me? Can feel you grippin me like a damn vice. Know you need it “

You nodded quickly, nails digging into his shoulders as you struggled more and more to control the sounds slipping past your lips. The sound of your skin hitting his filling the truck, the lewd wet sounds of your cunt sucking him in. Soaking him. The sticky, filthy mess you were making. And then the dam broke. 

The combined sensations of his fingers. His cock. His husky voice in your ear. You were a goner. Biting down on his shoulder to try to dampen some of your whines and squeals of pleasure. Your entire body trembling and twitching in his lap, clamping down on him in a way that clearly was enough for Joel too. 

Because he’d barely pulled you off him when he spilt his load onto your thigh with a deep, sexy moan. The hot sticky mess painting your skin. 

Sometimes you wished he’d finish inside. Fill you to the brim with his load. But the last thing you needed was a goddamn baby. 

The trucks windows had fogged up now. The air in their thick and warm, sweat beading on Joel’s forehead. You looked down to see the hair covering your mound sticky and messy, Joel’s own greying curls exactly the same. You really hoped there was a river or creek somewhere around here. You hadn’t entirely thought about the aftermath. 

Thinking with your pussy and not your brain. Clearly. 

But it was worth it. 

“ well holy shit “ you whispered and laughed a little as you pushed your hair from your own sweaty face “ never let me go that long without you again “ 

Joel raised an eyebrow and then chuckled himself, shaking his head, his hand gently rubbing along your side. So gentle and tender compared to how he’d just been knocking the air out of your lungs. 

“ Whatever you say sweet pea “ he pressed a kiss to your lips. Far too sweet for a man like him, but you’d never complain “ now get your ass back in that sleeping bag and get some sleep “ 

You grinned against his lips and stole another kiss before giving him a mock salute 

“ yes sir “

[hanafubukki]

“Happy Anniversary, Dearest.”

It’s mine and Lilia’s 5th Anniversary 💞🦇💫

Time went by so quickly, but my love for you has never dimmed. Thank you for these amazing years together, beloved. Thank you for being the light of my life. 💞🌺🌷The Moon to my Stars. Because of you, I have found true happiness. 🦇💫

🎨 comm by: Allioaro

[jetii]

By Your Name

Part Two

Pairing: Wrecker x fem!Reader / Wrecker x Jedi!Reader

Words: 11,228/19,226

Tags/Warnings: angst with a happy ending, hurt/comfort, forbidden romance, unrequited feelings, love confessions, some kissing and heavy petting, smut in part 2

Summary: Ever since you were assigned to the squad, Wrecker has delighted in calling you pet names in Mando'a — an'edee, cyar'ika, mesh'la, the list goes on. Little does he know, you understand every single one of them, and it's starting to become a problem.

A/N: I wrote this months ago and got around to editing it recently and whoa, was not prepared for the sad. Sorry about that! This is mostly self-contained to part one, with part two being purely a smut add-on for my own amusement. I'll post that next week.

Previous Work | Next Work | Masterlist

You hit the ground hard, skidding to a stop face down in the dirt, your whole body aching. The ringing in your ears slowly subsides, and the sounds of battle come back in bits and pieces. The roar of blasterfire, the clatter of droids and metal feet, and crunch of tanks rolling over rubble. You groan and turn yourself over onto your back, coughing and trying to get the taste of dirt out of your mouth, just in time to see a droid bearing down on you, cannon aimed.

You try to move, but you’re completely winded. Your lightsaber was thrown from your grasp when you were sent flying, and it lay several feet away, taunting you with the idea of your own survival. You close your eyes and prepare for the worst, waiting for the searing pain of a laser bolt tearing through you

There’s the sound of metal tearing as a large hand grips the droid’s head and rips it clean off its neck, and your eyes fly open as the metal body falls to the ground in a clatter of lifeless metal, its head still in the hands of your savior.

You look up and meet Wrecker’s eyes, and he pushes his helmet up with the back of his hand to offer you a toothy grin, the droid head held aloft in the other. The relief at seeing him alive and well washes over you like a tide, and you can only manage a weak smile back, your ribs smarting from the impact of your fall.

"That was a close one!" he says, tossing the head away like a child throwing a ball for a dog. It pings off the chest of a droid advancing on the pair of you, sending the metal soldier careening backwards.

"A little too close for my liking," you wheeze, and you take his offered hand. Wrecker pulls you to your feet with ease, the motion tugging you close to his chest, and his arm wraps around you to steady you.

“You okay, cyar’ika?” he shouts over the sound of another tank exploding, a cloud of debris flying up and raining down around you in a shower of dust and smoke. You nod, the movement stiff and stilted, and you pray he doesn’t notice the flush on your cheeks at the use of that Mando'a word.

And that's the problem, isn't it? Cyar’ika, sarad, mesh’la, all the words he said to you in his native tongue, thinking you wouldn't know the difference. It made your heart race and your head spin, and the fact that you understood exactly what they meant only made it worse. It was like a secret between you two, one you weren't supposed to know.

The words made your heart do cartwheels, but the tone he said them in?

That was what was really going to kill you.

The soft way he said the words, the gentle, affectionate way he looked at you when he thought you weren’t paying attention, the way his hand seemed to linger on your shoulder after pulling you back up from a fall, the way his smile made your knees weak... It all came together to paint a picture of how Wrecker felt. It was a picture that made your face feel warm and your throat dry, and it was one that was starting to drive you crazy.

It also drove you to distraction, so much so that you hadn't even noticed the AAT firing at you until you were flying through the air.

And now you're here, in Wrecker's arms, your heart beating fast for more than one reason. You take a moment to gather yourself before stepping back, Wrecker's arm falling reluctantly from around your shoulders, and you give him a grin that's a little stronger this time.

"I'm alright, thank you!" you shout back. "We need to stop that tank!"

Wrecker nods, and the two of you turn to face the massive tank, which was slowly making its way through the city, demolishing everything in its path. The cannons swivel back and forth, destroying a building to your right, then to the left, then forward.

You call your lightsaber back into your hand, and it flies past Wrecker's head into your awaiting palm. You ignite the blade and glance at him, and he grins and cracks his knuckles before slamming his helmet back onto his head.

"Ready, cyare?"

Your breath catches in your throat. It wasn't the word you thought he'd use, but the endearment has the same effect. He doesn't seem to realize what he's said, and you decide not to bring it up.

You can think about it later. For now, you had a droid army to stop.

"Ready," you murmur.

Wrecker holds his hand out to the side, bowing his head in a courtly gesture. "After you."

You roll your eyes and step past him, and you feel the heat of his gaze on the back of your neck.

"Keep up, then."

It doesn’t get any easier.

You try your best not to let it affect your performance. You focus on the missions, on keeping your men safe, but Wrecker is always there, with a compliment or a gentle touch, and the feelings grow until they threaten to burst from your chest.

He does everything in his power to make you laugh, and every time he does, your stomach feels like it's doing backflips. He calls you pet names and winks at you, and your knees get weak. He smiles at you, and the world seems to get brighter.

He does everything he can to protect you, and you find yourself falling for him, hard.

And you can't let it show.

So you ignore the feeling, try to bury it deep inside, but you can feel it growing, day by day.

You have never wanted to tell someone how you feel so much, and yet you are absolutely terrified to do it. It's almost funny, really. You’ve stared down the barrel of a blaster a hundred times, fought dozens of battles, and yet this one man is the only one who can make your heart race.

But there's a difference. With the other things, you could always fight back, try to fix the situation. But how can you fight against feelings? How can you stop yourself from falling in love with the most wonderful person you've ever met?

You can't, and you know it.

Every night, you think about telling him, but every morning, the fear stops you. In the light of day, the idea of a Jedi and a clone being together is ridiculous. It's impossible, and you can't risk your career and his life for something so foolish. So, each time, you say nothing, and the words go unsaid, lingering between the two of you, a heavy weight that seems to follow wherever you go.

You try your hardest not to think about it, but it's like a constant buzzing, an annoying insect that's always in your ear, always nipping at your thoughts, always reminding you of something you don't want to deal with. It's dangerous, and distracting, and it makes you worry that someday, someone will find out.

And that's the most terrifying thing of all.

If the Council ever discovered what was going on between you, they would have no choice but to separate the two of you. The thought of never seeing him again fills you with a deep dread, and the knowledge that it could happen at any time drives you crazy.

Every time the thought comes to the forefront of your mind, you try to push it away, and the effort has become a daily struggle. The others have noticed your preoccupation, and have done their best to cheer you up, but even their good-natured attempts have become frustrating, the reminders of what you were trying not to think about grating on your nerves.

The only person who doesn't seem to notice is Wrecker.

It's ironic, really. It's Wrecker who causes all the trouble, and it's him who's oblivious to it. He doesn't know the effect his words have on you, and if he does, he doesn't acknowledge it.  Instead, he seems to be more affectionate, more playful, more himself than ever, and the more you try to push away your feelings, the harder they come crashing back.

It's like being caught in a riptide, unable to stop yourself from being pulled farther and farther out, no matter how much you struggle. You wish he would stop, wish he would just back off and let you think, but a part of you doesn't want him to. A part of you wants this, wants him, and it's slowly consuming the rest of you.

The only thing that keeps you sane is the knowledge that you will have to return to Coruscant soon, and that when you do, you can go back to the Order, and put the distance between you that you sorely need.

You can't hide anything from the Council. The Force is your ally and enemy, and it shows you exactly how they would react if they ever found out about you and Wrecker.

Dismissal. Disapproval. Disdain.

All things you're not ready to face, and the sooner you're separated, the better. That thought, the idea that you won't have to see Wrecker every day, helps to soothe your anxiety, and, despite the guilt and sadness it brings, you look forward to the mission ending.

The sooner you can distance yourself from him, the easier it will be.

At least, that's what you tell yourself.

You have no idea how wrong you are.

The tunnel network on Akiva is a mess, a winding labyrinth of tunnels and dead ends. The six of you have been trying to navigate them for hours now, and it's starting to take its toll. You've lost the trail of the tactical droid you're hunting multiple times, only to pick it up again an hour later. Your patience is wearing thin, and the squad is getting restless. You're all tired and hungry, and the dim, flickering lights of the tunnels are giving you a headache.

"How many turns have we made?" Crosshair asks, his voice echoing in the narrow tunnel. He's leading the pack with Hunter, whose trying his best to keep up with the trail, though it's growing colder by the minute.

"I...have lost count," Tech admits bitterly, squinting at the holographic map of the tunnels displayed on his datapad. "Perhaps we should have split up, that would have made the task—"

"Not happening," Wrecker cuts in, his voice firm.

"I wasn't finished," Tech snaps.

"Yeah, but you were gonna suggest splitting up," Wrecker says, "and that ain't gonna happen. We're all staying together."

"Tech, if we split up, we might lose each other," Hunter adds, his voice strained as he concentrates. "This trail is difficult enough to follow as it is. I don't need the distraction of trying to find a missing man on top of it."

Tech opens his mouth to reply, but stops when he catches your eye, and you give him a subtle shake of your head. He sighs and nods, looking back down at his datapad. "As always, the logical course of action is the least popular," he mutters.

Hunter snorts, but says nothing, and you and the rest of the group continue down the tunnel. You trail behind the group, trying to keep your frustration in check, when you suddenly feel a presence behind you, and you glance back to see Wrecker fall into step next to you, a small smile on his face.

"Hey," he says softly, and you can't help but return the expression. You realize what you're doing and try to school your features, but the damage is already done, and Wrecker's smile widens.

"Hi," you murmur.

"You holding up okay?" he asks.

You nod, the movement stiff. "I'm fine."

"You sure? Cause you look like you're ready to kill someone."

You grimace and glance ahead, where the others were slowly disappearing from view, and you lower your voice. "I'm sorry. It's been a long day."

"Ain't that the truth," Wrecker mutters.

"This is a mess," you sigh, glancing around the cramped, dimly lit tunnel. "We're not gonna find anything at this rate."

He shrugs, and his elbow nudges yours gently. "It'll be alright, cyar'ika. We'll find him."

The affectionate word is like a bucket of cold water thrown over your head, and your heart skips a beat. You swallow hard, and nod, hoping he can't see the flush on your cheeks.

"How can you be so sure?"

"Cause we're the best there is," Wrecker says. His arm brushes yours as the pair of you walk, and his fingers bump yours. He pulls his hand back quickly, but not before his fingertips brush against the back of your hand, and you can't suppress the shiver that runs through you. "And we have the best General in the galaxy."

"Stop," you groan, the tips of your ears burning. "I'm not the best. I've gotten us lost three times today, Wrecker. Three. If I was a better General, I would have found this stupid droid by now."

"Hey," he murmurs. "It's not your fault."

You keep your eyes on the ground, but his hand comes up and his fingers brush the back of yours. Your hand twitches, but you don't move, and his thumb runs gently over the back of your hand. You're too distracted by his touch to notice that the group had stopped walking, and it's only when Hunter speaks that you snap back to reality.

"Guys, we've got a problem."

You and Wrecker stop short, and you pull your hand from his quickly, ignoring the way his face falls. You glance up and see the other clones gathered around the entrance to a large cavern, their backs turned to you.

"What's wrong?"

Crosshair steps aside to allow you to join the group, and his eyebrow arches as his eyes flicker between you and Wrecker, a smirk crossing his face. You pointedly ignore him, and he shakes his head before returning his attention to the task at hand.

"Dead end," Hunter says.

"I don't understand," Tech murmurs. He steps forward to scan the walls and floor of the cavern with his datapad, and Echo peers over his shoulder. "According to the map, this tunnel should continue on, not stop at a room."

"Well, clearly it does," Crosshair snarks as he moves past you into the cavern. "Or are we supposed to climb the wall?"

"The structural integrity of these walls is poor," Tech replies. "Climbing would only serve to bring the ceiling down upon us."

"Then how are we supposed to get through?" Echo asks, and you bite your lip, the wheels turning in your mind.

Crosshair's flashlight pans over the walls and floor, illuminating the room, and it's then that you see the marks in the dirt. Footprints, dozens of them, some large, some small. Hunter crouches down and brushes the prints, and he frowns and pulls his glove off, running his fingers along the floor.

"These are fresh," he murmurs.

"So are these," Echo says. He and Crosshair are crouched by the far wall, examining a patch of disturbed dirt. You move to take a step forward when a chill runs up your spine, and you freeze, the hairs on the back of your neck rising.

Something is wrong.

You feel it, the air becoming thick with danger. Your muscles tense, your hands clenching at your sides, and the others must sense it, too. They rise to their feet and turn to you, their weapons ready, and the only sound is the distant dripping of water and the soft whirring of Tech's datapad.

"What is it?" Hunter whispers, his voice barely audible, but you can't answer. Your eyes dart around the cavern, searching for the threat. There's no cover in the room, nowhere to hide, and it's making your skin crawl.

"I don't know," you whisper back.

Suddenly, the ground beneath your feet starts to sha, and the men shout in alarm as the shaking gets worse. Dust falls from the ceiling, and you scramble backwards, trying not to fall as the walls start to crumble.

"Go! Go!" Hunter shouts, and the group bolts for the tunnel. You trip on a stone, and the ground cracks and splits open, swallowing the rocks whole. Wrecker grabs you and pulls you to your feet, and the pair of you race after the others, the cavern falling apart around you.

"This isn't natural!" Tech shouts, and he ducks as a rock flies towards him, missing him by inches. "The droid must have set charges!"

"Doesn't matter! Just keep moving!" Hunter yells.

There's a loud roar, and the ceiling comes crashing down. You barely have time to throw up your hands before the weight of the cave-in hits you, and your arms tremble with the effort of holding it up. Ahead of you, the others shout, but the dust and rocks muffle the sound. Your knees buckle, and the rubble starts to push down on you, your back bowing.

No, no, no, no...

The rocks shift, and your hands slip, and the ceiling starts to come down again, and all you can think is that you're not ready, not ready, not ready—

There's a flash of black, and suddenly Wrecker is diving towards you, his arms wrapping around your waist, and the two of you are thrown to the side, out of the way of the falling rocks. He wraps himself around you, his broad shoulders protecting your head, and the pair of you hit the ground hard as the rest of the cavern collapses.

The impact knocks the wind from your lungs, and you're left gasping for breath, unable to move as the cave-in rages around you, the sounds of the others muffled by the rocks. After what feels like an eternity, the noise and movement ceases, and silence settles in, save for the soft tumble of stones.

Your eyes fly open, and you're greeted with darkness. It takes a moment for them to adjust, and you blink away the grit, a shudder running through you. Your limbs feel heavy, and it's only then that you notice the crushing weight on top of you. You can feel the hard edge of plastoid digging into your chest, something softer cradling your head, and Wrecker's heavy breathing fills your ears.

"Wrecker?" you rasp.

His body moves against yours, and his helmet buried in the crook of your neck, his chest rising and falling as he pants for air.

"Yeah?"

"Are...are you okay?"

He laughs, a soft, wheezy sound, and his grip around you loosens, his arms pulling back, allowing the air to return to your lungs.

"Am I okay? I should be askin' you that!"

You laugh, the sound coming out as a half-sob, and you feel his hand cup the back of your head, his fingers threading gently through your hair. "What...what happened?"

"You almost got crushed," he replies, his voice hoarse. "Had to get you outta there."

You blink rapidly, trying to get the dust out of your eyes, and the dim light illuminates his form. He's curled around you, his body protecting yours, and his arms are still holding you tight, one wrapped around your waist, the other cupping the back of your head, his fingers gently stroking your hair.

"Oh," is all you can manage.

"Yeah," Wrecker chuckles, and his grip tightens. "'Oh' is right."

"How did you...?"

"I dunno," he mutters, and his chest rumbles with his words. "I just knew I had to get to you, no matter what."

"Well, thanks."

You swallow hard, trying to ignore the fluttering in your stomach. His hand is large enough to cradle your entire head, and his thumb gently strokes the skin of your neck. You're suddenly hyper-aware of the feeling of him pressed against you, the weight of him, the warmth, the smell of metal and dirt and sweat, and you can't help the way your face heats up.

Your hand pushes at his chest plate, and his grip on you loosens. "Uh, we should—"

"Right!" Wrecker exclaims as his arms unwrap from around you. "Sorry!"

"No, no, it's okay!"

"I shoulda let go sooner," he babbles, and you can hear the flush in his voice. "I didn't mean to..."

"It's fine," you assure him, and you sit up, wincing at the aches and pains in your body. You can hear him move beside you, his armor scraping the floor as he stands, and a moment later, a gloved hand appears in front of your face.

"Need a hand?"

"Thanks," you say, and Wrecker helps you up. The pair of you stand for a moment, listening to the silence around you. The room is dark, the only illumination coming from the narrow gaps in the stones above you, and the occasional shift sends dust falling from the ceiling.

“—al…Wrecker! Are you alright?" Hunter's voice crackles through the comms, the sound distorted by static.

"I'm okay," Wrecker replies, stepping back a little as he activates his comm. He pauses and glances down at you, and his head tilts slightly, like he's looking you over.

"What is it?" you ask, and Wrecker hesitates, his fingers brushing yours.

"You sure you're alright, cyar'ika?"

The endearment is like a slap to the face, and you blink rapidly, taken aback.

"I'm fine, thank you," you say, trying to keep your voice steady.

Wrecker doesn't seem convinced, and his fingers curl around yours. "You don't sound fine."

"I am."

"Really?"

"Yes, Wrecker," you snap. "I'm fine."

"Wrecker, report!" Hunter's voice demands, and Wrecker pulls his hand from yours and activates his comm again.

"We're okay," he says. "Me and the General."

"Thank the Maker," Hunter replies. "What happened?"

You let Wrecker answer while you try to calm yourself, your heart pounding against your ribs. It's just a word, you tell yourself, and yet the knowledge that he was willing to put himself in harm's way, risk being crushed by the rocks just to get to you...

You're not sure how much more of this you can take.

"Is anyone injured?" you ask, cutting off Wrecker mid-sentence.

"No," Hunter replies. "A few bumps and bruises, nothing serious."

"Good," you say. You walk toward the wall of rubble, reaching out with the Force and testing it, searching for a way out. There are gaps here and there, large enough for a person to fit through, but the amount of debris is daunting, and you know that without tools, the task would take hours.

"Well, this is a karking mess," Crosshair grumbles, speaking your thoughts aloud.

“You can say that again,” you say. “We’ll try to dig our way out, but it might take a while."

“Negative,” Tech’s voice cuts in immediately. “This tunnel system is too unstable. Any further attempts to excavate the debris could result in further cave-ins, which could cause catastrophic structural damage.”

You sigh, leaning your head against the rocks. "So we're stuck?"

"It would appear so," Tech replies, and you can practically hear him grimace.

“What are your orders, General?” Echo asks. You can tell by the sound of his voice that he knows what you’re about to say, but the question still makes your stomach twist. You take a deep breath, trying to calm yourself, but the feeling of the walls closing in is growing, and the anxiety is starting to become overwhelming.

"You're going to have to leave us," you say softly.

The words are met with a chorus of protests, and you squeeze your eyes shut, trying to block out the noise. Behind you, Wrecker has fallen silent, and his eyes are burning into the back of your skull, his presence looming, waiting.

"You'll be walking blind," Hunter argues. "Without Tech, you could get lost."

"Or crushed," Crosshair snarks.

"It's dangerous," Echo adds.

"It is," you reply. "But we can't stay here. We need to find the tactical droid, and the longer we wait, the colder the trail gets. So get moving. That's an order."

There's a moment of silence, then: "Copy that."

“May the Force be with you,” you reply, and you turn off your comm and close your eyes.

The silence seems deafening after the sound of the voices, and you stand there for a moment, collecting yourself. You can still feel Wrecker behind you, and his presence is as comforting as it is suffocating. You take a deep breath and steel yourself before turning to face him, and you offer him a small smile.

"Ready to get outta here?"

He doesn't reply, and his gaze is so intense that it makes your skin crawl. You clear your throat and glance away, and when you look back, he's still staring.

"Wrecker?"

"You really think they're gonna leave us here?"

"They don't have a choice," you say gently. "And neither do we."

He grunts, but says nothing, and he turns away to scan the rubble, the flashlight on his helmet casting eerie shadows on the walls. You watch him as he walks the perimeter of the cave, and it's not until he's made his third trip around the space that he speaks again.

"There's a gap over here," he calls, and you cross the cavern to join him.

He's right; the rocks have formed a tunnel, large enough for you to crawl through, and when you peek through the other side, the tunnel stretches on for several meters, the walls and floor clear of debris.

"Well, at least we have somewhere to start," you murmur.

"I'll go first," Wrecker offer, and he drops to his knees and crawls into the opening, his wide shoulders brushing the stone. You follow close behind, crawling over the jagged rocks, and when you reach the other side, Wrecker grabs your arm and helps you stand.

"Thanks," you murmur, and the pair of you turn and shine your lights down the tunnel. It stretches on ahead of you, twisting and turning, the path vanishing around a corner.

"When I get my hands on that droid..." Wrecker growls.

"If I don't get to it first," you mutter, and the two of you set off down the tunnel.

It's slow-going, with the two of you constantly checking for traps or pitfalls, and the longer you walk, the more nervous you become. It's too quiet, and the tension between you and Wrecker is thick, like an unspoken word lingering in the air.

You've been trying to think of something to say, but every time you open your mouth, your throat dries up, and the words die on your tongue. Every time, you convince yourself to tell him how you feel, and how you can't deal with his attention, his affection, but each time, your nerves get the better of you, and you lose the courage.

After a while, you turn and glance back at him, and his gaze is locked on you, his head tilted.

"What?" you ask, and the word is sharper than you intended, but the tension is starting to make your skin itch.

"Nothin'," he says. You can hear the smile in his voice, and you sigh and look ahead again, trying not to think about his eyes on you.

"Stop looking at me like that," you grumble.

"Like what?" he asks, his voice low.

"I don't know," you say, your frustration getting the better of you. "Just...just stop."

He falls silent, and you bite the inside of your cheek, the guilt starting to eat at you. It's not his fault, you remind yourself. You're the one who has the problem. He's doing what he always does, and it's driving you insane, and he has no idea, and it's not his fault, it's yours.

"I'm sorry," you murmur.

"No, no, it's okay," he replies. "I'll...I'll try not to stare."

You can hear the disappointment in his voice, and you swallow the lump in your throat. It's not his fault, it's yours.

"Thank you," is all you manage to say.

Silence settles in again, and the two of you continue on, your footsteps echoing off the walls. Wrecker keeps his promise and doesn't look at you, and it only makes the tension worse, the distance between you yawning wider.

It's hard to see anything in the dark, and the tunnel seems endless. The walls are crumbling, and the ceiling is low, and every time the stone shifts, you're afraid the tunnel will collapse on you, and that'll be the end of the Jedi and her trooper, crushed in the tunnels on Akiva. It's not the way you expected to go out, but you suppose it could be worse.

It's not a very Jedi-like thought, and you shake your head, trying to clear your mind. The exhaustion is starting to creep up on you, the long day finally catching up, and you're not sure how much longer you can stay focused.

"You okay, mesh'la?"

Wrecker's voice, soft and low, catches you by surprise, and you glance up to see him watching you, his head cocked. You're not sure what's worse, the fact that he can see right through you, or the fact that he's still calling you those names.

"Fine," you lie, turning away so he can't see your face. "Just tired." 

"We can stop if you want," he offers. "Rest for a bit."

"No," you say, forcing a laugh. "I'll be fine. We need to keep going." 

"You sure?"

"Yes."

"Okay," he replies. "But tell me if you need to stop."

You nod and walk a little faster, leaving him behind. The sound of his footsteps behind you makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up, and it takes all your self-control not to turn around.

You need the distance.

The longer the two of you are together, the closer you feel to him, and the closer you feel to him, the harder it will be to say goodbye. And if the way he looks at you, the softness in his voice when he speaks, the gentle brush of his hand against yours is anything to go by, Wrecker isn't planning on leaving your side anytime soon.

The thought makes your heart swell, but you push it down, ignoring the longing it brings. You can't get attached. You can't let him get attached. It's not fair to either of you.

Wrecker's hand finds your shoulder, stopping you in your tracks. His grip is firm, but not painful, and his fingers gently squeeze, pulling you back a step.

"Cyar'ika, slow down," he murmurs. "Don't go runnin' off."

"Sorry," you mutter, and his thumb runs over your shoulder.

"S'okay. Just be careful."

He doesn't release you, and his grip stays on your shoulder, his thumb running gently over the fabric of your robes. You should pull away, should shrug his hand off, but his touch is comforting, and you can't help but lean into it.

"I will."

You don't move, and his fingers stroke your shoulder, the motion slow and rhythmic.

"What's wrong?" he asks, his voice barely a whisper.

"Nothing."

"Don't give me that," he says. "There's something bothering you. I can tell."

"It's nothing, Wrecker," you say, and this time, your words are firm. His grip on your shoulder tightens, not painfully, just enough to make his presence known. "Everything's fine."

"You can talk to me, y'know," he says, and the gentleness in his voice makes your throat close up. "Whatever it is, I'm here for you."

You stare at him, torn between wanting to scream and wanting to cry. Instead, you take a deep breath and let it out slowly. You can't do this right now. You can't handle his concern, his kindness, his affection.

"I said I'm fine," you say, your voice tight. "Just drop it, Wrecker." 

He stares at you for a moment, then his hand slips from your shoulder and falls to his side. 

"Okay," he says flatly. "I'm sorry."

You want to reach out and grab him, pull him back and apologize, but you can't. You can't even bring yourself to say anything, to explain yourself. You just watch him as he walks away, and the distance between you feels like a chasm. He's only a few steps away, but it might as well be miles.

You stand there, frozen, for what feels like an eternity, before finally you turn and start walking again. The silence is unbearable, but there's nothing you can do. You're trapped, with nowhere to go, and the man you care about most is walking away from you. It's a helpless, hopeless feeling, and you can't shake it. But you have to keep moving, so you do.

At some point, Hunter checks in and lets you know they're close to finding the T-1, but the knowledge does little to ease the pain in your chest. You keep walking, pushing yourself as fast as you can, but it doesn't seem to make a difference. The darkness, the silence, and the weight of your emotions seem to swallow you whole.

Wrecker doesn't seem to be faring much better. He keeps casting glances your way, and his posture is tense, his steps heavy. You know he wants to talk to you, but the words won't come. So you both suffer in silence, each step feeling like a betrayal, and the air is thick with things left unsaid.

When the two of you finally reach the end of the tunnel, the sun has started to set, casting the world outside in shades of orange and gold. The entrance opens into a field, the long grass swaying in the wind, and the sky is a vibrant shade of purple. It's a welcome relief from the stifling confines of the tunnel, and the sight of the sky is enough to make your heart ache.

I never want to be underground again, you think, and you take a deep breath, relishing the taste of the air. Beside you, Wrecker does the same, ripping off his helmet and sucking in a deep lungful of air.

"Fresh air," he groans. "I love fresh air."

"Me too," you murmur.

His head turns, and he smiles. "Glad we're outta there, cyar'ika?"

The affectionate word is enough to ruin the mood, and you glance away. "Yes. Glad."

"Good," he replies. His voice is soft, and when you look up, he's staring at you, his eyes searching your face. You want to look away, to avoid his gaze, but his eyes are like a magnet, drawing you in.

"Wrecker—"

"There you are!"

The sound of Hunter's voice startles you, and you tear your gaze away from Wrecker's to find the rest of the squad running towards you. Tech has his datapad in his hand, and his eyes are bright with triumph.

"I have good news," he says. "The tactical droid is—"

"Dead," Crosshair interrupts, and he tosses something at you. You reach up and catch the object, and the metal is still warm from Crosshair's grip. It's the head of a tactical droid, its expression fixed in a permanent nonplussed grimace, the red light behind its eyes extinguished.

"How...?"

"Hunter ripped it apart," Echo explains.

"I didn't like the way it was talking," Hunter mutters, and his shoulders shift uncomfortably.

"So, that's it, then?" Wrecker asks.

"Yep," Echo says. "Mission's done."

"Then let's go home," you sigh.

The men cheer, and the squad gathers around, jostling each other playfully. You smile at the display, and the weight on your chest starts to lift. You're free, the mission's over, and everything is going to go back to normal. It's a relief, and yet...

Your gaze wanders, and your eyes find Wrecker, and your chest aches. His expression is bright, a grin splitting his face, but his eyes are dark, and his smile doesn't reach them. Your hand tightens around the droid's head, and the guilt is almost unbearable.

It's better this way. You remind yourself. Safer. For both of us.

You can't risk the Council discovering what's been going on. If they ever found out, the repercussions would be disastrous. The thought of the men being punished for something that's your fault makes your stomach turn, and the idea of losing them, of never seeing Wrecker again...it's too much.

So you put on a smile and try not to think about the future, try not to think about what's waiting for you, the distance that will grow between you, the way you'll feel when the time comes to say goodbye.

The six of you pile into the ship, and Tech takes the controls, lifting the ship off the ground and flying into the evening sky. The takeoff is bumpy, and the ship groans under the strain, but eventually, you're in the air.

All you want to do is hide in your bunk, but there's a debrief to be done. Hunter is giving his report, and you're trying to pay attention, but all you can think about is the look on Wrecker's face.

You can't get it out of your head, and it's starting to drive you crazy. He was so happy when you got out of the tunnel, and now he looks like he's in pain, and you're the cause. You hate yourself for it, but the fear is still there, lingering, a constant reminder of the dangers that await you, and it's enough to make you stay away.

"We made it out with a few scrapes, but nothing too bad," Hunter finishes. He turns his head, looking between you and Wrecker. "What about the two of you?"

You open your mouth to answer, but the words die on your tongue, and the silence grows. All eyes are on you, and the longer you wait, the more concerned the men become. You look at Wrecker, hoping he'll say something, but he doesn't. He's staring at the floor, his shoulders tense.

"Uh, we're fine," you reply, and the words feel like glass. "No injuries. We're...we're good."

Wrecker scoffs and pushes himself out of his seat, stalking out of the cockpit. You watch him leave, a knot forming in your throat.

"That's odd," Tech murmurs, his eyes following Wrecker.

"Yeah," Hunter mutters. He shakes his head and sighs, then follows Wrecker, leaving you alone with the others

Crosshair raises an eyebrow and turns to look at you, his sharp eyes scanning your face. "Well?"

"What?"

"You really expect us to believe that?" he asks, his tone mocking. "You're a terrible liar, General."

You glance between him and Echo, and both of them are staring at you, their expressions unreadable. You swallow hard and force a laugh, shaking your head.

"There's nothing to tell."

"If there was nothing to tell, Wrecker wouldn't be sulking," Echo points out.

"And you wouldn't be sitting here looking like you're about to throw up," Crosshair adds.

"I am not," you argue.

"Oh, please," Crosshair snorts. "It's written all over your face."

"It's pretty obvious," Echo says, his voice gentler than Crosshair's. "What's wrong?"

You shake your head and rise to your feet. "Nothing."

"We're not gonna leave this alone," Crosshair calls after you.

"We're worried about you," Echo adds.

"Fine," you say, trying not to sound as defeated as you feel. "Worry. It doesn't matter. We'll be on Coruscant soon, and then I won't be your problem anymore."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Echo asks, his voice sharp, but you ignore him and keep walking. You can hear them arguing, their voices rising, and the words they're throwing at each other make your stomach churn. You keep your head down and keep walking, but before you can reach the bunks, you see Hunter and Wrecker. They're standing in the middle of the hallway, their backs to you, and Hunter's hand is on Wrecker's shoulder.

"—just give her some space," Hunter is saying.

"But she's—"

"She's fine," Hunter cuts in. "She just needs some time to herself. You've been a little clingy, and she needs a break."

Wrecker's shoulders stiffen, and the hurt in his voice is palpable. "Is that what she told you?"

"Well, no," Hunter says slowly. "But—"

"Then how do you know?" Wrecker demands, pulling away. "How do you know that's what she wants? How do you know she doesn't..." He trails off, his voice thick, and he turns, and his eyes land on you. The two of you stare at each other, the space between you charged with emotion, and when he speaks again, his words are quiet, and heartbreaking. "...want me?"

"She's a Jedi," Hunter says softly. "They don't...feel those kinds of things."

Wrecker stares at you, his expression open, the longing on his face so plain, so obvious, that your knees feel weak. You can't take it anymore. You turn away, ducking into the refresher and locking the door behind you

The room is silent, the air still. There's no sound but the pounding of your heart, the blood roaring in your ears. You lean against the door and slide to the floor, wrapping your arms around your knees.

You know what you have to do, but the idea is terrifying, the thought of saying goodbye to Wrecker too painful to bear. But he's hurting, and it's because of you. You can't put him through that, not any longer. He deserves better. He deserves someone who can be with him, can give him the affection he deserves, not a cowardly Jedi who can't handle the consequences of her actions.

The realization hurts more than you thought it would, but there's nothing you can do. You've known all along that this would have to end someday, and that someday has come.

The only thing you can do is let him go.

The next day passes in a blur, and the tension is thick in the air. Wrecker doesn't say a word, doesn't look at you, doesn't acknowledge your presence, and you're grateful for it. You can't bring yourself to look at him, and the others are quick to pick up on the change. They cast furtive glances at each other, their concern growing, and their efforts to cheer you up only make the situation worse. You'd much rather they focus their attentions on Wrecker, so you avoid all of them as best you can. 

It's easier this way. Safer. Less painful. 

And maybe, if you keep telling yourself that, you'll start to believe it.

Once you land on Kashyyyk to refuel, the five of them disappear into the village, leaving you alone to meditate. It's the one thing that can help you clear your mind, and you welcome the chance to relax.

The ship is silent, the hum of the engine the only noise, and the quiet helps soothe the ache in your chest. You close your eyes and settle onto the floor, clearing your mind and reaching out with the Force.

When you were a youngling, you were told that the Force was your ally, and you believed it. Now, you know better. The Force doesn't take sides. It simply is. It exists in everything, every living thing, and sometimes, when you meditate, you can feel it. It's a gentle brush against your senses, like a soft caress, and you let yourself sink into the feeling, allowing it to envelop you, and for a moment, everything seems to fade away.

That's why, when you hear the sound of someone approaching, you're startled, and your eyes fly open. You frown, remembering Hunter saying he'd comm you when the others were headed back. It's more than likely Tech sneaking away from the group to tinker with the ship, and so you stand, turning towards the sound.

What you see instead, however, makes your blood run cold. 

Wrecker is standing at the top of the ramp, his form silhouetted by the light outside, his eyes burning into you. You're frozen in place, unable to move, unable to think. All you can do is stare at him, trying to make sense of the expression on his face, but all you can see is anger, and your heart sinks.

"What's going on?" he asks. His voice is low, but there's an edge to it, and his shoulders are stiff.

"What do you mean?"

"I'm talking about the way you've been acting," he says, stepping further into the ship. "Ever since we left Akiva, you've been avoiding me. Why?"

"I haven't been avoiding you," you lie, turning away from him.

"Like kriff, you haven't!" he exclaims, and you flinch, the anger in his voice catching you off guard. "I've tried to talk to you, and you walk away! You won't even look at me!"

"That's not true," you argue. "I'm always—"

"Yeah, it is," he snaps. "You think I don't notice, but I do. You're always running away, avoiding me. Why? Just tell me why. Talk to me. Please."

"Wrecker..."

"Don't say my name like that," he pleads, his voice cracking. "Don't push me away. Please, cyar'ika, I need to know what's going on."

The endearment sends a jolt through your system, and you squeeze your eyes shut, trying not to cry. You've spent the past twenty-four hours doing nothing but thinking about this, trying to steel yourself for what's to come, and yet here he is, begging for answers, and you're not ready. You can't bring yourself to say the words, can't bring yourself to push him away, but if you don't, it will only get harder.

"Please," he whispers. "What did I do? How did I hurt you?"

You can't look at him, but you can't ignore him, either. The last thing you want is for him to think any of this is his fault, and so you force yourself to turn, your eyes meeting his, and your resolve breaks.

"You didn't," you murmur. "It's not your fault, I promise."

"Then tell me what's wrong," he pleads, and his voice is soft, and the desperation in it is enough to break your heart. "Tell me what I can do to fix this."

Wrecker reaches out and takes a step towards you, his hand outstretched, but the gesture is hesitant, almost as if he's afraid to touch you. When you don't move away, he steps closer, his fingers brushing the hem of your sleeve. His gaze is intense, his eyes searching yours, and the ache in his voice is enough to make you want to scream.

"I'm not good at this," he admits. "This...talking stuff. I never know what to say, and I'm sorry. If I made you uncomfortable, or did somethin' wrong, I'm sorry."

"Wrecker..."

"I just want to make things right," he whispers, and his fingers curl around your sleeve. "Just tell me how, and I'll do it. I'll fix it."

He's so earnest, so sincere, and the guilt is crushing. You can't lie to him, not anymore. Not when he's looking at you like this.

"It's not that simple," you say, and the words feel like lead in your mouth.

"Why not?" he asks, his voice raw.

"Because," you say, the words tumbling out before you can stop them. "Because I can't do this anymore, Wrecker. I can't..." You trail off, the words dying on your tongue. You can't bring yourself to say them, can't bring yourself to end things like this. But it's too late. He knows.

He drops his hand, and the look of pain on his face is almost enough to break your heart.

"Do what?" he asks, his voice shaking.

"This," you say, gesturing between the two of you. "Whatever this is. I can't keep pretending that I don't know what you mean when you call me those names. I can't keep acting like it's nothing, because it's not." 

Wrecker stumbles back a step, eyes wide.

"You knew?" he asks, and his voice is barely audible. "This whole time...?"

"Of course I knew," you say, trying to keep the frustration out of your voice. "You think I could have missed it?" You try to laugh, but it comes out as a choked sob. "You're not exactly subtle, Wrecker."

"Oh," he says, and the single word holds a world of hurt. He turns away from you, his hands curling into fists at his sides, and the tension in the air is palpable. A heavy silence settles in, and when he speaks again, his voice is a hoarse whisper.

"Why didn't you say something?" he asks. "Why didn't you tell me to stop?"

"I couldn't," you say, swallowing the lump in your throat. "I...I liked it too much."

"What?" Wrecker turns, his head snapping around to face you, and his expression is torn between hope and horror.

"You heard me," you say, fighting to keep your voice steady. You turn away, but his hand finds your chin, gently tilting your face back to his. The heat of his palm burns into your skin, his touch so gentle, and your heart leaps into your throat.

"Then why are you doing this?" he asks, and the words are barely audible. "If you like it, why are you trying to push me away?"

You close your eyes, trying to gather your thoughts. It's a good question, and one you're not sure you can answer.

"Because," you start, and then trail off. When you open your eyes, his face is inches from yours, and the pain in his eyes is overwhelming. "Because I'm not meant for this. For us." You motion between the two of you. "I have a duty. A responsibility. I can't...I can't give you what you want. What you deserve."

"But I don't want anyone else,” Wrecker says softly, his thumb brushing your cheek. "I just want you."

The words hit you like a punch to the gut, and you close your eyes, trying not to cry. You can feel the warmth of his body, the weight of his hand, the scent of him surrounding you. You want to pull away, to run and hide, but the way his hands cradle your face, the gentleness in his touch, makes it impossible.

"You don't mean that," you whisper, the words like poison. "You can't. I'm a Jedi. You know what that means. You know what my life is. I can't give you anything, Wrecker. I can't even be there for you. I can't..."

"Stop," he whispers. 

His hands drop, moving to your shoulders, and he turns you, pulling you closer. You let him, and his arms wrap around you, his forehead resting against yours. The touch is warm and gentle, and his eyes are soft, full of pain and love. 

He's never been anything but gentle with you, even when he didn't have to be. Even when the mission demanded he take risks, put his life on the line, he was always careful with you. Always protective. Always gentle. And now, here, when the mission is over, the danger gone, he's still treating you like something precious, something to be treasured.

It's too much.

"Don't say that," he murmurs, his voice low and rough. "You don't get to tell me how I feel. You can't decide for me, cyar'ika. I'm not gonna change my mind. I'm not gonna stop caring about you. So just...just stop. Okay?"

Your hands find his, curling around his wrists. His pulse is pounding under your fingertips, and his chest is rising and falling with each breath, the beat of his heart matching the rhythm of yours. It would be so easy, so tempting, to let yourself give in. To give him the answer he wants. To give him the one thing you've wanted to give him for so long.

But you can't. You can't let him sacrifice his future, his happiness, for you. It's too much. Too selfish.

"Wrecker, please," you say, squeezing his wrists. "Don't make this harder than it has to be."

"Then don't do this," he whispers. "Don't walk away from me. Please." His voice breaks, and his fingers dig into your shoulders. "Just...just give me a chance."

You want to scream. You want to cry. You want to hit him, to shove him away, but you can't. All you can do is stare up at him, his face inches from yours, his eyes begging. It would be so easy, and yet, impossibly difficult. If you do this, if you give in, it's not just your life on the line, but his. If you give him what he wants, if you allow him to care for you, it will only lead to more heartbreak. More pain.

And yet...

You can't bring yourself to pull away, can't bring yourself to deny him. And, if you're honest with yourself, you don't want to. You've wanted this for so long, wanted him, and now that the moment has finally come, the opportunity has presented itself, you can't let it go.

"I can't," you whisper, your voice shaking.

"Why not?"

"Because I'm scared," you confess. You reach out and cup his cheek, running your thumb over the scarred tissue beneath his eye, and his expression softens. "I'm not supposed to feel like this. I'm not supposed to...to love you." The words come out choked, and the tears in your eyes blur your vision. "It's wrong. It's forbidden. It's...it's..."

"It's what?" he asks, his voice rough with emotion. "It's amazing? It's the best feeling in the galaxy?"

"Yes," you whisper, and the tears spill over. "But I can't do this. I can't...I can't let you sacrifice yourself for me."

"You think that's what I'm doing?" Wrecker asks. His hand slips from your shoulder, his fingers stroking your cheek, catching a tear as it falls. "Cyar'ika, I'd sacrifice myself for you a hundred times over. You think I care about what they'd say? They can go kriff themselves. I'd fight every single member of the Council for you, if I had to. But I don't need to. 'Cause they can't tell me what to do, and neither can you."

"You say that now," you mutter. "But—"

"I'll say it every day," he cuts in. "Every single day until you believe me. I don't care about them. I don't care about the rules. I just want you."

"Wrecker, stop," you whisper, but he shakes his head, his hands cupping your face, his thumbs brushing your cheeks.

"I know you're scared. I know you're worried about what's going to happen. But we don't have to think about that. We can just be together. Just us. Nobody has to know. We can figure this out. Together. But you gotta let me in."

You stare at him, stunned by the strength and certainty in his words. He's right. You are scared. You're terrified. And not just of what the Council will do, or what the consequences might be. 

You're afraid of him, of the power he holds over you, the way you feel about him. But standing here, with his hands on your face, his eyes searching yours, it's enough to make you reconsider. Enough to make you question everything. And so you swallow your fears, and you say the words.

"I love you, Wrecker."

His lips part, and his eyes widen, and the sound that comes out of his mouth is halfway between a laugh and a sob.

"You mean that?" he asks, his voice tight with emotion.

"Yes," you say, and the word is like a weight lifting off your shoulders. "I do. I love you."

His arms slip around your waist, and he pulls you into him, pressing his forehead against yours, his breath warm on your face. He doesn't say anything, just stares down at you, his gaze burning, and the silence stretches on, charged with anticipation. And then, finally, he speaks.

"I love you too, cyar'ika," he says, his voice trembling. "More than you know."

Your heart feels like it's going to burst. You pull him close, burying your face in his chest, and his arms wrap around you, holding you tight. It's an overwhelming feeling, this affection, this love, but you can't deny it. Not anymore. And as you stand there, his body wrapped around yours, his hands running through your hair, you know that he's right.

"Don't let go," you whisper, your voice muffled by his armor. "Please, don't ever let me go."

"I won't," he says, his voice a rumble in his chest. "I got you, an'edee. Always."

The words send a jolt of warmth through your body, and you melt into him, allowing yourself to be swept away by the feeling. It's like coming home, the warmth and comfort washing over you, and the tension melts away, leaving only relief in its wake. 

You're not sure how long you stay there, wrapped up in each other, but when he finally pulls away, you're stunned by the look in his eyes. No one has ever looked at you like that. No one has ever seen you like he does.

"Better?" he asks, his voice gentle.

"Yes," you say, smiling up at him. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me," he says. "You don't gotta thank me. Just keep lookin' at me like that."

"Like what?"

"Like you love me," he murmurs.

"Oh," you reply, blushing. "Well, then, I suppose I should do my best. It wouldn't do for me to fail in that regard."

He chuckles, his hands sliding up your sides. "No, it wouldn't."

You shiver at his touch, the heat of his hands sinking into your skin. His palms are rough and calloused, and his fingers are gentle, tracing the curve of your waist. Your eyes meet, and his smile is so wide, so warm, that you can't help but return it.

"So," he says, his hands drifting lower. "Where does this leave us?"

"Us?"

"Yeah. You know, our relationship," he says. "Are we...together? Or do I still gotta keep pretendin' that you're just a friend?"

You sigh, a smile tugging at your lips. "Together, Wrecker. We're together."

"Good," he grins, his eyes bright. "'Cause I wasn't sure how much longer I could take it. Having you around, knowing how I felt, not being able to do anything about it."

"That's why I was avoiding you," you admit. "I knew if I had to spend much more time with you, I was going to break. I was already having trouble controlling my feelings. If we'd had another mission, I don't think I would have made it. I was so close to telling you how I felt."

"Really?"

"Yes."

"Kriff, cyar'ika," he groans, his grip on your waist tightening. "I wish you would've said something sooner. Woulda made things a lot easier."

"I'm sorry," you murmur.

"Don't apologize," he says, his voice husky. "You're worth the wait."

Your breath catches in your throat, and his eyes flick to yours, and his grin turns mischievous.

"What is it, mesh'la?" he asks, his fingers digging into your hips. "Tell me."

"I, um..." You clear your throat, trying to ignore the way his voice makes your insides turn to mush. "It's just that...when you call me those names, it, uh, does things to me."

"Good things?" he asks, leaning in.

"Yes."

"You want me to keep saying them, then?"

"Yes."

"Well, I can do that," he murmurs. His breath is warm on your skin, his voice low and teasing. "And I can do a lot more, too. If you want me to."

You stare up at him, trying to ignore the butterflies in your stomach, trying not to let your desire show on your face. You've never done anything like this, never even considered doing something like this. And yet, the idea of him touching you, kissing you, fills you with anticipation.

"I'd like that," you manage, your voice hoarse.

"You sure?"

"Yes."

He nods, and he leans down, his lips ghosting over yours. His eyes search your face, and he waits, and when you nod, he presses his lips to yours.

It's a slow, soft kiss, the barest brush of skin on skin. But the contact sends a thrill through your body, and you can't help but press closer, wanting more. Your hands move to the back of his neck, pushing yourself onto the tips of your toes, and he obliges, pulling you in.

His lips are warm, his tongue slick and hot as it traces the seam of your mouth. You open for him, letting him deepen the kiss, and his palm slides up your back, cradling your head. His thumb strokes your cheek, and the gentleness of the gesture sends a rush of warmth through your veins.

When the two of you finally break apart, your lungs are aching, and his breath is ragged. He leans his forehead against yours, his fingers tracing lazy circles on the back of your neck.

"Kriff, cyar'ika," he whispers, and the name sends a thrill through you. You can hear the longing, the need, in his voice, and it's enough to make your knees weak. "Do you have any idea how long I've waited for this?"

"Tell me," you say, your voice shaking.

"Too long," he murmurs. "Far too long."

You lean back, looking up at him. The adoration in his eyes takes your breath away, and you pull him down, kissing him again. This time, the kiss is deeper, more intense, and you can't hold back a moan as his tongue slips past your lips.

The noise seems to ignite something in him, because the next thing you know, his arms are around you, lifting you up with ease. You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him in, and his hands roam over your back, sliding down to cup your ass. He breaks the kiss, his lips moving to your neck, and the heat of his mouth, the scrape of his teeth, makes you gasp.

Wrecker sets you down on the edge of your bunk, and the height difference is suddenly very apparent. You're not used to being on eye level with him, but now, with your legs spread, his body between them, it's impossible not to notice. His gaze rakes over you, taking in every detail, and the hunger in his eyes sends a jolt of excitement through your body.

"You're so beautiful," he murmurs, his fingers tracing the line of your jaw. He sounds awed, like he can't believe his luck, and the compliment makes your heart flutter. "So kriffing beautiful, cyar'ika." 

You lean into his touch, and his fingers brush against your lips, the callouses of his hands rough against your skin. You kiss his fingertips, and the heat in his gaze makes you blush.

"Not as beautiful as you," you murmur. He shakes his head with a wide grin, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

"No one's as beautiful as you," Wrecker says, his hand finding yours. His fingers lace with yours, and he raises your hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to the back of your knuckles. His touch is gentle, and the tenderness of the gesture makes your heart clench. "I could look at you forever. Never get tired of it."

The heat on your cheeks is unbearable, and you're not sure how to respond. Words can't capture the emotions coursing through you, and so you lean in, your lips meeting his in a searing kiss. He groans against your mouth, his hand finding the small of your back and pulling you flush against him.

You wrap your legs around him, the need to be closer, to feel his body pressed against yours, overwhelming. He seems to understand, his fingers tangling in your hair, his teeth nipping at your lip.

"I'm gonna take such good care of you, cyar'ika," he promises, his voice rough with emotion. "Promise."

"You already have," you whisper. "Just having you here is more than I deserve."

"Don't talk like that," he mutters. His hand slides up, cupping the back of your head, and he kisses the corner of your mouth. He tilts your face up to meet his, and the intensity of his gaze is almost overwhelming. "I've never wanted anyone the way I want you. I'm not gonna give that up. You're mine, and I'm not lettin' go."

The words are a jolt to your system, the possessiveness of his tone making you tremble. He's always been protective of you, but this is different. This is more than just a desire to keep you safe. This is something else entirely. You can't find the words to respond, and so you nod, swallowing the lump in your throat and praying the tears in your eyes don't spill over.

"Wrecker," you whisper. "I..."

"I love you," he murmurs, his nose brushing against yours. "So much."

The words are a balm on your aching heart, and the tears finally fall. Wrecker leans in and kisses them away, his lips soft and gentle against your cheeks. The tenderness, the closeness, it's too much to bear, and the emotions welling up inside you are overwhelming. You wrap your arms around him, burying your face in his chest, and he holds you tight, his hand rubbing soothing circles on your back.

"I got you," he whispers. "It's okay. You're okay."

"I'm sorry," you murmur. "I don't know why I'm crying."

"I do," he replies. He cups your chin, tilting your face up to meet his. His eyes are soft, and his lips curl into a gentle smile. "You've been through a lot, and you're tired. You're allowed to cry."

You nod, wiping the tears from your face. He's right. The past few days have been exhausting, emotionally and physically. Between the mission, the tension between the two of you, the anxiety and uncertainty, it's a miracle you're not falling apart.

"Hey," he murmurs. "Stop thinking so hard. It's okay."

"I'm not supposed to let my emotions get the best of me," you murmur.

"That's some banthashit, an'edee," he says, and his voice is teasing, but there's a hint of steel in it. "You're human. You're allowed to have emotions."

"I suppose," you reply, unable to keep the smile off your face.

"Good," he says, and his thumb strokes your cheek. "We'll make this work. We'll find a way."

"Wrecker," you sigh.

"Shh," he cuts in. "None of that. We're together, right?"

"Right."

"Then trust me. I'm not gonna let anything happen to you," he promises. "I'll keep you safe."

"I know," you whisper, closing your eyes.

"We'll figure it out," Wrecker says. "It might be hard, but we'll find a way. We always do."

He leans in and kisses you again, his lips soft and warm. You kiss him back, allowing yourself to give in, to let go of the fear and worry, to let yourself be swept away by the feeling. He's right. It will be difficult, but it's worth it.

This is where you belong, in his arms, and no matter what the future holds, no matter what the Order says, no matter the consequences, you know you'll always have him. And that's more than you could have ever hoped for.

Taglist: @baddest-batchers @covert1ntrovert @stellarbit @bruh-myguy-what @qvnthesia

@spicy-clones @kindalonleystars @cw80831 @totallyunidentified @heidnspeak

@lovelytech9902 @frozenreptile @chocolatewastelandtriumph @etod @puppetscenario

@umekohiganbana @resistantecho @dindjarins1ut @tech-aficionado @aynavaano

@burningnerdchild @ihatesaaand @lolwey @hobbititties @mere-bear

@thegreatpipster @lordofthenerds97 @tentakelspektakel @notslaybabes @mali-777

@schrodingersraven @megmegalodondon @dangraccoon @dreamie411 @sukithebean

@bimboshaggy @anything-forourmoony @9902sgirl @jedi-dreea @salaminus

@ghostymarni @gottalovehistory @burningnerdchild @yoitsjay @callsign-denmark

@julli-bee @sonicrainbooms @captn-trex @feral-ferrule @webslinger-holland

@marchingviolist @deerspringdreams @chaicilatte @somewhere-on-kamino @silly-starfish

@floofyroro @veralii @chubbyhedgehog @meshlajetii @heaven1207

@808tsuika @aanncummings @lugiastark @maniacalbooper @sensitive_shark

@kashasenpai @kkdrawsdecently @isaidonyourknees

[fizzlos-main]

the art started arting recently so i drew @boyyardee 's silly guy before i forget how to draw again

[hypertechnica]

confession

[queenofallimagines]

Bruce Wayne x Fem reader

Shuffles in nervously 👉🏿👈🏿 hiii

A/N: listen,,, I’ve been writing fic fie the requests and then I was dragged kicking and screaming into Bruce Wayne’s arms. Nothing I love more than a tired depressed Dilf✨ got a lot more things sitting in the drafts because it’s SO good to do a character study on them and Damian is next I think he should have a cool stepmom. Bruce Wayne I can read your mind🗣️

Cw: ambiguous age but not explicable age gap so imagine what you will, the batfam are WEAK to black women but it’s pretty ambiguous in writing, fellow vigilante reader, Bruce is shit at feelings and can’t communicate, Fem reader, Bruce thinks with his dick before his trauma, his kids are nosey as fuck. oh and like mentions of aphrodisiac chemicals used but only once or twice.

Summary: Bruce could only internally groan at his predicament. He wasn’t to say he’s not sure how he got here but he knows exactly how he ended up here. He’s too grown for a one night stand.

Bruce Wayne:

"—told you they stayed the night!"

Bruce wakes to the muffled voices of giggling adolescents. Terrible timing. Dread settles into his gut as his bleary eyes snap open.

Bruce's biggest mistake was bringing you home. Blaming it on the chemicals he and his fellow vigilante crashed into last night would be convenient. But truthfully, both of you consented before those substances burned through your inhibitions, landing you in his king-sized bed, engaging in activities that his hyper-aware mind keeps replaying. Now is not the time to reminisce, not with the voices of his kids echoing outside. He swallows a groan. You'd think he trained all that boyish cheek right out of them, because that is not how one conducts reconnaissance. He'd do the shameful thing and sneak out, but alas, this grand manor belongs to Bruce.

….Maybe he can politely kick you out without incurring Alfred's wrath and enduring hours of lectures on dignity and respect—two things Bruce has little of at the moment. The scent of coffee and toast wafting in from the doorway indicates that Alfred set up a snack cart outside his door—a subtle reminder to behave. Bruce grimaces. Damned Englishmen and their inane concept of manners. Shifting on the bed, he keeps his eyes fixed on your head and not the bare expanse of your skin that he touched. A lot. He left—his dignity won't allow him to call them 'hickeys' because grown men don't do hickeys—various passion marks on your skin.

This time, Bruce can't quite stifle his groan. He's too old for a one-night stand.

"Christ," he grunts quietly, knowing divine intervention won't be coming.

No one said Bruce Wayne ever had a proper love life. Still, he'd take any endless rant from Gordon about Nightwing's countless motor vehicle violations over his children confronting him. At your groan, Bruce's tense shoulders relax slightly. Part of him expected you to be one of those people who woke up ready to take on the world—another reminder of Bruce's age. When you shift, his muscles tense again. Bruce clears his throat, voice gruff. "Morning," he rumbles, before he's tempted to do something less than honorable. The noise, followed by shifting sheets, pulls attention to you stirring. In the soft light, you look soft and relaxed in his bed, like you belong here.

He knows that's a dangerous thought to entertain.

Bruce says and does nothing as your eyes flutter open, blinking blearily and trying to piece together the circumstances of the previous night. He looks at you for a moment, contemplating whether he can get away with offering you money to keep quiet.

“Mmmmorning..”

That yawning stretch is both distracting and endearing. It's unfair. Bruce watches your movements, taking in every detail from the slight dip of your spine to the flutter of eyelashes. It's a sight he'd become intimately acquainted with.

"Sleep well?"

He asks, already knowing the answer. Even if you slept like a log, your body would be sore from being tangled in him all night.

“Mhm.”

If you weren't so drowsy, you'd notice his jaw clench at the sight of the sheets pooling around your hips, exposing your bare chest. Like most things, it's unfairly alluring to Bruce.

"You've got a choice of coffee or orange juice," he says, nodding at the cart a couple steps from the bed. His voice is still gruff.

“Orange juice please.”

Bruce rises from bed, unashamed at his own nakedness. He crosses to the cart, ignoring the faint twinge in his muscles, and pours you a glass of orange juice. A glance back reveals you sitting up against the pillows, wrapped in his sheets like a makeshift toga. He's never seen a more enticing sight in his life. Bruce ignores the impulse to push you back down and take you again.

"Here."

He returns to the bed and offers you the glass.

“Thanks.”

Bruce watches you drink. Another mistake. He can't help imagining how that mouth felt on other places, wrapped around and- Gods. Not the time. He should've given you a robe or something. Those sheets aren't hiding much and your sitting against the pillows has the fabric slipping lower and lower- He clears his throat, trying to rid his mind of dirty thoughts as he sips his coffee.

"You're welcome," he mutters. There's a satisfied, primal part of his soul that preens knowing that you're still in his bed, his sheets draped over you like a claim.

"Did you...have fun last night?"

He cringes almost immediately afterward. Bruce's pillow talk is abysmal.

“what…?”

The events slowly coming back to you, playing behind your eyelids like a movie. A noise of realization leaves your throat as you nod. Under usual circumstances you’d would be embarrassed beyond belief but after having slept so good and still being tired you can’t really find it to care

“oh yeah. I did. ‘t was ‘fuckin amazing.”

Bruce can't help it when his lips curve in response to your praise. You're still in his bed, still wrapped in his sheets, and now telling him he was amazing in bed—damn his ego for being so smug.

"Mm, I'm glad," he hums, taking another sip of coffee. He sets the cup on the bedside table and leans back against the pillows, eyeing you appreciatively.

"Are you... sore anywhere?"

“Nah, just all over.” Bruce can't help the satisfied smirk that crosses his face at your answer. Knowing he left you in a state of boneless bliss has that primal part of him preening again, like a pleased cat.

"Good," he murmurs, a hint of male pride in his voice as he gazes at you. "It... wasn't too much, was it?" Bruce swallows thickly, the urge to touch you growing. The kids are just outside the door. He shouldn't. He won't.

But maybe he can have just a little taste.

“It was, but in all the ways I like it so you’re good.”

Bruce can't stop the quiet groan that rumbles in his throat at your admission. You look a bit like a fallen angel, all debauched hair and sleepy eyes. The sight is almost too much for his self-control, more than you realized. He shifts subtly, adjusting himself under the sheets.

"I suppose that's a good thing, then."

He keeps his tone even, casual, but his gaze is hot and intense as he drinks you in. Bruce's gaze darkens at your answer. If it weren't for the kids and Alfred, he'd be on you in a heartbeat, pressing you into the bed, and leaving marks all over you that claim you as-- His jaw ticks at the possessive thoughts. No. Not the time. Later.

"Good," he repeats, voice gruff. Still, he makes no move to leave the bed. "You... don’t have anywhere to be?"

Bruce already knows the answer. It's a Saturday, after all.

“Aside from the mission last night my schedule is fully clear to my knowledge.”

Bruce nods in understanding, taking another sip of coffee. The image of your previous mission- that you both stumbled into- flashes in his mind: chemicals, a haze of lust, the taste of you on his lips. He pushes the memories aside as his gaze flicks to your exposed shoulder, then back to your face.

"So you can stay for breakfast," he says, keeping his voice steady even as he desperately fights the urge to pull the sheets off you and devour you. "Alfred is making pancakes."

“Mmm, I haven’t spoken to him in a while it will be nice to see his face again.”

Bruce's smile is a subtle, soft thing as you mention Alfred. The older man has served as a sort of parental figure in Bruce's life. Alfred and Bruce are like family, and hearing you mention his name sparks a warm sense of familiarity.

"He'll be happy to see you."

Bruce hesitates for a moment, a flicker of vulnerability in his gaze. "Do you... want to get up?" he asks, his meaning clear: ‘or do you want to stay in bed a bit longer?’

“….Not gunna lie I’d rather stay in bed a little longer. It’s so warm and comfortable the thought of getting up and putting on clothes sounds like torture.”

Bruce gives an almost imperceptible sigh of relief as you speak. Part of him expected you to get up the minute he mentioned getting dressed. But you don't. You didn’t. You want to stay in bed, and you have no idea how happy you just made him. With a smirk, Bruce reaches out, sliding his hand under the sheet, and grabs your hip, pulling you closer. He doesn't miss the way the fabric slides farther down your torso, revealing more tantalizing skin.

"You are very articulate in the morning."

“Mmm I’m like barely awake right now honestly. Less of a filter or any sort of shame.”

Bruce smirks at your admittance. You're clearly still half asleep, your guard down, and more unfiltered than he expected.

"You're normally more stoic, less open," he muses, tracing his fingers lightly over your hip. "I like it. It's refreshing."

His eyes take in every inch of skin visible to him, making a mental note of the various passion marks he left behind. It makes him want to see how far down they go.

“I’m more relaxed now. And in a hell of a good mood.”

Bruce chuckles, the sound deep and rich. His hand continues to explore your skin, mapping every curve and contour with gentle, yet possessive touches. His thumb brushes over a mark on your skin, and his gaze darkens a fraction.

"And whose fault is that?" he muses, his voice a low rumble, the sound more intimate without the Batman modulator.

“Yours obviously. Haven’t felt this sore in a while. didn’t know I needed an attitude adjustment that bad.”

Bruce's smirk spreads into a wolfish smile as you mention your soreness. A sense of pride swells in his chest. Knowing he made you feel so good last night that your entire body aches from it makes that possessive part of him purr.

Bruce's touch wanders to your thigh, his hand trailing higher and higher up your skin, his eyes fixed on yours as he speaks:

"I’d be happy to give you another one."

“Yeah? jeez going to tire me out before it’s even noon? Didn’t really expect that from you, B.”

Bruce’s expression is somewhere between a cocky smile and an affectionate smirk. It's almost like he's challenging you. The way you say his nickname in such a low, sultry tone is driving him insane. He continues stroking your skin, his fingers tracing a path up the inside of your thigh.

"If it gets you moaning and crying my name again," he murmurs, his voice dropping in register, "then I think it’s worth it. Besides..."

Bruce's other hand reaches out, his fingers gently grasping your chin as he looks you in the eye.

"You underestimate me.” he rumbles, his hand still stroking your thigh. "I have excellent stamina."

“Ooh wow just like that huh? Ready to go in the morning again? Can’t even enjoy the next morning soreness before you need to start all over again. I won’t be able to walk downstairs to breakfast if you’re that insatiable….Never expected you to be the frisky type. Aside from the sexual tension breaking in the air last night I never got that vibe from you.”

Bruce laughs lowly in response, his hand still tracing over your skin. The sound vibrates through his chest. When your hair falls into your eyes, he gently moves it out of your face. He watches you through half-lidded eyes, his gaze dark and intense. Your words make him smile, and he leans closer, his thumb brushing over your jaw.

"You're a tease," he murmurs, his voice a low rumble. "You have no idea how much restraint it's taking me not to flip you over and show you just how frisky I can be..."

“Lord, don’t say that. My insides are getting flashbacks.”

Bruce’s laugh is sultry and almost sinister. Your words only feed his hunger. You’re right in front of him, skin bare and marked by his mouth, and still he can’t touch you the way he wants. The way he craves. He can’t give in. Not now. His lips brush over your neck, his breath warm against your skin.

"Mmm,” he purrs, nipping at your pulse point. "I can still taste you. All over my mouth. It's driving me feral."

“Jesus Christ B. You sure those weird chemicals we got hit with aren’t still in effect?.”

Bruce smirks against your neck, his teeth grazing over your pulse point. His hand continues to stroke your skin, his touch like a caress. His voice is low and rough with desire:

"I can promise you, it's all me."

He nips at your earlobe before pulling back, his gaze roaming over your marked body. He wants to add more. Leaving you marked, bruised, sore…

“With you talking like this, it’s a wonder we made it back here last night.”

Bruce releases a low, dark chuckle at your comment. The memory of last night, of stumbling into the manner, shedding clothes and tearing at each other’s skin, flashes in his mind. He doesn’t reply immediately, instead leaning down to press open-mouthed kisses up your neck. His voice is a warm, gruff whisper against your skin:

"It was a close thing, I won't lie."

“It still feels unreal almost, but you’ve got that same look in your eye you did last night. starving. I didn’t think my teasing would make you snap like that not gunna lie.”

Bruce hums against your skin, his lips trailing over your shoulder. The way you tease him is going to be the death of him. The sounds of your chuckles only add fuel to the fire. He can still feel the ghost of your nails digging into his skin, your moans echoing in his ears. He pulls back, eyes dark and glittering as he speaks.

"It took a lot of control, trust me," he says, his voice a low rumble. "If it were up to me, we never would have left that lab."

“Pfft, if it were up to you we’d never leave this bed.”

Bruce chuckles, his hand continuing to roam over your skin. The thought of spending hours, days, in bed with you is incredibly tempting, but he can't. The kids are right outside, and Alfred is waiting in the kitchen. Besides, he has work to do. He sighs, his thumb tracing a lazy circle on your thigh.

"I'd love to stay here forever," he admits, his voice low and rough, “But I'm afraid there are other responsibilities to attend to."

“There usually is-…. There are children behind that door.”

Bruce hears the hushed giggles and whispers on the other side of the door. He knows exactly what’s going on. He can feel the kids’ heartbeats through the wood, like a bat detecting its prey. They’re excited, curious. And they’ve likely been listening for the past hour despite him doing his best to keep his voice low to mask the conversation. Bruce sighs, his shoulders slumping slightly as he acknowledges the reality.

"Yes," he says, his voice dry. He glances at the door, then back to you. “There are kids behind that door.”

“I guess we have to get up then. Wonder if I can actually find all my clothes…”

Bruce’s lips twitch into a smirk at the thought of your clothes. His eyes trail over your naked form, taking in every tantalizing inch, then glance down to the floor. There is a trail of crumpled clothes leading to the bed. No doubt, you’ll have to walk through the minefield of evidence at some point if you want to get dressed. He sighs, sitting up in bed.

"Considering how fast we undressed, I’d say it’s going to be difficult.” He chuckles.

“Yeah I bet.”

Bruce’s eyes rake over your naked form, unabashedly appreciating the view as the sheets fall away. God, you’re beautiful. He has to force himself to look away before he snaps, ripping the sheets off the bed and pinning you back down. His voice is a gruff rumble as he responds.

"No fair," he mutters, reluctantly sitting up on the edge of the bed, his back to you as he tries to reign in his need to touch you all over again.

Chuckling you glance over your shoulder at him as you pick up your costume and start putting some pieces back on.

“Hey,don’t start pouting now. I agreed to stay for breakfast yeah? Can’t get rid of me that easily Bruce.”

His name rolls off your tongue teasingly. It had definitely been a surprise to find out Batman was Bruce Wayne last night but in the haze of trying to rip each others close off the surprise was lost. Even now looking at him like this you can’t help but see Batman and want to tease him. Saying his name felt forbidden in a way,making you want to say it more.

“Anyway, you should get dressed too.”

Bruce's shoulders tense slightly at the sound of his name falling from your lips. Hearing you say it is an odd juxtaposition. At this moment, sitting on his bed, he is Bruce Wayne, but the mention of his name has hints of Batman, Gotham, the mask. He glances over his shoulder at you as you get dressed. Bruce bristles at your teasing tone, his hands clenching into fists in his lap. The way you say his name in that sultry tone makes him want to throw everything aside and drag you back into that bed. But he doesn’t. He stays sitting on the edge of the bed, his back to you, his eyes fixed on the floor. He takes a deep breath before responding, his voice low and rough.

"Trust me, the last thing I want is to get rid of you.” he mutters, his jaw clenching. “I’m getting dressed.”

Bruce listens to the sound of clothing rustling, his back still to you. Part of him resents the fact that you’re getting dressed, leaving him here alone. He watches as you put on your clothes, covering up the marks he left on your skin. It sends a primal pulse of possessiveness through him. But he resists the urge to reach out and pull you back into his lap, or at the very least, make sure his mark is still clear on your neck. His jaw clenches as he speaks:

"I’m surprised they haven’t tried to barge in yet.”

“Hah! Even in a drug induced haze of lust I still remembered to lock the door. I wasn’t about to take that chance.”

Bruce huffs out a quiet laugh, a small smile on his lips. You’re as smart as you are beautiful. Locking the door was a wise decision. If you hadn’t, the kids would have been listening to a very different conversation for the past hour. He glances over his shoulder at you, taking in your now clothed form. It seems less appealing now that you’ve covered up the results of their night together.

"Impressive," he rumbles. You had the presence of mind to do that? While his brain was full of nothing but the smell and taste of you? He almost finds it adorable that you think you have such self-control. His lips twitch with a smirk, his voice a low rumble:

"You definitely have more control than I do."

“Once you have a situation happen like that once the anxiety never lets you forget. And doing it inconspicuously while not ruining the mood just was dumb luck on my part.”

Bruce snorts, a chuckle escaping his lips. You’re not wrong. One time was enough to learn that lesson. He knows that from experience. He should be grateful that you’re more reasonable than he is. It’s no wonder things with his previous conquests always ended the way they did. There’s a long, heavy silence as Bruce considers his next words. Instead Bruce sighs, standing up from the bed. He stretches his arms over his head, his bare chest on full display for you. He can feel the marks you left on his skin, stinging slightly in the air. He smirks at the memory of your nails raking down his back. He’s going to have a hard time keeping his hands off you in front of the kids, especially now that he’s had a taste of how good you feel. He groans quietly, running a hand through his messy hair.

“What’s up? I can tell you’re thinking thoughts with that look in your eye. Say whatever it is you’re thinking so hard about.”

Bruce notices your stare, the way your eyes drink in every inch of his exposed flesh. He doesn’t miss the way your eyes linger on his body, appreciating the view. His lips twitch into a smirk, a flash of possessiveness coursing through him. But he’s snapped out of his thoughts as you ask your question. He knows exactly what you’re asking. He looks at you, his gaze intense. He’s thinking of all the things he wants to do to you, all the ways he wants to touch you. But instead of saying any of that, he simply responds with a low hum. He should be grateful that you’re more reasonable and straightforward than he is. It’s no wonder things with his previous conquests always ended the way they did. There’s a long, heavy silence as Bruce considers his next words. He finally speaks, his voice a low rumble, his back still to you:

"You… You didn’t expect to see me again after this, did you?”

“Eh? I… don’t know what you mean?? We work together as vigilantes so it would be kinda stupid not to mention difficult to avoid you especially when you could find me anywhere I managed to hide in Gotham. You’re not exactly easy to run from. Even if it was some awkward tension i wouldn’t let that stop me from doing my job. I feel like that’s a dumbass question even for you B.”

Bruce clenches his jaw at your response. He knows you’re right. Working together as vigilantes would make it near impossible to avoid each other, especially in a city like Gotham. And even if you did manage to run, he’d find you. His eyes are narrowed as he looks at you, studying your nonchalant expression. He can’t tell if you’re being oblivious on purpose or if you’re just dense. His eyes searching your face for any hint of… something. What? He doesn’t know. But the way you answer his question with such plain honesty throws him for a loop. Usually, the women he sleeps with would want to forget about him. It was less messy that way. But here you are, talking about the work you do together like a conversation about the weather. Either way, his tone is a little sharper than he intends when he speaks.

“You’re not getting what I’m hinting at.”

“Please elaborate then because I didn’t understand that at all.”

Bruce huffs, rubbing a hand over his face in frustration. You’re being intentionally obtuse. It’s pissing him off, yet he can’t stop the surge of jealousy and possessiveness that he feels towards you. You’re still standing there, looking at him like you don’t understand what he’s saying. Part of him wants to grab you and push you against the wall, to make sure you understand his point clearly. But he doesn’t. You’re forcing him to be direct, to be open and explicit, and he doesn’t like feeling this vulnerable. He turns to face you fully, his arms crossing over his chest. His eyes are intense as he looks at you, his voice a low, tense rumble:

“You didn’t expect to still be speaking to me after tonight, at least not for anything other than work-related business. Right?” He lets out a long sigh, struggling to keep his voice even as he tries to make you understand.

He can just barely make out you tensing up in surprise for a second before shifting your weight to the other foot, expression not giving anything away.

‘You resist the urge to grit your teeth or give away any other actions on how you’re really feeling. It’s silent for a second before you exhaustedly roll your eyes.’

“Do we run into each other at all outside of work? I’m not changing my schedule.”

You’re internally sighing at the back of your mind. You’ve know better than to push against his typical self sabotaging nature. If he was going to push you away. You’d let him until he eventually comes back before the guilt of his actions eat him alive. You have seen him do it enough times to the people around him including the justice league and his kids. Mindful not to start an argument with his kids having their ears pressed up against the door probably trying their best to hear despite you both speaking lowly. You respond back in an equally sharp none keeping an air on nonchalance to mask the hurt.

Bruce clenches his jaw, a mix of frustration and jealousy coursing through him. You’re being infuriatingly stubborn, just like usual. He knows he should back down, let it go. But he can’t. Your words are like a barbed wire around his heart, tightening the more you speak. Your nonchalant attitude is irritating the hell out of him but also causing a wave of desire to shoot through him. How badly he wants to reach out and press you against the wall, to make you understand. But he doesn’t. Is it this annoying for others when he close’s himself off?

“No. You’re right, we don’t-“

“So then that answers your question. Wow you sure do overcomplicate everything.”

Your response only pisses him off more. He wants to grab you and shake you, to make you understand the point he’s trying to make. Yet, a part of him is surprised, impressed, and amused by your stubbornness. It’s just like you to take everything he says literally and not get the hint. His eyes narrow, a hint of annoyance and humor in his tone:

“You’re being deliberately obtuse. Don’t play dumb. It’s not a good look.”

“Boy, If you don’t speak plainly and make your point already.”

Bruce scowls back at you, not backing down from your glare. A part of him wants to back down, to avoid a fight. But the more stubborn part of him, the part that wants you to understand, won’t budge. He lets out an annoyed huff, his voice low and intense:

“I meant that, after tonight, I wouldn’t expect to see you again - on a personal level. As in-” He hesitates, struggling to find the right words. “Not just for ‘work related business.’ ”

“Wait you- Jesus Christ you are needlessly confusing and it’s so aggravating. That wasn’t my intentions at all. Like not even a little bit. At what point did you come to this conclusion in your own brain if I never said anything like that? I know your ass can’t read minds so who gave you this information? Because it’s wrong.”

Bruce scowls, his irritation peaking, his body tensing under your glare. His eyes narrow, the sharp edges of his jaw clenching. He’s annoyed by your stubbornness, by your inability to see what he’s trying to say. Your frustration makes his heart ache and his irritation flare. But your question catches him off guard. He doesn’t think before he speaks.

“No one had to give me that information. It’s just logical. How many of your one night stands do you see again afterwards?”

“Do you think you’re the same as them?? because this is a vastly different situation if you haven’t noticed.”

Bruce’s eyes narrow further at your response, his irritation growing. Part of him knows you’re right, that this situation is different. But his doubts and insecurities are flaring up, causing him to be more defensive and closed off than usual.

“It’s still a one-night stand, isn’t it? They usually end up not talking afterwards for a reason.”

“Bruce. This isn’t a regular one night stand. You’re jumping to hella conclusions, because I’m already thinking of the next time I can wake up in your bed.”

Bruce freezes, his body tensing at your words. He’s caught off guard by your bluntness, but also secretly pleased, excited even. He can feel something stirring in his stomach at the thought of you wanting to be in his bed again. He tries to hide it with a scowl, to keep himself under control. But your statement makes him want to grab you, to feel your body against his again. He doesn’t want you to see how much he’s affected by your words, so he grunts gruffly:

“Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

“Aawww, don’t go shutting me out now! We just had a lovely night together followed by a soft morning after. Don’t start getting scared of being vulnerable now. I’ve already seen every inch of you nothing left to hide from me, love.”

Bruce huffs in irritation, his scowl deepening. He knows you’re right - you’ve already seen him in his most vulnerable state. His body, his scars, the pain and pleasure he’s felt in your arms. But he can’t shake off the feeling of vulnerability, of baring his soul to you. It’s not something he does lightly.

“I’m not scared, I’m being practical. It’s not healthy to get emotionally attached.”

“Ugh and here you go with that again. Humans aren’t meant to just go through life alone superhero or otherwise. It’s okay to admit you care about people. And too bad I’ve already gotten attached. After my attitude adjustment I’m going to be in the most pleasant mood for the next 5 business days.”

Bruce glares at you, his irritation growing with your nonchalant attitude. He’s frustrated by your stubbornness, your damnable optimism. He wants to push back, to make you understand the danger of getting attached. But your words cause his heart to skip a beat, his chest tighten with emotion. He clenches his jaw, struggling to keep himself in control.

“This isn’t a joke. Relationships don’t work for me. I can’t afford the risk-“

“Blah blah blah. Yeah, I know and I’m not letting your paranoia self sabotage yet again. Go ‘head and schedule me in for 11:30 on Tuesday by the way. You can’t escape me or my affections, not that I was stingy in giving it to you anyway.”

Bruce lets out a frustrated huff, his scowl deepening at your dismissive wave. How easily you just brush off his concerns, ignore his past experiences. He doesn’t want to admit how much he’s tempted to give in to you. To hold you against him, to taste your skin again, to feel your body writhing under his touch.

“It’s not paranoia, it’s experience. It’s logic, practicality. The city need-.”

“The city needs you to get laid. You think people wouldn’t immediately vouch for Batman to get his dick wet?? Like why jinx it? You and your annoyingly exhausting self sabotage destructive tendencies are truly tiring for everyone around you to constantly be the victim of. And then you feel guilt which makes you repeat the cycle all over again. You deserve to be happy too?? Not sure anyone’s told you that before.”

Bruce’s irritation turns to frustration as you list off his flaws. As if he’s not fully aware of his own issues, as if he doesn’t hate himself for them. As if it’s a choice. He clenches his jaw, his body tensing further as you continue your lecture.

“You think I don’t know that? You think I don’t know I’m the one that causes problems, that hurts people? You think I’m not living with the guilt every goddamn day?”

“Yeah and it’s making you go through this exhausting cycle. Allow me to at the very least snap you out of that for a while. Normalcy would be good for you….Also me and Alfred have been talking about you needing it for ages now-“

Bruce’s irritation immediately turns to surprise and embarrassment as you mention Alfred. Of course Alfred would be behind this. He can’t help but wonder what you’ve been saying to him and what you’ve been scheming. The thought of you two talking about his personal life causes his heart to skip.

He scowls, his voice frustrated, defensive, and mildly defensive as he crosses his arms over his chest:

“What exactly do you two talk about?”

“You and your shenanigans.”

Bruce lets out a huff, his irritation growing once more. It’s bad enough that you’re pushing his boundaries and questioning his decisions. But the fact you’ve been talking to Alfred about it, that you’re both ganging up on him behind his back, makes him feel outnumbered, vulnerable.

He glares at you, a mix of frustration and vulnerability evident in his voice:

“I do not have ‘shenanigans’.”

“Yes the hell you do. Also do you like dark blue? Or black better?”

Bruce’s scowl deepens at your persistence. He doesn’t like being ganged up on, and now you’re talking about colors? He looks at you, slightly bemused, still frustrated but also curious.

“What does it matter to you what color I prefer? How did that even come up in conversation?”

“Because I’m thinking of what to wear for Tuesday. So what color?”

Bruce’s irritation eases slightly at your question. He’s momentarily thrown off guard by the realization that you’re already planning for the next time you see each other. He looks you up and down, taking in your appearance, his gaze lingering on your curves longer than it should.

“Black.” he grunts out, trying to hide the hint of desire in his voice.

“Got it.”

Bruce swallows, his gaze not leaving your body. He notices the way your curves fit your clothes, the way your muscles move under your skin. He can barely restrain himself from wanting to reach out, pull you close, and feel your body pressed against his again. His voice is low, a hint of desire in it as he speaks:

“Why are you even asking me about colors?”

“Because. I want to wear nice lingerie under my clothes so I figured I’d ask what color before I go choose an outfit myself.”

Bruce’s heart skips a beat, his body tensing at your words. The image of you in black lace under your clothes is almost too much for him to handle. He swallows, trying to keep his composure but almost failing.

He scowls, trying to hold on to his stubborn resistance, his voice gruff and strained:“Why do you care what I think?”

“Huh? Because if I’m going to show up to get fucked stupid I want to at the very least look nice.”

Bruce lets out a huff of frustration, his annoyance returning in full force. He can practically hear the eye roll in your voice. How are you so damn confident and stubborn at the same time? It drives him crazy.

“You always look nice. You don’t need to wear fancy lingerie or anything for me.”

“Yes, but I rarely have a reason to wear them so let me have this and just enjoy it when you see it. And thank you.”

Bruce rolls his eyes, still trying to resist giving in to you. But the image of you in black lace is still stuck in his mind. It’s making it increasingly more difficult to not act on his desire for you.

“Fine. I’ll look forward to it. But don’t get too cocky just because one night together went well.”

“I’m confident the next night will be equally if not more electrifying.”

Bruce lets out a huff, his irritation fading once more. Your confidence and stubbornness are exhausting, but he can’t deny they’re also endearing. He’s starting to question his own resistance to this situation.

“Cocky, aren’t you?” he grumbles softly. His heart is beating too fast for comfort, his thoughts swirling with images of you, bare and writhing under him in lace.

“Absolutely. If you think I can’t feel your eyes burning a hole through clothes from here you’re dead wrong.”

Bruce doesn’t answer immediately. He’s caught, guilty as charged. His gaze has indeed been roaming over your body, taking in every curve, every muscle. He can’t deny he wants you again, badly. Your confidence just makes him want you even more, and it’s driving him crazy. He scowls, pretending to look away as if he wasn’t just mentally stripping you with his eyes.

“Shut up.”

“mhm, let’s go get breakfast. I’m actually hungry now and teasing children will not deter my stomach.”

Bruce grunts, still a little flustered and frustrated with your confidence and stubbornness. But he admits that he’s a little hungry too.

“Fine. We can go to the kitchen. The brats will be there and we’ll have to deal with their stupid comments.”

He stands and starts heading out of his room, with you following behind him.

“And quit calling them children. They’re like 18-26 years olds.”

“And yet they were outside the door giggling and whispering like 7 year olds.”

Yeah, this will be a long morning indeed..

This was the cute version. The other versions is longer and Bruce fucks you like a man possessed😔✊🏿 wasn’t sure if I should post that one or this so here’s a little snippet of that:

“Mkay…. next time leave it in when we go to sleep. Feels ‘snicer that way.”

Jesus Christ-.

Bruce's breath hitches, a low growl slipping past his lips before he can stop it. He forces himself to focus on your sleepy glance, watching you nuzzle into his chest like a content puppy.

He shifts his body, trapping your hips with one muscled thigh, his grip on your hip tightening.

His voice is roughened, filled with desire.

"That an invitation, sweetheart?"

“mhm. You can do it even when I’m asleep I trust you.”

Christ, you're going to be the death of him.

Your sleepy admission to trust him makes his chest ache, a pang of something he refuses to acknowledge hitting him right there. You sound like you mean it, too. Bruce lets a low, strangled moan slip, nuzzling your hair and wrapping his free arm around your middle.

He presses a kiss to the top of your head, his hand going even lower, possessive and greedy.

"Can I, right now?"

“Yeah.”

God.

He’s going to start calling you a vixen instead of sweetheart, with those bold little words. Every breath of yours against him feels like a flame to the gunpowder that’s his body. He lets out a hoarse sound, part of him still in disbelief that this is happening.

“You drive me insane,” he grumbles, his low voice filled with unbridled desire. But even after everything, even after a night of letting instincts take over, a night of being completely open and vulnerable with someone, Bruce hesitates.

He needs for you to be sure, for you to want this, even if you’re only half awake.

He keeps his hand on your hip, his other hand gently tilting your chin up so he can look at you, his eyes meeting yours.

“Tell me you want this, sweetheart. Tell me you want me.”

“Bruce if you don’t fill me up and stop waking me up from sleeping I’m going to be real irritated.”

His breath hitches. Hard.

Bruce grits his teeth as he growls, feeling the last of his self-control drain away. He can’t hold in his possessive desire anymore, not with you looking up at him, needy for him.

He’s not a good man, he might even be a bad man. But you look at him like he’s your everything, and it drives him over the edge. His grip on your hip tightens, his breath hot against your ear.

“Can’t have you irritated, sweetheart.”

His voice is deep, roughened, the sound of it sending shivers down your spine.

He grabs your leg, slinging it further up against his body. His eyes are dark, nearly feral as he kisses right below your ear, his teeth nipping your skin. His voice is deep, roughened, the sound of it sending shivers down your spine.

“I’m gonna take care of you, sweetheart. Gonna make sure you feel good.”

He tightens his grip on your hip, his other hand tilting your chin up. His lips brush your ear as he growls between ragged breaths,

“Close your eyes, sweetheart. I’ll make you feel good .”

“Bruce’s heart clenches at your sleepy little nod. How did he end up here, this morning, in bed with you, feeling more real than he has in years? He doesn’t know, but he’s not going to question it.

He tightens his grip on your hip, his other hand tilting your chin up. His lips brush your ear as he growls between ragged breaths, “Close your eyes, sweetheart. I’ll make you feel good.”

Your surrender, even in your sleepy state, makes his chest tight. He can’t remember the last time he’s felt this wanted.

He presses his lips against your skin, leaving a trail of kisses across your jaw, your neck, your collarbone.

“Good girl. Stay just like that.”

His hands glide and roam across your body, touching and caressing you, wanting to re-familiarize himself with the curves of every inch of you. He’s possessive, a bit rough, even. He needs to remember every inch. He needs to touch you, to make sure you’re real and not a mere dream that’ll disappear the moment he wakes up. His mouth never strays far from your skin, as if starved for the taste of you. He’s almost feverish in his desire, his hands and mouth working to find every sensitive spot that makes your breath hitch and your body arch. He’s hungry, needy, desperate to keep you in his arms, to make everything else fade away besides the feeling of your skin against his.

Feeling a familiar ache in his core he sucks more bruises into your skin. keeping your leg resting where it is he shudders as he reaches down to press into you. an unholy sound crawls out of his throat as his entire body shudders. it feels like his entire body is engulfed in flames and he doesn’t mind burning up. Biting down on his lip hard as he feels you react in your sleep, he distracts himself with kissing your scalp and holding you close. He can’t comprehend how you’re so cute and So sinful hair a mess on his pillows and you dead asleep.

His teeth leave dark marks on your skin, claiming you as his. His fingers dig into your hip, holding you close, anchoring himself to you as the fire burns hot between his legs. He can hear his heartbeat in his ears, the sound of your name on his lips like a prayer.

“I can’t… I need…” He doesn’t even finish his sentence. He just moans, low and guttural, his breathing ragged and rough. His teeth leave dark marks on your skin, claiming you as his. His fingers dig into your hip, holding you close, anchoring himself to you as the fire burns hot between his legs. He can hear his heartbeat in his ears, the sound of your name on his lips like a prayer.

“You’re so good, sweetheart. So perfect. So goddamn mine, whether you realise it or not.”

He nuzzles your hair, his eyes closed as he relishes the feeling of your warmth against him. He nuzzles your hair, his eyes closed as he relishes the feeling of your warmth against him.

[cipher-the-sidhe]

[m4rr33]

drops some doodles(again sorry☹️) and runs away!!!!

[highoncatfood]

hi i like faith umm ummm listen to harmless by black dresses its such an amy song ok

[littleplantfreak]

Hiragi x reader

Word count: 594

Desc.: A/C's broken.

Part of my writing practice!

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

The cicadas are screaming and you scream with them. Well…it’s a pathetic groan as you lie on the floor in the living room, but still, you feel it’s in solidarity. 

“You don’t have to stay here. Ume’s house is right down the street with air conditioning. Only one of us has to be here for the repair guy,” Toma grunts from the spot next to you. It made sense that your AC decided to kick the bucket on the hottest day of the year, or at least it feels like the hottest. You don’t reply with anything but a hum, unmoving as you go from sticking to him to slipping against him. You’re both sweating, especially where your legs are laying over his own, but you also can’t bring yourself to leave. 

Umemiya would for sure let you come over, but his energy levels partnered with the heat leave both of you reluctant to see him right now, sweet as he is. 

“You need a haircut,” you say suddenly, rolling a little closer to look at his hair pasted to the back of his neck. It’s darker when it’s damp, your finger trailing from the base of his hairline to the curve over his ear. “Want me to-” you start as he matches you with a firm “no.”

“You gave me a full buzz cut the last time I let you use the razor,” he sighs, wiping the back of his neck with a hand towel. 

“You’ll go bald some day anyways. What’s a little sooner?” you ask, tugging on a stray lock of blonde hair, curling around your finger. 

He levels you with a withered look as he tosses the towel over your face and gets up, puffing a soft laugh as your whine is muffled by damp fabric. His footsteps thump into the kitchen before you hear the freezer door open and shut. When he comes back, he’s got the last ice pop cut in half, handing you one side as he sits cross legged now.

 It’s green, the second worst flavor, but it does the job when sickly sweet ice hits your tongue, making the heat a bit more bearable for the time being. You sit up, crawling into his lap as he makes the room for you, his chin resting on your head. 

“Is this seat taken?” you ask, smiling before sucking down the rest of the juice in its plastic sleeve. 

“You’re supposed to ask that before you sit down, but no. It’s only ever been your seat,” he mumbles, making you jump when he blows cool air on your ear. 

The small buzz of his phone goes off before you can complain, and the incoming text makes you want to collapse in a puddle and never get up.

“So the handyman isn’t gonna make it today?” 

“Looks like it,” Toma sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose as he leaves the message on read.

“Alright. Cold shower it is...unless you feel like crashing at someone else’s place,” you say, wondering if you really will go to Umemiya’s. Sako’s place is a bit of a drive, but he would also let you stay in the guest room, and Kaji would try to insist on giving you his own bed if you asked to stay the night, which definitely isn’t the best option even if it is a nice gesture.

As you’re lost in thought, he’s pulling you from your spot on the floor and hooking his phone to the bathroom speaker, peeling his clothes off as a new album from your favorite band kicks up.

It’s not a perfect day, but it sure feels damn close even when you’re both fighting to stand under the cool water, half arguing and half singing the chorus of the song echoing off the tiles.

[dixons-sunshine]

Soo I have a bit of free time at the moment and started working on a fic for a Halloween challenge (yes I know Halloween is still a good while away, but there’s another spooky challenge I wanna do that’s gonna have all my attention in October). I’m so excited for this that I’m sharing a sneak peek lol.

“So what, this killer s’like some sort’a Boogeyman or somethin’?” Daryl inquired with a scoff. The whole situation had been weighing heavily on the archer’s shoulders since the first body had dropped a few weeks prior. It was only a matter of time until the unknown killer attacked once more, maybe even taking the life of somebody he truly cared for. He needed to find this vicious murderer, and fast.

“I mean, technically speaking, the killer’s kinda more like Ghostface,” you corrected him, your arms crossed over your chest.

“Ghostface?” Daryl echoed in confusion, his eyebrows furrowing. “What’s that?”

Your eyes flitted over to your partner. “Those killers from the Scream franchise?” When recognition did not dawn on the archer, you furthered your explanation. “You know, the movies with that terrifying white mask? The Ghostface mask? The mask that the two killers wear in all of the movies?” A few beats of silenced passed. Sensing that nobody in the small group knew what you were talking about, you shook your head. “It doesn’t matter. Boogeyman is as good of a code name as any.”

Rick cleared his throat, diverting the attention back to the more important matter at hand. “So this Boogeyman, they clearly only strike once they’re sure nobody else is around. Until we can come up with a concrete way to catch them once and for all, I think it’s best if nobody is alone. Perhaps grouping people together could help.”

“You want me to ask Deanna to call a meeting so we can spread the word?” you asked, your eyes locking with those of your leader.

Rick shook his head. “No. Deanna’s not in the best mindset at the moment. I’ll call it. In the meantime, you and Daryl clean up the body. No need to have people causin’ an uproar.”

“What do we tell people when they come lookin’ for her?” Daryl questioned gruffly.

Rick hesitated for a moment. “We don’t have anythin’ to hide. Tell them the truth.”

[srnk1]

kendall roman thoughts which i cant put into words . does it makes sense ? i dont want to know

[hanafubukki]

Summary: The duty of a knight always came before that of the heart.

"I don’t mind being your second choice. I know your duty as a knight comes first.”

Sebek remembers the words you had uttered to him before.

Second Choice.

YN would always be second choice.

In the face of his duty, his master will always come first.

When Sebek first brought this up to YN, they smiled and nodded.

He hated that you were so understanding. 

Yet, he loved you for it.

He knew he could not give you up.

For all his strength and determination, a part of him was greedy.

A selfish part of him wanted to keep you, just for himself.

That’s why he had hoped you would leave, but you stayed.

His heart screamed and rebelled.

He knew that it was wrong to put you second.

But his line of duty didn’t allow him such freedom.

His duty came first before his heart did.

In my defense of this angst, I wrote this a year ago, so blame past Hana 😂💚🌺 You know I love Sebek. 🥰🥰

[fizzlos-main]

my brain worms descend upon @boyyardee 's AU like eels to cocaine so i made a silly before my head explodes

[grandpa-swamp]

In Your Face, I Behold the Sun's Companion (Chapters 1-4/?)

Fandom: The Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion Pairing: Martin Septim x Hero of Kvatch Summary: Waelin has known and averted catastrophes across Tamriel time and time again. Once and forever branded as the Eternal Champion, and the greatest asset to Emperor Uriel Septim VII, he retains the everlasting dutiful position of bearing the Hero's Soul. Now, on the 27th of Last Seed; the Year of Akatosh 433, he is once again required to demonstrate his heroism to the looming Oblivion Crisis in Cyrodiil. But this quest was unlike any he had undertaken previously; especially as it began with the murder of Uriel before his very eyes. As the Empire flounders without a Dragonborn Emperor, Waelin must make haste to find the last living heir to the Septim dynasty before destruction surmounts the now vulnerable mortal plane. Notes: I've decided to post the first 4 chapters of this in full here. this is my first fic (but not first time writing) so I hope it's in any way a comprehensible read lol. this is a novelization of sorts of the Oblivion mq, with some character studying of both my HoK Waelin and Martin. the entire work is still a mega WIP but I hope to post more soon! I will post this to AO3 or some other site at some point but for now I'll keep my writing here. hope yall like it so far :3 a little scared but fuckit i told myself i was gonna post it so here it is Warnings: Minor mentions of violence, blood, and death. Light sexual themes. Word count: 13480

Chapter I

He could see the terrible orange glow from miles away. The foreboding aura breached his mind and soul, even when just approaching the base of the mountain. As he walked the winding roads up to Kvatch, he could smell the pungent odor of smoke permeate the air. Dark red and purple clouds swirled above the city, and white hot strikes of lightning flashed and lit up the sky. Every step made his heart sink more and more. Was he too late? It was hard to tell exactly what was going on, but something terrible has clearly taken place in this city. And perhaps something even worse to the person he was supposed to find. 

Waelin steeled his face and mind as he trekked, his pace quickening as worry set into his heart. He normally wasn’t one to fear- but he’s also not one to accept defeat and failure. As he rounded another sharp bend, he spotted a small encampment. His steps slowed, then quickened to a trot as he approached the group of hastily thrown up tents along the path. He took a breath to himself when he finally spotted people- what he could only surmise as the residents of Kvatch, now evacuated. He came to a halt, surveying the status of the situation. The people there... Waelin could feel the turmoil emanating from them. They were quiet, barely paying any attention to the Nord, too preoccupied in their worries to care for the stranger. He scanned the small group- no one was wearing priest clothes, and no one gave the impression of being Uriel Septim’s son. He gave a curt exhale and bit his lip, feeling a pang of unease. He was here for Martin, who was nowhere to be found… but, now it was more than just that. These people clearly needed help as well.

He continued along the path as his eyes grazed along the downtrodden folk. Before he could approach someone to ask what had happened, the sound of fast footsteps crunching down the road alerted him. A high elf, face stricken with terror, rapidly approached Waelin, appearing to be fleeing from whatever was happening in Kvatch. He came to a fast halt, shaken and panting as he spoke loudly to the Nord,

"Come on! Run while there's still time! The Guard still holds the road, but it's only a matter of time before they're overwhelmed!"

Waelin held a calm demeanor, “Run? From what?”

The Altmer could hardly contain his disbelief, "Gods' blood, you don't know, do you? Daedra overran Kvatch last night! There were glowing portals outside the walls! Gates to Oblivion itself! There was a huge creature... something out of a nightmare... came right over the walls... blasting fire. They swarmed around it... killing..."

Waelins eyes narrowed. This was indeed dire, and no doubt a coordinated attack. He swallowed and spoke softly, “The whole city can't be destroyed.”

"Go and see for yourself! Kvatch is a smoking ruin! We're all that's left, do you understand me? Everyone else is dead!"

“How did you escape?”

"It was Savlian Matius... some of the other guards... helped some of us escape... they cut their way out, right through the city gates. Savlian says they can hold the road. No... no, I don't believe him. Nothing can stop them. If you'd seen it, you'd know... I'm getting out of here before it's too late! They'll be here any minute, I'm telling you. Run while you can!"

Just as he tried to flee, Waelin caught the elf’s arm, “Hold on. I’m looking for a priest of Akatosh, he’s supposed to live here. Brother Martin..?”

The elf shook his head, clearly too hysterical to think clearly, "I knew a priest named Martin. I'm sure he's dead, just like the rest of them.” His eyes glazed over, nearly deranged, “They're all dead, don't you understand?"

Waelin’s pupils sharpened, brows furrowing. He released the elf, who promptly resumed fleeing. The Nord’s eyes drifted, his face in a scowl. Surely he was wrong. Martin couldn’t be dead, not already. He could not have failed his mission so soon. As he stood there in contemplation, he was approached again, by one of the evacuees- an orc woman,

“Sir, I heard you’re looking for the priest?”

Waelin was shaken from his thoughts, and looked to her, “…Yes, I am. Have you seen him? Surely he isn’t..?”

“Well, I don’t know for sure. There was much chaos, and we were all that made it out.” Her eyes drifted down, “But, in the church. I believe some guards managed to round up some citizens inside. If he’s alive he’s bound to be in there. Savlian Matius is the acting captain of the guard- he’s up there now, manning the barricade. He ought to know.”

Waelin met her eyes, relief apparent on his face, “Ah… thank you. As long as there’s a chance Martin is okay.”

“Of course. You… Are you going up there?”

She looked up to the top of the hill, at the flaming ruins of what was once Kvatch, and his eyes followed, “…Yes. I haven’t a choice.” He looked back to her, “I will do what I can to save your city, as well.”

She couldn’t hold back a tired chuckle, “Ah. I can see you’re capable and all. But you have no idea what you’re up against. I hope you do not run to your death. But… I appreciate your zeal. And I wish you strength.”

“Aye.” They met eyes before she tiredly turned and made her way back to her tent. Waelin’s gaze fastened on the desecrated city atop the hill. It was hard to see much of it from where he was standing, aside from the faint orange glow emanating from within. He took a sharp breath, and continued up the path. Now that he had a semblance of hope his mission had not yet failed, he marched with conviction, ready to face whatever plagued Kvatch.

The higher the road took him, the more evidence there was of destruction. The air grew thick and heavy, full of smoke and rife with the smell of blood. Makeshift barricades had begun to form as the path continued; sharpened wood logs driven in the earth to thwart the demons. Corpses of various lesser Daedra dotted the path, their blood staining the soil under them. And then it came into full view- the portal to Oblivion. The thing was enormous, spanning well over forty feet in height. The maw of the gate revealed the fiery plane of Oblivion within, bright and blinding with a hellish orange glow. Waelin could feel the heat from where he stood over twenty feet away. Soldiers took post around the infernal gateway, their eyes all transfixed on it, anticipating anything passing through at any moment. 

Hardly anyone paid attention to Waelin as he passed through, the men focused intensely on the matter at hand. Aside from the droning hum and whining of the Portal, it was quiet. It was deathly still, save Waelin walking to the front of the barricade. Soon enough he picked out Matius, and approached the captain. As soon as he noticed the Nord, he yelled to him in a commanding and hoarse voice,

"Stand back, civilian! This is no place for you. Get back to the encampment at once!"

Waelin held up his hand, “I am no civilian. I’ve come to help. My name is Waelin. What happened here?”

The captain turned to greet the knight head on, "We lost the damned city, that's what happened! It was too much, too fast. We were overwhelmed. Couldn't even get everyone out. There are still people trapped in there.” He looked back to the Gate, a tremor in his voice, “Some made it into the Chapel, but others were just run down in the streets. The Count and his men are still holed up in the castle. And now we can't even get back into the city to help them, with that damned Oblivion Gate blocking the way."

Waelin fixated on the portal, eyes fierce with intent, “You said there’s survivors in the chapel? Do you know if Martin is with them?”

Matius’ brow furrowed as he turned to face Waelin, "You mean the priest? Yes, last I saw him, he was leading a group towards the Chapel of Akatosh. If he's lucky, he's trapped in there with the rest of them, at least safe for the moment. If he's not..."

“What can I do to help?”

The captain could barely stifle his disbelief, and almost humored a laugh, "You want to help? You're kidding, right?” But Waelin’s face didn’t move, and was brimming with severity. Matius’ expression shifted into that of contemplation, “Well... if you're serious, maybe I can put you to use. It'll likely mean your death, though. Are you sure?"

Waelin nodded, his face like stone, “Yes. Whatever I can do to put a stop to this and save the rest of the survivors. To save Martin.”

“You seem to care a lot for this priest. Are you family?”

“No. I’ve come to retrieve him. I… swore to his father that I would keep him safe. I am honor-bound as well to help the people of this city.”

“Ah, so you are a true knight then.” Matius mustered a smile to Waelin, "Very well… Waelin was it? While that infernal Oblivion Gate still stands, I don't dare leave the camp undefended. Are you willing to try and close it?" 

Waelin squinted, analyzing the detail and depth of the Gate as it loomed over them, “Yes, but, do you have any idea how?”

“I don't know how, but it must be possible, because the enemy closed the ones they opened during the initial attack. You can see the marks on the ground where they were, with the Great Gate right in the middle. I sent men into the Gate, to see if they could find a way to shut it.” His voice dropped, a heavy breath rose in his chest, “They haven't come back. The best I can say is, good luck. If you make it back alive, we'll be waiting for you."

The white-haired Nord turned to Matius, heart beating strong and steady. He bowed his head, and spoke no further word. His eyes returned to the Gate. The image of Oblivion flickered and waved in its maw, almost beckoning to Waelin. He took a breath, unsheathed his claymore, and proceeded. His armor glistened in the amber and crimson hues of the Portal’s visage, and his face remained stalwart even as immense heat swelled around him. The guardsmen of the barricade watched almost in awe as he slowly walked towards the gate, murmuring amongst themselves. Who was this man? Where did he come from? Who sent him? Could he really be the salvation of Kvatch? There was no way of knowing until it was done. And with that, Waelin’s image melted into the entrance of Oblivion, vanishing without a trace.

The guardsmen kept their silence as the minutes crept on. The air was thick with anticipation, and sweat poured down every man’s brow as every single one of their eyes kept steady on the Gate. Those minutes stretched, lengthening into hours. When Waelin had first arrived at Kvatch, the sun was just setting. Now Masser was high in the sky, accompanied by a waning Secunda. All throughout, Savlian Matius breathed heavy, slow breaths, his bottom lip between his teeth and his arms crossed. Without breaking his gaze from the Gate and in a low, hoarse voice he asked to his men beside him, “How long has it been?”

One of the men ahead of him answered, “Hours, sir. About… three, to be exact.”

“Gods, surely he must be…”

“Sir.” A guard to Matius’ right spoke, “Have you noticed? Not a single Daedra has crossed the Gate since he’s entered.”

Matius’ eyes widened, “You’re… you’re right! But, what could that mean? Is he holding his own?”

“He must be, sir. At least enough to distract them from attacking us.”

“By Talos, let it be true-”

A sharp tremor in the earth cut the captain off and roused the guardsmen. They all prepared themselves- for what exactly they did not know. The captain feared the worst, “Gods, something’s happening! Everyone brace!” 

“Captain! The portal-!”

Suddenly, the Gates pillars began to crumble violently, and the orange light of Oblivion ceased, flashing into a blinding white light.

“It’s- It’s coming down, take cover!” Matius was able to yell before the portal completely collapsed. The light flickered and spasmed as the pillars completely gave way, covering the barricade in dust and debris. Finally, the light expanded and surged up to the sky, then dissipated, and the Oblivion gate was no more. The dark, swirling clouds ceased their lightning, and instead began to drop rain on the still smoldering city. With the light of the portal gone, darkness fell on the barricade, now only lit dimly by the moons in the sky through the cracks in the clouds.

One by one, the men of the barricade rose from cover and opened their eyes to the scene, all completely astounded. It was gone. Just like that. Everyone was silent, holding their breaths as they all waited for the same thing: to see if the Nord had made it.

Matius’ squinted his eyes, searching frantically, but the air was thick with dust and rain, limiting the already dim visibility. But finally, after moments that felt like days, they heard it. Footsteps. Slow, but even paced footsteps. A shadow began to emerge from the dust, and the men in their surprise couldn’t even ready their weapons in the event that it wasn’t Waelin.

Yet he emerged. He was surprisingly unscathed, save for the layer of soot and ash that was now being washed off his armor and face by the rain. His expression was just as steely as when he went in all those hours ago. He slowly approached the barricade, before coming to a halt. He surveyed the men wearily as they did to him. 

“By the Nine- he did it!” 

A lone guard's voice cut the tense moment, and hope was once more known to the guardsmen of Kvatch. Cheers and yells erupted from the guards as they raised their weapons to celebrate the warrior before them. Waelin, in his austerity, acknowledged the praise with nothing more than a nod. His eyes found their way to Matius’, and he promptly approached the dumbfounded captain. When the cheers of the men waned, he asked to Matius plainly, 

“What now?”

Matius could hardly form a sentence, still not quite sure he could believe what he was seeing, “I- You… I can’t believe it! You closed it! All alone?!”

“Yes.”

“I… My apologies, I… didn't really think this would work. Maybe we…really do have a fighting chance.” For the first time in days, hope shined in the captain's eyes, “Oh, yes. We're not done. Not even close. This was only the first step. If this town is to be ours again, we'll need to get inside the castle. You've come this far with us; will you go further? If we're truly going to succeed, I'll need much more of your help.”

Waelin nodded, stern as ever, “I am here at your disposal. Until Martin is safe, and until Kvatch is free.”

Matius grinned, vigor in his heart, "Ha ha, I knew you'd be up to it!” He unsheathed his sword, and called to his battalion, “Men! The survivors in the Chapel need us! Our goal after that is the Castle gate. Stick close, and keep your eyes open. Let's move out! To me, and to Sir Waelin!”

The guardsmen clamored, steel shimmering in the rain and voices hearty. Matius looked back to Waelin with a smile and a nod. Waelin acknowledged him, unsheathing his claymore once more. He turned and set his sights on the city gate, and all together the men marched to take back their home.

Chapter II

There was a dreadful silence that had hung in the chapel. It had been there for the last day, save the occasional cough and the light patter of footsteps. There wasn’t much to speak of between the survivors at this point. There were six left: three civilians, two guards, and the lone priest of Akatosh. The guards waited by the doors, which have since been barricaded by pews and empty barrels. The Scamps and Clannfear have long since stopped their infernal scratching, but the guards knew far worse could potentially be out there. 

The civilians each sat or laid on their hastily sprawled bedrolls, silent and forlorn. The priest stood by the altar to Akatosh in the middle of them. He couldn’t help but watch them, his heart heavy. He’s happy they’re alive. But his blessings and holy words were meaningless to them now. No amount of reassurance of the divine could ease their suffering. He could hardly find peace in his worship either. What kind of Gods would let such a thing happen? He gave a silent sigh, and held his head down, finding it within himself to pray. Please, just hear me this one time…

One of the guards' heads perked up, alerted to a noise from outside. She got up, focusing her concentration on the door. The other guard looked up to her from his seat, 

“What is it?”

“Shh.” Her eyes squinted, and she held her head to the door. Sure enough, the sound of a struggle became apparent. Her eyes met her fellow guard, and he rose quickly, hearing it now himself.

“What could it be? Could we have gotten reinforcements?”

“I… I doubt it.”

The sound outside became louder, and the civilians and priest now heard it too. The distinct noise of a skirmish: of men yelling, swords clashing, and creatures bellowing. 

“We should be out there.” The second guard drew his sword, “They need our help!”

“No, we stay put. That’s what we’ve been doing, that is what we’ll do.”

“But, listen! They may not make it!”

“They wouldn’t have come in if they thought they couldn’t make it. And besides, if they’ve been able to enter the city, then that must mean the Oblivion Gate-”

Just as soon as they began, the sounds stopped. The deathly silence resumed, tension holding all the survivors paralyzed. Then, a loud pounding at the door jolted everyone back to life. The first guard unsheathed her sword, and both took their stance at the door. But then, a voice called to them,

“Is anyone still in there?!”

The guard's eyes widened as they recognized the sound of Matius’ voice. The priest and civilians have since stood and watched the door as well, stiff with anticipation. The first guard called back,

“Captain Matius! Is that- Is that you?!”

“Tierra! Yes, it’s us! We’re taking the city back, let us in so we can get the survivors out!”

“Sir, yes sir!”

Immediately the two guards went to work dismantling the barricade. The priest and civilians had gathered together, hope finally known in their hearts. One of the civilians couldn’t help but sob in gratitude, “Thank the gods! We’re saved!”

“I knew we would make it!” another civilian chimed in.

The priest remained silent, but reverberated their sentiment in his heart. He looked at the three people around him, the hope in their eyes invigorating him. Perhaps the gods haven’t abandoned us yet?

Finally, the doors were unblocked, and were promptly opened by the guards. Cold, fresh air blew into the chapel, and the sound of rain greeted the survivors like sweet music. And sure enough, Matius, Waelin, and the men stood there amidst the corpses of lesser Daedra, glowing in their small victory.  They entered the chapel promptly, hailing the two guards within.

“Tierra, Berich! Gods, I’m glad to see you alright.” Matius placed a hand on Tierra’s shoulder, her face now awash with relief. His tone dropped as he addressed her, “Report, soldier.”

She shook her head solemnly, "Sir, we're all that's left. Berich Inian, myself, and these civilians."

"That's it? There's no one else?"

"There were others, sir. But they refused to stay put. We tried to convince them it was dangerous, but they left anyway. I guess they didn't make it."

Matius’ face fell, pain in his voice, "Very well. The area outside the Chapel has been cleared, and these people need to be taken to safety. Escort them to the camp south of here at once."

"But, sir! I want to help fight!" Tierra protested.

"You will, soldier. Once they're secure, get back here immediately. We'll need every available blade, and there'll be plenty of fighting to go around."

"Sir, yes sir!” She looked to the priest, and the three other survivors, “Civilians! It's time to move out! Let's go!"

The priest nodded to Tierra, and looked to the civilians, “Go on, you all first.”

In a line they followed Tierra out the door. None of them took notice of the out of place Nord standing by the door who scanned their faces as they passed. None, but the priest. His eyes drifted up to meet the burning stare of Waelin. As they locked eyes, he couldn’t help but slow his walk. Who is he? Why is he staring at me?

Waelin knew it was him. Martin Septim. Gods, he was the spitting image of his father. His normally stoic demeanor betrayed a hint of astonishment at the man before him. Martin broke eye contact, trying to walk past to follow the others. Waelin’s arm stretched before him, halting him before he could breach the doorway.

Martin's brow furrowed as he looked again to the white-haired man. He took note of his scarred face and blind left eye, trying to remember if they’ve met before.

Waelin's voice was low and grumbling as he spoke, “You. You’re the priest here? Martin..?”

The priest's face wrinkled in confusion, “Um, yes. Yes. I'm a priest. Do you need a priest? I don't think I'll be much help to you. I'm having trouble understanding the gods right now.” His eyes darted away, face twisting in confusion, “If all this is part of a divine plan, I'm not sure I want to have anything to do with it.”

“Martin. You don’t know me, but I’ve come to retrieve you. You’re in terrible danger.” 

Martin's face returned to Waelin, now scowling in frustration, “Of course I'm in danger. But I'm needed here. I can't leave. I assume you didn't risk your own life to come here to tell me something I already know. Who are you and what do you want?”

Waelin lowered his arm, setting his shoulders back. His eyes didn't leave Martin's face, but his expression softened, “Sir. My name is Waelin. I’ve been sent here to retrieve you by someone very important. I’m sorry- I know this is sudden.” He looked around the chapel, to Matius. “Listen, the captain still needs me to free Kvatch. I will find you afterwards and explain everything.” He looked back to Martin, “Please trust me.”

Martin studied the Nords' face. Sincerity brimmed in his features; not a trace of deception or ill will lay evident in his demeanor. Despite only having just met, Martin somehow knew in his heart the knight was not lying, or acting malicious in any way. The priest exhaled, his face and body relaxing, “Alright Waelin, I’ll hear what you have to say later… I guess I’ll be waiting for you. Good luck.”

Waelin nodded, his lips betraying a small, almost unnoticeable smile, “Thank you, Martin.” 

Martin nodded to the taller man, and hurried after the other civilians. His brow creased as he ruminated on what just happened. What could this warrior want with him? Did he really come all this way, just for him? Could he even trust this man? He thought again of Waelin’s face- genuine and earnest. Warmth pooled in Martin's chest when he thought of it. But why? Who had sent him? Question after question ran in Martin's mind as he made his way to the city gate. He looked behind at the chapel, his mind still racing.

“Gods be with you.” He muttered before exiting Kvatch.

Never to return.

* * *

Martin’s mind remained aflutter, even as he sat with the other survivors in the encampment. His eyes had been focused on the campfire for what seemed like an hour now, its flickering matching the thoughts in his head. The night had waned on, and though he was exhausted, he couldn’t think yet to sleep. The refugees of the encampment welcomed him and the others fervently, with cheers and praises. The three citizens who were in the chapel had regrouped with their friends and family, tears and laughter shared all between them. Tierra had made sure they had all regrouped before heading back, to Matius, Waelin and the guards to reclaim the remainder of Kvatch.

Of course then came the eager questions. The people of the encampment asking what had happened- especially pertaining to the fall of the Oblivion gate. No one had answers, the only witnesses having been the guardsmen who were currently in the city walls. And no one had answers for Martin when he asked about the man named Waelin.

He just passed by, I didn’t really pay much mind to him.

I assumed he just wandered in, trying to be a hero.

He asked about you. Do you know him?

No further information on the mysterious Nord. The priest could only wait with knots in his stomach as he ran their conversation over and over in his head. 

His thoughts were promptly interrupted by a hand in his field of view, holding a bowl of stew with a cut of bread jammed in it. He blinked and gazed up; it was the orc woman who had spoke to Waelin before, Batul gra-Sharob,

“Here, you need to eat.” She grumbled.

Martin smiled weakly at her, “Oh, thank you, but I don't think I can eat.”

“Your stomach isn’t in your head. You need to eat, Brother.”

She gestured the bowl of soup to him again. Martin sighed, and took it. No use arguing with an Orsimer. With shaky hands, he ripped the bread apart and began eating. She had taken a seat next to him, her gaze laying in the fire now as well.

“Thank you.” He spoke with his mouth full.

“The others told me you were the one to lead them into the chapel, when it all happened. You saved their lives.”

Martin swallowed, “Ah, I was only doing my duties. As a priest of Akatosh, your lives are my responsibility, too.”

She nodded, her eyes not moving from the fire, “You’re a good man. I’m glad you’re not dead.” She faced him as he took another bite of his food, “I’m sure that knight was happy to see you alive, too.”

Martin gave a tired scoff. He had just managed to shake Waelin from his mind, only for him to push his way back in, “I… suppose. I don’t know who he even is or what he wants with me.” He tore a piece from his bread, but hesitated before dipping it in the stew, “You spoke to him, right?”

“Aye. Gave the impression he cared about you a great deal. But, you’ve never met until now. Strange.”

“Indeed. Do you… think I can trust him?”

“Hmm. I think so. He’s proven himself trustworthy. I could tell right away he has a good heart when we spoke. And he must be a fierce warrior. Only after he had arrived did something good actually happen around here.”

Martin's chewing slowed, and his eyes drifted to the orc. The look of confusion was apparent on his face, and she continued,

“What, you can’t say the same? Only a few hours after he got here did that Oblivion gate finally fall. And shortly after, you were saved. It’s obvious he must have had a great hand in this.” She leaned back, arms crossed, “And now he helps the captain reclaim Kvatch. He is no ordinary warrior. He has the soul of a hero.”

She met his stare, an expression of realization all over his face, his eyes looking through her. He swallowed heavily, “... A soul of a hero. Perhaps you’re right. These are tumultuous times. But Tamriel has known troubles like these again and again.”

“And time and time again, a hero has arisen to meet the evils head on.”

Martin lowered his gaze to the half eaten bowl of stew in his lap. His mind went back to the image of Waelin’s face, that unmoving expression, but eyes shining with genuine fervor. That warm pool in the priest's heart was returning, and a tired smile finally graced his lips, “Well… Whatever he needs me for, I can only hope to be of use to him. I had my doubts, but you’re right. He’s far from ordinary. He just very well may be what the Empire needs right now…”

He ate the remainder of his food in silence, contemplative of everything that happened tonight, as well as Batul’s words. A semblance of peace had finally returned to the encampment, and the refugees had all managed to sleep for what seemed like the first time in days. Martin was kindly offered space in one of the tents, and though his sleep was troublesome, the small amount of rest was welcomed. 

When he awoke, the sun had since risen over Cyrodiil, and the rest of the refugees had gotten up. In fact, judging by their voices, they seemed to be gathered outside. Martin rubbed his eyes as he exited his tent, squinting in the bright morning light. Just beside the road up to Kvatch was a large crowd, yet it wasn’t just the refugees of the camp. The guardsmen of Kvatch had just returned, and everyone was clamoring. Martin joined the crowd, finding his side by Batul,

“They’ve returned?!”

“Aye,” She nodded, “Just a few minutes ago. Look.” She pointed up to a small rock formation in front of the crowd on which stood Matius and Waelin. Matius was addressing the crowd in a hoarse but loud voice.

“Citizens of Kvatch! You heard me correctly, the City has been cleared- the beasts of Oblivion are all dead!”

The crowd clapped and cheered. Martin's shoulders slumped, and he shared a glance with Batul, both managing a smile at the good news. When Martin looked back to Matius, the captain had his hand on Waelin’s shoulder, addressing him to the crowd,

“And it would not have been possible, without the help of this fine knight here! We owe it all to you, Sir Waelin!”

“To Waelin!” Shouted one of the guardsmen. 

“Champion of Kvatch!” Another yelled.

The crowd erupted once more, guardsmen and civilians alike. Waelin’s face was like stone as always, giving a curt nod to those in the crowd. His gaze scanned each of their faces before finding Martin, their eyes locking. Waelin looked at him intensely, as if awaiting the approval of the priest. That warmth returned again to Martin's heart upon seeing the Nord’s face, Batul’s words repeating in his mind.

The soul of a hero.

Martin beamed a wide smile at Waelin, and joined the others in applause. The warrior's lips betrayed a small smile back, and he nodded to the priest. His mission, the promise he made to Martin's father- it was all at hand. But this quest was only just beginning for the both of them.

Chapter III

Waelin found Martin about an hour later, just a little ways away from the encampment, overlooking a small cliff by a tree. The brunette heard his heavy footsteps crunching the soil as he approached, but didn’t turn to meet him. Waelin instead took the place next to Martin, surveying the landscape quietly with him. It was a welcome, serene sight. The sky was streaked with thick clouds, letting rays of sunlight come through and light up patches of the countryside. The grass was almost an unearthly green and dotted with flowers of purple, orange, and yellow. The trees were just turning brown with the onset of Hearthfire, and were beginning to scatter their leaves in the wind. Everything was covered in a fine dew from the rain last night, and the air was cool and crisp. The men shared the view in silence for just a moment, before Waelin finally spoke,

“Apologies. I would have come to you sooner, but the people and guards wouldn’t let me be.”

Martin's eyes drifted down, a smirk on his face, “Well of course, you’ve made waves here in helping us.” He looked to the taller man, “I should apologize for my curtness in the chapel. You… if it wasn’t for you, we’d still be stuck in there, or worse. Thank you, Waelin.”

Waelin’s face did not move as he spoke, “I am honor-bound to help anyone in need. No matter how great the task.” His eyes finally met the priest’s, “You needn't apologize. Or even thank me. I’m simply doing my duty.”

Martin's face fell, before turning to the scenery in front of them again. He let what Waelin said hang in the air as he attempted to prepare mentally for where the conversation was going next.

“So. You told me in the chapel someone sent you to retrieve me. Someone important?”

“Yes. Martin…”

Waelin faced Martin completely, expression deadly serious. Their eyes met again, and the shorter man felt the intensity of Waelin’s gaze like the heat from a flame.

“I was sent to find you by your father. Emperor Uriel Septim.”

Martin's head jerked back, incredulous at what the Nord had said. Nothing could have prepared him for this conversation whatsoever. He shook his head dismissively, “Wh- What? No… No, that’s not correct. My father was a farmer.”

“No Martin. You were born out of wedlock, and Uriel kept you hidden. He had Jauffre of Weynon Priory take you away. You… are the last true heir to the Ruby throne.”

“No..!” Martin's breaths became irregular and fast, and he took a step back from Waelin, “It… It cannot be true. I… I’m just a priest of Akatosh. You must have the wrong man. I- How could you, of all people, know this?!”

Waelin's eyes dropped and his teeth clenched, recalling the painful memory of the previous Emperor’s last moments, “…I know, because Uriel told me himself. Just before he died.”

Martin's eyes darted and his shoulders tensed. This was mad talk, surely. There was no conceivable way this was all true. It simply couldn’t be.

“Martin.” Waelin continued, taking a step to the priest, “The Emperor knew you were in danger. The Daedra came here for you.”

The priest's eyes shot up, wide with shock, “Me? An entire city burned, just to get at me?!” Guilt swirled in his stomach, his face twisting in pain. All that misery and terror, just to get at him? “Gods-” he relented, his hands hiding his face. Surely this could not truly be happening. Martin wanted nothing more than to wake up from this nightmare of a scenario- but found himself already painfully conscious with every passing second.

A warmth on his shoulders stirred him from his spiral, his hands dropping as he looked up. Waelin’s hands were gripping his shoulders, holding him steady, his face solemn and yet comforting. His eyes mirrored the despair in Martin’s, but held strength within them as well, “Sir… I’m sorry. I know this is… almost too much. But I swear it is the truth.”

The Imperial’s gaze fell down to the grass below him, body and mind in a violent whirl. When he spoke, his voice was shaky, “I… I don’t know why… but I think I believe you. You have no reason to lie to me… but, what does this mean? What do you want with me?”

Waelin’s hands fell to Martin's upper arms, his touch stabilizing the priest’s breathing, “It’s not what I want. It’s what you must do. Come with me to Weynon Priory. Jauffre has the answers you seek.”

Martin closed his eyes again, taking deep breaths. He ran what Waelin just said through his head again, trying to swallow what it meant. How did he get swept up into all of this? He never asked to be the Emperor's son. He only ever lived a simple life, as a farmer's son, as a priest of Akatosh. Now all of that was falling away, everything he knew was pulled right out from under him, leaving him dazed and confused.

He inhaled, and concentrated on the warmth of Waelin’s hands holding his arms. Waelin… this man, this Hero, this complete stranger. Martin couldn’t help but wonder how he got sucked into this mess. Whether he had a choice. Whether he too was unceremoniously thrust into this, unready and afraid.

Martin's eyes finally opened, slowly. They drifted up to Waelin’s face, which was now becoming a newfound source of respite. His breathing steadied, and finally he broke the silence, 

“Waelin… They said it was you alone who destroyed the Oblivion gate. You gave the guardsmen hope. You helped them drive the Daedra back. This… Is almost too much to bear. I don’t know if I can be who you tell me I am. But I suppose I haven’t much else to lose. And of all the people of Tamriel, I’m glad it’s you who sought me out.” He finally managed a weak smile, “I will come with you to Weynon Priory. I’m putting myself in your hands. I know you won’t fail me.”

Waelin’s eyes gleamed with determination, face shifting just slightly to show a small glint of thankfulness. He gave Martin's arms a squeeze before letting go, “Thank you, sir. I shall not let you down.” He looked out again at the landscape, breathing in the fresh air, “We leave the first thing tomorrow. Pack what you can carry. It’s a long way to Chorrol.”

* * *

The remainder of that day was solemnly spent preparing for the journey. Waelin gave Martin space to contemplate his circumstances, spending the evening cleaning his armor, sharpening his sword, and of course being hounded by the citizens of Kvatch with praises, gifts, and well wishes. It’s not that Waelin didn’t appreciate being appreciated, he just didn’t think it was necessary. After all, he didn’t initially come here to save them. That was just an afterthought- a consequence to his main goal.

Besides, he often preferred being left alone. He liked having time to his own thoughts and ruminations, contemplating his duties. His mind often went back to that fateful day, when the Emperor met him in the Imperial prison. How calm and collected he was in the face of his demise. Waelin’s eyes would drift up routinely, looking for Martin, just to make sure he was still there. He always was. Often wandering around the encampment, speaking to everyone, offering blessings and spiritual words before his departure. The people of Kvatch themselves couldn’t go home just yet; though the Daedra were gone the city was still in ruin, and nearly uninhabitable. Matius had sent a small patrol to Anvil to call for aid, and make sure passage was safe for the refugees. 

The two didn’t speak much the rest of the evening. When Waelin would look at Martin, he somehow always managed to catch his eye. There was a mixture of understanding and yet hesitation in the brunette's expression, before breaking away back to whatever he was doing. Waelin had escorted countless people in his journeys, all across Tamriel. But none so important as Martin. He revered the priest in a way, being the last living son of Uriel Septim. The last chance that not only the Empire, but the world had to continue.

They ate their dinner together, Martin bringing Waelin a bowl of potato soup made by one of the other refugees, largely in silence. Martin felt tense for the days ahead, and Waelin knew there was nothing to say that would calm him. Instead they simply found company in each other's quietness, in their shared circumstances in which words could never sufficiently express their feelings of. Martin offered Waelin space in his tent to sleep, but the Nord declined, preferring to stay outside and keep watch. His answer tied a knot in the priest's stomach, reminding him that he is a hunted man. 

Martin tossed and turned that night, once again unable to get much sleep. Even though he knew he was protected under Waelin’s watch, he still couldn’t help but be fearful. He had realized that they wouldn’t be safe the whole journey ahead. No matter where they went, Martin would have a target on his back. He winced at the idea of the pain and destruction his presence could bring. How many more lives could be lost over his head. He couldn’t help but weep silently to himself, thinking of what had been done to his home, to his friends, to his entire life. He gave a silent prayer amidst his sobs, pleading to the Nine that more innocent lives would not be taken on his behalf. And with these feelings swirling like storm clouds in his mind, he drifted to sleep, with no dreams to either calm him or trouble him further. 

He awoke to a hand on his shoulder, turning to see Waelin kneeling beside him, clad in shining steel armor. His face was blank, eyes dim in the still young light of day. He spoke just above a whisper, 

“Whenever you’re ready, sir.”

The brunette nodded, and Waelin promptly left the tent. He gave a sigh before lifting himself up, his body feeling heavy. The air was chilly with a slight blanket of mist, and the dim blue light of dawn faintly illuminated the tent. Waelin was double checking their supplies when Martin emerged. He looked to the priest and pointed to a smaller backpack with a bed roll tied to the bottom, “You’ll take this one.” 

Martin looked at the small bag, then to the larger one besides it, “I don’t mind taking the heavier one. I’m not the one in full armor.”

“No, you take the small one. If we run into trouble on the road, you need to be light on your feet and able to get away. Besides,” his eyebrows raised and his eyes lidded, in an almost snarky expression, “I’m strong. Very strong.”

Martin couldn’t help but smile and exhale, shaking his head. Nords. “Very well. If you want to trade at any point just let me know.”

“Aye. We'll be heading to Skingrad first. Should take us three or four days. Then we go to Chorrol. Could take up to nine days.”

“Is it…” Martin trailed off, worry trapped in his throat.

“Pardon, sir?”

Martin swallowed, “Is it… such a good idea to stay in Skingrad?”

Waelin’s brows lowered, lips in a slight pout, “Should be, why? It may be our only chance to sleep in a real bed, lest we cross an inn along the road. I need alchemical supplies as well.”

“I… I don’t want to attract danger to more innocent people. I mean, Gods, look what happened here. If it wasn’t for me Kvatch would still be standing…” his voice was weak with melancholy, eyes on the ground.

“Martin…” Waelins voice was calm, yet stern, “You cannot blame yourself for what happened here. There are powers at play here far beyond our control. Besides…” He placed a reassuring hand on Martin's shoulder, “If anything happens in Skingrad, I will be there to stop it. I promise it. The lives of the innocent are my responsibility, too.”

Martin didn’t look up, but Waelin’s words did assure him, just a little, “… Well, I suppose you’ve already proven that if anyone could handle the Daedra, it’s you. I’ll trust your judgement.”

Their gazes finally met, that warm feeling filling Martin's heart again as he looked into Waelin’s eyes and strong face. The sun had just begun to creep over the horizon, illuminating the encampment with its incandescence. Waelin’s hair had lit up like magelight, the deep green of his good eye twinkling like an emerald. The pinks and blues of the morning sky reflected on his armor, and his fair scarred skin seemed to almost glow. Martin couldn’t help but feel a slight flutter in his stomach, admiring just how dazzling his companion looked; like a painting in a great hall or illumination in a book.

“…Martin?”

Martin blinked, realizing he was staring. He shook his head, feeling his face get hot, “Oh, sorry. I had become… lost in thought.”

“Are you ready?”

“Yes… I’m ready. To Weynon Priory, then.”

* * *

The first day of their travels was a long, quiet trek. The trail to Skingrad was largely open air, rocky formations, and lush countryside. The priest took some solace in the serenity of Cyrodiil’s natural beauty, despite his circumstances. But there was no time to stop and take the scenery in. Martin had a difficult time keeping up with Waelin, who despite wearing armor and carrying the heavier of the satchels, kept a steady, unwavering, and relatively fast pace. At the very least the air was cool, there was a strong breeze, and clouds dotted the sky. But even then the priest found himself having to slow just to catch his breath every so often.

About two hours in, Martin called behind Waelin,

“May we rest?”

The Nord halted and looked back at his companion, who was breathing heavily, “Of course.” They pulled to the side of the road, Martin taking a seat on a large, smooth rock, sighing.

“Sorry. I suppose I’m rather out of shape to travel.”

“It’s quite alright, sir.” Waelin handed a leather canteen of water to the priest, who took hearty gulps of it. After passing the flask back, Martin put his hands on his knees, taking a deep breath,

“Hah… I imagine you’re quite accustomed to travelling on foot like this?”

“Hmm.” Waelin’s shoulders gave a small shrug, “Well, yes. I’ve travelled Tamriel my whole life.”

“Really? Where else have you been besides Cyrodiil?”

“I… was just recently in Morrowind. In Vvardenfell.”

Martin's brows raised, “Oh, I see. Things have become quite troublesome there, I’ve heard. Is it as bad as they say?”

Waelin didn’t respond. Martin scanned the tall man's face, which was pensive and full of thought. Perhaps he doesn't want to speak of it.

But the Nord spoke suddenly, harshness in his voice, “When I left, I thought things were taking a turn for the better. Now I feel the province is headed for doom. Perhaps a penance to pay for their hundreds of years of heresy… and betrayal.” His hand that rested on his sword hilt clenched into a tight fist, and he looked out into the countryside as he spoke. Martin didn’t expect to see Waelin become so heated, it was unexpected from the man who seemed to seldom express such extreme emotions.

The brunette's gaze drifted downward, “I can tell it only brings bad memories for you. You needn’t continue.” He looked back to the Nord, “You must have many stories to tell from your adventures. Perhaps… happier ones?”

Waelin’s eyes drifted to Martin, whose face gleamed with genuine curiosity. His body and face relaxed, taking a breath, “Yes, plenty. Perhaps I’ll share some later.”

Martin nodded, eager to hear the stories of such a travelled soul as Waelin. They rested for about ten minutes more before continuing their solemn journey.

When the sun had begun to set, they pulled to a small clearing just off the road and Waelin set up camp. Martin tried to help but the knight refused, leaving the priest to watch him do everything. He couldn’t help but pout,

“I’m not useless, you know. I can help.”

Waelin had just finished pitching Martin's tent, and was working on a fire, “I know you’re not useless. But respectfully, sir, I’ve been doing this myself for ages. And you deserve some rest.”

“You don’t need to call me ‘sir’ either. I hardly qualify for this treatment, even if I am Uriel Septim’s son.” His voice dropped, tone lined with insecurity, “His bastard son, no less.”

“The blood of the dragon flows through you, as it did all Septims.” Waelin spoke plainly, without looking up from the pyre he worked on, “Bastard or not, you’re more important to the Empire than you think- especially now.”

Martin heaved a sigh. He remained silent as he watched Waelin prepare their dinner. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was until he was handed the bowl of food, the day's journey had already taken much out of him. For a campfire meal, it was delicious- somewhat sweet and yet spicy and filling, with soft chunks of fruit amidst the gooey paste made with rice and cheese. He finished his bowl promptly, as Waelin watched him with a small smirk on his face, “Enjoyed that, did you?”

“It’s delicious- what is it?”

“Just apple porridge. Learned that one at a Mages Guild, I believe in High Rock, many many years ago. Granted they usually add alchemical ingredients to enhance your magicka.” He took a bite of his food, “This is a commoner's version, I suppose.”

Martin was already helping himself to a second bowl, “I never would have thought you a cook- no offense. Is there anything you can’t do?”

Waelin’s smirk remained on his face as he looked past Martin, “Oh, plenty. Never got the hang of magic. And I’m the last person you ought to come to for any kind of… ‘sneaky’ endeavors.”

Martin snickered, trying to envision the big brute trying to creep up on an enemy- armor clanking and footsteps so loud they shake the ground, “That makes sense. Well… if you can cook as well as you fight, I ought to keep you around as a bodyguard and a personal chef.”

Waelin gave a humored scoff, “Ah, one taste of my cooking and now you’ve taken to being treated like an Emperor. Next thing I know you’ll want me to call you my lord.”

Martin chuckled heartily, the levity in this moment so desperately welcomed, “Haha, Gods, if I ever come to that you have my permission to slap me out if it. Or perhaps make sure I haven’t been replaced by an imposter- such an ordeal may run in the family.”

Waelin laughed out loud- this being the first time Martin had heard it. Not just a snicker or a chuckle, but a real laugh. It wasn’t loud, or boisterous, but reserved, and largely wheezy. The brunette's eyes darted up, watching the usually stoic man emote wholly- or as wholly as he could anyway. He caught himself staring again at his companion, but this time indulged. As Waelin's laugh trailed off a smile remained on his face- probably the widest grin he’s given this whole time. The Nord’s eyes trailed up to meet Martins, who smiled back at him, accomplishment on his face. For just a moment, they had forgotten the looming dread that followed their journey. For just a moment, it was just them- no plots, no Daedra, no conspiracies. It was just two men, two blooming friends.

After dinner they promptly went to bed, Waelin again wanting to leave at the first sign of dawn. He opted to sleep outside while Martin slept in the tent, which the priest protested.

“It’s not big enough for two people. Besides, I quite like sleeping beneath the moons and stars.” Waelin said plainly, not budging on his position.

Martin shook his head, “You deserve a tent and good nights rest, too.”

“I told you, I’ve been doing this for ages. I get plenty of rest outside just fine.”

There really was no use arguing- Orcs are one thing, but Nords are pure stone: never giving way no matter what. Martin gave up, and remembered they would be in Skingrad in a matter of just a few days, “At least in Skingrad we can both have an actual bed.” He gave a stern look to Waelin, “You are sleeping in a bed when we get there. I will not hear anything different.”

Waelin gave a smirk to the priest as he laid in his bed roll, “Good night, Martin.”

Martin's face melted, grinning back with a nod, “Good night.” before heading into his tent. Luckily the full day of walking had worn him out, and rest came easy today, for once. The image of Waelin's smile hung in his mind, before fading away as he drifted into a deep sleep.

Chapter IV

The awful smell of smoke and blood filled Martin's lungs as his vision gave way to a frightening portent. He was clad in intricate gold and black armor that he’d never worn before in his life. He’s afraid, and yet his heart tells him to remain where he’s standing. All around him, men and Daedra engage in combat, flames burning the brush around them. He doesn’t know exactly where he is, but the unmistakable orange glow of an Oblivion gate illuminates the battlefield. Dread sinks into his heart when he realizes there wasn’t just one, nor two, but four Oblivion gates before him. Just like in Kvatch, the fourth portal stood between the others, impossibly gigantic with swathes of creatures filing through. 

He felt his heart sink to his stomach upon watching the dreadful scene unfold. What hope was there? There was no sign of the hordes stopping- whatever it was they were defending most surely would fall. As he watched it unfold, the familiar feeling of a hand on his shoulder stirred him, and he turned around. There, in dazzling ebony armor was Waelin. His face was as unmoving as ever, but deep in his eyes was an intense feeling of which Martin could not yet place. Waelin spoke to him, his voice clear as day,

“The great gate has opened. I shall make my way inside- I will not fail you.”

Martin's nerves eased at the sight of the knight, confident and strong as ever. Without a second thought, Martin brought his hand to Waelin's face, their bodies just inches from one another, as he listened to himself speak, “I know you won’t.”

Waelin smiled at Martin, his own hand having fallen to the fledgling Emperor's waist. There was an intense, overwhelming feeling in Martin's chest- but again he could not place what it was or what it could mean. He just knew that when he looked to the Nord, even amidst the carnage, he felt secure. He felt safe. He was inspired. 

“Martin.” Waelin spoke again, his voice growing fuzzy and his visage seeming to fade away. Martin tried to hear what he said next but couldn’t make it out, “I…” 

Martin awoke with a start and a gasp. His eyes were wide as he swallowed, his thoughts running laps in his mind. What was that? Just a dream? He sat up, trying to ground himself in his surroundings. The tent he was in was dark, but he could see that blue light of dawn creeping through the flaps. He took deep breaths, focusing on the smell of leaves, grass and dirt to forget that terrible smell of smoke. Though the air was cold, he found himself sweating profusely.

The tents flaps opened suddenly, startling the Imperial. It was only Waelin, half-clad in armor. Even in the dim light Martin knew his expression was as aloof as ever,

“Ah, you’re awake already. Did you sleep well?”

Martin was still trying to steady his breathing, feeling a lump in his throat. He didn’t answer, and just looked at the Nord, sweat beading on his brow. Waelin's brows furrowed, “Are you alright?”

Martin took a deep breath, trying to focus. He closed his eyes, “Er, I… Yes I’m fine I just… had a dream.”

Waelin’s voice tinged with severity, “A dream? What about?”

“You were there. We were… in battle with the Daedra. Gods, there were four Oblivion gates…” Martin shook his head, trying to erase the terrible sight from his mind. 

Waelin did not move, and his face was as cold as ice. He knew what this meant. Uriel Septim was plagued with vivid dreams that foretold his fate. The dragon blood of the Septims granted the Emperors far greater clairvoyance than anyone in Tamriel. It wasn’t a mere dream- Waelin knew Martin must had seen the future.

He didn’t dare reveal this to him. Martin was already a nervous wreck and Waelin didn’t want to stress him further. He kept his tone light, “Ah, you’re bound to have strange and frightening dreams, having gone through what you have. You can take your time getting up. Calm yourself.”

Martin heaved a sigh and nodded, “Yes… Yes you’re right. Sorry, I’ll be up soon.”

Waelin gave the brunette a nod, and left him be. He looked around the site, most of it packed up besides Martin's tent and bedroll. He chewed on his lip thinking of what Martin had seen. As he finished suiting his armor, his mind tried to picture it. Gods, four gates at once? His face instinctively scowled, feeling more annoyed than fearful at the prospect. It seems he already had his work cut out for him. He just hoped when it was all said and done he wouldn’t have to deal with another damn meddlesome Daedric Lord and their minions for years to come. 

His head lifted to the sound of Martin emerging from his tent, face still stricken with worry. His troubled eyes finally drifted up to meet the Nords, as if pleading for help. Waelin offered him a smile, which the priest managed to return meekly. The knight finished strapping his bracers on, then turned to face his companion, hand on the hilt of his sword, “You could really use a drink.”

Martin gave a weak chuckle, “Ah… Some sound sleep is all I really need. Between the restless nights, the walking, and now the nightmares…” He trailed off, “By the Nine, I’ve never been more tired.”

“Hmm.” Waelins lips puckered slightly, before turning his gaze to the large satchel on the ground. He crouched down and began rummaging through it, Martin watching him blankly.

“I just might have something for you… Ah, here.” He pulled a vial of opaque, dark green liquid from the bag. He glanced at Martin, shaking it, “Just half a bottle left, but it should work.” 

Martin's eyebrows raised just a bit, apprehension on his face, “…It’s not… illicit, is it?”

“No.” Waelin's brows dropped, slightly annoyed, “And I’m offended you even ask. It’s a fatigue potion. Brewed it myself.”

Martin closed his eyes, cursing himself for saying that, “Apologies. I’m not very familiar with alchemy or potions. But, if you think it may help… Well, I’d really appreciate it.”

Waelin tossed the vial to the priest, who just barely caught it with shaky hands, “It’s yours. But you owe me a drink in Skingrad.”

Martin smirked, “Deal.” And chugged the vial. Potions never really tasted good, but this one was on the more tolerable side. It was minty and bitter, almost like a tea, and distinctly grainy in texture as all potions were. His eyes closed as the effects immediately took hold, a warmth spreading through his body. He felt his muscles relax and any soreness melt away, giving a deep sigh of relief.

“Ah, Gods, I needed that. Thank you, Waelin.”

“Of course. I’ll make more for our journey ahead when we get to Skingrad.” He closed the satchel before standing, “We should arrive there in three days, hopefully before the third day ends. Help me take the tent down, please?”

* * *

Just as Waelin predicted, they reached the gates of Skingrad while the sun still shone over the horizon on their fourth day of travel. Their journey had since been uneventful and more of the same as the first day. Martin had found himself getting used to the long hours of walking, just slightly. They made light conversations as they walked in the day and camped at night- and though the priest found Waelin rather dry and candid he was an open book, and forthright with the things he said. It was somewhat refreshing if not jarring at times, like when Martin dared to ask if he had any sort of spouse or lover waiting for him out in the world. Waelin answered with a flat no, but not without detailing his frivolous and promiscuous activities with the many many men he met along his travels. While the Nord had no shame admitting this, Martin couldn’t find it within him to yet reveal the similar proclivities of his own past. And luckily, Waelin wasn’t a man to ask many questions back.

The Nord himself strangely found the priest's company endearing. While normally he loathed having his escorts chatter incessantly, something about Martin’s voice and character made the knight much more willing to engage in conversation. Perhaps slightly influenced by how easy on the eyes he was first and foremost; a good looking man was one of Waelin’s few weaknesses. But the Imperial was charmingly curious and greatly intelligent as well, much more so than Waelin would’ve given credit for someone raised among the peasantry. He simply couldn’t bring himself to be irritated by Martin’s presence, especially considering all the priest of Akatosh went through. Though he was the son of Uriel Septim, his humility was his defining trait, urging the knight again and again to treat him like any other civilian of Cyrodiil. It was a little strange to Waelin, who was so used to serving haughty royals and stuffy high priests- but a welcome change of pace nonetheless. 

But while the days were relatively pleasant, Martin still dreamt troubling dreams night after night. That same scene pervaded his mind over and over, of him in battle before the portals to Oblivion. Once he fought Daedra alongside Waelin, and another he watched the Hero as he entered the massive fourth gate. He never got to hear what the knight was going to say to him in his first dream. 

Despite seeing the same vision over and over, it never failed to cause him to wake in a near panic, drenched in sweat. When it happened the second night, he couldn't get back to sleep for hours, tossing and turning in the darkness of his tent. He’d poke his head from his tent routinely just to look at Waelin as he slept; knowing he was around calmed him and brought him some security. He almost wanted to ask the Nord to sleep in the tent with him so he wouldn’t feel so alone. But shame burned the inclination to ask away, and Waelin made it clear on the first night he’d prefer to sleep outside. So Martin would simply go restless, weary of seeing that damned vision yet again. The lack of sleep wore down on him as they travelled, with him having to ask for more breaks along the way and faltering to keep pace as they approached Skingrad.

Waelin had reassured him that the dreams were just a traumatic response from his own experience with the Oblivion gates in Kvatch. But Martin had a small but ever present feeling that these dreams meant more, he simply couldn't be sure as to what or how yet. He’d never had such intense dreams in his life, and that they were happening now of all times; surely they must mean something. But he was so exhausted that he buried this feeling as best he could, as he wanted nothing more than to expel such distressing imagery from his mind.

Yet at last, they were in Skingrad. The town was bustling with life, with merchants moving merchandise, townspeople coming home from work, priests tending their churches, and so on. Being amidst people again brought a bit of peace to Martin's heart: seeing the normal routine of life and society was a welcome sight, especially in the prosperous and beautiful Colovian city. He followed Waelin through an assortment of shops to replenish their supplies, their final stop being the alchemist's shop, run by the dark elf woman Falanu Hlaalu. Waelin was able to make use of her alchemy set to craft a few more fatigue potions, and picked out a variety of ingredients to take along.

As they were paying, she made small talk with the two, “Thank you for the business. I hardly get any here, despite being the only alchemist in Skingrad.”

Martin gave her a sympathetic look, “We’re sorry to hear that.”

She shrugged, “Eh, there’s not much I can do. I can’t go back to Morrowind. Just like anywhere else in the Empire. By the way…” her eyes half closed, looking between the two men, “Do either of you happen to know what the fine is here in Cyrodiil for necrophilia? Just asking.”

Martin's jaw dropped and his face twisted in horror at the question, while Waelin didn’t bother to look up from counting gold from his gold purse, responding plainly “Is it a first offense?”

The priest's head whipped to his companion in shock, having a hard time believing what he was hearing. The Dunmer’s eyes drifted up in thought, “Let's assume… No.”

Waelin looked up to her, face aloof, pushing the gold for the transaction towards her, “Then it’s at least 500 gold.”

A wide smile stretched on Falanu’s lips, “That’s nothing compared to Morrowind- thanks!” She took the money and handed him a satchel of ingredients. Waelin nodded, and took his leave. Martin was stunned at the conversation he just heard, giving a look of repulsion to the dark elf before quickly following after Waelin.

Once they were outside a mortified Martin asked Waelin, “What in Oblivion was that?!”

Waelin looked at his friend, face yet to betray a single emotion at the exchange, “What was what?”

“Necrophilia?! She should be reported to the guards! And how do you know the fine amount?!”

“She was just asking a question.” He shook his head dismissively, “Strange as it may have been. And I know the laws of the Empire inside and out. Honestly, I thought it was common knowledge.”

Martin was speechless, and let it go, trying to expel the encounter from his mind for the rest of the evening. Finally they reached the inn just as the sun was setting, with Waelin asking the proprietor for a room for two. She gave them an odd look before responding, “Erm, yes, I have just one room left for two. Twenty gold. Top floor, last door on your left.” Waelin nodded and passed her the gold, and received the key in return.

As they made their way up to the room, Martin felt a small excitement to finally sleep inside, in a soft bed. His enthusiasm was just slightly dashed when they opened the door to see just one double bed for them to share.

“Oh…” Martin sighed, a slightly stunned look on his face, “I thought you asked for a room for two?”

“I did.”

“As in, two beds?”

“They must not have one. Or just assumed…” Waelin couldn’t help but feel a tug at the corner of his mouth, “Ah well. What’s done is done. You can take the bed, I’ll sleep on the floor.”

“Absolutely not.” Martin protested, recalling their exchange nights ago, “I told you, you’re staying in a bed tonight.”

Waelin rolled his eyes, finding the priest's compassion a bit tiring at this moment, “I’m not getting another room- I have to stay by your side. I’ll not risk leaving you alone even for one night.”

“No, I meant…” Martin's head rolled, hands gesturing awkwardly, “I don’t mind sharing. The bed. With you.”

The Nord's eyes lidded, face in consideration, “Ah. I couldn’t ask you to do that.”

“Really, it’s fine. There’s more than enough room for both of us. Unless you…” Martin crossed his arms, “Unless it would make you… uncomfortable?”

Waelin exhaled through his nose, refusing to mince words, “You know I am no stranger to sharing my bed with another man.” He finally faced Martin, whose eyes widened just slightly at what he’d said, “So, I don’t care. Would it make you uncomfortable?”

Martin felt his face flush, a bit taken aback by Waelin’s boldness, “N- No, not at all.”

Waelin shrugged, the bashfulness of the situation clearly not phasing him whatsoever, “Alright, then it’s decided.” He walked to the right side of the bed and slumped his sword and supplies down. He began stripping his armor off as he looked back at his companion, “Oh I should let you know, I do prefer to sleep nude in beds…”

Martin's eyebrows shot up, “Wh- What?!”

Waelin gave the priest a wink and small but fiendish smile, “Only jesting.” 

Martin's eyes rolled and his shoulders slumped, exhaling sharply. Gods, what have I gotten myself into?

After settling in, the two returned downstairs for dinner. The inn's cook had made fresh mutton with a side of rich tomato broth, which the two men ate heartily with bread. Martin made good on his earlier deal and bought Waelin a full bottle of Surilie Brothers’ wine. Waelin offered him a cup, but the priest declined, 

“Oh no, I haven’t drank in many years. I’m quite… weary of alcohol.”

“Bad memories?”

“You can say that. I indulged in quite a bit of excess in my youth.”

“Oh?” Waelins eyebrow raised, slightly intrigued, “You were not always a priest then?”

“No…” Martin couldn’t help but cringe thinking of when he was younger. How stupid he had been, all the mistakes that still haunted him. He still couldn’t find it within himself to discuss his past to his companion, “I’d… rather not talk about it.”

Waelin read the discomfort in Martin's face and dropped it. He chewed his food pensively, trying to think of something to lighten the mood. He swallowed, and sat back in his chair,

“Did you know I once had to play bouncer in a tavern in Mournhold?”

Martin was shaken from his thoughts, looking up to the Nord with a smirk, “Wh- really?”

“Sure. It was a place called The Winged Guar. Bouncer didn’t show up that day, and I happened to wander in. Hired on the spot.”

“Hah, how was it?”

“Easy, honestly. Most unruly patrons didn’t take much to throw out. Did have to pummel a Nord man, though.”

“Gods, was he that bad?”

“Well, he had been picking on a poor Bosmer named High-Pockets. The mouth on that little elf, Gods above. He-,” Waelin couldn’t help but chortle, recalling the exchange, “The drunk Nord had taken the mer by one hand and slid him across the bar- unprovoked.”

Martin wheezed while shaking his head, “How awful!”

“So I offered my help, naturally. Went straight up to the brute and told him, ‘It's time you pick on someone your own size- like me.’ Hardly a fair fight, the man could barely swing a punch without completely losing balance.”

Martin listened intently, snickering at the thought of it. Waelin finished, “Ah, one clean hook and he was out for the count. Once he was down the little elf came up and landed a few feeble kicks on the man for good measure.” Waelin’s eyes looked off, his smile reaching his eyes, “Definitely one of my more interesting experiences- being in Mournhold.”

“I’d love to hear more… If you don’t mind.” Martin's eyes were glittering with intrigue.

Waelin caught his eye, looking deep into them as he continued, “Oh, of course. You know, I met Lady Barenziah while I was there.”

Martin's face jutted forward, eyes widened, “Queen Barenziah? You?”

“Of course. I had only come to the city for political dealings anyway. She was very pleasant, and helpful with my duties. Her son, on the other hand…”

Waelin relayed his adventures in Mournhold, careful to talk around his involvement with the Goddess Almalexia and the tribunal as a whole. He focused on the ‘lighter’ aspects of this time in the Dunmer capital- like when he was an impromptu understudy in a play, just to be attacked mid show by an assassin of the Morag Tong. Or when he not only played matchmaker for a Dunmer woman, but spied on the unfaithful husband of another. Or when King Helseth tried having him assassinated by the Dark Brotherhood… twice. Or about the poor Bosmer who asked for a donation of one million gold. When Waelin refused, the elf attacked him two days later fully clad in ebony armor. “Probably one of the most formidable warriors I’ve ever fought,” Waelin added, “As to how he got the armor I couldn’t tell you.”

Martin couldn’t help but feel a bit of awe listening to his friend tell his stories. The things this man has done- from mere favors for strangers to long, drawn out missions for royals, Waelin had done just about it all. The priest realized how no matter the tale Waelin told, he met the confrontation head on. He never once mentioned feeling fear, anxiety, or trepidation. He just… did, never with a shred of doubt that he couldn’t. Martin wished he could one day even muster a fraction of the confidence Waelin had in himself.

When the night ran late and Waelin had finished his tales, they headed to their room. Martin didn’t even think about how they were sharing a bed anymore, and in fact was looking forward to having someone sleep by his side. At least until Waelin began changing in front of him, Martin quickly turning his gaze when the other man took off his traveling trousers,

“Agh- You… have no shame, do you?”

Waelin caught the other man hiding his face as he reached his satchel for more comfortable clothes, completely nude, “Oh, apologies. And no, I don’t. I have nothing to hide.” He slipped on a pair of linen pants, and laid on the bed, still shirtless, “I’m decent now, dear priest.” Martin dropped his hand from his face, giving Waelin a sarcastic expression, before his eyes drifted to his chest.

Just under the Nord’s pectorals were two large, grisly scars. They were mostly symmetrical, each beginning from the bottom of his sternum and spanning jaggedly to the sides of his chest. They almost looked like burn scars, puffy and discolored. He noticeably was missing his nipples as well. Waelin noticed where Martin’s eyes were and the perplexed expression on his face,

“I can put a shirt on.”

Martin's eyes snapped back up to Waelins face, his tone apologetic, “No, no- I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have stared.”

Waelin shrugged and put his hands behind his head, causing the scars to stretch over his muscles, “I know they’re unsightly. They’re the work of Daedric magic.”

Martin's head jerked back a bit with intrigue, now walking to his side of the bed. As he sat down he spoke quietly, “Gods, really? Er, you don’t have to explain, if you don’t want to.”

Waelin shrugged again, his eyes drifting around the room, “Like I said, I’ve nothing to hide.” His brows raised, almost disinterested in his own story, “To put it plainly, I was born as a woman- yet a woman I am not. As long as I have lived, I knew I was a man. This discrepancy... caused me great turmoil. I had to bind my chest and speak sparingly to hide my voice. The frustration only grew and grew as I aged. And I could find no one to help me solve it; no mage, no healer, no alchemist had any answers for me. I was desperate… so I called upon Clavicus Vile.”

Martin's eyes stayed on Waelin as he spoke, taking what he said with utmost sincerity. Waelin’s condition was not unheard of to him. He had read manuscripts describing the same affliction, among men and mer. But turning to Daedric arts to remedy it… that, he’d never heard of.

“He promised me the body of a man. We made a deal. I did everything he asked. But of course, his deals are never really what they seem. He left me with these wounds,” he gestured to his chest with his face, “My voice deepened and my bones shifted, but some aspects of my original body still remained, just changed.” 

Waelin looked at Martin, whose eyes remained on him, his expression silently asking for him to continue. The Nord took heed, “Of course, this was his way of toying with me, as a 'true' man’s body he did not grant me.” A sly smile crept across his lips, “But I was overjoyed. I threatened to rip him apart if he reversed a single thing.”

Martin scoffed incredulously, “Waelin! You said that to a Daedric lord?”

Waelin nodded, pride burning in his eyes, “Absolutely. He wasn’t happy with my reaction, sure. To spite me he made the wounds on my chest split and bleed constantly, resulting in the large scars. But even that mattered not to me. No one and nothing was going to take this away from me. Daedra, Aedra, or otherwise.”

The Imperial once again felt awe in his heart as he listened. He knew Waelin was bold- but to be so bold as to threaten a Daedric lord outright… Martin never knew a man so self-assured in his life. He looked to Waelin’s chest again, admiring the scars now as a symbol of his friend's determination and resolution. His voice was thick with sweetness when he spoke,

“Truly, Waelin. You’re one of the most inspiring men I’ve ever met.”

Waelin’s eyes met Martin’s, their gazes holding each other tenderly. It was a similar expression on Waelin’s face as the one he had days ago in Kvatch, when Martin acknowledged him in the crowd. He knew validation from many people in his life, from commoners to kings and even Gods. But none felt nearly as sweet as it did coming from Martin. For what seemed like the first time in ages, Waelin’s heart began to race as he fought to relieve the words from his mouth, 

“… Thank you… Martin. That… That means a lot to me.”

Martin smiled at him, the warmth emanating from his face caused the Nord’s heart to swell. His eyes didn’t leave the priest as he got up to remove his shoes, belt and outer robes, leaving on the undershirt and trousers beneath. His gaze graced Waelin one last time before he climbed into bed, “Goodnight, my friend.”

“Goodnight.”

Martin blew out the candles on his nightstand and laid down on the bed, pulling the covers over him and turning to face away from Waelin. His mind was at ease, his muscles relaxing in the soft mattress and pillow beneath him. He was asleep in no time. Waelin laid awake, listening intently to the sound of Martin's breathing. The brunette's presence just beside him both relaxed him and yet made his stomach flutter with excitement. Usually when he shared a bed with a man the circumstances were completely different. So much so that Waelin almost couldn’t comprehend the situation he was in. And what was this feeling now? What Martin said about how Waelin inspired him… nothing spoken before has ever invigorated the knight so much in his life.

He closed his eyes and heaved a sigh. Perhaps he had been alone so long that he was just desperate, and craved affection. After all, it had been years since he’d laid down with or even considered a lover, and he was horribly pent up. And to make matters worse, he had a good looking man here next to him who gave him nothing but attention and sweet words and it was beginning to drive him mad. Waelin’s mind wandered, fantasizing about the priest advancing him, courting him, making love to him. The knight certainly wouldn’t object- in fact in this moment he almost wished Martin would. 

His eyes drifted open, the sight of the dark room dispelling the imagery from his mind. Blunt and impulsive as Waelin often was, he knew these thoughts were inappropriate. As much as he’s come to appreciate Martin’s company, it wasn’t fair to project such yearnings onto him. Besides, he had a duty to fulfill- they both did. The weary knight relaxed his body and mind, silently reaffirming the vow he made to Uriel Septim in his head. He turned on his side, facing away from the man beside him, and willed himself to sleep.