Library dinner, fic dessert

Holacia, 30s, back from break

[evermore-fashion]

Favourite Designs: Lwenx Haute Couture Gowns [x]

[nessa007]

PRIDE & PREJUDICE (2005) Dir. Joe Wright

[ciakinsa]

*sends my man a Zillow listing*

Him: Did you look at the estimated mortgage?

Me: No

[lacetulle]

Georges Hobeika | Fall/Winter 2026 Couture

[a7estrellas]

PEDRO PASCAL as Harry Castillo Materialists | ph. Atsushi Nishijima

[navybrat817]

Looking through my WIPs and ideas and found this old note. 🤣

[ciakinsa]

Navy this is quite a note 👀

Sedates reader with a pill in her drink/snack? An injection??

Does reader know they've been exposed to the pollen?

Any history between Bucky and reader before this??

[mcpayne]

jessica chastain and her oscars

[whocaresstillthelouvre]

Thin Walls

Alex Serian x Female Reader

Rating: Explicit. 18+ (Minors DNI)  Summary: She's back for more. Warnings: smut, protected and unprotected p in v, slight choking, ice play, masturbation, voyeurism, jealousy?, sleeping with two different men in one night, alex in a tuxedo, scotch, weed, barely proofread because all the blood has left my brain Words: 3,100

A/N: This is going to be a thing for me. I know it is. I know this is going to turn into a whole fucking thing because I just can't say no to a dude who's fighting the way he feels about someone. Jesus Christ. I asked my enablers friends if I should post this today, and they said yes, even though I literally have the final chapter of Healed in my drafts for tomorrow. Get ready to get sick of me, folks. In my humble, dumbass opinion... I think this is the hottest thing I've written? Gif used thanks to my talented and beloved @perotovar.

Previous Masterlist

—-

You don’t even know what he looks like naked.

Two weeks have passed, enough time for the shock of that night to dull, for any shame you held to fade and turn into something unresolved between your neighbor and you. There’s also been silence after eleven. Alex doesn’t play, and Alex doesn’t fuck. No cello, no woman gasping his name. You hate yourself for noticing the new schedule and how you can’t stop thinking about him.

Until Oliver.

You meet him at your friend’s art show, he’s handsome, funny, and instantly charms you. He at least pays attention to you and even knows your name.

You’re feeling bold, maybe it’s the negronis, your lilac short skirt and crop top, or the fact that you haven’t gotten off in over two weeks. You don’t hesitate to ask Oliver if he’d like to go back to your place.

The car smells like stale lemon, and the Uber driver’s playing some sad, twangy country song you can’t stand, but Oliver’s hand is warm as it rests on your leg. He tells you about his dreams of being a professional comedian. He’s cute, but not too cute, the kind of handsome that if your friends saw him, they’d send you a nod of approval. Good enough for a quick fuck.

As the car turns on your street, Oliver’s hand now rests at the top of your thigh, and you actually feel yourself begin to ache in anticipation. You’re giggly by the time you reach your bungalow, and Oliver’s palm stays on the exposed skin of your lower back as you dig through your purse for your keys.

Your hand stops when you hear the echo of footsteps behind you. Soft and rhythmic. You look up and over, just in time to see a shadow.

Alex. In a black tuxedo, holding his cello case, all debonair and gorgeous. You haven’t seen him since that night, and now he’s here, haloed by the streetlamp. He looks at you, and the only thing that gives him away is the split-second clench of his jaw before he begins to move again.

You turn back to your keys, unlock your door, and pull Oliver inside.

A joint is split between the two of you, kissing in between, sharing smoke and tongues as you try not to think of your tuxedoed neighbor just on the other side of the wall. Oliver’s grunts and groans as your hand runs up his leg tell you he really wants you, so you lead him to your bedroom.

You let him undress you, let him take in your body and call you beautiful. It feels… nice. Fine, really. The heat of his glare is a little warming, but it pales in comparison to the way Alex looked at you from the first time you knocked on his door.

You lie back on your bed, open your legs, and Oliver runs his fingers through your folds, definitely slimmer and clumsier than Alex’s thick, efficient hands. He’s hopeless at finding your clit, but you ooh and ahh him, hoping his cock will be a good enough lay to help you get off.

Oliver eagerly and clumsily undresses. You reach into your drawer and fetch a condom. Oliver rolls it on, and when he guides his dick in, it’s definitely slimmer than you wanted. He grins, like he’s been blessed by your pussy, and gently asks you, “Is this okay?”

You moan a yes for him, and he begins to move. Slow and savoring, not quick, passionate, desperate like the way Alex fucked you. Honestly, it’s so milquetoast and forgettable, your mind wanders off. No matter how much you want to be present, want to be here in your bedroom under cute Oliver, your thoughts are on Alex. He’s probably still in that tux, maybe he’s undone his bow tie, popped open the first few buttons of his crisp, white shirt.

It’s then that you hear the soft, muffled whine of cello through the thin drywall. The notes rise and fall on the other side of the wall. You close your eyes and open your thighs wider, as if you can let the notes slip in, past Oliver and fuck you. You moan, way louder than usual. Oliver believes your moan, and fucks you faster, desperate to be the one who’s making those noises escape you. But it’s not him. Of course it’s not. It’s Alex’s, keeping a tempo that makes each note drag you closer and closer to the edge of bliss.

Your moans duet with the music, and though your body lies in your bed, your mind and heart might as well have drifted past the thin drywall and into Alex’s home. It’s not the way Oliver moves in and out of you, or the sound of his slight whimpers and groans, but the faint music played by your handsome neighbor that nears your orgasm. You’re close, your eyes clenching shut, only picturing the ethereal glimpse of Alex you saw earlier. The memory of how full he made you, the rasp of his grunts, the warmth of his cum as it splashed across your skin. Alex, Alex, Alex.

Oliver feels you getting close, tries to seal his mouth over yours, but you tilt your head and move. Moaning loudly into the air as you orgasm.

The cello stops as soon as you let out the first, long moan.

Oliver finishes inside you, with a long gasp, then rolls away. You get up, clean yourself, and tell him there’s a trash can by your dresser, almost feeling bad about how clinical you make it, but you just want your guest gone now. You’re already resigning yourself to the fact that nobody’s going to beat your hot neighbor.

When you return, now covered in the silk of your robe, he’s at the edge of your bed, still naked. Before your new neighbor, you probably would’ve invited him to stay the night, let him hold you all night, then wake up and get breakfast. Maybe you’d see how it all plays out and date him for a while. But that’s just not going to work now.

You smile, touch his arm, and say, “This was really fun.” His grin is full of pride, and he looks at you like he’s almost in awe of you. “So, I’ve got such an early morning tomorrow,” you say.

You see a hint of disappointment before he smiles at you. “I totally get it. You’re busy. I’m busy.”

He gets dressed quickly, like a good one-night stand.

Maybe you’ll text him; maybe you won’t. Either way, when you walk him toward the door, you kiss him on the cheek and thank him for coming. The door clicks shut, and there’s a moment of quiet.

Until your siren song starts to play again.

The cello.

It summons you.

You open your door, cross the small strip of grass, barefoot and only in your robe, hair still mussed and sex still on your skin. There’s barely enough time for you to ask yourself what the fuck you’re doing here before you knock on the dark wood with 2B in gold letters. It’s like he was expecting you, it takes Alex no time to answer the door.

You were right. He’s still in his tux… and the top buttons are undone. That cocky grin is there again, but there’s a hint of ferality and maybe… possessiveness as his deep brown eyes assess your barely clothed body.

“Play for me?” you ask.

He nods and lets you in.

You float to the couch on the waves of lust and need, skin burning hot as you feel him watch you. The couch dips, the buttery leather forming around your heated skin when you settle atop it. Alex picks up his drink from the table, a scotch on the rocks, big clear ice cubes tinking against the glass when he takes a drink.

He sits in his chair across the room from you, pulling the cello into his hold. He almost looks out of place, bare feet planting against the oak floor, tuxedo pants riding high. He’s the confusing mix of cocksure and casual as he plays the first note.

It’s lush, full of longing, and you bite your lip because he’s not looking at the cello. He’s looking at you.

You can’t even pretend you’re here for the music, and Alex knows that. You untie your robe, silk parting to reveal your collarbone, your breasts, and the way your thighs are already pressed together. He watches intently, playing his instrument flawlessly. So you keep going, letting your robe fall to the couch, spreading your legs to let him get a good look at you.

The cello keeps time with you, your fingers dragging over your soft mound, through your folds, brushing against your clit. You move with the music, let it overtake you as your hips grind against your palm and you dip your finger lower. Every whimper you breathe is for him to play against, and for his greedy, predatory gaze.

God, you’re so fucking wet, leftover from your orgasm from just fifteen minutes ago and the searing heat of your neighbor’s attention. You slide two fingers into your cunt, flutter them inside, and drag them along the gushy walls in time to the tremolo of his bow. The music pulls you, spreads your legs wide, cants your hips in the air as the cello player soundtracks your desire.

He plays fast now, the loose curl on his forehead springs up and down as his eyes stay planted between your legs. Every note is perfect, but you can see the way you’re affecting him… the unsteady breaths he’s breathing, the tremorous rise and fall of his chest. You’re so fucking close, one hand petting yourself, middle finger circling your clit, the other hand, two fingers deep in your pussy. You start to chase and chase, your orgasm floating with the notes just above your reach. You’re a trembling, wet, and loud mess, stretched out on your new neighbor’s couch.

It’s obscene how bad you want this, how bad you want to put on this show for him. You’re panting, lungs singing “close, close, close” when Alex stops the song suddenly, and you freeze, holding yourself right on the brink.

“Don’t stop,” he growls.

You listen, but go slower now, and rebuild your bliss. He stands, cello set aside, and takes his scotch with him. His bare feet move across the room to you, lowball glass hanging from one hand. He comes to the couch, looms over you, and you have to tilt your head back to look all the way up at him, all domineering in the low, golden light. He watches, sipping, as casual as ever in his only slightly off-kilter tuxedo.

You whimper, and he catches your jaw, tilts your face towards him. He presses the glass to your lips, and you taste the smoke and warmth when he pours it into your mouth. You swallow every drop, even if it burns, because the afterglow is so smooth.

He takes one last gulp, taking an ice cube into his mouth. He spits it into his palm, then traces it over your burning skin, a delicious shock of cold against it. The trail of wet and cold runs down your chest, circling each nipple until droplets fall down your breasts. A cold path is left down your ribcage, down your belly, past your mound until he runs the melting edge between your spread lips and right over your clit.

You gasp and laugh and moan all at once, breath catching when you see the wild devotion in his eyes. The ice falls to the floor, and Alex parts your knees wider, fitting his thumb against your clit. You’re nothing but heavy breaths, ache, and want. You feel like you’re going to melt just like the discarded chunk of ice when he brings his face low, flicking his tongue over your nipple, teeth scraping against it. You try to speak, try to tell him you’re close, but you’re so fucking powerless, especially when his long, thick finger joins yours. You almost sob, a perplexing gratitude for the pressure of his hand guiding your own further. He presses the tip of your chin with his other hand and makes you look at him, as if he wants your eyes wide open for this, wants you to remember just how fucking humiliatingly desperate you are for him.

“Go on and take it,” he gruffs in that frustratingly still velvety smooth voice.

You do, bucking into his hand, soaking his palm as the pressure builds and sends sparks up your spine. Your whole body seizes up in one long, almost-endless orgasm. He doesn’t even let you recover before he pulls your fingers out and raises your hand to his lips, tasting you, licking the sweet, sticky webs of your soaked desire off your fingers.

You reach for him, finding the outline of his cock, thick and hard through the expensive black pants. You slide your palm along the impressive length, squeezing him, savoring the way he grunts into the air.

He’s already ragged and wrecked sounding when he tells you, “Take it out, if you want it.” Your clumsy hands are at his belt, fumbling and trembling so hard you nearly snap the black, pearl button off. He stands, towering over you, yanking his pants open, and pulls his cock out. Jesus Christ, he’s gorgeous, all golden brown and huge, a fat vein latticed down the shaft, leaking crown so fat your pussy clenches at the promise of being stretched again by it. His hand wraps around his base, stroking it once, you fight your eyes from rolling into the back of your head at the sight of the drop of precum that he squeezes out.

“Fuck me,” you beg. “Fuck me.” You’re a broken record of need and desperation, wanting to be played by this beautiful, broad man and his big cock.

He hmphs, cockily getting off at the way you plead for his dick. You’re shoved back against the couch, and Alex splits your legs open, lining himself up with a hand on each of your knees. He presses his cock against your soaked, dripping core, running the thick head of it against your swollen clit. You’re so restless, yearning for the stretch and ache of him that you’re keening, almost crying out prayers of his name as he teases your cunt with his cock. And then, when his cock finally bestows heaven into your needy hole as he enters you in one thrust, filling your glossy pussy, you scream. He holds you there, splitting you open as he’s buried in you to the hilt. You’re locked at cliff, just breathing hard, as if savoring the impossibility of feeling this way again. You hook your ankles behind his waist, and he begins to move, slow at first, then faster, fucking you with the same furious, controlled tempo as he played the cello.

You don’t know if you’ve ever felt more alive, vibrating like a string as he plays you, every nerve screaming loud. His pace is brutal, his balls slapping against your ass as he curls you even more into him, his weight pressing against you. A curl falls onto his sweaty brow, and it springs just like before, up and down, up and down, keeping tempo with the way Alex slams himself in and out of you. He grabs your head with both hands, his fingers tight at the nape of your neck. His eyes are locked to yours, pinning you down, narrowing your world down to just him. There’s something in the way he’s cradling your head, rough and careful at the same time, that makes you burn even hotter for him. There’s an almost exposed tenderness in his eyes as he holds you and grips you, giving you no choice but to meet his black-coffee gaze.

You can barely breathe. But why would you ever need to? Not when you want this man to inhale you, consume you, and destroy you.

“You let that boy fuck you earlier?” he growls.

“Y-yes,” you shudder.

He slips his cock out and freezes, heavy breaths puffing against your face.

“You like it?” he asks, eyebrow arching slightly.

“N-no.”

It’s borderline uncomfortable the way your pussy is aching for him as he teases you with the heft of his tip against your eager hole.

He hmphs, trusty cocky grin showing up again. “He get to cum inside you?”

“N-no. C-condom.”

“Can I cum inside you?”

You nod, eagerly. “I have an implant.”

That’s what Alex wants to hear. He slams into you so hard it almost hurts, but fuck, the pain is exquisite, it’s exactly what you needed. Tears are leaking from your eyes as Alex owns your pussy. He reaches around, splays his hand across your throat. The grip isn’t tight, but just enough to make you utterly surrender to him.

You orgasm again, not because he tells you to, but because you can’t not. Every part of you twists and detonates, your pussy clenching and spasming around him. The sight and feel of you shattering makes Alex join your euphoria. He thrusts once, twice, then lurches and his cock erupts inside you. You swear you can feel every pulse and drop of him paint your walls. He stills, tremors wracking his arms as he balances above you, then nuzzles his face into your neck, sucking greedy mouthfuls of your skin.

Time stops. You unwrap your still-shaking legs from around Alex, as he settles over you, his weight pressing you deeper into the soft cushions. You don’t know how long you stay like that, both gasping, stunned by the hedonistic display shared between the two of you. He presses a kiss to your jaw, and you try to ignore the way it makes your heart race. He stands, tucks his cock away, and excuses himself, blinking a look of awe away before he turns.

You’re already back in your robe when he comes back out, holding a dark gray towel. He offers it to you, eyes moving down to your exposed, sticky thighs, but you wave it off and tell him you’ll just shower at home.

There’s a slight tilt of his head, as if nobody ever tells him no, or maybe it’s just an awkward bobbling of a nod. Either way, you tighten your robe and head for the door. “See you around, Alex.”

“Wait.”

You turn, and almost get mad at how frustratingly gorgeous he is standing in the middle of his living room with his sex tousled hair and furrowed eyebrows.

“I have a question for you," he says.

“Yeah?”

“What’s your name?”

—-

A/N: Fuck my life, there will probably be more.

[ciakinsa]

Alex. In a black tuxedo, holding his cello case, all debonair and gorgeous.

MALLORY THIS ISN'T FAIR

[whocaresstillthelouvre]

After Eleven

Alex Serian x Female Reader

Rating: Explicit. 18+ (Minors DNI)  Summary: Your neighbor plays his cello way too fucking late, and all you want to do is get off and get to sleep... Warnings: smut, masturbation, cello lessons, grey sweatpants, hot neighbor, voyeurism due to thin walls, bach, i have zero clue about this character but i want to fuck him, riding, unprotected p in v, finger fucking and sucking, like he HAS to be good with his hands right?!, written in a fevered few hours, i feel like that jon hamm gif Words: 3,000

A/N: Did I fuck off and ignore work for a few hours to write this? Yes. Am I going to have to pay for it by working tonight? Yes. Is it worth it? I don't know man, I'm horny af for this new character. Siri, play "Fresh Out The Slammer" because I feel rejuvenated in my delusional porn writing. Gif made by me because I'm that fucking insane.

Masterlist

—-

The notes mock you, mock the catch of your breath, the beat of your heart, the way your fingers move across your clit, pressing and swirling. You’re so close, and yet so far. Your trusty vibrator, rose, and grinder sit discarded on your quilt. The mournful music filtering in through the thin bungalow walls and windows is not helping. So close. So far. Your orgasm drowns again.

You slap your hand down against your stomach, killing the last vestige of your mood and roll off the bed. You just wanted ONE singular orgasm, something to take the edge off. But no, there’s a sad cello playing some sort of depressing, somber thing that just leaves you even more frustrated.

You check your phone and grumble. 11:39. Who fucking needs Vivaldi or Bach this loud after eleven?

Your new neighbor, apparently.

You don’t even bother to close your robe when you stomp out into the damp night. Your bare feet squelch in the wet grass, and you don’t care. The music gets louder when you get to your neighbor’s door. It’s nice? You guess. You don’t even know anymore.

You pound on his door. Three rasps. You give your neighbor time. Nothing. So you pound again. Until the music stops. Footsteps get closer, floorboards creak.

The door opens, just like your jaw drops. Dark hair slicks back from a face that the gods might as well have sculpted. Sharp cheekbones, strong nose, plush lips, big brown eyes. He’s in a black tank top, ridiculously broad shoulders escaping the flimsy fabric. His gray sweatpants hang loose on his hips. His whole look suggests either a strategic carelessness or a total lack of giving a shit. It might be due to how fucking horny you are, but your new neighbor could be the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen.

His dark eyes size and assess you. Your robe. The flimsy, light pink tank top sticking to your skin, the short, barely there sleep shorts with tiny, green polka dots. Your hair’s probably a mess, your skin still damp with a sweat of frustration. He looks almost amused at the sight of you, but his eyes linger a little longer than propriety should suggest at your thighs.

“Can I help you?” he asks. Deep, kinda dark, like a freshly poured cup of your favorite coffee.

“It’s la—” your voice squeaks. You clear your throat, square your shoulders. “It’s late. Your music. It’s… loud. Some of us have to, you know. Sleep.”

He leans on the doorframe, folds his arms, and your eyes square in on the way his biceps bulge, the line of his forearms. “Sleep,” he says.

“Yes. That’s right. It’s past 11.”

“Didn’t think it was that loud.”

“Could you turn it down at least?”

A thick eyebrow arches up. “Guess these walls are paper-thin. I suppose I could use a different bow.”

There’s no shame in his voice, no apology, and it just irks you more. You wobble a bit in the way he looks at you, half wanton desire, half boredom.

“I’d… appreciate that.”

“Mm,” he says, and his lip quirks up in a maddeningly handsome smirk… like he knows he’s gorgeous and getting under your skin. “You best get back to… sleep,” he says.

You nod, because you have no other fucking clue how to respond under his heated, cocky gaze and the revelation that the music was being played by him and not a too-loud stereo.

The silk of your robe swishes across your hot skin as you make your way across the grass to your bungalow. You’re sure your neighbor’s watching you the whole way and you don’t dare look back.

He keeps his word, you can barely hear the music when you lie back down in bed. Fuck him for being beautiful. Your whole body is still reverberating from the baritone rasp of his voice. You press a pillow over your face and scream an annoyed sound into it, as the heat of his gaze still blooms across your body.

At least now all you can hear is nothing but the sound of your breathing, picking up when the heel of your hand slinks its way back between your thighs. Jesus Christ, you’re even wetter now. You’re leaking a frustrating hunger, the image of your neighbor’s big shoulders and golden skin playing in your mind. You imagine his biceps pinning you down and his thick fingers hooking against your waist as he pounds into you.

“Fuck,” you whisper, picturing his wide palm against your mouth. You wonder what he sounds like when he cums, is it as sad and tragic sounding as the music he plays?

God, it’s so easy now. Your body’s arching up, desperate to feel how soft his tank-topped chest is when it’s shoved against your chest. You can almost feel him, the weight of him atop you, his dark eyes searing into you as you edge yourself closer and closer. You’re pressing needy circles against your clit, your thighs tensing and toes curling. “Fuck, fuck,” you moan out, too loud for your own good and the silence of your own bungalow. Your hips are moving against your hand harder, faster, and when you think of that damned smirk of his and the way he’d watch you shatter apart for him, you orgasm, hard and hot and loud. “Oh fuck, godddd,” you moan. You don’t even care. You want him to hear it. Maybe he will, with the thin walls. Maybe he won’t, because he’s too busy playing that damned music. Maybe he heard a hint, and now he’s sat, frozen in his chair, bow in one hand, listening to your own symphony between the walls.

—-

Two nights of silence, and then you hear it… a loud cat-like moan around 11 PM. Followed by another high-pitched mew. “Aleeeeex,” the shrill sounds. “Oh god, Alex.”

So, your hot neighbor’s name is Alex.

A rhythmic thumping starts up against your wall, fast, brutal, not sweet. You can’t help yourself as you move towards the wall, listening in for any type of low grunt or groan, but there’s nothing… just a repetitive smack of wood against drywall and the squealing of a woman.

You roll over, turn on your speaker, and pick up your phone. You know the perfect song. You scroll to the B’s in your music, find Cello Suite no. 2 by Bach, and let the sad, melancholy play… loud.

The pace just behind the shared wall picks up, and the wails of the woman speed up, along with the tapping against the wall. Now it’s your time to smirk, take that, Alex, and whoever he’s decided to fuck.

And when the roaring sadness of the music slows and quiets at a point… you hear it. A long, low groan timed perfectly to the song, almost like he was waiting for it.

You feel the angry roar of want in your body at the sound of him and let the song fade out as you reach into your drawer and pull out your vibrator.

—-

The next night, the cello is back, at 11 on the dot. Louder. Like it’s back to mock you. You shake your head and smile, willing it not to bother you as you turn in bed and put a pillow over your ear, but even through the muffled down, you recognize the song. It’s Cello Suite no. 2, just like you played him last night.

Damn, he’s talented. You have to give him that.

By 11:30, he hasn’t stopped, and the cello almost plays like a siren song to you and your sleepy, horny frustrations. You step out into the night air, and you swear the cool air hisses against your heated skin. No robe this time, just you and your light blue silky, short nightdress, complete with the lace trim across your breasts.

You punch at his door again, then stand back, arms crossed. You’re sure your nipples are pressing against the thin fabric, and you don’t care.

He answers almost instantly, and good lord, he’s only in a pair of boxers and a loose, button-up shirt.

“You’re playing on purpose now, aren’t you?” you ask him, no greeting, just attitude.

“I need to practice. Figured you’d like to hear it.”

You snort. “So why that song?”

His hand rests against the doorframe and he looms over you. “Thought I’d return the favor of last night.” You roll your eyes and huff. “Thanks.”

He turns his head back to his living room, then back at you, deep brown eyes searing into you. “Come in. I’ll play you something else.”

“It’s late.”

“It’s not like you were going to sleep anyway.”

You don’t say anything, you just walk past him into his place. It’s neat, in order, vintage furniture with modern touches. His bow is discarded on the floor, the cello leaning against the wall.

He lifts his hand, guides you to his couch, a soft, buttery leather that dips when you settle on it, mindful of just how short your nightdress is. He bends to pick up the bow, and your throat goes dry as you stare at his ass. You blink yourself back to reality as he takes a seat and places his cello between his legs. God, his legs, strong and dusted with hair, he looks to be golden all over.

He begins playing. Something you don’t recognize, but it’s smooth and sultry. Your heart and body answer, heating and beating with each note of music that flows from the instrument.

Alex doesn’t look up, he’s transfixed by the music he plays, and you’re just as spellbound. You’re sure you’re breathing hard, sure your pulse is thrumming along to the song. You don’t know how long you sit like that, mesmerized by the music and the man. If this is how he looks as he plays, then you’ll surely sacrifice the nights of sleep, just to let this beauty out into the world.

His head tips back, neck straining as his head lulls back and forth, caught in the notes, and when he looks at you, dark brown eyes meeting yours, you know he can see the way your chest is rising and falling, the heat of your stare. He gifts you one of those damned smirks, but this time it’s different. It’s heated and full of desire. He watches you watch him, and you can’t look away. Every note he plays flows through you, from your ears to between your thighs.

Alex’s arm slows, the bow stopping, and the last warble of the strings escapes the cello. He sets the cello against the wall with reverence, his loose shirt gapes open as he turns, exposing golden chest and a dark line of hair. You try to adjust how you’re sitting, the leather couch sticking to you with the heat of your thighs.

His eyes roam over you, from your bare legs up to your chest, up, up, finally meeting your eyes again. He licks his lips, pink tongue against his plush bottom lip. He smiles, hot, knowing, painfully cocky. “Did you like it?” he asks.

You answer with a bobble of your head. Any type of words would just fail to be husked out of your dry throat. Goodness, you want him. You want him a way that’s almost embarrassing in the desperate, feral way you do.

"You want to try to play?" he asks.

You’re silent again, just another nod sent to him.

He pats his thighs, beckons you over, and you rise and pad towards him, going to exactly where he wants you. He parts his legs, and you straddle his lap, your back meeting his chest. You’re painfully aware of the silk of your dress clinging to the arch of your ass, the way your thighs bracket his, his skin meeting your skin. You move, hoping he can’t feel how wet you are for him, but you hear the small grunt, and you know he absolutely can.

He picks up the cello and sets it between both of you, the smooth wood is cool against your thigh. He wraps his arms around your waist, enveloping you in his strong arms, his chest flexing against your back.

You’re glitching, absolutely dumbstruck by how gentle and low his voice is as he places your fingers over the strings. “Here,” he whispers, guiding your hand to the cello’s neck. “Thumb here. Not too tight.” His hands are big and hot. His breath fans across your ear, and it makes you shiver.

“Now, try,” he says, handing you the bow. You attempt to make a song, but you’re so heady off the closeness of him that you’re too clumsy to do anything right. The bow draws across the strings, and it’s… like a car crash of a note, but he tightens his arms and chuckles low against your ear.

“Again,” he whispers, and you try. This time, the note is softer, a pleasant hum leaves the cello. “Good,” he says, lips grazing against your earlobe. He rewards you by letting his hand skim against your thigh.

There’s a shared hunger, an almost understanding, guided by the music and want that’s drifted between the walls. You melt and tense at the same time, and you feel the press of his cock against you when you tilt back and press yourself into him.

He slides his hand up, rucking up the hem of your dress. “You still want to play?”

You’re dizzy, barely holding onto the bow. “No.”

“Then set the bow down.”

You obey, letting it clatter to the floor. He takes the cello from between your legs and sets it aside while keeping you still locked against him, hand splayed against your belly. “Spread your legs,” Alex tells you.

You instantly spread, letting him slip his palm between you and trace your soaked pussy through the wispy layer of your lace panties. You almost lose it right there, hips jerking at the thick, callused fingers of his exploring the drenched line of your cunt.

He lets out a low, incredulous growl as he touches you, pressing his mouth to your neck, sucking at the skin. “Feel good?” he rumbles. “Yeah?”

“Fuccck,” you manage.

He smiles into your neck, slides his fingers into your panties, parts you, thick, middle finger slowly exploring before plunging deep into you. You moan, noisy and erupting, louder than any song he can play.

He fucks you with his hand, two fingers, thick and skilled, shallow then deep, giving you a pattern you’ll never guess. His thumb rubs circles on your clit, making you stupid with just how good he is at this. You’re sweating now, shaking, under the control of Alex’s possessive hands against your body.

He’s rutting and hard against you, whispering “that’s it, that’s it,” over and over as his fingers play you like an instrument he’s mastered.

You cum for him, so hard you shudder and squeeze. Head knocking back against his broad chest. He growls, licks up the sweat of you, holding you tighter as you ride and writhe against his fingers.

He pulls his fingers out, yanks your panties to the side, and frees his cock from the thin cotton of his boxers. You don’t know if you’ve ever wanted someone so bad before and when he brushes the fat tip of him against your accepting hole, you gasp at the promise of his size.

It’s one monstrous, behemoth of a thrust that makes your eyes flutter shut and all the air escape you. He fucks up into you hard, and you grab at his big hands, holding on as the old wooden chair frame creaks. He’s so fucking thick, overwhelming and rough, but Christ, the way your slippery cunt swallows him, it’s like he was fit for you. You ride him, back rubbing against his chest as he pumps in and out of you, the noise of your slick and his grunts crescendoing in the sex-heavy air.

He grabs your hips, planting both feet on the floor, and starts railing up into you so deep you let out a sob of his name. He’s rewarding and withholding at the same time, sliding all the way out, holding you above himself, letting you beg for him, until he plants all of himself into you. He slinks a hand up your body, thumb stroking your cheek before he sticks two of his fingers into your mouth.

You taste the sweet tang of your orgasm, tongue licking at the rough and ridges of his fingers. You suck, and he groans, bucking so hard the chair actually scoots back across the floor.

He must want to see you desperate and dumb, his other hand moving between your legs, playing with you there. It only takes a couple strokes of his fingers against your puffy, needy clit for him to orchestrate your orgasm out of you. It’s shocking how fucking hard you cum for him, how white your vision goes, how the pulse of your body pulses a cacophony of beats. Alex fucks straight through your orgasm, cock spearing you as you whimper around his fingers and drip around his cock. But, he’s losing it now, panting into the crook of your neck, hips snapping so loud against you.

He pulls out, and you feel the slide of his cock head against your clit when he cums, thick, white ropes painting against your panties, your belly, the silk of your dress. You’re still floating high like the music notes he plays, a trembling mess in his arms when you lean your head back and can’t help but laugh. Alex chuckles, too. Both of you are sticky and soaked, pressed together, glazed in shared sweat and cum.

The cello sits unused, the bow on the floor. Alex’s forehead rests against your shoulder as he comes down. You think he’s going to say something smart and frustrating, but he just kisses your shoulder blade and tightens his arms around you.

So much for hating your new neighbor.

—-

Yes, I wrote more of them.

[ciakinsa]

This was so spicy, I feel so alive LOL

[youthereader]

Observed Behavior

pairing: Reed Richards x Fem!Mutant Reader

summary: 6.5k words. Dr. Reed Richards doesn’t pay you much attention. You’re just another intern in the lab—quiet, efficient, always taking notes. But you’re also a telepath. And Reed has no idea you can hear every filthy, unspoken thought he has about you.

rating: E. dirty talk. no infidelity, I promise! rough piv sex. oral (fem receiving). mind reading. mutual pining. semi-public sex. come on face.

a/n: omggggggggggggg I loved writing this. I only saw Fantastic Four: First Steps yesterday but I feel like I've been obsessed for months already. I actually wrote this before seeing the movie, but held off until today to post. hope you like it!!!! 💙

You don’t like Reed Richards.

You tell yourself this the moment you meet him. He barely acknowledges your existence. He doesn’t shake your hand. Doesn’t even make eye contact.

You say something polite—something like, "Pleasure to meet you, Dr. Richards."

He says, without glancing up from the display in front of him, "The data’s unstable. Did you notice the gravitic skew in quadrant six?"

Oh.

Okay. That kind of guy.

Later, you categorize him like you’re filing a report: Brilliant. Socially stunted. One of those too-smart-to-be-nice types who treats human interaction like a necessary evil.

It makes your job easier. You’re not here to be liked.

You’re here to assist with the joint-mutant initiative. Quietly. Professionally. Keep your head down, do your work, keep the mental channel muted unless someone explicitly asks for help. Your mutation makes people nervous. Not everyone wants to know what they’re broadcasting.

But Reed Richards?

Reed Richards is broadcasting filth.

The first time it happens, you think you’ve misread. You’re across the lab, checking output from a cracked containment dome, and his thoughts slip past your mental wall like a hot breath on the back of your neck:

God, what those lips would look like around my cock.

How tight she’d be, wet and warm and surprised.

Bet she tastes sweet. Fuck, I’d drag it out. Make her beg.

She wouldn’t beg. She’s too proud. I’d make her anyway.

You jolt. Your pen jerks off the page. A shaky line across your log sheet. You don’t dare look up. You’ve never heard him speak like that. You’ve barely heard him speak at all. Reed is curt. Precise. Dismissive, even. But now you hear it in his head, like it’s on a loop, layered with vivid images — your thighs spread across his desk, his fingers prying you open while he murmurs clinical observations that make your cheeks burn.

She’d be wet already. I’d test her reaction time. Graph her pulse. Hypothesize what makes her shake.

You swallow, shift in your seat, force your hands to stay still. You should block him out. You usually do. No one wants to hear what people are really thinking. It’s invasive, and it’s dangerous, and it’s too much to carry.

But this? This is—

“Is something wrong?” His voice cuts across the room. Crisp. Flat. Like he doesn’t have his hand buried in your imaginary cunt.

You look up. Just once.

He’s watching you. Eyes sharp behind his glasses. No heat in his expression — none of the filth you just heard. He looks the same way he always does. Unreadable. Detached.

“No,” you say. Too quickly. “Nothing’s wrong.”

Reed nods once and returns to typing, but his thoughts don’t stop.

I wonder if she’d moan when I touch her or bite her lip to stay quiet.

Bet I could break her composure. Bet I could ruin her neat little posture.

You grip the edge of the counter until your knuckles ache.

You’ve made a huge mistake.

Because now that you’ve tuned in, you don’t think you can stop.

-

The worst part isn’t how filthy it is.

It’s the contrast.

Reed Richards — Dr. Richards, to everyone — never even swears in conversation. He refers to the human body like it’s a schematic. He’ll say “pleasure response” instead of orgasm, and you’ve heard him refer to Sue’s divorce attorney as “a challenging presence,” which you think is his version of calling someone a dick.

So the first time you hear him think the word cunt, your brain short-circuits.

Bet it’s tight. Warm. Slick around my fingers. Her cunt would grip me like it knows me.

You grip the edge of the lab table.

Reed hasn’t moved. He’s still typing, back straight, posture annoyingly perfect. A model scientist. The embodiment of control.

But in his head—

I’d stretch her out with my tongue first. Just to taste. Just to make her shiver.

Then I’d fuck her open with two fingers. Maybe three. Just to see how much she could take.

You feel your face flush hot.

His voice in your head is the same one he uses when he’s narrating quantum anomalies. Methodical. Fascinated. Detached.

Like your body is a phenomenon he wants to understand. Just for the data.

She’s got sensitive tits, I think. Would need a gentle mouth. Then a rough one.

I’d chart how many licks until she breaks.

You turn away before he can see the expression on your face. Not that he’d be looking.

Reed doesn’t look at you.

Not unless you speak first. Even then, his gaze usually lands near your shoulder or just past your head — like you’re a part of the room’s architecture. Necessary. Functional. Forgettable.

Which is why you can’t fathom the sudden, overwhelming specificity of his thoughts.

Would she come if I sucked on her nipples and slid my thumb over her clit?

Or would she need to be fucked?

Deep. Slow. Me inside her while she tries not to cry out.

You have to leave.

You mumble something — “back in ten” or “need a break” — and Reed doesn’t respond. He doesn’t glance your way. Just lifts a hand absently in acknowledgment, still facing the board, still immersed in whatever algorithm or image his mind is chewing on.

Except now you know that algorithm is you.

Your wet heat. Your thighs. Your pulse as he imagines pressing his mouth to it and whispering, “Come for me. Let me see.”

You flee to the hallway, breath stuttering in your throat, shame and heat and disbelief running a relay race in your chest.

You’ve heard dirty thoughts before. You’ve had them.

But never from someone so composed. So quiet. So far removed from the possibility of ever touching you.

And that’s what makes it dangerous.

He has no idea you can hear him.

And worse — he’s not trying to stop.

-

The rest of the day, you try to block him out.

You build mental walls. Steel-plated. Brick-layered. Reinforced with every ounce of discipline you’ve learned since puberty, when people’s thoughts started bleeding into your skull like background noise you couldn’t shut off.

But Reed’s thoughts don’t bleed. They pierce.

They stab through.

You’re elbow-deep in diagnostics when it happens again — no warning, no break in his typing cadence, no shift in posture.

Just a whisper inside your head like a hand between your thighs.

She’d come so pretty if I rubbed her clit just right. Not hard. Just enough to make her beg.

Your knees go weak.

You drop the calibration tool.

It clangs against the lab floor and rolls under a counter.

Reed doesn’t turn around. He never does.

But in your head:

Imagine her on my desk, shaking. Panting. Just a little ruined.

Would her thighs tremble when I pull out, or when I sink in?

Fuck. I’d edge her until she sobs.

You squeeze your eyes shut. Grip the counter. Count backward.

Ten. Nine. Eight.

It’s not enough.

I wouldn’t even fuck her the first time. I’d make her ride my face. Learn how she moves. What makes her lose rhythm.

You suck in a breath and drop to your knees, fumbling under the bench for the runaway tool. Your fingers shake as you grab it.

You’re burning from the inside out.

He’s just standing there — chalk in one hand, the other curled around the lip of the console, muttering numbers under his breath.

As if he doesn’t know what he’s doing to you, like he isn’t narrating how he’d make you come.

You crawl out from under the counter, wiping your palms on your lab coat. Try to focus. Try to breathe.

But the thoughts keep going.

She probably moans softly. Gasps, maybe. One hand on my wrist, the other gripping the sheets.

Would she let me come on her face? Or just in her mouth?

Your hand slips on the console. The system glitches — an alert flashes red on the screen.

“Everything okay?” Reed says, without turning.

His tone is bland. Neutral. The same one he uses when he’s asking about error margins or component failures.

You force your voice to steady. “Fine. Sorry. Just bumped the interface.”

“Run the sequence again,” he says.

You do.

But your fingers tremble the whole time. And every time you glance up, you see the line of his spine, the tension in his forearms, the methodical tap of chalk against board — like he’s not thinking about bending you over the lab bench and pressing his mouth between your thighs.

But he is.

And now you know.

-

It’s not supposed to be a social thing.

You’re huddled in the lab with Reed, Johnny, and a visiting biophysicist from MIT who talks with his hands and keeps spilling his coffee. It’s late afternoon. The conversation’s circling around particle harmonics and neural feedback delay — nothing you haven’t heard before.

Reed, as usual, is silent. Focused. His back to the room, one hand scrolling equations, the other holding a piece of chalk he hasn’t used in fifteen minutes.

You think maybe you’ll survive the day without hearing anything from him. You’ve built the walls again. Brick by brick. You’re not letting him in.

And then Johnny goes, “I still don’t get why you didn’t just read her.”

You blink. “What?”

Johnny laughs. “Come on, don’t play dumb. You could’ve. You always say that trick comes in handy when people lie.”

Your blood goes cold. You look up slowly. “Johnny…”

“Oh shit. Was that not public knowledge?” He raises both palms in mock defense. “Sorry. I mean, I thought everyone knew.”

They don’t. Not everyone. But Sue, Ben, Johnny — they do. Reed, you’d assumed… maybe. But not definitely.

Until now.

Because Reed goes still.

Not visibly. Not to the average eye. But you see it.

His hand halts mid-scroll. The chalk pauses just before touching the board.

He doesn’t turn around. Of course not. He never does.

But the entire current in the room changes.

The MIT guy, oblivious, whistles low. “Telepathy? That’s incredible.”

“Yeah,” Johnny says, grinning. “She’s like a human lie detector. Except it’s not like she goes digging, you know? She just picks stuff up.”

The scientist nods. “Is it active or passive?”

“Both,” you say, voice light, controlled. “Depends on the day. And the person.”

“Must be fun.”

You shrug. “Sometimes.”

Johnny leans on the console. “Sometimes not, huh?”

Your eyes flick briefly to Reed’s back. His hand is still frozen in midair, like he’s been caught in amber.

You look away.

“Yeah,” you murmur. “Sometimes… not so much.”

The conversation moves on.

Someone cracks a joke about lab gossip being unsafe around you. The MIT guy asks a question about psi-shielding. Johnny starts talking about that one time you ruined a poker night by knowing someone’s cards.

But Reed doesn’t speak, doesn’t move.

For the first time in days, his thoughts are silent.

You feel the absence like a blow.

No whispers. No fantasies. No wondering what your cunt tastes like or how you sound when you come. Just—

Nothing.

A void. You should be relieved.  Instead, you feel like you’ve been locked out of something you didn’t know you needed.

Behind Reed’s still frame, you can sense it — the slow, dangerous coiling of tension.

Not shame, not guilt. Only awareness.

He knows, and now he’s thinking about what you’ve heard.

-

You don’t sleep that night.

You lie in bed with your mind reeling, blankets too heavy, your chest too tight. The silence in Reed’s head echoes louder than any of the filth that came before. You didn’t realize how much you’d come to expect his thoughts. Not want them — not exactly — but… count on them. Like a metronome. Like proof he was human under all that restraint.

Now?

Nothing.

No late-night fantasies. No secret hypotheses about your body. Just a wall — colder and more deliberate than anything you’ve ever put up yourself.

He knows.

And now you’re waiting for the fallout.

You think about packing.

You think about going to Sue and getting ahead of it — telling her you’re sorry, you didn’t mean to listen, you never asked for the thoughts to come in like that, you tried so fucking hard to block them out.

You think about how Sue would tilt her head, lips pressed together in that gentle, unreadable way of hers, and say, “I’ll talk to Reed.”

That thought alone makes you want to crawl out of your skin.

You don’t go to the lab the next morning.

You call in sick — stomach flu, maybe food poisoning.

You spend the day in your apartment, curled on your couch with a half-drunk mug of tea and the soft buzz of muted news. You try to distract yourself with papers, textbooks, even an old simulation of Mars terrain scans.

None of it sticks.

Because the only thought that plays on repeat is this:

You’ve ruined it.

You had one shot. One internship. One thread of hope that could’ve led to something real — something bigger than the lab, bigger than Earth.

You’ve wanted space since you were old enough to name constellations. You were supposed to be part of the next crew rotation. If you did well, if you impressed the right people, if Reed thought you were worth keeping—

But now all he sees is a liability. An intruder. A mind he can’t trust.

Maybe he’s already filed a report. Maybe by Monday you’ll be reassigned to inventory. Or security compliance. Some corner of the building where they can keep you out of people’s heads and off the launch manifest.

You curl tighter. You don’t cry but your throat aches like you might.

You’d rather he shouted. Rather he confronted you. Rather he called you invasive or perverse or unprofessional.

Instead, he just disappeared.

That silence — the absence of his voice in your head — feels like the worst kind of punishment.

-

You come in early the next day.

Earlier than usual. Earlier than anyone else should be there.

Except he’s already in the lab.

You hear the soft click of the console keys before you see him. The low whir of cooling fans. The faint scratch of chalk across board.

When you step inside, Reed doesn’t turn.

He’s where he always is — back straight, eyes forward, sleeves rolled, a shadow of stubble softening the sharp lines of his jaw. His body is still, but his mind—

His mind is deafening.

F=ma. ΔS = Qrev/T. Entropy is always increasing. Entropy is always increasing. Entropy is always increasing—

You press your hand to the doorframe.

It’s not that he’s shut you out.

It’s that he’s replaced the thoughts. Stuffed the filth back into its cage and barricaded the door with math. With precision. With the cold comfort of numbers.

But it’s loud. So loud.

Equations loop over and over, like static, like punishment, like he’s trying to drown himself in calculus and thermodynamics until there’s no room left for want.

You don’t say anything.

You just take your seat. Log into the console. Pretend the silence is normal. That the walls haven’t shifted. That this isn’t your fault.

But then, after twenty-eight minutes of stillness—

He turns.

Slowly.

His eyes meet yours for the first time in days.

And then, like the flip of a switch, the equations stop.

The noise cuts.

And what follows is even worse.

“I owe you an apology.”

The words land like glass.

You look up — stunned, unsure you heard him right.

Reed continues, voice stiff, almost formal. Like he’s reciting something practiced.

“I was unaware that my thoughts were… accessible. To you.”

He swallows. His gaze doesn’t waver. “If I caused any discomfort, or crossed any boundary—”

“You didn’t,” you say, too fast.

But he doesn’t stop.

“I understand if you wish to leave the internship. I will personally ensure a neutral letter of recommendation and full academic credit, if you—”

“No.” You shake your head, your throat tight. “I don’t want to leave.”

Silence.

Your breath trembles in your chest.

“I’m not upset,” you say, softer. “I never was.”

Reed stares at you.

You’ve never seen him look so unsure.

“I should not have allowed those thoughts to form,” he says, quieter now. “I certainly shouldn’t have repeated them.”

You offer a breath of laughter — too hollow to be real. “You didn’t say them.”

He blinks. “I thought them.”

You nod. “You did.”

A pause.

Then you add, “But I heard more than what you thought.”

His brows draw together. “Meaning?”

“I heard how hard you tried not to.”

“I’m truly so, so sorry,” he says.

The words sound foreign in his mouth — like he doesn’t quite know how to say them aloud. His voice drops as he says it, too, like he wants to bury the sentence somewhere low between you.

“It was unprofessional.”

You blink. It hits different when it’s said that plainly — not just the apology, but the weight of the word.

Unprofessional.

He means it. You can hear it in his thoughts now, the edge softening — shame curling in the quiet corners. He’s not just sorry you heard him. He’s sorry he thought it at all. Sorry he let himself want. Sorry his discipline failed.

“Reed,” you say, gently. “It’s alright.”

He doesn’t move, he doesn’t breathe, for a second.

It’s not the kind of apology that’s waiting for forgiveness. It’s the kind that assumes none is possible.

“I should have—” he begins, but the sentence crumbles.

You step closer before you can think better of it. Not too close. Just enough to catch the tiniest flicker in his eyes — a shift, like he’s bracing for something more than your words.

“I’ve heard worse,” you say, lips twitching in the ghost of a smile. “You just think very… graphically.”

His mouth parts — just slightly.  For the first time, you see something almost human flicker behind his usual impassivity.

Embarrassment.

He opens his mouth to speak again, but nothing comes.

You reach for the console behind you, just to give your hands something to do.

“If you’re wondering whether I was offended,” you say, “I wasn’t.”

His gaze lifts to yours slowly. “You weren’t.”

You shake your head. “I didn’t say it wasn’t… surprising.”

Something changes in the set of his shoulders. The faintest drop. Like a gear slipping in a machine.

You can hear it again, too — faint, fainter than before, but real: She’s not angry. She’s not leaving.

You lean back against the edge of the table, arms crossed loosely. “I’ve had these powers my whole life, you know. You hear people think things they’d never say. Half of them wouldn’t even admit it to themselves.”

Reed doesn’t respond. But you feel the shift. The stillness that isn't emptiness anymore — it’s presence. It’s him, fully here, not hiding behind data or circuits or chalk.

“It can be fun sometimes,” you admit. “Other times…” You trail off. “Not so much.”

His fingers flex slightly where they rest at his sides.

You almost expect him to end it there. To nod, turn away, retreat to the board, drown himself in equations again.

But instead, he says, quietly:

“I didn’t mean for you to feel like an object.”

Your chest tightens.

You meet his gaze.

“I didn’t.”

You watch him for a moment, unsure what to say next.

The lab is quiet. Still. The hum of the equipment blends into the background like white noise. Reed hasn’t moved since his last apology — hands loose at his sides, eyes lowered just enough that you can’t quite tell if he’s looking at you or through you.

You shift slightly on the edge of the table.

“Are you okay?” you ask, softly.

It’s the gentlest question in the world. You don’t expect much. A nod, maybe. Or the barest deflection.

Instead, he huffs a laugh.

Short. Quiet. Almost self-deprecating.

And so out of place coming from him that it draws your eyes back to his face immediately.

He still doesn’t smile. Of course he doesn’t. But there’s a flicker at the corner of his mouth, like he might have once, in another life, remembered how.

Your chest eases — just barely — and you smile at him. Tentative. Careful. The kind of smile you give a wounded animal when you’re holding out a hand.

Reed blinks, and this time his gaze meets yours without hesitation.

He doesn’t say yes, or no, or I will be.

But he doesn’t look away.

He doesn’t turn back to the board.

You take that as enough.

The air between you settles, not warm exactly, but less charged. Less sharp.

You glance down at your tablet, then back up. “Do you want to… work on the gamma dispersion scan?”

A pause. Then he nods.

It’s quiet again as you both fall into rhythm — screens blinking softly, files opening, measurements calibrating. For ten minutes, it almost feels normal. Like none of this happened. Like your body hasn’t been the subject of his private curiosity. Like you haven’t heard, in his own voice, the words tits and cunt wrapped in awe like he’s discovering a new element.

But every so often, you catch the stillness in him.

The way he doesn’t quite type as fluidly as before. The way his thoughts — no longer loud, no longer obscene — hover just out of reach. Reined in. Scrubbed clean.

Control, you hear him think, a little later. Keep control.

You bite the inside of your cheek.

Because now that you’ve forgiven him — now that you’ve stayed — he’s afraid he’ll slip again.

He’s afraid of wanting.

Of letting you hear it.

And maybe, more than anything, he’s afraid you won’t look at him the same if you do.

You wait until the next lull. After the data finishes compiling. After you both fall into quiet, careful work, pretending the air isn’t thick with everything unsaid.

Then, without looking up, you ask:

“What are you really thinking?”

The words slip out like a whisper. Not a demand. A coaxing.

You hear him stop breathing.

His fingers freeze on the console.

You look up.

He’s staring down at his hands like they belong to someone else. His brows twitch — the smallest knot of conflict pulling across his forehead.

You don’t press. You wait.

He swallows hard.

“I—” His voice is rougher than you’ve ever heard it. “I don’t think I should say.”

You nod slowly. “I know.”

There’s a pause. The kind that feels like a coin balanced on its edge — waiting to tip.

Then, finally, Reed lifts his gaze to meet yours.

It’s not a sharp glance. Not a command or a calculation. It’s vulnerable. Raw.

“Are you sure?”

You nod before your brain can stop you. “I’m sure.”

Your heart hammers against your ribs.

The silence that follows isn’t heavy. It’s charged.

And then—soft, almost reverent, like he’s saying it for himself more than for you—his thought brushes your mind.

She’s the most astonishing thing I’ve ever seen.

You don’t move.

She’s smart. Composed. And when she smiles at me like that, I want to get on my knees and put my mouth on her cunt until she forgets every name but mine.

Your breath catches.

Reed’s eyes are still on yours. Steady. Honest.

I want to see her fall apart. Hear her. Feel her thighs around my face. I want her to let go with me. Just once. Just to know what it’s like to make someone like her come.

You’re frozen.

Flushed.

His thoughts echo again, softer now, barely there:

I would be gentle. At first. I’d learn her rhythms. I’d listen.

You part your lips, but no sound comes out.

Reed doesn’t look away.

You see the tension in his jaw. The restraint. The ache he’s too careful to name aloud.

But this time, he’s not hiding.

He’s giving you the truth.

And your whole body sings with it.

The silence stretches, but it doesn’t break.

Reed watches you like he’s waiting for you to flinch. For you to run. For you to laugh it off or look away or say no.

You don’t.

Your breath is shallow. Your pulse pounds behind your ribs like a warning, like a promise. But you don’t move.

You stay.

Reed’s fingers flex slightly at his sides. A twitch. A tremor. And then—carefully, like he’s unsure the ground will hold—he takes one slow step forward.

Your heart leaps.

He pauses.

Then another step.

Still watching you.

You straighten, knees brushing the edge of the console. Your hands—useless at your sides—curl instinctively into the hem of your coat. You feel like a held breath. Like one word might shatter you.

And then he’s close enough that you can see it in his face—the nerves he’s trying to hide. The deep ache folded into his silence. The apology still lingering beneath his restraint.

But also the want.

So much want.

You reach out.

Just a little.

And that’s all it takes.

His hand lifts—slow, hesitant—and finds yours midair. The contact is gentle. Barely there. Your fingers brush his palm and his thumb curves awkwardly over your knuckles, like he doesn’t know if he’s allowed.

But you link your fingers with his.

You squeeze.

His breath shudders.

You’re close now. Not quite touching chest to chest. Not yet. But his body radiates heat like a solar flare, and your joined hands hang between you like a thread you’re both afraid to tug.

He doesn’t say anything.

He doesn’t have to.

His thoughts are quiet, but open. Not graphic. Not filthy this time.

She’s here. She’s still here.

You lift your other hand—slowly, carefully—and touch the crook of his elbow. His arm tenses for half a second, then relaxes under your touch.

His hand in yours tightens. Just a little.

You smile at him. Tentative. Like before.

And this time, Reed exhales like it breaks something loose inside him.

You lean in slowly.

No rush. No sharp breath or whispered question. Just instinct. Trust. The press of his fingers wrapped in yours.

Your lips find his.

A soft, fleeting brush.

So light you could pretend it didn’t happen.

But it does.

He stills.

For a heartbeat, maybe two.

Then something inside him snaps.

Reed surges forward—still silent, but no longer hesitant. His free hand lifts to cup your jaw, fingers spanning your cheek with a trembling kind of reverence. His mouth crashes into yours again, firmer this time, open, hungry.

You gasp, and he takes it.

Takes you.

His lips drag over yours like he’s starved. His body leans into yours, chasing heat, chasing breath, chasing something he’s kept buried under equations and silence for too damn long.

You kiss him back, matching his pace, your fingers gripping the front of his shirt just to stay grounded.

It’s not perfect. It’s messy.

Teeth clash once. Your nose bumps his. He exhales sharply against your mouth, and you laugh, surprised and dizzy.

Reed groans low in his throat like it drives him wild.

His grip shifts—hand sliding to the back of your neck, the other pressing firm at your waist, tugging you closer. There’s no more distance now. You’re chest to chest, breath to breath, his mouth working yours like it’s a formula he’s been dying to solve.

You reach blindly for something—anything—to anchor yourself.

Your fingers find the edge of his belt.

Not teasing. Not intentional.

Just need.

A way to keep your feet on the ground while the rest of you unravels.

You clutch the leather and kiss him deeper.

And Reed—God, Reed—moans softly into your mouth like he’s the one overwhelmed.

His thoughts flood through you again, all barriers down now.

So soft. So warm. She kissed me first.

I want to lift her onto the desk. Get my hands under that coat.

I want to taste her. Right now. Right fucking now.

Your knees buckle slightly, and he catches you with both arms, tugging you flush against him, the hard press of his belt against your stomach making your skin spark.

You don’t speak.

Neither does he.

But you kiss like you’re telling secrets. Like you’re breaking rules. Like every second is borrowed time. 

Reed drops to his knees.

It happens fast. One second his mouth is pressed to yours, the next he’s sinking down like gravity’s claimed him — like he’s meant to be there. At your feet. Between your legs. Worshipful and wild.

His hands slide up your thighs, warm and unhurried. He lifts your skirt like he’s unfolding a secret he’s only ever dreamed of touching. You brace one hand against the console behind you, the other tangled in his hair, fingers trembling.

He doesn’t speak.

He stares.

Like your thighs are a formula. Like the space between them holds the answer to every question he’s never let himself ask.

Then his hands slide higher, thumbs brushing the crease of your hips, and he leans in.

He kisses the inside of your knee. Then higher.

Your breath catches as his mouth moves up your thigh—soft, open-mouthed kisses dragging heat across your skin. He hums low in his throat, like he’s cataloging every inch, and you feel it all the way to your core.

“Fuck,” you whisper, your head tipping back.

Reed doesn’t stop.

He kisses just beside the place you want him most. Once. Twice. Then his hands shift—firm on your hips—and he nuzzles against your panties, dragging his nose along the damp fabric like he needs to breathe you.

And then—his thoughts, finally, finally back:

She’s soaked. God, she’s so wet. All for me.

Your legs shake.

He pulls your panties aside and exhales softly at the sight.

Perfect.

And then his mouth is on you.

You cry out—sharp and helpless—the sound echoing off the walls of the lab. He licks a slow stripe through your folds, groaning like he’s tasted something he’ll never recover from.

You grip his hair harder.

Reed doesn’t stop. Doesn’t hesitate. He licks you like he needs it, tongue dragging up to circle your clit, then back down to press flat against your entrance. His thoughts are a blur—lust, wonder, obsession—louder now, less composed.

You whimper.

She’s so sweet. Want to keep her like this. Want her coming on my tongue.

He moans against you, the vibration shooting through your whole body. His mouth moves faster, more deliberate, like he’s testing responses, building a pattern. Every flick of his tongue is data. Every gasp from you is a new variable to study.

Your knees threaten to give, and he only grips your thighs tighter, pulling you closer, mouth never leaving you.

“Reed—fuck, I—”

You shatter.

Come for me, he thinks, right as his lips wrap around your clit and suck.

Your cry rips through the air, your body spasming against his mouth. He doesn’t let up. He holds you through it—tongue coaxing, soothing, tasting every twitch and shake as you come undone.

And when it’s over, when your chest is heaving and your thighs are trembling, he looks up at you.

Mouth wet. Eyes dark.

Ravenous.

He stands, slow and steady, hands dragging up your thighs as he rises. When he’s eye level again, you see it—his mouth slick with you, his chest rising hard like he’s been holding his breath the whole time.

He doesn’t say anything at first.

Just pulls you in and wraps both arms around your waist, pressing his face into your neck. He inhales deeply.

And fucking hell, he smells like you.

“Are you alright?” he murmurs, voice low and gritty in your ear.

You let out a breathless laugh, your chest still fluttering. “You’re seriously asking me that?”

He lets out a sound — not quite a laugh, not quite a groan — and you feel it more than hear it, vibrating against your throat. His hips are right against you now, belt biting into your lower stomach. He’s hard. So fucking hard.

You push against him, mouth near his jaw. “Reed.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you. And when he does, your hands come up to frame his face.

Not tender. Hungry.

You drag your thumb across his bottom lip. His eyes flick down to your mouth like he’s about to lose it.

“What are you thinking?” you ask.

A pause.

Then his gaze darkens, and the answer bleeds out of him—wordless but clear.

I want to fuck her right here. I want to bend her over this table and hear what she sounds like when she’s cock-drunk.

Your knees go weak.

And he sees it.

You don’t say a word.

You just drop your hand from his face, trail it down between your bodies, and reach for his belt.

Reed doesn’t stop you.

Doesn’t even blink.

He watches, jaw tight, as you tug the leather loose, then work open the button and drag the zipper down. The metal teeth part with a low rasp, and he exhales sharply when your hand slips inside.

You wrap your fingers around him.

Hot. Heavy. Hard as hell.

“Jesus,” you murmur under your breath, stroking him once, slow and deliberate.

Reed’s head tips back.

His hips jerk forward slightly, chasing the friction, but he still doesn’t touch you. Just lets you have him, your hand moving over his cock like you’ve been thinking about it for weeks.

(You have.)

His thoughts are a mess—fractals of want, raw and unfiltered.

You squeeze a little tighter.

She’s touching me. She’s—fuck—she’s got her hand on my cock. I’m not going to last.

His breath catches.

“You’ve been thinking about this?” you ask, voice low, thumb swiping the head.

“Every goddamn day,” he grits out.

You jerk him faster.

He growls.

And then—too fast to brace for—he grabs your hips and spins you around.

Your palms slam against the console. You gasp, but you don’t stop him—not when you feel him crowding up behind you, not when his hands drag your skirt back up to your waist, not when he rips your panties down your thighs in one fluid motion.

One hand slides up your spine, pushing between your shoulder blades until your chest is flush to the table.

The other guides his cock to your entrance.

“Say you want this,” he breathes out, the head of him nudging against your slick folds.

You push back into him.

“Reed,” you pant, “just fuck me already.”

He groans like it’s ripped out of his throat and then he slams into you hard.

Your gasp turns into a choked moan as your body jolts forward from the force of it. One of his hands clamps tight around your hip, the other braced beside your head on the console. His cock drives into you again, again, again—deep, punishing thrusts that make your breath stutter with each slap of skin on skin.

The sounds echo off the lab walls—your gasps, his ragged breath, the obscene wet suck of your cunt taking him over and over.

“Fuck,” Reed growls, hips snapping, “you feel even better than I thought.”

Your eyes flutter shut.

His mouth is right at your ear now, breath hot and filthy.

“I’ve been thinking about this since the day you walked in,” he pants. “That face. Those sweet thighs. Wanted to bend you over this table and fuck you stupid.”

You cry out—high, breathless—when he grinds into you just right, cock dragging over every swollen nerve inside you.

“I knew you’d be wet for me,” he growls. “But this?”

His fingers slip down, find your clit, and rub fast, hard, cruel.

“You’re soaked. So fucking messy.”

You brace yourself on trembling arms, the pressure building fast—too fast. He’s everywhere, filling you, touching you, whispering things he should never say out loud.

“You gonna come for me, pretty girl?” he grits out, voice tight and close.

You whimper, legs shaking. “I—fuck, I think I—”

“You’re close,” he hisses. “I can feel it.”

His pace goes brutal. He fucks into you like he wants to break you, the slap of his hips against your ass echoing over every surface, every panel and beaker forgotten. Your cunt clamps down, fluttering, and your voice breaks into a cry as your climax rips through you.

You don’t just come. You gush.

A warm burst sprays out of you, splashing down your thighs, hitting the tile with a wet splatter. You cry out, humiliated and wrecked and still twitching, your walls milking his cock in desperate aftershocks.

Reed groans like he’s dying.

“God damn,” he breathes.

You can’t speak. Your cheek is pressed to the console, mouth open, panting, whole body slick and trembling.

He doesn’t stop. He fucks you through it, harder now, more ragged. You feel the way your slick coats his cock, dripping down onto the lab floor with every brutal thrust.

You feel ruined. Your legs give out.

There’s no warning. No graceful slide. Just the quivering collapse of overstimulated muscles, your knees hitting the tile with a soft thud, skirt bunched around your waist, panties still tangled around your thighs.

You don’t care, you don't think you could.

Not with your cunt still twitching from the last orgasm, your thighs sticky, the lab floor glistening with the evidence of just how hard he made you come.

Reed groans above you and you glance up.

He’s flushed and wrecked, shirt untucked, cock still slick with your arousal as he strokes himself, fast and frantic, hand gliding over the mess you left behind.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “You look—Jesus.”

You open your mouth, just slightly.

Not coy nor innocent, but ready.

You brace yourself on one arm and tilt your chin up, eyes locked on him. The unspoken invitation hits him like a punch.

His grip falters. He bites down a moan. You see his whole body jerk with restraint.

“Please,” you whisper, voice hoarse and aching. “I want it.”

That does it.

He grunts, cock twitching in his hand. “Fuck—fuck—”

He steps forward, the tip of him flushed and slick and angry-looking, and you hold steady even as your thighs tremble. His breath goes wild, chest heaving as he pumps himself harder, faster, your name breaking on his tongue like a prayer.

“Gonna come,” he pants. “Fuck, I’m gonna—”

Thick, hot ropes paint your cheek, your lips, your chin. One lands across your chest, the rest splashing across your flushed skin. You close your eyes as the first drops hit, lips parted as you gasp at the heat of it.

He moans—deep, guttural, undone.

You feel it drip down your neck, cooling already.

When you blink up at him again, his hand is still wrapped around his cock, his chest still rising like he’s run a mile. His eyes meet yours—dark, dazed, hungry—and the raw possessiveness isn’t there.

There's only you. 

His gaze drops to the mess he’s made of your face, and then to your mouth.

You swipe your thumb across your bottom lip, tasting him.

His breath stutters again.

“Holy shit,” he whispers.

You smile, slow and blissful. 

[ciakinsa]

THIS WAS AMAZING 💯💯💯

Reed Richards is broadcasting filth.

Hell yeah he is, and I loved reading (and rereading) every thought. All of a sudden, I am very excited for Avengers Doomsday

Some favorite Reed thoughts below the cut:

She’d be wet already. I’d test her reaction time. Graph her pulse. Hypothesize what makes her shake.

Always a nerd, always a scientist, and that's why we love him LOL

please test all your hypotheses on me Reed

Would her thighs tremble when I pull out, or when I sink in?

She’s smart. Composed. And when she smiles at me like that, I want to get on my knees and put my mouth on her cunt until she forgets every name but mine.

In case nobody told you today, you are an amazing writer! I love this so much, will definitely be rereading whenever I need more Reed in my life

[cheshmenoor]

[avengetheangels]

Request: Black Beauty napping among nature

[ciakinsa]

I was thinking of something today and I'd love to know your opinion. I've read criticism of Cillian Murphy's riding in Peaky Blinders, but he's riding bareback so it might look a bit diff, idk. Thoughts?

Hi Lee! This is a good question! I can't recall any specific scenes of CM riding that made me pause because of terrible equitation or technique. And honestly, I appreciate that him and other actors give horseback riding a chance during projects because it can feel like an intimidating sport to pick up as an adult!

[ghotifishreads]

Down This Chain of Days - Dieter Bravo x reader time loop rom com [COMPLETED] - Masterlist

Title: Down This Chain of Days

Author: @ghotifishreads

Pairing: Dieter Bravo x f!reader

Series word count:

Summary: The thing is, when Dieter Bravo turns up at your sister’s semi-formal desert wedding wearing a fleece coat, tropical shirt, and swimming trunks instead of a tux, how are you meant to know it’s out-of-character time loop madness-induced behavior for him? You just thought he was a Hollywood eccentric. 

Which he absolutely is, as you’ll come to know intimately when you get sucked into the time loop too.

An AU of the delightful and nihilistic time loop rom com Palm Springs.

Thank you to @ozarkthedog who transformed Pedro's Corona ad into Dieter in the desert:

Warnings: Includes suicidal ideation and discussion, plus actual suicides (that don’t stick because it’s a time loop) and really glib attitudes about them, on a par with the films Groundhog’s Day or Palm Springs. Drinking. Alcohol as a coping mechanism. Seriously, so much drinking. Drug use mentioned, and they take mushrooms. PinV sex. Violence never too gory or overtly described, but includes various characters experiencing the following (here be spoilers):  shot with a crossbow; falls and breaks teeth; hit by a car; commits or experiences vehicular manslaughter; tased by a cop.

Reader is mentioned as being older than her 20s, exact age is unspecified. Reader wears a long purple dress, and has hair but type and length are not mentioned (there's no tucking it behind ears etc). No other physical description is applied. 

Please do reach out and let me know if I’ve left anything out that should be included in the warnings. 

Unbeta’d. Title from the song At Last by Neko Case.

🔞Over 18s only, minors dni! 🔞 I do not give permission for my work to be republished, reposted, or translated.

Chapter 1 // Day 1

Chapter 2 // Day 7

Chapter 3 // Day 432

Chapter 4 // Day 585

Chapter 5 // Day Unknown

[COMPLETED]

[ciakinsa]

My favorite desert read 🌴🌴🌴

[a7estrellas]

PEDRO PASCAL enjoying his tacos de birria

[jobean12-blog]

Protecting What's His

Pairing: Din Djarin x princess!reader (he's basically like a bodyguard :) and light enemies to lovers- featuring Grogu ofc)

Word Count: 6.2K

Summary: Your father is stirring trouble with the Empire and he worries for your safety so he hires you a bodyguard.

Author's Note: So I've been working on this for foreverrrrrrrr. I just don't have time and with a story like this I had to do some plot to build the tension and all that. Anyway, after my last Djarin story I just can't stay away. I'm hoping to do more stories with him but shorter so I can get more out in a timely manner. Thank you all so much for reading and sharing, much love always! ❤️❤️❤️Divider by the lovely @firefly-graphics thank you Daisy!🥰

PS This takes place on the planet Naboo- you can look up the city of Theed and the Kaadu creatures here You can also look up her droid here

Warnings: fun banter, tension and flirting, some SW action, little angst here and there, implied sexy times, def spicy at the end, soft moments and lots of cute Grogu

The moment the words leave your father’s mouth you choke on your drink, wishing instead you had been three glasses deeper and much less keen to the weight of his words. You stare at your father, trying to master your expression and there’s a challenge in his eye, a dare to argue…but you don’t, knowing it will be worse if you do.

You force a smile and nod.

Back in your room you pace, feet stomping unceremoniously as you throw profanities out left and right, causing your poor BD-3000 droid, KT-12 , or as you lovingly call her, buttons, distress.

She’s following you back and forth, arms raised in the air, eyes rapidly blinking as she tries to calm you down.

“Just because he’s too busy to keep me safe doesn’t mean he can just hire some random bounty hunter to follow me around all the time! It’s an invasion of privacy!”

You finally stop and Buttons nearly slams into your back. She tsks. “Perhaps it’s for the best my lady. Things between your father and the Empire have been getting…heated.”

You whirl around, eyebrows drawn in and fury etched into your features, ignoring her placating words. “And I can’t imagine how much this bounty hunter is getting paid! It’s always about the money!”

She holds your gaze and if her face weren’t built so mechanically you’d be almost sure there was a hint of sympathy there. You plop down on the plush coverings of your bed, falling backward dramatically and sighing even more dramatically.

“You don’t suppose he’ll be devastatingly handsome and kind and we’ll end up falling in love and he’ll rescue me from this place…?”

Buttons moves over to your discarded robe and begins to fold it. “I’ve never found humans to be all that handsome myself, but I suppose you’re a better judge of that.”

A hint of a smile pulls at your lips, and you sit up. “Well, guess it’s time we found out.”

Before entering the formal throne room you glance around from the threshold. Buttons runs into your back, urging you forward.

“Hey,” you squeak as you take a falling step inside.

“There you are,” your father says, giving you a fake smile.

Your eyes dart from side to side, searching for your new bodyguard but all you see is your father’s guards.

“And where is he?” you ask, holding your chin high and your shoulders back. “I thought you said we were meeting promptly after dinner.”

Footsteps echo behind you and you turn at the sound of a deep and gravelly voice.

“Forgive me princess,” the bounty hunter says when he walks in. “I was…preoccupied.”

You narrow your eyes, your gaze sweeping over his body. A body completely covered in Mandalorian armor. At the hint of sarcasm in his voice you scoff.

“Hmm. Well…now that we’ve met I’d like to retire to my rooms.”

You start to turn on your heel, but your father clears his throat, and you squeeze your eyes shut, silently cursing him before you relent and stay put.

“This is Din Djarin. The Mandalorian I’ve assigned to protect you.”

“You mean paid,” you grit out.

Your father ignores your jab. “He’ll be with you wherever you go.”

“Even my bathing chambers?” you answer back, a wry but saccharine smile lifting your lips.

Again, you’re ignored by your father, but you don’t miss the way Djarin steps closer to you, hands seated comfortably on his hips, his shoulders relaxed when he whispers, “only if you want me to Princess.”

Your blood heats and you lift your finger to point it at his chest, both distracted by his armor and what might be hidden beneath.

“First of all, don’t call me Princess. I have a name. And secondly, you’ll stay as far away from me…and my bathing chambers…as possible.”

His head cocks to the side as he seemingly studies you. You hate that you can’t see his face.

“As your protector I can’t make any promises. I have a job to do…Princess.”

Before you can speak again your father dismisses you and Djarin. “Very well then,” your father says. “On your way.”

The feel of him at your back makes your shoulders tense and when you get your room you startle when he reaches around you to open the door.

“Let me do a sweep.”

“I’ve been gone for half an hour!” you say with an eye roll.

“Wait here.”

His gruff command leaves no room for argument, and you cross your arms over your chest, huffing out your frustration. Button’s stands beside you, her metal fingers resting gently on your shoulder in a supportive pat.

Suddenly, you hear some commotion from inside and you reach for the doorknob.

“I wouldn’t my lady,” Buttons says.

“He’s probably rifling through my underwear drawer!”

A second later the door opens and you see Djarin standing with a smoking and broken spy droid dangling from his gloved hand.

If you could see his face you’d be sure he was wearing a smug look. “Next time don’t fight me when I need to do my job.”

You lift your chin defiantly but don’t answer back.

“You’re all clear,” he says before stationing himself just outside the door. “Yell if you need anything.”

“I won’t,” you state and slam the door.

The next day passes and you only leave your room when absolutely necessary. Your defiance is all you have to hang on to, and you refuse to give in easily. Djarin stands guard day and night, though you wonder if he ever sleeps because even when you do leave your room he’s right behind you.

And today, he decides you both need to get outside.

“Would you be willing to show me around the palace a bit more? Maybe the gardens?” he asks, now striding right next to you as you head for the library.

“I was going to read.”

You don’t elaborate and start to walk faster.

“Please,” he says quietly and it stops you in your tracks.

“So he does have manners,” you muse, raising your brows.

He sighs and waits. And you drag out the moment, enjoying his suffering.

“Fine. Let’s go for a walk,” you finally agree.

He extends his elbow for you, and you narrow your eyes, reluctantly taking it.

“Lead the way Princess.”

You bring him out to the gardens, sighing when you feel the warm sun on your face.

“Sorry you kept yourself locked away for so long?” he asks, tone snarky.

You don’t bother glancing his way and continue walking toward the seating area, making yourself comfortable on a bench.

“Feel free to go where you like,” you tell him, motioning to the expanse of the gardens.

He inclines his head in thanks and turns on his heel, seeming to wander aimlessly until he turns a corner around some bushes and disappears.

At first, you pay him and his absence no mind, enjoying the warm air and the faint floral scent carried on it. But then you start to hear his voice, muffled but raised and a small series of something akin to squeaks.

“What in the….?” You mutter and stand in the direction he went.

When you turn the corner you are not expecting to see him kneeling in front of a small green alien, arguing with it.

“You can’t have anymore. You’ll get sick,” he says as he pulls a cookie out of its little hand.

The alien’s big dark eyes look up at you, blinking slowly as he coos.

Djarin turns quickly and tries to block your view.

“He’s so cute. Why can’t he have more cookies?” you ask, stepping around him to see the alien again.

“Shit,” Djarin says and rests a hand on his helmet.

“What?” you ask before kneeling to say hi to the alien.

You say your name and point to yourself, and the alien’s small hand reaches out toward your face.

“His name is Grogu,” Djarin says. “He’s in my care.”

With a smile you fish inside your dress pocket and pull a snack free, handing it to Grogu. He takes it with a happy squeal and shoves the whole thing in his mouth.

“That’s not helping,” Djarin says with a sigh, hands now resting with resignation on his hips.

“Have you been keeping him out here?” you ask, suddenly angry at the thought.

“Well…” Djarin starts, holding his palms up.

“That’s terrible! It’s not safe and it gets cold and…”

“Will you just listen for a minute” Djarin interrupts.

Stomping your foot you start to walk off but he grabs your arm, stopping you and spinning you gently back to face him. He leans in closer and you hold perfectly still.

You shiver and he looks down at your arm, watching the goosebumps erupt over the expanse of your exposed skin. He releases you and reaches for the small cloak secured around his neck.

He drapes it around your shoulders, and you press your lips into a thin line.

“Relax Princess. Just being a gentleman.”

You roll your eyes. “Not very gentlemanly to leave that sweet little guy out here all alone.” When you bump his shoulder and go to storm by him he hooks an arm around your waist and twists, pinning you against the bushes. You look up at him with murder in your eyes.

“Still being a gentleman?” you ask, tone cheeky.

Even through the material of his gloves you can feel the warmth of his skin and then you feel a traitorous shiver crawling up your spine- and not from the cold. You squirm in this grip, causing the edge of your skirt to catch on one of the branches of the bush.

He looks down, his body tensing at the sliver of exposed skin that’s now revealed, then he slowly lowers his hand, eyes staying focused on the spot, clearly waiting for you to protest. His fingertips brush along your thigh, knuckles grazing something hard.

“Planning to use this?” he asks as his fingers toy with the dagger secured to your leg.

“Are you going to give me a reason to?” you counter, furious that you can’t see his face as you hope to keep your own features schooled.

“You can’t tell anyone about Grogu.”

Your chin lifts and he presses harder against you.

“For his safety,” he pauses, “please.”

That one word catches you off guard and for a second you forget how frustrating this whole situation is. You gather yourself, hoping your emotions are as hidden as his.

“Then you have to let him stay with me. Inside the palace.”

He sighs and you add, “for his safety.”

“Fine,” Djarin says. “But no one can know.”

“Don’t worry. I’m very good at keeping secrets,” you assure him, giving him a light shove to release you.

He does but you don’t let him get far. “As long as you tell me why he’s in your care and why it’s so important he stays hidden.”

He hangs his head with a slight shake. “You’re a pain the ass, you know that.”

His comment makes you laugh. It’s the first real laugh you’ve had in days, and it feels good and Djarin’s never been more thankful to have his face hidden. The sight of your smile takes his breath away.

“Oh you have no idea!” you say as you reach for Grogu’s hand.

When Djarin follows you and Grogu into your chambers you don’t refuse his presence, noting the urgency in his voice as he explained the situation to you during your walk back to the palace.

 “I can make him a place to sleep here and bring him food after meals,” you say as you flit around the room and gather blankets.

Once you’ve set up the space you take a deep breath, turning to find Djarin filling your space. He grabs your wrist, and you freeze, looking from his large, gloved hand to where you imagine his eyes would be.

You try to pull away but he pulls you closer, seemingly holding your gaze as he slides his fingers gently up and over your knuckles.

“Thank you,” he says in a whisper.

You’re imagining he’d brush his lips across your hand if his face weren’t forever hidden behind his helmet. Heat rushes through you at the contact and the thought and you nod your head.

“Forgetting you can’t stand me?” you say to break the spell, the corners of your mouth tilted up.

He drops your hand and steps back. “Wouldn’t dream of it Princess,” he says but you hear the smile in his voice.

The palace has been bustling with activity over the last week due to tonight’s wedding of your cousin. Your father offered to host in the hopes of keeping the family in a positive light. You’ve stayed as far away from it all as possible, enjoying your time with Grogu.

He’s playful and adorable and doting on him has taken your mind off the constant presence of Djarin, who on the other hand is distracting. Just the sound of his voice makes your traitorous body react and you’re dying to find out what’s beneath all that armor.

Just as your imagination is drifting to the wide set of his shoulders and the way his hand so easily wrapped around your wrist there’s a knock at your door.

“Come in.”

Djarin steps through the door with Buttons right behind him.

“My lady we need to prepare you for the wedding,” Buttons says as she walks to your closet.

Djarin checks on Grogu, speaking softly to him before he turns your way.

“When you’re ready I’ll be waiting outside to escort you to the festivities.”

“Shouldn’t you be in more formal attire?” you ask as you look over your shoulder. “Surely for one night you can wear something else.”

He clasps his hands in front of him. “As much as I’d love to be your date for the evening Princess, I can’t risk your safety just to look good.”

The playfulness in his voice takes you off guard and you smile softly.

“Hm. Too bad.”

Taking that as his dismissal he leaves the room and Buttons holds up a dress. “How about this one my lady.”

You look it over, your eyes lighting up in delight before you say, “actually…I know exactly which dress I want to wear.”

As you exit your room you’re purposefully placed cloak swishes behind you, cascading over the floor as you walk to meet Djarin. He bows his head slightly and ushers you toward the ballroom. When you reach the entrance Buttons fusses with the hem of your cloak, but you hastily remove it, revealing your dress beneath.

If it weren’t for the music playing in the next room you’d be sure you heard his quick intake of breath. You hand the cloak to Buttons. “It’s warm enough tonight. I don’t think I’ll need this.”

You feel his gaze immediately even though you can’t see his eyes. You smile and lift your brows.

“Staring is rude you know.”

He clears his throat. “I wasn’t staring.”

You trail your fingers along the neckline of your dress, pretending to adjust the pendant resting against your skin before you step into the room.

He grabs your arm. “Let me go first.”

You roll your eyes with a scoff, stepping to the side to allow him to pass. At first you watch him to a sweep of the room but once you lose him in the crowd you turn toward the ornate and elaborate decorations near the doorway.

“How much do you think these cost?” you say more to yourself than Buttons, who as usual, is standing diligently at your side.

Suddenly, warmth fills the space at your back, and you feel Djarin behind you, his body pressed to yours. Your heart kicks into a faster rhythm as his gloved fingers skim your arm.

“Everything appears to be safe,” he whispers, low and gruff, “but…”

You stop breathing when he dips his head lower, not even the helmet blocking the caress of his words against your skin. “There’s a man here…there’s something about him. He’s wearing a purple cloak. Stay away from him.”

“Ok.”

Your voice is too breathy, but you can’t stop it with him this close. He hums against your neck, and you clench your thighs together involuntarily. Trying to deny your attraction to him would be ridiculous at this point but it doesn’t make you any less angry.

You’ve never even seen his face. The illusion can shatter with just a glimpse.

He moves away and you feel the loss like a punch to the gut. It steals your breath and you turn to find him tucked behind you, leaning along one of the pillars in the ballroom. Even as you walk away in search of a drink you can feel the weight of his gaze.

The rest of the evening goes by without much excitement. You’re asked to dance several times, noting the way Djarin is always in your line of sight. When you finally get free of the dance floor and find some sanctuary by the outdoor balcony you’re not surprised when that familiar deep voice greets you.

“Why do you dance with them if you don’t want to?” he asks.

“Who says I wasn’t enjoying every minute of it?” you counter, turning your face to the light breeze.

“You hated every minute of it,” he says, his tone so sure if makes your fists clench.

“And how would you know,” you grit out.

The slight tilt of his helmet is all you get in response and you have to close your eyes and take a deep breath. Then a slow smile spreads across your lips.

“Or maybe…you’re just jealous.”

“Wouldn’t that make you happy Princess,” he chuckles.

A commotion on the dance floor pulls you both from the moment and he instantly has you secured behind him as he assesses the situation. With his hand on the gun at his hip he slowly moves forward but the instant there’s a space between the people on the dance floor you let out a barely contained snort.

“Oh don’t worry. That’s just my father pretending to make a drunken scene. He’s really laying it on thick,” you drawl.

Djarin continues to study what unfolds before him, not letting you pass and not removing his hand from his blaster.

“And it’s also my signal to go to bed,” you add.

“Not interested in seeing how this plays out?” Djarin asks with a light tone.

“I’ve seen it a million times. He does this just to try to win people over. It’s total bullshit.”

You wave a dismissive hand and start to head for your room. Djarin falls in step beside you.

“You’re not going to stay and enjoy the party?” you ask. “I’m sure there’s some beautiful lady who’d love to get that helmet off you.”

Ignoring your comment he responds with, “where you go I go Princess.”

“I’m aware,” you reply wryly.

“Would you mind if I check on Grogu before you retire for the night?” he asks softly.

“Be my guest,” you say as you wait by your door, knowing he’s going to go in first for a security sweep anyway.

Once it’s clear there are no safety breeches he calls you inside. He’s leaning against the wall near your bed, looking down at Grogu who’s snuggled into his blankets with a cookie.

“I don’t know where he keeps finding these snacks,” Djarin tsks with a shake of his head.

You clear your throat. “Oh, I have no idea either. But he’s cute enough to get away with a lot.”

Grogu looks at you, blinking slowly and making  a soft cooing sound. You smile and wink.

“I’m going to have a bath. You can see yourself out.”

With that you head into your bathing room and shut the door, quickly testing the bath water that Buttons had set up for you. It’s warm and inviting and you let your dress slip from your shoulders, sliding your undergarments off then stepping into the large tub.

You’re not sure how long you spend submerged in the bath but as you stand and retrieve your towel you hear the door creak open. It startles you at first and you quickly cover yourself with the towel, peering through the low light to see who’s at the door.

Grogu waddles through, his ears bent backward and his eyes bigger than usual. He holds out the small sack you gave him to hold his cookies, showing you it’s empty.

“Did you eat them all?” you ask with a smile.

He nods and his expression turns solemn.

“Don’t worry. I’ll get you more.”

After hearing that he starts to chirp and coo excitedly, making far too much noise for the time of night it is. You try to quiet him down but before you can Djarin barges into the bathing room, poised and ready to attack.

You let out a scream and nearly drop your towel.

“What the….?” you start, your fingers in a vice grip on the material as you stand there still dripping water.

“I heard…something,” Djarin says. “Are you ok?”

“We’re fine,” you say in a whoosh of breath. “He just got excited over...”

“Cookies?” Djarin finishes for you.

“Yeah,” you laugh. “And what is that?” you ask, pointing to the large gun looking thing slung over his shoulder.

He relaxes his stance but doesn’t pull his gaze away from you. “A flamethrower.”

“Oh. Bigger than I thought,” you muse.

“Not the first time I’ve heard that,” he shoots back.

You place a hand to your chest, feigning shock. “Did you just make a…joke?”

He scoffs and lowers the flame thrower. For a moment you think he’s going to engage but he just seems to be staring at you, although you can never quite tell with his helmet on. You suddenly remember you’re standing there in your towel, and you swallow hard, all the built of tension rushing back in a flash.

The time stretches taut with heated anticipation, and you sway closer, the urge to drop the towel taking over.

Grogu interrupts with a whistle and you’re released from your daze, looking down at him slowly.

 “Come on Grogu,” Djarin say as he turns to leave. “And no more cookies,” he shoots over his shoulder.

Your exhale is long and slow as you watch him leave, Grogu following slowly behind with disappointed look.

The next day you’re thrumming with energy, the need to leave the palace and find some solace from this ever-growing tension between you and the Mandalorian becoming overwhelming.

The problem is, wherever you go, he goes.

As you’re sitting on your bed watching Grogu munch on a cookie your eyes light up with an idea. You smile mischievously at him, and his ears instantly flatten to the back of his head.

After you’ve explained your plan to Grogu, going over it several times until he was nodding in what you hope is agreement you grab your pack and change into something less conspicuous than your usual regal garments.

You give Grogu the signal and he heads toward the door of your bedroom, sneaking out into the hallway to get Djarin’s attention. You peek out of the door and see Djarin turned the other way and reaching for Grogu to take him back inside.

It’s now or never. You slip away with silent footsteps and once you’re out of sight you sneak toward the stables. You make quick work of saddling your Kaadu, ignoring its light protests to you riding out unescorted.

You soothe the creature with soft touches and words until you’re picking up speed, and the palace grows smaller behind you.

The city of Theed is alive with the thrum of people coming and going, the marketplace full of vendors shouting to every person who passes by and you’re thankful for the hood you pull up and over your face.

Your Kaadu waits impatiently at the stables, and you know you don’t have much time. The energy of the freedom of the city keeps your feet moving forward and after a few minutes you start to relax.

When you pass a particular vendor selling sweets your nose stops you in your tracks, the smell a familiar one that brings back a flood of childhood memories. You stop and eye the treats, knowing you’re not the only one who will enjoy them.

You reach for your bag of money and realize that you forgot to take some. Your stomach sinks at the thought of going home empty handed. You look around the marketplace, checking for anything that seems out of place then look to the stall owner, noting that his focus is on the customer ahead of you.

Your movements are slow and careful as you reach for a handful of the treats…

“HEY! YOU!” the vendor in the stall next to you yells. “What do you think you’re doing?”

Your hand flies back and you quickly look around, noticing that you now have the attention of several people, including the owner of sweets stall.

“Uhh…” you start, eyes darting from side to side.

Then without thinking you make a grab for the treats, taking a large handful and stuffing them in your bag before turning and dashing off into the crowd. You can hear the commotion behind you, the vendors yelling, other patrons shouting as they get knocked into and pushed aside.

You don’t look back, just continue running as fast as you can until you reach one of the large cylindrical buildings and it’s many arches. You disappear into the shadows and plaster yourself against the wall, listening as the small group that was chasing you passes by in a flurry of agitation.

Releasing a breath you smile to yourself, feeling the exhilaration of the adrenaline moving through you and the triumph of escape. You check your bag one last time, happy to see the treats are intact and check around the pillars before starting to make your way back to your Kaadu.

Just when you think you’re out of harms way you turn the corner and walk straight into the solid white armor of a storm trooper.

“And just where do you think you’re going…Princess.”

“Shit,” you mutter before another pair of hands grabs your wrists from behind you and secures them.

“Let’s go,” the second Stormtrooper says. “And don’t make a scene or we’ll be forced to silence you.”

“Where is she?” Djarin hisses, slamming the door to the bathroom shut as he stares at Buttons.

“Sir, I have no idea where she could have gone. I was tending to the laundry and when I came back the only one here was the little alien…covered in crumbs.”

“Do you know where she is?” Djarin asks, spinning to face Grogu.

Grogu’s ears go back, his dark eyes wide, telling Djarin exactly what he needs to know.

“Shit!” Djarin growls. “You’re not supposed to make my job harder!”

Grogu makes a soft squeak, lowering his head at the admonishment.

“Don’t move!” Djarin commands and then looks at Buttons. “And you either. Keep an eye on him!”

He storms for the door, steps heavy and purposeful before he turns to face Grogu again. “And no tricks!”

You’re practically dragged into the underground passage, your feet tripping over each other as you try to keep up and the damp smell of Earth assaults your senses.

“Where are you taking me?” you huff out, defiant still in the face of danger.

“You’ll find out,” answers the Stormtrooper who’s pushing you forward.

The loud rush of falling water grows louder until you’re shoved through a high archway that brings you to an opening with a waterfall at the back. Two other tunnels lead off from the center, but both are blocked by guards.

You look around, trying to measure your surroundings as quickly and efficiently as possible before you hear the distinct gruff voice of Moff Gideon. Your lip curls in a sneer as you meet his eyes.

“And what a lovely surprise it is to see you Princess,” he drawls.

You scoff and don’t offer him a greeting instead shooting back with, “whatever it is you want I won’t do it. You’ve made a grave mistake.”

He smiles. “And why is that? We know you’ve had contact with the alien child, and you will tell us where he’s hiding.”

You lift your chin. “I will tell you nothing.”

One of the dark troopers barring a tunnel entrance takes a step in your direction. Your heart drops into your stomach but you school your features.

“Always so uncooperative,” Gideon sighs.

The stormtrooper pushes you forward as the dark trooper advances. You brace for pain, your body tense but instead you feel the whoosh of a blaster shot, the storm trooper crumpling at your feet right before the dark trooper does the same.

Instinctively you duck and rush away from the chaos, backing yourself into the wall and seeing Djarin blaze through the farthest tunnel, shots firing and several enemies falling to the ground.

He’s just about to end the last of the troopers when you hear Grogu’s squeal, his small body appearing at the opening of the other tunnel. You lunge for him, only to have one of the remaining dark troopers grab you. Gideon slips through the shots being fired, using the commotion as his shiel to scoop up Grogu.

Djarin advances, his gun now poised at Moff Gideon.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you Mandalorian,” Gideon sneers. “I have what I want and you’re going to let me go.”

You struggle against the dark troopers hold and Djarin’s head turns your way.

“Let them go,” he growls. “Now.”

Gideon laughs. “No. Surrender and they will be remain intact.”

Gideon pulls out a small blade and holds it against Grogu’s throat before he looks to the dark trooper who then pulls out a blaster and aims it at you.

Gideon presses the blade closer to Grogu’s skin, and he lets out a small whimper. You see Djarin go completely still and you hold your breath.

“You’re going to pay for this,” Djarin hisses as he lowers his blaster and raises his hands in surrender.

You struggle again and the dark trooper tightens his hold, shoving the blaster into your side.

“Seize him,” Gideon states, motioning to the last dark trooper. “And remove his helmet.”

You suck in a gasp of air, frantically trying to come up with something to do. The dark trooper takes Djarin’s hands and wrenches them behind his back, dropping him to his knees. He secures his wrists with a binder and then places his hand on Djarin’s helmet.

Grogu releases a series of agitated squeaks and squeals just before the dark trooper pulls the helmet from Djarin’s head.

Your eyes instantly lock with his, their dark brown color warm despite the situation as he stares back at you. His equally dark hair is mussed, some soft pieces falling over his forehead as his plush lips lift into a small smirk.

“Hi Princess,” he murmurs.

“Hi,” you say, the effect of the reveal clearly apparent in your breathy tone.

He doesn’t take his eyes off you, drinking you in with a sweep of his gaze from your head to toes.

Gideon’s overexaggerated laugh drags your eyes away from each other. “Isn’t this just grand,” he says. “Now I have two things that are important to you.”

Djarin grunts and tests the binders at his wrists. The dark trooper gives him a hard shove, and you struggle again in the your own restraints. Gideon laughs and starts to back up.

“Once I’m free of these tunnels kill them both,” he says with a sinister smile.

Then he turns and starts to run with Grogu toward the exit. In the seconds between your scream and the next breath you hear a loud thud from the tunnel, the sound of Gideon’s voice suddenly muffled before Grogu waddles back into the center room, his arm outstretched and aimed at the dark trooper who has a hold on Djarin.

The trooper flies backward into the wall, slamming into the stone hard before it falls to the floor in a heap. The next few seconds happen so quickly you barely register anything. Djarin stands and turns his wrists toward Grogu, who instantly breaks the binders then he has his blaster in his hand and the dark trooper holding you falls backward slowly, the hole in it’s head still smoking.

Djarin rushes for you, grabbing your hand. “Come on. We have to get out of here.”

You stare at him, closer now so that you can see the shadow of stubble along his cheeks, and the long dark lashes that frame his eyes.

His gaze holds yours before dropping to your lips and impulsively your tongue darts out to trace their shape. He groans but urges you behind him before putting his helmet back on.

“We don’t have time,” he says, signaling for Grogu. “Let’s get to safety.”

Your escape back to the palace is a blur of movement and urgency and it isn’t until you’re secured back in your room, legs cramping and breathing ragged that he unleashes his anger.

“What were you thinking?” he shouts. “You could have been killed!”

Before you can answer, he whirls on Grogu. “And you!”

Grogu’s ears fall back and he lowers his head with a sad whistle. He retreats to his bed area looking thoroughly chastised and you watch the anger in Djarin deflate with a sag of his shoulders.

But still you shoot back, “don’t yell at him,” throwing your finger out and crowding Djarin’s space. “It was my fault. I put him up to it. I…I just wanted to get out of here for a little while.”

Your last words soften as the air leaves your body and you start to sway forward with the weight of everything that has transpired.

He catches you easily, one arm around your waist, as your breathing starts to even out. “I’m sorry,” you whisper.

He removes one glove and then the other, placing his fingers under your chin to lift your face to his. Your body comes alive at the feel of his skin against yours, his thumb softly tracing the curve of your jaw.

His lips tenderly brush your cheek, his nose gently bumping yours before he kisses you. It’s not just some quick affection. This is a kiss you feel everywhere. You’re hyperaware of all the places your bodies touch, of the way, even through his armor, you fit together perfectly. He holds you to him, his large hands softly cupping your face.

When you pull away you’re breathless and Djarin’s eyes wander deliberately over the features of your face, his head dipping to kiss you again.

“Careful Mandalorian,” you whisper against his lips when he retreats just enough to hold your gaze. “You’re looking at me like you’re forgetting you can’t stand me.”

The corner of his lips tilt upward into a smile and the lines around his eyes deepen, sending a rush of warmth through your body.

“I could say the same for you,” he murmurs.

He leans in, skimming his nose from the junction of your shoulder up your neck, breathing you in.

“Do you know how long I’ve wanted to do that?” He whispers the words into your skin before inhaling again.

A shiver runs along your spine as his breath ghosts over the rapid pulse in your neck. He hums appreciatively, groaning before he kisses you again. When he pulls back, he searches your face for any sign of hesitation and when you give him none he drops his hand between your bodies, searching for the hem of your shirt and slipping his hand beneath, calloused fingertips gliding over your soft skin.

One of your hands thrusts into his hair, yanking his head closer to kiss him, and his barely controlled restraint snaps, his free hand curling around your thigh to lift you into his arms. He walks you backward toward the bed, spinning until he’s seated and you’re straddling his lap. He never breaks the kiss, his hands steady but urgent in their exploration of every curve of your body.

He shifts, trying to ease the strain of the hardness between his legs.

“You’re wearing far too much clothing.” The words are a challenge against his lips, and his eyes snap up to meet yours.

His hand slides up to your neck, and his grip tightens on your throat, the feel of your pulse beating harder and harder against his fingers.

“You are temptation,” he whispers, “and I want to take my time…”

“But…”you purr.

“It’s been torture since the moment I laid eyes on you. I need you to be mine.”

Your lips spread into a smile against his. “Then make me yours.”

[ciakinsa]

The face reveal moment!!!!!

Din's “Hi Princess” murmur despite the trouble they're all in?? Jo, your story had me melting and falling for Din and reader 💕

[slusherphoto]