Dalton Charm's Neverending Stories

Main @daltoncharm's to be read pile. All Pedro Pascal character fanfiction. Mostly smut, sometimes dddne | 18+ MDNI

[daltoncharm-tbr]

Finally made a sideblog for the @daltoncharm ppcu fanfiction tbr pile muahaha. Hang tight my pretties...

"Is this not the collector's exquisite pleasure, that his desire should know no bounds, should reach out into the infinite, should never know full possession which disappoints by its very completeness. O what joy to be able to postpone the fulfillment of desire to infinity!" - Georges Rodenbach, The Bells of Bruges

[kewwrites]

Whispers in the Dark

Chapter 21: Clair de lune

18+ MDNI!!!!

CW: Non-con anal, physical violence

One month Later

You couldn’t sleep. The tossing and turning proved to be too much. Din’s arms are wrapped tightly around you, pulling your back to his chest. He holds you so possessively even in his sleep, like he’s afraid you’ll slip through his fingers if he lets go for even a second. 

Your gaze is drawn out the window, the twin moonlight pouring in as it casts a soft glow throughout the room. You’re entranced by the view. The sprawling landscape out the window, dark with the silver lining of the moon, it’s mesmerizing. Something far more beautiful than anything you’ve been exposed to in your short life. 

Later you would look back on this and regret the idea, though it seemed so harmless at the time. 

You're careful as you extract yourself from Din’s tight embrace, pausing when he shifts. You wait a moment, listening for his breathing to even out. Once it does you pull yourself from his arms, feet padding softly across the floor. The closet is sparse, not having added to either of your wardrobes much since coming here. You pick out a simple tunic and pants. Deciding last minute to grab the cloak Din had bought for you, assuming that it might be a bit chilly out. 

You change quietly, any tiny sound made, making you cringe. You knew Din wouldn’t approve of what you were doing. He’d probably lecture you about your safety and what was good for you and the baby. You ignored those worries — his voice in your head. It’d be fine. You’ll go out for a couple minutes just to get the fresh air, clear your mind enough to sleep, then you’d be back in bed with him before he noticed. 

You repeat that in your head on a loop. You’ll be back before he notices. Everything will be fine. 

The nagging in the back of your head tells you otherwise. 

You shouldn’t have ignored it. 

You creep down the steps, footfalls light. You knew Din was a light sleeper, ready to jump into action at any moment. You just prayed to the Maker that he wouldn’t wake as the pneumatic door opens with a quiet ‘woosh’. 

You feel better once you step out into the night. You haven’t really had the ability to come outside since coming here, Din always keeps you well kept inside. The air is crisp, the sky clear, the moonlight shining softly on the foliage around you. It’s breathtaking, the yellow-white tinged glow on the planet. You’re taken away by it all. 

Your feet take steps forward into the grass, you marvel at the lush feeling. You don’t think you have ever felt something so soft, not in a way like this at least. You had never left the urban hell of Correlia and after being taken, you’d only been exposed to a few planets — not even having really stepped foot on them. 

So something like this, it felt like a gift from the Maker itself. 

You were so in awe and enamored that you didn’t even hear the door slide open. 

You hadn’t even realized you had wandered so far from the house — a sort of haze having fallen over you — until you felt hands grabbing your breasts hard, pulling you against a hard, unmoving chest. 

“Just what do you think you're doing?” Din’s voice is a low, threatening growl in your ear. 

You whimper, his grasp growing tighter, his anger palpable. 

“You really thought you’d get away with it?” He seethes. 

“I-I was j-just–”

He’s quick to cut you off. A large hand coming to wrap itself around your jaw, wrenching you harshly to look up at him. You can’t help the cry of pain that escapes you. 

“You just what?! Thought you could run off again, with my child no less.” He’s fuming, desperate. 

You try to open your mouth to speak, plead your case, explain yourself. 

He’s having none of it. His eyes flaring dangerously in the light of the moons. He wraps his hand in your hair — his favorite way of controlling you — yanking hard. His other hand leaves your breast, coming to seize your neck in a punishing hold. 

His voice is low, menacing in your ears. “You’re lucky you have protection,” His gaze flicks to your now pronounced bump. “Or I would do so, so much worse.” 

Your chest swells with your heaving breaths. You greet the terror inside you, the old friend that it is. 

You go to open your mouth to speak: plead, explain, bargain, anything to get him to stop — to understand. He holds his grip tighter to your throat, air becoming precious. 

“You don’t get to say anything till I’m done with you. Then you’ll be thanking me that I didn’t do worse.” His eyes have turned manic. The remembrance of familiarity makes you sick.  

The hand on your neck retreats, coming to wrap carefully around your stomach. The duality of his rough grip on your hair and tender touch on your stomach makes your head dizzy. You try to keep up in your head, everything happening so fast and in slow motion at the same time. 

You feel yourself being hauled backwards. It’s so sudden and you're caught so off guard, it allows you to be dragged easily back into the dark abyss of the house. 

Din wastes no time throwing you onto the couch in the living room. Your head cracks against the armrest painfully, your vision starts to blur around the edges. The moonlight filters in through the window across from you, a tear slips from your eyes. 

It should have been harmless. 

You can’t help but think how stupid you were to have deluded yourself into thinking he could be anything other than this. 

His face is contorted in displeasure. You catch a momentary glimpse of apprehension as he approaches you, though as soon as you recognize it, it’s gone. His face hardened into one of ire. 

“Din plea-” 

His palm strikes across your face, cutting off your pleas. 

The shock stings more than the actual pain. It had been so long since he had laid a violent hand to you. For so long you thought that this was more than it was, that you weren’t just captor and captive. 

The anguish of the realization hurts a million times more than any pain he could inflict. 

“I’d suggest you keep your mouth shut or else I can make this hurt much worse.” He spits as he climbs atop you, straddling your legs. 

You concede as you feel your heart crack a little more. 

This would only end one way, it was clear that he refused to listen to you, to accept anything other than his truth. The only way out being through. 

His hands are rough and uncaring as he pulls and tears at your clothes, desperate to get you bare beneath him. 

‘Where you belong’, echoes sickeningly in your ears. 

When he has you completely stripped, he sits back on his heels, chest moving heavily with his uneven, manic breathing. He stares down at you with something akin to regret, just a small glimmer, then it’s snuffed out. 

“Now are you going to get on your knees for me, or am I going to have to make you?” His voice is laced heavily with anger and lust. 

You’re far more afraid for the safety of the life inside you than anything he could do to you. Your heart catches in your throat at the idea of the loss, at this point, that would break you most of all. That thought is the only thing moving you forward, your vision swaying as you try to adjust your position on the couch to his liking. 

Despite the amount of times he has put you in this same arrangement, it still fills you with shame and disgust. Completely on display for him, at the mercy of his sadistic pleasure. 

“Good girl.” He purrs. 

You’ve never felt more disgusting than now with the way your body reacts to those words. 

He’s trained you well, you think bitterly. 

There’s shuffling, his clothes hitting the ground softly. Then he’s stroking a hand down your ass. His caress light, revenant. It feels like the touch of a lover. A bitter disconnect in your head. 

You can almost beguile yourself into thinking this was something else, that this wasn’t Din, not your Din. 

You don’t even realize you had started to stake a claim to him in your head, you hadn’t wanted to. Your cognizance is little but enough to make you hurt. Somewhere in these last few months, you had fallen for him. You could never label it as love, no matter how much he desired it. But you’ve come to care for him, love him in your own way, whatever that even looked like. You didn’t know anymore. 

Din leans over you, caging your body with his own. His lips coming to rest at your ear. “If you’re a good girl, I’ll make sure this is over soon.” His gentle kisses down your back feel like their own slap in the face. 

You can’t help but let tears fall. Your body and heart are so confused. You knew what it felt like to be loved by him, how good it could feel. To have it all ripped away, for a stupid decision, no less, leaves you feeling anguished and in pain. 

When his hands go to spread your cheeks, a single finger prodding lightly at the tight ring of muscles there, you cry out. 

“No, please. Not there. I’ll do anything just please!” You babble quickly, body jolting forward to get away from him. 

“And here I thought you were going to be good.” Din growls as he wrests you back by your hair, pulling you against him. 

You reach up to claw at him pitifully. Your fight renewed. 

“I didn’t even do anything.” You cry piteously. 

He smacks your ass, the crack echoing in the room loudly. The sting causes you to whine. Your hands trying desperately to pull him from you. He drops his hand from your hair, gathering your wrists in one hand easily before pulling the back behind you. You’re left in a precarious position teetering on the edge of falling, Din being the only reason you haven’t. 

He grabs something from off the floor, stuffing the cloth material in your mouth, muffling any further sounds from you. 

“I don’t want to hear another thing from that pretty little mouth, not till I’m done with you.” 

He returns his earlier pursuit, his single digit coming to push at your forbidden entrance. You can’t help but sob into the cloth, resigned, broken. 

The burning pain that comes when he pushes inside is quite unlike anything you’ve ever experienced. It’s intense heat localized to such a small and tender area. Even just the slight stretch causes you to inhale deeply through your nose, trying not to drown on the sobs caught in your throat. As he pushes deeper the pain gets worse. The thought of one finger being too much, let alone his massive cock, you feel like you might pass out from just the mere thought. 

It’s a painful and strenuous process as he works in and out of you, stretching you open for him. You continue to sob pitifully, tears dripping from your face to land on the couch in a quiet rhythm. 

Your vision starts to blacken around the edges when he pushes in a second finger. The pain before striking tenfold. You couldn’t even describe it if you could, the only word coming to mind being agony. The more he pushes on, spreading you open to him — feeding his sadistic hunger — the more your heart breaks. 

This time you weren’t sure if you could pick up the pieces. 

It’s tragic how quickly Din decides you are ready — long before you ever really would be — his fingers retreating. You breathe heavily through your nose, your ass clenching down painfully in his absence. 

He’s expeditious as he leans you forward, releasing your hands before lining his cock up to your tight hole, pressing in slowly. It’ll never be slow enough. 

The prep he gave you vanishes in an instant, any lessening of the pain gone. All it’s replaced with is white hot fire engulfing your insides, ripping you apart. 

All you can do is brace your hands against the couch beneath you, a muffled scream ripping from your throat as you’re split in two. The agony only increases the more he pushes in. He’s deaf to your noises and cries of dismay. 

“Never know why I didn’t try this before.” He remarks almost thoughtfully. His hands grasp tightly at your hips allowing no room for you to squirm away. His grip is punishing, certain to leave bruises that won’t fade for days. 

“Maker cyar’ika, didn’t know you could be this, f-fucking, fuck! Tight.” 

His words are lost to you, the pain the only thing you can comprehend. 

After bottoming out inside of you, he’s quick to start moving, eager to chase his pleasure at the expense of your anguish. It’s a terrible feeling, the way you’re rent apart. Despite your continued distress, he continues his barbarous pursuit. 

You’ve slumped into the couch, body succumbing to the pain. The only thing keeping you slightly up is Din’s punishing grip on your hips as he fucks into you with reckless abandon. 

One hand snakes underneath you, finding your scarred skin with his imprint. It’s a wordless threat. This could be much worse. 

Though you would call yourself crazy, you wished he would have just carved into your skin once more. It would hurt less than this vile pursuit of your flesh. 

“Fuck!” He bellows, his hips speeding in their thrusts. 

You know by now what the signs are when he’s close, the way he loses himself in you just a little bit more, chasing after his release with reckless abandon. You close your eyes, praying for this to be over, for the torment to just come to a stop. 

“You remember who you belong to, don’t you sarad’ika?” He growls the question. 

When you don’t respond, he smacks your ass once more, your cry echoing into the empty room. 

“Who do you belong to?!” He says, one hand coming to yank out the cloth between your lips, the other pulling you back by your hair, arching your head back. 

You cry out from the pain, not quick enough to answer. 

“Who?” He echoes himself, slamming himself into your ass harder and harder, teetering on the edge of his euphoria. 

“You! Din! Fuck I belong to you!” You relinquish. The worst tragedy of all — you believe the words yourself. You belong to him, you don’t think you ever wouldn’t. You’re too wrapped up in one another, not knowing where one starts and the other ends. Intertwined in some fucked up joke from destiny. 

Those words seem to be his undoing, his hips stuttering to a stop inside you. His cock pulsing deep inside you, his hot cum coating your inner walls. He groans in satisfaction, pulling out of you. 

With his support gone, you collapse against the couch. Body spent and aching. Your mind frayed, the pieces of your heart spread along the floor. 

You turn to look out into the room, your eyes catching on the window once more. The moonlight still pouring in, it mocks you. 

Brokenly you whisper. “I was never trying to leave you.”

[kewwrites]

Bullet for you, Darlin' PT. 10

~

Raider!Joel Miller

Dead Dove: Do not Eat

~

A/N: I want to give a super special thanks to my online wife @pedroshotwifey, a large part of this chapter is because of her! Thank you dear! I love you! 😘

“I’m just saying, it’s not very practical for me to be dressed like this all the time. Don’t you think?” You say raising a challenging brow. 

Joel scrubs his hand down his face. Shaking his head slightly exasperated. “I’m not doing this. We’re not going to have this discussion.” 

“Come on Joel.” 

“The answer is no.” He huffs pushing off the chair he was sitting in. “It’s not worth the risk of having anything happen to you.” 

You fix him with an irritated look. “I survived on my own for long enough, I know how to handle myself, Joel. You know I’m not asking for much.”

You know you shouldn’t push too hard, well aware that Joel was still capable of being quite unpredictable. The truth of it was that yes, you were desperate to be back in a set of proper clothes, but another large part was your growing distress at being secluded to this room. 

Joel watches you with blatant skepticism, his jaw ticking with bridled frustration. You can see the obvious fight warring within him, though you’re far from privy to the specifics. 

“I’m just asking for one trip out.” You make your voice softer, more placating. “I’ll listen to you the whole time. Just please, give me this.” 

He squeezes his eyes shut, thumb and forefinger coming to pinch the bridge of his

nose. You watch as he takes in a few deep breaths, steadying himself against forces invisible to you. You grab his free hand and pull it towards you, stroking the back of it softly in an attempt to soothe him. 

You draw his hand up to your chest, pressing it flat there. “Nothing’s going to happen to me. I promise.” 

He opens his eyes, finding yours easily. You can see a hint of pain behind them, a gentle fear with more than enough reason.

“Remember, I’m kind of a badass.” You tease softly. 

A small smile tugs at his lips, shaking his head again in disbelief. “You’re not invincible though.” 

“None of us are.” 

“I’ll let you go, but you have to promise you’ll listen. What I say goes, no ifs ands or buts. When I say jump, you say how high. When I say run, you don’t even question it. Do you understand?” 

You can feel your heart pick up speed inside your chest, you haven’t left this room in so long. You lost proper track of the time days ago, not really having a need for it—but you were desperate for some sort of freedom regardless. You didn’t want to leave Joel, especially after everything that had transpired over the past couple of days. 

“I understand.” You answer him earnestly. “I swear I’ll be good.” 

He sighs, still eyeing you skeptically but nods his head nonetheless. 

~ 

You hadn’t expected the rain that came the next day. You and Joel had eyed the sky and decided it wouldn’t be much of a concern—you hated how quickly you were proved wrong as you had started to traverse through the city. By the time you had reached your destination you were both thoroughly soaked. 

Joel pulls you inside with a firm grip on your arm. The two of you panting at the exertion of jogging the last two blocks. You can’t help but brace yourself on the register counter, a small amused huff leaving you that quickly turns into a small fit of giggles as you take in Joel in all his soaked glory. The way his hair is plastered against his forehead, his clothes soaked through in a way that makes them cling to his broad form. He has a firm scowl on his face that deepens the longer your amusement echoes off the walls. 

“Knock that shit off.” He bites at you. “What do you think is so funny?” 

You slap your hand over your mouth to stifle the sound. “I’m sorry.” You mutter, still highly amused. “You just look a bit like someone drowned an angry german shepard.” 

He lets out an irked sigh, his eyes rolling so loud you swear you can hear it. “You’re really something else, ya know that, right?” His tone is bordering on annoyed but the slight upturn of his lips tells you it’s a front. 

“You love it. Keeps you on your toes.” You give him a wink before turning around to take in your surroundings. 

It’s strange—you muse silently—you’d been to places like this when you were a child, your mother eagerly finding different clothes she liked for you before ushering you into a changing room to try them on. It was never the funnest of experiences but you had always appreciated when you could make your mother smile; she always had the best smile. Your sister was the one who was more eager to partake in the fun of it. She’d pick out so many different clothes it was common for her to take an hour or more trying it all on. You always lent her a critical eye, happily telling her what you thought looked best on her—in reality you really just picked all the things that were your favorite colors. 

The store isn’t nearly as ransacked as other places you’d seen. There was still an abundance of different clothes, something of which you were dearly grateful for meaning that they were likely to have more things in your size. You turn back to Joel with an eager smile on your face. 

“Before you go running off like an idiot, I’m going to check the place out, make sure it’s still clear of infected.” Joel says with a stern look thrown your way. “Stay put.”

You go to let out a smart retort but he’s quick to cut you off. “You swore you would listen to me. Now be a good girl and shut up and listen to me.” He all but growls getting into your space. 

“You’re right, I’m sorry.” You say genuinely. “I’ll listen.” 

“Good girl.” He purrs into your ear. It sends a delightful shiver down your spine. The previous cold you’d felt from the rain starting to be replaced with a simmering heat. Joel notices, his eyes darkening to a different shade. Your breath hitches and he can’t help but give you a smug smirk in response. “Stay.” He repeats. 

You watch him back away from you slowly, his eyes trained on you the entire time. You can see them shift into something more hungry as he forces himself to his task. Despite the heat you have to stifle another giggle, something about Joel today having made you especially cheerful. 

You pace back and forth around the registers as you wait for Joel to do his sweep of the building. You found it incredibly endearing that he was so adamant about your safety. Part of you hadn’t believed him when he had told you initially, hadn’t wanted to trust him. But here he was proving his words true and you’d be lying if you said that that wasn’t adding to the heat swirling in your gut. 

You bite your lip as the thought of touching yourself while you wait comes to mind. Something tells you he might not be very pleased with you if you did. You can’t help but whine in your mind at the prospect of sitting here and waiting for him, ignoring the growing need you feel. You knew subconsciously that he would make it worth it. He always found a way to. 

You grow bored quickly, swinging yourself up onto one of the check out stands. You let your legs dangle over the edge, kicking them back and forth as you anxiously wait. 

You can’t help but show your excitement when you see Joel’s head pop up in the back of the room. 

“Everything’s clear. S’just us.” He announces allowing you both a sigh of relief. 

“Just us?” You say with a raise of your brow. You’re teasing him, testing what you can get away with. You don’t know if he’s feeling anything close to what you are right now but the urgency you feel within you is growing harder and harder to ignore. 

He walks up to you, setting his rifle up against the counter, hands coming up to caress your thighs. His eyes hold a dark promise and you swear the thrill of it goes straight to your cunt. 

“Joel…” You start. 

“Tell me what you want darlin’.” His voice sounds absolutely sinful. 

“You.” You sigh out breathily. 

He captures your mouth in a hungry kiss. Both of you quickly forget what the original intent of being here was. You are far too caught up in him to even care. You use your legs to wrap around his waist, pulling him closer to you to have easier access.

You lick into his mouth, the air around you growing charged and heady. He responds in kind, devouring you with equal fervor. 

You don’t know at what point it happened but you fell for him. Granted you never had much of a choice, maybe it’d be more apt to say he tripped you. 

You pull away from him, resting your forehead against his, panting softly. “Please.” You whimper. “Need you.” 

“Yeah pretty girl?” He grins against your lips. “Beg for me.” 

“Joel.” You can’t help but whine. 

He slides his hand further up your thigh, your legs parting for him without much protest. You make room for him, allowing him to continue his pursuit. His hand comes to cup you through your clothes, a quiet sigh leaving you as he does. He grinds the palm of his hand against you at the same time he recaptures your mouth. You moan brokenly as the pressure deliciously rubs against you. It feels good but you know it’s not enough, it’ll never be enough, not now that you’ve felt the full scope of what was possible with him. 

“Please,” You gasp. “Joel, I need you so badly.” 

“Mmm that’s good, but I think you can do better.” He catches your bottom lip with his teeth, pulling gently. 

You can’t help the frustration that makes its way through you but you knew Joel well enough to know he wouldn’t let up until he got what he wanted. You were desperate enough that you would do just about anything he asked, especially if it meant you got his dick at the end of all this. 

You put on your best pout—eyes openly pleading—hoping that this’ll be enough. You look up into his eyes, putting all the lust and desire you feel into your tone. “Joel, please. I need you so badly. I need your cock inside of me, want you to fuck me till I can’t see straight. Please.” 

Joel can’t help the growl that escapes him at your words. He liked to see you like this, desperate and begging. You looked so beautiful—made it so hard not to just take you. “You better know what you’re getting into.” 

“I wouldn’t be asking if I didn’t.” You smirk devilishly. 

“Fuck!” He exclaims, quickly fiddling with the top of the loose pants you wear. He’s quick to pull them down your legs, letting them hang around your ankles. He’s quick to follow, his hands working overtime as he pulls himself from his jeans. 

He doesn’t even have to prepare you. You’d already been dripping wet in anticipation for this—for him. He pushes in with one swift movement. Twin broken moans escaping the pair of you. He presses into you until he’s sheathed at the hilt, the two of you panting heavily as you take the second to adjust to the feeling. No matter how many times the two of you do this, you don’t think you’ll ever get used to the feeling. He’s huge, taking up so much space within you. You swear he’s carved out a space all his own inside of you. 

You let out a shrill cry when he retreats only to slam back into you hard. He picks up a brutal, punishing pace as quickly as he began. You can do little more than wrap your arms around him, keeping him close as you try to keep yourself grounded in any way you can. 

“Can’t get over how fucking tight you always are.” He mutters into your ear. “You’re so fucking perfect. God!” 

You can’t help the way you keen at his praise. A low whine building in your throat as the tip of his cock kisses your cervix over and over again. You pant heavily when he spreads his legs, the change in angle making you see stars in a way you hadn’t before. 

“Oh god!” You echo back. A deluge of moans finds its way from your lips, rapidly finding yourself far from caring about your volume. 

Another growl escapes Joel as he bites down hard on your shoulder. He snarls into you, his hips rapidly pounding into you. You swear you’ll have bruises come morning but can’t bring it in yourself to care at all—if anything part of you is excited by the prospect of it. Being marked by him now a thrill as opposed to anything else. The past couple of days doing little to quell your desire for him, if anything it’s only been ignited, growing to a point where you’re hard pressed to deny him. 

His fingers find their way to your clit, pinching at the bundle of nerves. You let out another hopeless cry as the pleasure becomes all consuming. 

“Joel!” 

“Come on, darlin’, I know you’re close. Come on and soak my cock, I want to feel that tight little pussy squeezing me while you come.” He rasps loudly in your ear. 

You release a piercing wail as you follow his command and come on him hard. He grabs both sides of your face and pulls you in for a deep passionate kiss, eagerly swallowing up any and every sound you make. His own low moans mix with yours, creating a cacophony of lust filled sounds. The lewd squelching of your joined bodies would almost make you blush if you weren’t so far gone in your bliss. 

“I’ll never get sick of seeing that. You’re so fucking pretty when you come.” His voice is strained as he continues with his measured thrusts. He picks up in pace, his hips snapping into yours in a growing frenzy before you can feel him twitching inside you as he comes to his finish. 

“Good fucking lord.” He pants heavily into your neck. The two of you a mixture of tangled sweaty limbs. “You are just so damn perfect.” He gently nips the delicate skin of your neck. 

“Joel…” You whine. 

“I know pretty girl. I’m sorry.” 

He reluctantly retracts himself from you. You frown heavily at the empty feeling it leaves you with. Distantly you think about how empty you feel without him in general when he isn’t near. That’s not something you’re quite ready to face though. 

“Come on darlin’. We should do what we actually came here for.” He grins cockily as he tucks himself back into his pants. He reaches his hand out to you to help you down, he kneels down to help pull your pants back up your legs. He pauses long enough to admire the sight of him dripping between your thighs. 

He towers above you once more when he rises back up. Before you have the chance to utter a word, he’s capturing your lips with his own. The kiss is gentle and sweet, it makes you melt a little right there on the spot. It feels like a different kind of bliss, the kind you can make home in—to stay in forever.

In all reality it doesn’t take the two of you very long to go through what’s there and find clothes that fit you properly. It’s easy to pick out what is practical and worth taking. Even if Joel kept your time outside short and far between you still needed to pick clothes that would be helpful against the changing elements. 

You can tell Joel is growing antsy as the weather outside starts to worsen as time ticks on. Loud claps of thunder rumbling throughout the dark swirling sky. The rain is a loud dissonance against the roof of the building you’re in making it hard for you to make conversation. It just adds to the speed in which you finish. 

You’re towards the back of the building when it happens. The racket from the weather must have covered up the sounds well enough that neither you or Joel would have noticed. 

Nothing was going to happen to you, he’d promised. But he’d survived this all long enough to know that his fears had been founded. 

The rough hands that grab you jolt you into action far quicker than you could have ever anticipated yourself capable of. You can feel your heart drop into your stomach as it sinks in what is happening. You can see Joel in front of you, his name on the tip of your tongue as you go to scream out for him. The hand that claps over your face smells of blood and gunpowder. A crack of thunder echoes out through the sky as the man hauls you quickly in retreat to the back entrance to the building. 

In your desperation you bite down on the man’s hand, blood rapidly rising to the surface coating your mouth and making you feel ill. You don’t allow it to stop you as you let out the loudest scream you can hoping to catch Joel’s attention enough for him to do something. 

“Joel! Help me!” You try your hardest to get loud enough to be heard over the rolling thunder. 

“Fucking bitch!” The man behind you snarls in your ear. “Can’t wait to make you fucking pay.” 

He throws his arm around your neck locking you in a chokehold that he swiftly applies pressure to. Your eyes flutter rapidly and your feet kick out behind you, the darkness starting to fill in around the edges of your vision. All you can think about is Joel and how this was the last time you’ll ever see him before everything goes numb and dark.

[pedge-page]

Mother Who Provides

Joel Miller x F!Reader

Summary: based off this lovely ask for sub Joel wanting to breastfeed and get jerked off, and hella Mommy kink!

Warnings: Sub!Joel, Mommy kink, breastfeeding, lactation, praise, love biting, assisted m masturbation, male orgasm, cum eating, little belly stuffing because this bitch just loves his Mommy's milk sm

18 + ONLY

- - - -

The first time Joel watched you breastfeed your newborn baby had him feeling all kinds of—different inside. You weren’t totally aware of it at first, but he couldn’t keep his eyes off you. Every time you got up to go feed the little one, he was always within the same room, or meandering in the hall pretending to carry the laundry, or just finding an excuse to sit across from you and watch. 

He thought it was just an awe—here’s the woman of his dreams who just single handedly grew a whole human being in her belly, then pushed it out all by herself after 13 hours of labor, and now is nurturing his child from her own body. You were like a miracle who just kept giving. 

His cock getting hard was just the excitement of how amazing women were. That’s it.

But you had started to notice other things that were strange in his behavior. One time you had gotten up at 3am to feed the baby, Joel still asleep by your side. When you had finished and crawled back in to bed, reaching out for the warm security of his body, he wasn’t there. You groggily waddled down to the kitchen to find your husband chugging a gallon of whole milk like a fish out of water. His eyes fell upon you,  the way you yawned, dressed in a dissheveled night gown and asked if he’s ok, unaware that you were rubbing your sore breasts in your palm. He wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve, predatory eyes wide as he stares at your chest, ready to pounce on you like a wolf.

You knew pretty well right then what his little “problem” was. 

From then on, you intentionally were seeking him out in tighter shirts so he could see your bouncing swollen breasts more clearly, leaning over in front of him more often, or just straight up asking if he could give you a tits massage. Complaining about how “sore” they felt, or not wanting your milk to go to waste since the baby couldn’t drink it all even after having an entire freezer full. 

You feint a sigh. “Maybe I should donate it…”

“NO!” He shouts a little louder than he intended. “I mean… uh.” He coughs, unable to think of a reasonable excuse.

“Yeah? Who else is going to drink it, Joel?” You taunt. Joel was a tough man, but admitting things that he wanted was difficult to force out of him.

“I—I mean we—we could—“ he shook his head and went to sit on the couch. “Sorry, I mean. That’s a great idea. You should do that. Be nice for other moms.”

Joel wrings his hands together and looks away, clearing his throat.

You stride over to him and straddle his hips, his pupils going big with shock. You sit up on your knees with him caged under you, your breasts level with his nose as you rub your fingers through his brown curly hair. “Is that what you want?”

You can see the way his eyes are trained forward, looking at the swollen nipples poking through your tank top. He swallows heavily and licks his lips, hands resting on your waist, fighting the urge to bite.

“No…” he whispers softly.

“No? Is there someone else who should get Mommy’s milk?” You tease.

He closes his eyes, a low growl rumbling in his throat. 

“Speak, baby boy.”

“M-Me,” he says, head tilted up to you as he nuzzles the scruff of his cheek into your chest. You cup his head to firmly press his face harder, his nose gliding along the cleavage as he inhales your scent sharply. His hands creep up along your sides before grasping the droopy fat of the underside of your breasts, making you gasp.

You don’t even need to sit down on him fully to feel the tent poking your clit as you hover over him. He squeezes your tits roughly before wrapping his teeth around a nipple and tugging gently, releasing it with a satisfying bounce back in to place. The result was a slight damp spot around the peak where a drip of your milk seeped out. 

And Joel Miller fucking whimpers for the first time in his life.

You hum in delight. “Can you ask Mommy nicely?”

He doesn’t hesitate: “Please, can I have Mommy’s milk?”

Holy fuck, you’re a sucker for your man.

-

Now a half hour later, Joel is still greedily suckling at your tit as if being starved his whole life. You’re sitting on the couch  while cradling Joel’s head in your lap, having him lying down on his back in the perfect position for the milk in your breasts to just flow right into his hungry mouth.

His eyes are closed, jaw working open as his lips suction tightly, gulping your sweetness. You stroke the greying hairs on his cheek, feeling the way he hums contently vibrate against your skin.

He feels safe like this, in such a vulnerable position. The idea of protecting you, being on guard, defensive, all of that stress melts away while being swaddled by you. He can let go of worry, of anxiety, taking deep breaths and feeding soothingly under the gently, nurturing embrace of his beautiful, life-giving wife.

You had palmed his hard-on the entire time, not releasing it quite yet until you were satisfied with how full his tummy had grown. You could even hear the little sloshes of bubbles in his stomach as it filled with new nutrients. He’d let out a tiny whimper, milk caught in his throat when you’d squeeze around his base possessively before returning to your palming. His precum smears along his thigh and shorts. 

“You’re so hungry, baby,” you coo, leaning down to kiss his forehead. “This whole time you just wanted a taste of Mama’s milk, hmm?”

He nods absentmindedly, refusing to let go of your golden titty. 

Unsatisfied with his response, you grip his hair and yank his head down, his lips detaching and falling away from your breast. He lets out a needy whine and stares at you. “Y-yes Mommy. Wanted your milk. Please can I have some more?”

You giggle and nod. His tongue darks out to lick the little drips that had trickles down before attaching back to your nipple and suckling happily.

You pull his throbbing length out though the hole in his boxers. “Gimme a little spit,” you command softly.

Joel sits his head up, cheeks full of milk. You put your hand out in front of his lips as he release the creamy substance into your palm. Your newly silkened hand finds its way back to wrap around his base before stroking him. 

“Ohhhhh f-fuck Mommy!” he groans, eyes closed and leaning back against your thigh. But the sensation was too good, hips bucking up that he had to force his chin back up to continue watching. Your fingers expertly curled around his mushroom tip with each pass, the assistance of the milk acting as a lubricant. He licked his upper lick, his leg twitching with how hot it felt. You lean forward a bit and push your tit closer to his lips again. His eyes dart to you, tongue sticking out to capture your nipple again before resuming his impatient guzzling.

“Naughty, boy, getting all hard when drinking from Mommy’s tit.” You swirl his slit with the tip of your nail, his steady flow of precut oozing out and mixing with the milk. You feel his throat flex with each stutter, his mind reeling in and out of sanity, fists balled at his sides to avoid taking control. Joel’s lips were a sin everywhere else on your body, and this moment was no different. They were full, pouty, and his lower lip juts out enough to be able to easily catch your nipple and hold on with each insatiable gulp.

“Maybe I should bottle it up and let you bring it to work with you. Can share your special bottle with the other boys,” you laugh.

Joel growls angrily, browns crunched as he bites your nipple possessive. 

You hiss out in pain, fisting his curls once again. “Ow! Bite me again and you’re done,” you warn. His face relaxes, eyes staring up at you with sorrow as you resume your pace pumping his shaft.

“Ah-m srorry—Momm-ee,” he mumbles against the fat of your breasts, soothing over his bite mark with his warm wet tongue. 

You sigh deeply. The weight on your chest is almost fully lifted now that Joel has swallowed so much of the milk that had built up.

Your baby was just so little right now, there was only so much he could fill in his tiny body, leaving you aching, heavy, and swollen all day and night. But your full grown 5’11 200 pound hunk of a husband? He could drink for HOURS and drain you completely so that fresh milk can replenish your system just for your baby. 

“Maybe we should make your feeding a regular thing too. Would you like that?” You hum. You increase the speed of your hand, now jerking his cock violently.

“Ahh—ah! Ye-oh fuck, fuck Mommy—yes, yes I want it!”

“Yeah? You wanna be full of Momma’s milk all the time? Bet you wanna cum too. Taking such good care of me, I think you deserve a reward.”

He swallows another big load before his panting forces him away, creamy liquid spilling over his cheeks. “Ah—ugh-ugh oh fuck, fuck yeah! Wanna cum, wanna cum on Mommy’s hand, please! Please, keep tuggin’ my dick just like that, Fuck! FUCK yes Mommy!”

His mouth falls open, breath caught in his throat as you feel his hips raising off the couch slightly. You take the opportunity to lean forward and shove as much of your tits in his mouth as you can, suffocating him. His eyes roll back as the first of his cum spews up into the air, followed up big spurts rapidly shooting as you violently work his cock.

“Shhhh, that’s it, that’s my good boy, keep cumming all over Mommy’s hand, such a good boy. Don’t forget keep drinking your special milk. Mommy made it just for you.” You bite your lip at the idea of motherhood just falling so easily over you.

His whole body shutters, moaning and sucking around your breasts, unsure what to do with himself as he keeps cumming in your hand. His dick pulses the last of his spent, dribbling globs of sticky, thick semen all over your fingers and his full stomach. He quivers from the overstimulation, suppressing a burp. 

You remove your hand, caressing the heft of his bulging stomach just as he takes a deep breath through his nose, calming his breathing. He opens his eyes to see you licking the glorious mess of his cum off of your palm, each finger dipping in to your sinful mouth and sucking his spend clean. 

“Fuuucckkkk, that’s hot. Eatin my cream when I drink yours.” His eyes are positively drunk off of you. He babbles quickly: “Wanna keep ya milkin’ every year. Kids or not. These tits are mine. Keep me stuffed full of ya sweet cream, Momma. Never need to buy dairy again. Just drink it straight from the tap.”

You grab his hands down by his side and bring them up to your tits, guiding him to rub your sore breasts gently. “Gotta work them up to get more in you.”

Joel doesn’t argue, taking over the movement and squeezing your breast like icing bag, bringing your nipple back down to his lips as he milks more of your love into his mouth.

- - - -

Permanent taglist

@harriedandharassed @lola8888673 @its-nebuleuse @zliteraturehoe @merz-8 @joeldjarin @pascalscoffin @pedroshotwifey @ghostslillady @innerpersonunknown @missladym1981 @mrs-oharaxx @survivingandenduring @milla-frenchy @cockykookiee @fairytale07 @daddy-din @pedropascalsbbg

[mothandpidgeon]

While the Baby Sleeps (demon!Ezra x f!reader)

pairing: demon!Ezra x f!reader (mom!reader)

rating: E! 18+!

wc: 2.6k

summary: The only way to get your baby to sleep through the night is making a deal with an unholy creature. But, of course, there are consequences...

tags: dark fic, Dub/non con (making a deal with a demon), breastfeeding, nursing, lactation kink, mommy kink? (but not like that), stretch marks, oral sex, unprotected p in v, overstimulation, horns, Ezra is a sex demon, moth never uses y/n

an: Here is my submission to #MothandBirdMothersDayChallenge! Actually this fic is the reason why I wanted to do this challenge. Sometimes when I'm in the dark nursery in the middle of the night, I have fun intrusive thoughts like 'What if there was a shadowy figure in the doorway?' To combat how terrifying that thought is, I took it and made it horny. Thank you @ezrasbirdie for betaing this, helping me do this Mother's Day Challenge, and all around being a cool auntie to my fics and baby Moth.

 ...

He wakes you every night. It doesn’t matter what you try. Your son hasn't let you have more than three consecutive hours of sleep since he was born. 

You’re at your wit’s end. 

Every time you look in the mirror you see a hollowed out version of yourself with dark bags under your eyes. You make yourself coffee without putting grounds into the filter. You fly into a tearful rage when you spill a bottle of precious milk. You don’t know who you are anymore. 

Tonight’s no different. You lift your crying baby from his crib. Rock him, shush him. You sit with him in the glider and try to nurse him back to sleep. It’s all done bleary-eyed, half asleep. Everything is these days. 

You’d give anything for this baby to sleep. 

Just as the thought crosses your mind, you look up to see a figure standing just outside the nursery. It’s shadowy against the dark of the hallway, shades of gray on black. From the height and broad shoulders, it could be a man. He stands abnormally still. Silent, watching. You think it’s just a trick of your sleep deprived mind until he moves just slightly and a patch of silver hair is caught in the moonlight. 

You must be dreaming because if there was a man in your baby’s room, you’d be terrified. And you’re not. You feel calm like you’re floating on steady waters. 

“Who are you?” you ask. Your voice drifts like a lullaby. 

He doesn’t respond, just leans in the doorway. All that you can make out is that blonde hair and two eyes that glint at you.

“I’ve come to help you, petal,” he finally says. His voice is warm and melodic.

You feel yourself nodding off for a moment. When you blink yourself awake, he’s by your side.

You can make out his features better now. Dark stubble covers a handsome face. The sharp angles of his nose and jaw are silhouetted in the dim. You smell woodsmoke and frankincense as he comes near. He kneels beside the chair and his brow furrows as he looks up at you.

“You need that child to rest,” he says. 

You nod pathetically. You can feel familiar tears well in your eyes. Hopeless, helpless. Desperate. 

“I can be of assistance,” he says. 

“Don’t hurt him,” you say, holding your son a bit closer to your chest.  Your baby might be torturing you in the night but you love him. You won’t let anything happen to him. Even though you’re sure you’re dreaming, you remember old fairy tales, creatures that try to trick and deceive. This man isn’t human, you know that somewhere deep inside you. 

“Wouldn’t dream of it. I won’t even touch him. It’s not the babe that’s piqued my interest. It’s his mother,” he explains. His obsidian eyes are on your lips, pink tongue darts out to lick his own. 

“Don’t hurt me either,” you say, though there’s no fight in your words. 

“That’s not my intention at all. Quite the opposite. You’re so beautiful, petal,” he coos, brushing his knuckles across your jawline. 

It must be a dream because you haven’t felt beautiful in a long time. Your body’s been stretched and broken, engorged and swollen. Your hair falls out by the handful. Your breasts reek of sweat and milk, a sickly funk. 

“I want you. Carnally,” he says.  

The growl in his voice makes warmth pool between your thighs. He looks at you like something divine, an awe over his features. His light touch moves down your neck and over your collarbone sending goosebumps over your skin. You’ve forgotten what it’s like to feel anything other than exhausted, touched in a way that isn’t a demand for food or comfort. 

“Let me have that and that boy will slumber like an angel,” he promises. He watches your baby suckling himself back to sleep.

It sounds so good. Suddenly the only thing you want more than a a night’s sleep is for this stranger to pleasure you, to be inside of you. You haven’t felt desire in just about as long as you haven’t slept. You’ve barely been able to shower and feed yourself let alone take care of your own needs.

“Put the child in his cot and go to bed. Tomorrow I’ll come for you and you’ll see,” he says.

“Who are you?” you ask again.

“I’m Ezra,” he whispers.

You wake up in your bed the next morning and you’ve slept like the dead.

That strange dream haunts you but you think of it as nothing more than that. When you put your son down to sleep the next night, you don’t expect any miracles. He goes down easily enough, a nice little fluke, and you decide to turn in early yourself. 

Its nearly midnight when you wake up but you realize it’s quiet. The baby isn’t crying for you. You glance at the monitor and see that he’s sleeping soundly, sucking away at this pacifier. Just as Ezra promised. 

Relief floods your veins. You put your head back against the pillow and your eyes drift close. As you begin to return to sleep, there’s a shift in the bed and you catch that earthy scent again. You gasp when you see Ezra’s black eyes. He’s beside you, the pad of his thumb tracing the plump of your lower lip. His chest is a wide golden plane littered with white scars, dusted with dark hairs. 

“Hush, petal,” he says. “I’ve kept my promise. And now I’ve come to ravish you.”

You want to tell him that you’re tired. You finally have the opportunity to go back to sleep and you shouldn’t let anything come between you and that sweet rest. But the same, strong want that you felt the night before is calling you. An ache runs between your legs up to where Ezra’s hand glides over the delicate skin on your pulse. You're powerless to stop your own desire from sabotaging the one thing you’ve wanted.

A languid sigh leaves you as you melt into his touch. 

Ezra sucks at your neck. You’ll have a black and blue mark from his teeth but the sensation is so delicious, you can’t bring yourself to care. 

He opens your legs and notches his hips between yours. The friction of his hard cock against your panties makes your back arch. 

“I want to taste you,” he says. 

He rucks up the ratty old t-shirt that you sleep in along with the nursing bra that’s constantly saturated with leaking milk. He takes a long moment to savor the sight of you so exposed, a smile twitching on his lips. A long, low growl leaves him as he slithers down your body, gathering your breasts in his big hands and bringing his face to nuzzle in your skin.

You hear him inhale deeply, taking in your scent. The stubble of his cheek scratches at your sensitive flesh. One thick finger circles your peaked nipple nice and slow. Your body responds— a bead of milk seeps out and rolls down to the valley between your breasts.

Your breath catches at the mix of sensations. Your cheeks heat and you can’t help the embarrassment that creeps up your spine. Much to your surprise, Ezra’s eyes widen with interest. He lowers himself and  traces the wet trail with the flat of his tongue. You can only imagine what he tastes– the musk of your sweat beneath sweet milk. It seems that he likes it. He closes his lips around your nipple and lavishes it with his tongue, groaning into your flesh. 

“Shit,” you gasp. 

You feel the tingle of letdown behind your breasts, his ministrations summoning more milk. Soon Ezra is drinking from you, grunting and rutting his hips against you. The other, neglected nipple weeps milk and he pauses to lap it up greedily. You tangle your hand into his hair and that’s when you feel it. There’s a raised bump amidst his curls but it’s hard as bone. It sits just above his forehead and stands only an inch high. As your fingers rake through his hair, you find another. Horns.

The terror you expect never comes. He might be something ungodly and all you feel is a building excitement. Everything about this is wrong but the world feels upside down. 

He comes away, his plush bottom lip glistening with pearlescent milk. It’s a sight that should repulse you but in the delirium of sleeplessness and lust, it just makes you hungry.

“You are an exquisite creature,” he purrs. 

His flat palm skates down your belly where you’re middle still holds baby weight, a reminder that your body is no longer your own. He peels your panties down your thighs. You feel the fine edges of his teeth against your skin. He penetrates you with two exquisitely thick fingers. No warning but you hardly need it— you’re already slick. 

You keen, back arching off of the mattress, and the sensation is doubled when he puts his lips to your clit and sucks with the same enthusiasm he had at your breast. His wide shoulders spread your knees to make room for his body. You drown in pleasure, a heady mixture of fire doused in the thick pool of sleepiness. Floating, sinking, cresting on a wave as he licks and spreads you open, presses in deep and coils you tight. It’s hard to believe your body can have such strong responses when you’re barely function in your waking life. Something primal drives you on and Ezra knows just how to unlock it. 

“Such a delicacy. To sup on milk and cunt,” he says, barely taking his lips from you. 

The swirls and undulations of his tongue and the sweet pressure inside works you into a frenzy. Your breath shortens and then stops altogether, your thighs tighten and you hold your eyes shut, listening to the whimpers and moans between your legs. It’s too much and not enough. 

When you come undone, it’s a rush of ecstasy that you want to live in forever. Rolling and gushing and sighing. You choke and arch, your entire body convulsing. Your spine clenches up like you’ve been struck by lighting and the electricity runs out through your fingertips and toes. 

“Such a glorious vision,” he muses as you come down, panting and shivering. 

Ezra’s eyes are fixated on you, pupils blown so wide they’re nearly black. He looks like he wants to devour you. 

You share his hunger. You want more already. You’ve just had a feast and yet you’re starving again. 

You see Ezra’s cock now for the first time. Thick and upright, it’s tip, flushed and red. He takes it in his fist, glazing his shaft in your release. There’s something animalistic about it that floods you with another wave of arousal. 

“More,” you manage to say. 

“Not too tired?” he teases with a wicked smile. 

You shake your head. How can you sleep when your body is on fire with lust?

“I’ll fill each needy hole,” he says. 

You whine. He lines himself at your entrance. 

“You’re a goddess. And I’m going to defile you.”

You're filled to the hilt. The noise that escapes him is animalistic and his eyes lose focus. You’re already fluttering around him, already so close to another climax. He fucks you, the stretch and rhythm making you dizzy. 

“This is the closest I’ll get to heaven, I fear,” he revels. “But what could be more divine than this sweet cunt?”

Each word that falls from his lips seems to stroke at your core. His hips drive into you, hands greedily paw at every soft part of your body. 

The only thing that quiets his debauched ramblings is suckling at your breast. Your senses are completely overwhelmed. Tears prick in your eyes as your insides tighten, another orgasm shattering through you. You bite down on his shoulder to keep yourself quiet. 

“Let me hear,” he demands. “He won’t wake.”

And so you do, crying out as you clench around his thickness, losing all control of your body. 

“That’s it, petal. That’s it,” he says. 

He goes on thrusting and pins you down, torturing that exquisite spot deep inside of you over and over again. You’re not sure where one climax ends and another begins but you’re possessed. 

“If only I could fill that womb, sire one after the other to keep you round,” he grunts. 

Ezra swears. He hisses out words in a language you don’t recognize. It sounds like an incantation. 

You hardly have time to make sense of it. He’s pulling out of you, grinding his wet length against your thigh and spilling hot ropes onto your mound. 

You lay beneath him, boneless and dazed. The exhaustion flushes over your weak body. You sense Ezra at your breast again as your eyes drift closed. 

The next thing you know, your baby is crying and it’s morning. 

It must be a dream. There’s no other way to explain it— a horned creature slipping in and out of your bedroom in the middle of the night, fucking you senseless when you have no energy left. But you wake up with come drying where he marked you. 

That night, he’s back again. 

And again after that. 

“Ezra, I’m exhausted," you breathe. "Please.”

“Isn’t this what you wanted, petal?”

Now your son sleeps soundly through the night while you are awake, debauched for hours without end. 

He’s insatiable and somehow you are, too. 

He fucks you until you’re raw. Your legs quiver and burn from being parted so wide. Your pussy feels battered and bruised. You beg him to fuck your ass just to give your cunt some rest. 

And although your body feels like it can’t take another second of pleasure, though it begs for a moment’s peace, every time he comes to you, you’re flooded with arousal. 

When you try to steal an afternoon nap, he’s there, cock already standing in his fist. 

Spittle dribbles from the corners of your lips as he fucks your mouth. It runs down your chest, your knees already bruised from the hours you’ve spent on them. You try to chase your own relief, grinding your hips against the floor. He pulls you by the ears to sink deeper down your throat. 

He grunts and moans and howls as he comes between your lips. 

He doesn’t always take. 

The next time he makes you come four times. 

“Again, again,” he chants into your ear. His words are hot breath as his fingers press inside of you overwhelming that ridge that sends you reeling. Your bodies are pressed together, sticky with perspiration and release and drool and milk. 

“I can’t,” you sob, your body sore and stretched to its limit. 

You’re so spent, so overstimulated, each orgasm takes more and more effort. But Ezra refuses to quit, punishing you until you reach a fearsome crescendo. 

“Oh, my petal, but I know you are more than capable.”

He’s right. You can feel the weak muscles in your core begin to twist. You hold your breath and focus on the brutal sensations Ezra gives you. 

“Besides, your ability is immaterial,” he goes on. “These were the terms of our deal. This cunt. Is. Mine.”

Despite the fact that you’re so exhausted you can barely remember your own name, hardly able to stand on your own two feel, the climax that hits you is just as monumental as the very first. 

“Have you endured enough tonight, petal?” he asks, sucking the gush of slick off of his fingers. 

“Please,” you whimper. “Please.”

You’re not sure if you’re begging him to stop or to keep going. 

“Tomorrow, petal,” he promises. “Now get some rest.”

He wakes you. Every night. 

...

Comments and reblogs are appreciated! My asks are always open and I don't bite (unless you're into that).

[remanence-of-love]

[remanence-of-love]

[popcornforone]

Unspoken

A Silva Fic

Day 4 of Pedrotober

Masterlist

When I did the first draft of this it was 3 paragraphs. When I did an edit it became 5. Now day 4 of Pedrotober is very much an observation about our favourite man on a ranch & what you’d do to him. Yea I got carried away with this one.

Synopsis:- You’ve admired Silva for years but now circumstances give you the chance to speak to him.

Word count:-1000

Warnings over & above:- masturbation, age gap of at least 15 years, peeping Tom & perving, admiring from a far, obsession, very descriptive of imagining possible sexual encounters.

Thanks for the read people (how are we already on day 4) thanks @norththelemon & @alyssamariag for the prompts as always .

You’ve never spoken to him, but each day you watch as the grumpy old man at the ranch “next door” cleans his horses & prepares them & sweeps his dust off his porch, you can’t help but stare. The man is rather magnificent, strong & handsome.

You watch the man with the silver flecks in his hair. With the red plaid flannel, as he sips his water from the pale. How delicately he washes his hands, such large hands. The way the sun shine through his slightly greying hair. The broad shadow he casts on the ground as he’s so large. He is the man of your dreams, & often those dreams are spicy.

Everyday he walks one of his older horses around the area, not willing to put it down yet but knows it can still move a little. He always nods his cowboys hat to you & your parents. He’s always been at this ranch as long as you can remember, but you’ve never really been introduced. I mean you are probably of more interest to his son, you are similar ages in your early 20s. A man who is at least 45 would never take an interest in you. You can dream it but it will never happen.

That was until the morning commotion, you spied on the whole thing through your bedroom window, with your binoculars, as you did everyday, just to get a glimpse of him searching for his underpants in the draw. Wondering if you will get a look at his delicious peach. You know he sleeps naked, you’ve often seen the out line of his penis as he blows out the evening flame reflecting in the shadow before it all goes dark.

Silva shot a sherif on the day it all kicked off, but the sherif didn’t leave for a good 4 week’s afterwards. He vowed to never see him again. You heard the shouts & the arguments. You saw Silvas body slump in reaction before he headed to the porch to ponder, clearly feeling sorry for himself as he watched the sherif leave. This was your moment. To make friends with the man on the next ranch, to finally speak to him & show solidarity with him. Flirting could come later. His son hadn’t been there since his sherif arrived.

You put on your boots & walked the half mile up the road, the ranch you’d observed for so long you were now stepping into. The dust coating your throat quickly, the horses naying in yard. You slowly approach the porch & sigh. He’s rocking back & forth in his chair, his cowboy hat over his head as he is probably asleep. His foot tapping, his left hand clutching a red bandana. He looks so peaceful, so handsome & manly.

You don’t want to interrupt, you’d be happy to stare at this work of art for a long time.

You cough & he sits up. He almost rocks his chair back a bit too much.

“Hey” you say in a squeaky tone. Trying not to blush.

“Hey, did your parents send you up here?” He asks as he lifts his head up. That beard is even more magnificent in close proximity, even if it’s patchy & those glorious dark brown eyes look back at you.

“No” you say shyly. “I just saw the sherif leave & wondered if everything was okay, he’s been here a while” you stand awkwardly, trying to not be effected by the beauty of this older man, & wonder what he could teach you or do to you. Your thoughts betray you.

“He had but he’s gone now, our business is done” he says tapping his foot still as he rocks. The hand not holding the bandana rubs his own thigh.

“I just thought I’d check you didn’t need us for anything”

“No not yet but please tell your father that I might need to borrow one of his horses for a few days.”

“Yes mr Silva” you blush & he smirks as this happens. You like being obedient in lots of respects, but this he enjoyed a bit too much.

“Afternoon” he says dismissing the end of the conversation, pulling the hat down over his eyes not wanting to be disturbed anymore. You wait a few seconds shifting awkwardly before you head back to your own ranch. You may have missed an opportunity for more but now you have spoken to him, next time it won’t be as hard to approach the older man, to say a few more insightful things, build some trust which could blossom into who knows what.

You tell your dad that Silva may require assistance going forward, as you sit at the dinner table that night. Not hungry for food but hungry for the beast of the man just a few minutes away, consuming your every thought. An obsession which is now forming part of you, more than just a glance or a crush. You have made contact & had a conversation, this was now more. So it’s not a surprise to you that it is Silva’s name you moan into your pillow that night as you masturbate thinking of him. Wondering if he’d be gentle or rough. Would he want you on top or not? Would he expect oral delights & if he did would he give back as good as he got? How good his fingers tongue & cock would feel inside you, & how your small mouth would moan for him for hours until the sun came up.

You have no idea at his ranch, he’s moaning your name too. Smitten after his encounter with someone so young & vibrant. He lays in bed jerking his length, watching the ropes of cum spill over his hand thighs & bedding, wondering why the heck anyone like you would be interested in an old broken cowboy like him.

[yopossum]

My entry for @perotovar’s frith challenge is ready!! This story was incredibly special to me, and I am so grateful to Erin. My pairing was Silva/Ymir.

El Gran Varón

Main Masterlist

Warnings: M, 18+; grief, angst, historic homophobia, HIV/AIDS

Title borrowed from Willie Colón’s “El Gran Varón”

In memory of my uncle Mark, 1955-1992. The charming chap-wearing fixture at the Stud, a gay Irish radical activist and artist, a man who laughed and fought and lived and loved and died in San Francisco.

————————————————————————————

The land had been there, of course, and the people. Ramaytush Ohlone, the Coastanoans, the custodians of Yelamu. Long before the Spanish. Long before San Francisco and the insatiable maw of urbanization.

Long before boys paid the debts of men with their bodies, before they soothed those bodies with each other. Long before frozen deployments, blue discharges, that scarlet letter H. Long before soldiers set aside old lives and old loves. Long before tongues twisted and hands roved in shadows at the docks, in the bushes, in the rented rooms at the Embarcadero YMCA. Long before bathhouses and leather bars and flags and marches.

Long before familiar brown eyes glinted under the brim of a cowboy hat across the dance floor at The Stud. Long before an old spark became a bonfire, a hearth, a beacon. Long before a damp apartment became a heart’s home.

Long before a plague. Long before a glass milk bottle, always full of wildflowers, stood vigil on a windowsill over a busy sidewalk.

Long before Silva.

And yet, to Jake, it felt as if nothing had really existed before Silva did, and that the world he now occupied was built from pieces of him, rendered from his flesh and blood and bones and sweat and come and tears. Him, others like him, like Jake. Men who were strong and virile and hard and soft and sometimes even free.

But mostly, the world was made of Silva. He was the genesis, Ymir, the primal matter of all things. He was a great man.

Jake saw Silva in the soft rolling hills, the plush curves of his naked body spread across a shared bed, tawny earth brown flesh in the morning light. He saw him, too, a later Silva, in the jagged, jutting cliffs along the shore, bones of bedrock straining and angular under thin sandy skin.

He felt Silva in the sea, in the way it hung in the air here, that tang of their shared sweat salting Jake’s upper lip when they fought, danced, fucked, slept. When they cried out for more pleasure, for more help, for more time.

Silva was the redwoods, the thick brown silver waves of his hair their bark. A subtle sweetness, a woody, green earthy thing when Jake pressed his face into the nape of his neck, now perfuming the air of the grove with an impossible ache.

When the fog curled catlike into the bay, Jake felt its cool caress, welcomed the syrupy clouds that filled his head with thoughts of Silva, of his dreams, of his hopes, of his memories and fears, of how deeply he loved, and was loved.

Jake crouched down on creaking knees, ran a finger over the etched lines in the flagstone at his feet, and traced each letter as tenderly as if it was a laugh line carved at the corner of Silva’s eye, a furrow sculpted in his brow, the dimple nestled in his cheek.

He ran a rust red handkerchief across his face, the same color as that looming bridge, as the sunset settling over the park, as a lesion, as a bloodstain. He blotted at the wetness slicking his cheek, held it there before bringing it to his lips to kiss the threadbare fabric, breathing in the memories of the life of two men, who looked after one another, protected each other. Who kept each other company.

Jake stood with some effort, tied the handkerchief around his neck, and glanced around the circle of so many names before turning back to the one that was also chiseled in his being. With a nod and a soft smile, he said goodbye to the man who made the world, turned toward Stanyan Street, and resumed his nightly walk.

————————

Extras!

- Info about Ymir

- SF gay history

- Early queer culture in SF

- The Stud

- Timeline of the AIDS Crisis

- the National AIDS Memorial at Golden Gate Park

- “El Gran Varón” - Wikipedia

- Gorgeous moodboard from @perotovar to inspire me!

NP tags: @whocaresstillthelouvre @jennaispunk @tinytinymenace @sawymredfox @beefrobeefcal @timelordfreya @mothandpidgeon @crowandmousewritingco @sp00kymulderr @for-a-longlongtime @undercoverpena @secretelephanttattoo @magpiepills @maggiemayhemnj @hellfire-state-of-mind @goodwithcheese @sixhours @grogusmum @mountainsandmayhem @gasolinerainbowpuddles @schnarfer @jessthebaker @nerdieforpedro @thesluttylittleknee @lotusbxtch @yourcoolauntie @arcanefoxfics @toxicanonymity @burntheedges @artsy-girl-76 @ak-vintage @morallyinept @mando-abs @littleredpandanaps @ameerawrites @amanitacowboy @littlemissskuld @sizzlingcloudmentality @clawdee @syd-djarin

[almostfoxglove]

oh my god. I've had this in my TBR pile since you posted it but every time I started to read it I got choked up so it took me a little while to gather my nerve to have a good cry and BOY OH BOY DID I HAVE A GOOD CRY. this was, and I cannot stress this enough, a masterpiece from beginning to end. the tragedy and tenderness and devotion in every word had my heart all tight and throbby in the most painful and beautiful way? I cried a little into my coffee reading it and wouldn't change a thing. I cannot possibly express how much I loved this? and sorry in advance for quoting back like half of this under the cut but I just loved every word :,)

Long before boys paid the debts of men with their bodies, before they soothed those bodies with each other. Long before frozen deployments, blue discharges, that scarlet letter H. Long before soldiers set aside old lives and old loves. Long before tongues twisted and hands roved in shadows at the docks, in the bushes, in the rented rooms at the Embarcadero YMCA. Long before bathhouses and leather bars and flags and marches.

second paragraph in, and I'm already crying? okay!! "Long before frozen deployments, blue discharges, that scarlet letter H." LIKE ARE YOU KIDDING ME 'THAT SCARLET LETTER H' I'm going to hurdle myself into the sun it's actually so beautiful and tragic sdaafkjhs

Men who were strong and virile and hard and soft and sometimes even free.

I know everyone has picked out this line to scream about and THEY WERE RIGHT TO oh my god my heart. this fucking PUNCHED ME IN THE GUT. so beautiful. so tender. so holding.

Jake saw Silva in the soft rolling hills, the plush curves of his naked body spread across a shared bed, tawny earth brown flesh in the morning light. He saw him, too, a later Silva, in the jagged, jutting cliffs along the shore, bones of bedrock straining and angular under thin sandy skin.

first half of this paragraph: crying because of love second half of this paragraph: crying because of LOVE and OH MY GODASDKEHFSL this just feels so true to these characters both in movie canon and in the context of this fic like I actually gasped? it's just genius. heartbreaking.

When they cried out for more pleasure, for more help, for more time.

!!!!!! tears are flowing all over again just picking this line out :,)

I hope in the most sincerest way possible that you're so fucking proud of this story because it's fucking breathtaking. like I don't know how you managed to gut me like a fish with so few words but it's just a masterclass. holy shit. thank you so much for sharing this with us <3 I'm gonna be returning to this again and again :,)

[stitch-away]

🏳️‍🌈pedrito pride month masterlist🏳️‍🌈

ft. canon queer pedritos; dieter bravo, oberyn martell, greg, silva, y renaldo (even tho he's not in this lol)

in honour of pride month, i'm posting 18 pedrito oneshots this june that are mix of x reader and pedrito pairings, all with queer themes.

they include smut, angst, and fluff, so read the tags <3

note: the oberyn oneshot is purely platonic

❤️🧡💛💚💙💜

♡ trans dio morrissey x trans eddie - MDNI two twinks, one strap

♡ joel miller x silva - MDNI on a bottle o' jack

♡ javi gutiérrez x male reader - MDNI bark like you want it

♡ trans ezra x male reader - MDNI space cowboy needs some lovin'

♡ javier peña x jack daniels - MDNI baby's first pride

♡ oberyn martell x fem reader - unlike father, unlike daughter

♡ max phillips x male reader - MDNI "all vampires are bisexual"

♡ omar assarian x male reader - MDNI shower talk

♡ lucien de leon x trans male reader - coming out in a wholefoods

♡ harry castillo x clint flood - MDNI "yes sir"

♡ greg x male reader - fabric formed domesticity

♡ trans zach wellison x gn reader - all that she is

♡ marcus acacius x male reader - MDNI love be thy concubine

♡ frankie morales x dave york - MDNI TW don't ask, don't tell- just do

♡ marcus moreno x male reader - el novio de papi

♡ dieter bravo x male reader - MDNI "dieter's ultimate power bottom fantasy"

♡ trans din djarin x male reader - MDNI under the armour

♡ mamá flores x male reader x mr. ben - MDNI mamá's little genius

bonus:

♡ jack daniels x trans male reader - MDNI hug the cowboy

ʕっ•ᴥ•ʔっ completed :3

[popcornforone]

The Silva Masterlist

Is it bad that each of these fics may very well have taken the time of this film to plan & write… I mean the man’s a very glorious ranger isn’t he.

I try & make all of Silvas Fics Gender neural so no matter who you are you can enjoy our man, because Silva clear enjoys the company of both

Refreshing

Unspoken

Treacherous Rewards

[isabellaboo2025]

Through The Wall - Part Two

Pairing: Din x Reader.

Chapter summary: Back on the Razor Crest, you and Din continue to enjoy one another, until a moment of panic brings everything into focus.

Warnings: 18+only. Smut with feelings 😛

A/N: I’m not going to create a Masterlist page as this was originally a one-shot but I’ll link back to each chapter.

Part One

Din Masterlist

➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰🚀➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰

The hum of the Razor Crest in hyperspace is a sound you've come to know better than your own heartbeat – that low, throaty thrum that vibrates up through the deck plating and into the soles of your boots, into your knees and into the soft hollow behind your sternum where want lives. The cockpit lights are dimmed down to a smoulder, blue-edged shadows pooling in the corners, the wash of streaking star lines turning the inside of the cabin into a slow blue snowstorm.

He sits in the pilot's chair like he always does, spine straight, gloved hands resting easy on the armrests, helmet tilted just a fraction toward you, the dark T of the visor swallowing every flicker of light it catches.

He hasn't said a word in three minutes and neither have you, but the air between you has thickened to where you can cut it with a vibroblade. When you finally push off from the bulkhead and cross the metal floor toward him – bare feet silent, your tunic loose at the collar – you see the leather of his glove flex once against the armrest.

Just a twitch. A tell. Mandalorians aren’t supposed to have tells, but you've been studying him for months now, cataloguing every microscopic concession his body makes to your presence, and that little flex of his fingers tells you everything you need to know.

You sink to your knees.

Three weeks.

That’s how long it’s been since the cell on Vane's facility, and in that time, you haven’t stopped sleeping with him, and he hasn’t stopped sleeping with you, and somewhere in the middle of all that sleeping-with the geometry of the two of you has quietly, irreversibly, changed.

It isn’t just the sex, though the sex is good. The sex is unhinged. The sex has taught you things about your own body that you have not, in thirty years of inhabiting it, suspected. He takes you against bulkheads and over crates and on the floor of the cockpit with the autopilot blinking placidly above your head. He takes you slow in the bunk in the middle of the night when neither of you can sleep, and he takes you in the refresher with the water running and the steam fogging the visor and his bare hands skating slick down your spine.

The helmet always stays on. You haven’t stopped wanting, but you’ve stopped asking, because the wanting is your problem and the not-asking is, you’ve decided, a thing you can give him.

But it isn’t just the sex.

It’s the way he starts making caf for two in the mornings now, instead of for one. It’s the way he sets his armour down in the order he always sets it down but pushes your half of the bunk smooth before he lays himself on it. It’s the way he says your name when he wants your attention from across the hold, low and unhurried, like a hand on the small of your back.

You know what it is. He knows what it is. But it’s clear that neither of you are going to be the one to use the word. He’s a man who’s spent his whole adult life saying as little as possible about anything that matters, and you’ve decided that you respect that – that you’d rather have his silence honestly than someone else's words pretending. And so, you carry the unspoken thing around in your chest like a small warm coal and you feed it kindling and you do not, blow on it, in case the smoke makes him bolt.

For three weeks you mould your body to his and sink to your knees and allow yourself to have whatever this is between you.

The deck plating is cold under your knees through the thin fabric of your trousers, but you barely feel it. You kneel in the narrow space between his boots, the worn leather scuffed and dust-pale, and let your hands settle very lightly on his thighs, right where the flight suit emerges from beneath the cuisse plates, where the dark quilted fabric stretches taut over muscle.

You feel him go still. Not tense, just still. The way a predator goes still when something interesting walks into its sightline.

"Din." Your voice comes out lower than you mean it to. "Tell me to stop."

He pauses for a long moment, the vocoder hissing faintly with his breath before he speaks.

"No."

That one word, filtered through the modulator, gravel-rough and warm at the edges, lands somewhere low in your belly and blooms outward like a struck match. You smile up at him, slow, and slide your palms upward, over the quilted dark of his inner thighs, fingers spread wide, taking your time, mapping the heat of him through the fabric.

You feel the moment his thighs flex under your touch, feel the way his breath catches and stutters out through the vocoder as a soft static crackle.

"Good," you murmur. "Then sit back and let me take care of you."

His head tilts in that maddening way, the visor angling down so that you know, you know, he’s watching every move you make. You've never seen his eyes, never seen his mouth go slack, never seen his jaw clench, never had the satisfaction of watching this man fall apart in the conventional way. All you have is the helmet, the dark immovable mask of beskar, and the small involuntary sounds the vocoder can’t quite scrub clean.

It’s enough, a delicious little game, dragging every reaction out of him by force, pulling each one through the filter of his armour like coaxing music from a closed instrument.

You work the codpiece loose first. There are clasps along the underside, hidden, fiddly things, and you take your time finding them, letting your knuckles drag deliberately against the swell already firming up beneath the plate. He inhales sharply and the vocoder catches it, distorting it so that it sounds like a low electronic rasp. You hum approvingly and finally get the last clasp free, lifting the codpiece off and setting it down on the deck beside you with a soft, careful clink of metal on metal.

The dark fabric beneath is obviously, undeniably tented. You let yourself look for a long moment, savouring it – the shape of him straining against the cloth, the small dark spot where he's already started to leak through. Then you raise your eyes back up to the visor and give him your sweetest smile.

"Look at you," you breathe. "All this control and you're already this hard for me."

The gloved hand on the armrest tightens, the leather creaking.

"I know," you murmur, working open the front of the flight suit, easing the laces loose with deliberate slowness. "I know, patience. I'm going to give you everything."

When you finally free him you have to take a breath. He’s heavy in your hand – hot and flushed dark already at the head, a bead of slick beading at the slit, the whole thick length of him twitching faintly against your palm as you wrap your fingers around the base. You've had him before. You know the shape, the weight and the way he fits in your mouth. But every time feels like the first time. Every time he pulls this particular reaction out of you – this nearly worshipful pause, this want that buzzes in your teeth.

You look up, holding the visor's gaze, and then, slowly, you lean in and press a kiss – soft, almost chaste – to the very tip.

His whole body jerks in a tiny movement that’s almost nothing. Just a flinch of his hips, the smallest involuntary buck, and then the iron clamp of his own self-control snaps it back down. But you feel it and grin against him, lips still pressed to the head of his cock, letting your tongue slip out and drag a slow stripe through the slick beading at the tip.

"Haar'chak." The curse hisses through the vocoder, half static, half breath.

"Mm." You lick your lips, tasting salt and skin and the faint metallic tang of whatever he's been wiping his hands on earlier. "Say it again in Basic, Din. I want to hear you in Basic."

A long, ragged breath comes through the modulator, and his hand leaves the armrest and settles into your hair, the rough leather catching at the strands. He doesn’t pull but rather just rests his palm against the back of your head like he needs to anchor himself there.

"Please," he says, and the way the vocoder bends the word, scratching it raw, making it almost a whisper nearly undoes you right there on the cold metal floor.

You reward him by opening your mouth and taking him in – just the head at first, sealing your lips around the flushed crown and sucking, slow and soft, the flat of your tongue working in small circles against the underside. The taste of him fills your mouth, salt and musk and something faintly metallic that you've long ago decided is particular to him, to the man under the beskar, and you let your eyes flutter closed for half a second just to savour it.

He makes a low, strangled, half-mechanical sound that the vocoder can’t quite categorise and his hand in your hair tightens, just barely.

You sink lower, agonisingly slowly, working him into your mouth inch by inch, your tongue pressing flat to the underside, your lips stretching tight around his girth. You feel the head bump the back of your throat and you pull back, breath catching, eyes watering already because he’s thick and you’re out of practice at this kind of patience. Then you go down again a little further, working saliva down the length of him with each pass until he’s slick and shining and your jaw is beginning to ache pleasantly.

His thighs tremble – tiny tremors, barely perceptible, but you can feel them under your palms where you've braced yourself against him. The Mandalorian – the man who can stand motionless in a firefight, who can track a quarry across three-star systems without losing his composure – is trembling under your mouth.

You want to weep with how good it feels to do this to him.

You pull off with a wet, obscene pop and look up at him through your lashes, watching as his chest rises and falls in shallow, controlled drags. The vocoder catches each breath and gives it back to you as a soft electronic rasp.

"Are you watching me?" you ask. Your lips feel swollen and you lick them deliberately, watching the visor track the movement. "Tell me you're watching me, Din."

"I'm watching."

"Good." You lean in and press your cheek against the inside of his thigh, letting his cock rest heavy and wet against your face, the slick head smearing against your temple and your hair. You turn and mouth at the side of his shaft, dragging your tongue in long, lazy stripes. "Don't look away, not for a second."

"I won't."

The promise scrapes out of the vocoder like a vow.

You take him again, deeper this time. You've warmed up to him now, your throat relaxing, your breathing falling into the rhythm you need. You let him slide back, back, back, past the soft resistance at the back of your tongue, into the tighter clasp of your throat, and you swallow around him and feel him judder. His hips lift off the chair an inch and slam back down. The gloved hand in your hair fists, finally, finally pulls, not hard, just hard enough to tell you he’s losing some thin filament of control.

"Slow…slow…"

You don’t slow. You set a rhythm, bobbing your head, hollowing your cheeks, taking him deep on every third or fourth stroke and feeling your nose press against the dark fabric of his flight suit at the base. Your hand wraps around what your mouth can’t reach, twisting gently, thumb dragging beneath the head on every upstroke. Your other hand creeps up under the cuisse plate, scrabbling at the edge of the flight suit, until you find the soft pouch beneath and cup him there too, rolling him gently, playing with the weight of him, and feel him moan through the vocoder as a long staticky exhale.

The Razor Crest hums around you. The star lines streaked. The dim blue light catches on the curves of his armour, and you kneel at his feet with his cock in your throat and you think, dizzily, that you’ll never want anything else. That you’ll do this for the rest of your life. That if he asks you to live on your knees on this ship you'll do it without a second thought.

"Mesh'la." His voice is breaking up now, ragged through the filter. "Mesh'la, mesh'la, mesh'la... "

You don’t know the word, but you know the tone and you pull off, gasping, drool stringing from your lips to the tip of him, your eyes streaming. You take three quick breaths, then you go down again in one long swallow, your nose pressing flush to his stomach, your throat working around him, and you hold it.

You hold it until your lungs burn, until his hand is shaking against your skull, until you hear the vocoder spit out a long, broken sound that might be your name and might be a curse and might, in fact, be both.

When you come up for air, your mouth is numb, your eyes were streaming, your chin slick and you’ve never, ever felt so beautiful.

"Din," you rasp, your voice wrecked from the effort. "Tell me how it feels."

He can’t speak at first, the vocoder hissing static, breath after ragged breath.

"Like I'm going to die."

You laugh – a hoarse, delighted little laugh – and press a kiss to the slick head of his cock, tasting him afresh.

"Not yet you're not," you whisper. "I've got you, just hold on."

You start again, slower this time, but deeper, more deliberate, your tongue working tricks against the underside, against the sensitive spot just beneath the head that you know drives him to pieces. Both of his hands have now abandoned the armrests, one gripping your hair, the other fisted tight against his own thigh, the leather creaking and creaking. You watch the rise and fall of his chest as the visor stays locked on you, unwavering.

You feel him swell against your tongue, feel the tell-tale tightening, the way his thighs go rock-hard under your palms, the way his hand in your hair starts to push you down instead of just resting there. You let him guide you, let him take what he needs, let your jaw go slack and your throat go loose and your eyes close because you want to feel everything, you want to drown in this.

"I’m going to…I'm…"

You hum around him, long and low, a vibration that runs the length of his cock, and his entire body goes taut as a bowstring.

"Off…" he manages, urgent now, his hand trying to push you back, "you have to… "

You look up at him, his cock buried deep in your mouth, your eyes locked on the visor and shake your head minutely.

The sound he makes is a low broken groan, almost a sob, and then his hand is clamping down at the back of your skull, and he holds you there as he comes in long, hot pulses against the back of your tongue.

You swallow around him, your throat working, the salty bitter heat of him filling your mouth faster than you can take it down. You feel him shudder, feel the way his thighs lock up and his whole body strains forward, feel the helmet tip back as his head falls against the headrest of the pilot's seat. The vocoder rasps out a single long breath that stretches into something unrecognisable.

You stay on him as he softens. You stay until the last twitch, the last little pulse, until his hand loosens in your hair and his thighs unclench beneath your palms. Only then do you pull off – slow and careful, your lips dragging the whole length of him on the way up – and you sit back on your heels, breathing hard, your chin and lips slick and shiny in the dim blue light.

You look up at him, his helmet tilted back, chest rising and falling like he's just sprinted across a desert. The gloved hand that had been in your hair hangs loose at his side, twitching faintly with the aftershocks, the other unclenched at last from the meat of his own thigh.

You smile because you know exactly what you look like – flushed and wrecked and triumphant – and you let him have a long moment to take it in.

"You," he rasps finally, through the vocoder, "are going to be the death of me."

You laugh, lean forward and press a final kiss to the soft, spent length of him before you tuck him gently back into his flight suit, lacing it up with the same careful slowness you used to undo it. You retrieve the codpiece from the deck and refit it, clicking each clasp back into place. You smooth your palms up the front of his thighs, over the plates of his cuisses, up the dark quilted fabric to settle finally, feeling the slow steady pound of his heart through the layers of armour and underclothes.

"Mm." You rest your cheek against the cold metal of his chest plate. "Not yet, I hope."

His hand comes up slow, almost shy, the way it always is when he isn’t in the heat of it. He cups the back of your head, gentle now, fingers carding through your hair where he's just had it fisted, his other hand settling at the nape of your neck, his gloved thumb stroking lightly along the line of your jaw.

"Mesh'la," he says again, quieter now.

"What does it mean?"

He strokes your jaw again as the streaking blue starlight slides across the curve of his helmet.

"Beautiful."

You smile against the beskar and close your eyes, allowing yourself to stay there a long moment, kneeling at his feet in the dim cockpit, the Crest humming around you, his hand gentle at the back of your neck, the taste of him still warm on your tongue.

"Din?"

"Yes?"

The words form in your mouth, but you hesitate and push them back down again because you’re not sure if this is the right moment. Or if in fact there will ever be a right moment to tell him exactly how you feel.

The silence stretches, then his thumb presses, very gently, against the soft hinge of your jaw, tilting your face up.

You turn your face into his palm and press a kiss to the worn leather of his glove.

"Take me to bed."

And that’s how it goes for another three weeks.

Six weeks of sexual satisfaction which, you tell yourself, is all you need.

Then he takes the Tarvix job.

****

Tarvix is a jungle world out past the Mid Rim, hot and wet and full of things that want to eat you. The bounty is a Twi'lek arms dealer who’s taken his operation off-grid and underground and very specifically into a network of root caves that no sensible bounty hunter would follow him into, which is, of course, exactly why this particular bounty hunter takes the job.

"It's a stupid job," you say on approach.

"It pays."

"It pays because nobody else is dumb enough to take it."

"Which is why it pays."

"Din…"

"It's a clean grab, in and out. We've done worse."

"We have done exactly worse and the exactly worse is why I'm telling you it's a stupid job."

He turns his head, the visor settling on you, and you see – even through the beskar, even with no eyes to read – the small relenting tilt of the helmet that means he’s heard you. Reaching out, he puts his gloved hand on your thigh.

"Stay close to me."

"I always do."

"Closer."

It goes wrong the way these things always go wrong, which is to say slowly at first and then all at once. You find the Twi'lek, secure it and are on your way back out of the cave system with the Twi'lek cuffed and grumbling between you when the root caves turn out, surprise, to have a second tenant – a colony of something the Twi'lek has been paying off in ration packs to keep them docile, and whose docility runs out roughly thirty seconds after the ration-packer gets cuffed.

They come out of the walls, long pale segmented things, the size of small speeders, with too many legs and a mouth-part arrangement that doesn’t bear thinking about. Din shoots the first one in half. The second one takes a flame to the face and screams in a register that makes your back teeth ache. The third one comes up behind you while you’re dealing with the fourth, and you get your blaster around in time to put a bolt through its eye-cluster.

But you don’t see the fifth one, the one in the ceiling, the one that drops.

It hits you across the side like a falling girder.

You go down hard, sideways, off the lip of a root ledge that you haven't realised is a ledge, and fall a long way, a longer way than you should have survived falling, into the wet dark of a lower chamber. You land on your back on something that gives under you and the world goes white.

You come back to it in pieces, pain shooting across your whole left side, the sharp wrong kind, the kind that means ribs and you mouth fills with blood. You feel a long burning line down your flank where the thing's claw, or whatever it is, has opened you up through your shirt. You smell smoke from somewhere overhead and hear the high mechanical whine of a flame projector going and going and going.

Then you hear his voice through the helmet comm in your ear. It’s very close to you, somehow, even from up above.

"Talk to me."

"Din…"

"Talk to me. Where are you hit?"

"Side. Ribs. I…I can't…there's a lot of blood…"

"I'm coming. Don't move. Don't move. Don't move."

"I wasn't…"

"Just keep talking."

You do as asked, but you don’t remember what you talk about. You remember that your voice sounds thin and far away and that you can’t seem to take a full breath because each one turns into a wet stabbing thing in your chest, and that somewhere above you the flame projector keeps going, and the roaring stops one by one.

Then there’s the soft hiss of jetpack thrust, and his boots hit the chamber floor in front of you with a thud that you feel in your teeth.

He’s on his knees beside you before the dust has settled, gloves off, his bare hands on you, one on your jaw and the other under your shirt, finding the wound and pressing. You cry out, and his head snaps to your face, the visor so close to you that you can see your own reflection in it, wet and grey and not looking very alive.

"Stay with me."

"I'm here."

"Stay with me."

"I'm here, Din, I'm…"

"Look at me."

You look and suddenly see that his hand on your jaw is shaking.

You’ve never seen his hand shake in all the time you’ve flown together. Not under fire, not in the middle of a job going sideways, not when he’s setting a broken bone in his own forearm with his other hand and a length of pipe.

The hand of Din Djarin does not shake.

The hand of Din Djarin has been engineered specifically to not shake, and now it’s shaking against your face, his bare thumb skating across your cheekbone, smearing the blood there, and his voice through the modulator comes out a half-tone too high.

"Okay," he says. "Okay. Okay, I've got you. I'm picking you up. This is going to hurt, I'm sorry. I'm sorry, cyar'ika, I'm…"

He stops and you know he hasn’t meant to say that. You hear the small, choked silence where the word has landed and where he’s decided not to chase it, and you want to ask him what it means, but you can’t, because he’s sliding one arm under your knees and the other under your shoulders and lifting. You scream, and he makes a sound through the modulator that sounds very close to a sob.

"I know. I know, I'm sorry. Just…just hold on. Just hold on to me."

You get one arm up around his neck and fist your hand in the cape at his shoulder, pressing your face into the side of his helmet.

He carries you up through the cave system at a run. You have no idea how the jetpack works with the weight of you in his arms, and you have no idea how he’s navigating or how he’s fighting – because somewhere in the middle of it you remember the muzzle-flash of his blaster going off one-handed past your shoulder, and him swearing once, very quietly, when something rakes the back of his cape – but he gets you out.

He gets you out into the green wet light of the jungle, across half a kilometre of root and mud and up the ramp of the Crest, through the hold, and into the small alcove that served as a medbay. Then he sets you down on the cot so carefully, so impossibly carefully, that you barely feel the transition and starts hurriedly removing his beskar.

And then his hands start moving on you.

You’ve seen him field-dress wounds before. He’s good at it, efficient at it. He moves through a medical situation the way he moves through a firefight, which is to say with the calibrated economy of a man who’s been doing this for a long time and has learned, somewhere along the way, that panic is a luxury for people with other people to panic for them.

He’s not efficient now.

He’s fast, but there’s a roughness to his movements that you’ve never seen in his hands before. He cuts your shirt off you with a vibroblade and the cuts go in wrong directions, doubling back, his free hand pressing at your side to hold the wound closed while the other does the work. Twice you see him stop, just for half a second, just long enough to take a breath that the modulator turns into a stutter, before he keeps going.

"Din."

"Don't talk."

"Din, I'm…"

"Don't talk."

"I'm okay."

"You are not okay. You are not okay. You're…" His voice cracks mid-sentence, the modulator catching and amplifying the crack, and you hear the sound of his control failing. "There is a lot of blood. There is a lot of blood, and I need you to not talk so I can…so I can…"

"Din."

"Please."

You stop talking.

He gets the shirt off you and cleans the wound with bacta wash, the cold sting of it making you hiss through your teeth. Then he reaches for the cauteriser, his hand still shaking, and he stops. He sets the cauteriser down on the tray, pushes up the sleeves of the flight suit and presses both his bare palms flat to the cot on either side of your hips, bowing his helmeted head, breathing in and out.

You watch the whole bare expanse of his arms, the corded muscle, the scars, the little mythosaur on the inside of his bicep that you’ve now traced with your tongue more times than you can count, all of it locked into a posture of such absolute, white-knuckled control that you understand, finally, what it’s costing him to do this at all.

You reach up, arm aching, and put your hand on the side of his helmet – on the beskar, on the cheek of it. "Hey."

He doesn’t move.

"Din, look at me."

The visor comes up.

"I'm okay," you say. "I'm here. I'm okay. You're doing fine. Pick up the cauteriser."

The helmet bows lower, the brow of it coming down to rest against yours, beskar against skin, cool and hard and so familiar by now that it’s almost a kiss.

"You scared me," he says.

The modulator is barely there. The voice underneath it is barely there. It’s a thing he says directly into your skin, almost.

"I know."

"I thought you were…"

"I know."

"I can't…"

He stops himself from saying the thing he can’t let himself finish, and you want, with a fierceness that surprises you even now, to grab the back of his helmet, pull it off and look at the face he’s making under there, because you’re sure that whatever his mouth is doing right now you would die to see.

But you don’t. You put your hand around the back of his neck instead, against the small bare strip of skin between the helmet's edge and the collar of his flight suit, and you hold him there.

"Cauteriser."

He picks it up and works, the skin on your side sizzling. You bite down on the heel of your hand, hard, and you don’t scream, because he’s already as close to broken as you’ve ever seen him and you won’t give him a sound he can carry into his next sleep.

He works the long burning line of the gash closed, packs it with bacta gel, and then he puts a patch over it, and sets his palm flat against the patch, holding it there as if he can press his own steadiness into you through the bandage.

His hand isn’t shaking anymore. Somewhere in the last sixty seconds he’s taken all of it – the shake, the crack, the whatever-it-is – and has folded it down small and tucked it back inside himself. You’ve watched him do it, and know, watching him, that this is the price of him. That this is what it costs him, this discipline, this not-saying, this absolute refusal to let anything spill that he hasn’t first measured into a cup.

"Other ribs," he says. "Let me feel."

You let his fingers walk your ribs one by one, slow, professional now, the shake gone. Two of them are cracked, one might be broken. He wraps you, slow and careful, lifting you against his shoulder so he can pass the wrap around your back, his bare arm strong under you, his other hand passing the bandage from one side of you to the other across his own body.

You lean your forehead into his neck, close your eyes and breathe him in.

"Almost done," he says.

"Take your time."

"I am taking my time."

"Take more."

He finishes the wrap and lays you back down. Then he sits on the edge of the cot beside you, one hip against your hip, and looks down at you for a long moment, before reaching up and brushing a piece of hair off your forehead with the back of his bare knuckles.

"You're going to live."

"Optimistic."

"I'm the one with the medical training. Trust me."

"Mm. Lie down with me."

"I'm sweaty."

"I don't care. Lie down with me."

He hesitates, glances at the cot and at himself then makes a small sound of acceptance and eases himself down on his side, propped on his elbow, his hip pressed to yours. His free hand comes to rest, lightly, on the unbandaged side of your stomach, his bare palm warm and anchoring.

You watch the visor for a long time, he lets you, and somewhere in there your throat goes tight in a way that isn’t related to any injury.

"Din."

"Yes?"

"What does cyar'ika mean?"

He goes very still and doesn’t answer for a long moment. The hand on your stomach doesn’t move and the visor stays where it is, tilted down to your face. You watch the way his shoulders rise and fall once, twice as he decides.

"It means…”

The proximity alarm goes off, shrieking out of the ship's speakers in the high two-tone wail that means a ship has just entered scan range. His head snaps up toward the cockpit, his hand leaving your stomach, and the whole moment shatters.

He’s on his feet before the alarm finishes its second cycle. "Stay,” he says over his shoulder, back to his working voice. “Don't move, I mean it. Don't get off this cot."

"Din…"

"Stay."

Then he’s gone, up the ladder to the cockpit, three rungs at a time, and you hear him drop into the pilot's seat, and punch the alarm off. Then you hear him bring up the scanners, and swear, quietly, once, with feeling.

You put your bare feet on the cold deck, grab his cape from where he left it, pull it free from the vest, and walk, very slowly, out into the hold. You know you’re not supposed to be moving and that he’s going to have words for you when he comes back down, but you don’t care. You sit on a crate and listen to him work.

You can read him by sound, by now, the cadence of his hands on a console as familiar to you as his breathing. You hear him bring up the long-range scope, toggle through the bands and hear the small grunt through the modulator that means he’s found what he’s looking for and doesn’t like it.

You hear him flick the comm to passive, hear the navicomp wake up and hear him punch in coordinates without consulting the charts, which means he already knows where he’s going, which means he’s been thinking about this contingency since long before you took the job. Which means that you were right about it being a stupid job, and he’s known it was a stupid job, and has taken it anyway, and made a back door.

You hear the hyperdrive spool and the soft whump of the stars turning into blue.

Then you hear him push back from the console, slowly, before he comes back down the ladder.

He sees you on the crate, stopping on the third rung from the bottom, and looks at you – visor down, the whole long judgment of the T-shape directed at the place where you very obviously are not.

"What did I tell you?”

"You told me to stay."

"And?"

"I didn't."

He comes down the rest of the ladder and crosses the hold to stand in front of you. He doesn’t say anything for a long moment, and you watch his bare hand flex once, at his side, and then unflex.

"Why?" he asks.

"I thought I heard something."

It’s a lie and he knows it. He looks at you for a beat longer and then sighs, a real, tired one, the modulator turning it into a long mechanical exhale. Then he crouches down in front of you and puts his hand, very lightly, on your good thigh.

"You're going to make me grey," he says

"You're already grey."

"You can't see my hair."

"I'm extrapolating."

"From what?"

"From the way you sigh."

He huffs then tips his head down and presses the brow of the helmet to your collarbone – gently, mindful of the ribs and the bandage – and stays there a moment.

"Who was it in the scope?”

"A Guild ship, looking for us. We're clear now."

"Where are we going?"

"Somewhere quiet."

“Like where?”

“You ask too many questions. Somewhere you can heal. Somewhere I can…take care of you.”

"What are we going to say about the bounty?"

"Screw the bounty. Someone else can pick him up, if he's still breathing."

You smile, in spite of yourself. He lifts his head off your collarbone and looks at you, and you can feel him cataloguing – the colour of your face, the set of your mouth, the way you’re favouring your left side, the way you’ve wrapped his cape around yourself without thinking – and you watch him add it all up and make whatever decision he’s making. Then he stands up, bends and slides one arm behind your knees and the other behind your back.

"Din…"

"You walked, now I carry."

"I can…"

"You walked. On the ribs I just set. You do not get to negotiate with me right now. Put your arm around my neck."

You put your arm around his neck and he lifts you, carrying you back into the medbay alcove and setting you down on the cot with you in his lap, your legs across his thighs, your bandaged side cradled in against the bare skin of his arm. Then he sits there with his helmet bowed against your temple and doesn’t move for a long time.

"You scared me," he says again, as if he needs to say it twice. As if the first time hasn’t been enough to set it down.

"I know."

"Don't do it again."

"I'll try."

"Try harder."

"I'll try harder."

His bare hand comes up and cups the side of your face, his thumb moving across your cheekbone, stops at the corner of your mouth and stays there.

"Cyar'ika," he says.

You hold very still.

"You asked me what it meant."

"Yes."

The thumb at the corner of your mouth doesn’t move.

"It's old Mando'a," he says, finally. "It means…it doesn't translate cleanly. It's what you call someone you…"

He stops.

"Someone you what?"

He doesn’t answer, so you wait. You can be patient. You’ve learned how to be patient with the long shape of his silences, how to let him build them and stand inside them and decide, in his own time, whether he’s going to come out the other side of them with a word in his mouth or without one.

The hyperdrive hums under the deck and his thumb stays at the corner of your mouth, his chest rising and falling against your good shoulder, steady now, the breathing of a man who’s brought himself all the way back from the edge he's been on in the cave.

"Someone you keep," he says.

It isn’t the word, you know it isn’t. He’s walked himself right up to the word and turned, at the last second, and offered you a different one – a smaller one, a safer one, a truer one in some ways. Because love is a word that everyone uses for everything and keep is a word that he, specifically, has probably never said out loud in his life.

You feel your eyes go hot, but you don’t cry because you know, if you do, he’ll think it’s the ribs, and will feel responsible, and he’ll close up around the not-saying again and the next time you try to drag the word out of him it’ll be even harder. So, you don’t cry. You take his bare hand off your face, turn it and press your mouth to the palm of it, hard, holding it there with both your hands, breathing against his skin until your throat lets go.

"Okay," you say, into his palm.

"Okay."

"Keep me, then."

"I will."

"Promise?"

"I promise."

He says it the way he says everything, and you understand that you’re very probably, never going to hear the other one out of his mouth, but that you’re going to hear this one, in its place, for as long as he has a mouth to say it with.

You can live with that. You can live with that for a very long time.

He shifts carefully under you and lies back on the cot, slow, drawing you down with him, settling you against his chest with your bandaged side up and your head tucked under the chin of the helmet. His arm comes across your hips, the other one under your neck and he pulls the thin medbay blanket up over the two of you with one hand. Then he presses the brow of the helmet to the top of your head and exhales, long, the modulator turning the breath into a sigh that you feel all the way down your spine.

"Sleep," he says.

"You first."

"Together."

"Mm."

His hand spreads flat against your back under the blanket, the pad of his thumb tracing the line of one of your vertebrae. Up. Down. Up. The bacta is already doing its work, the throb in your side dulling, going far away, the way pain does when somebody you trust is holding you through it.

You close your eyes and you think, in the last clear moment before sleep takes you – He almost said it and he didn't have to.

And in the dark behind your eyelids, very quietly, in the secret place where you can say it because nobody can hear you, not even him - you say it back.

Then you sleep, whilst his thumb keeps moving on your spine. Up. Down. Up. For a long time.

➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰🚀➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰

PART THREE

PTaglist: @copperhalfcent @missladym1981 @whattheflipsiesss @brittmb115 @elizabeth4th @peepawmiller @angelwithablade @cassieorz @somedayheaven @silversvu12 @madpanda75 @johnssherlock221 @madnessofadaydreamer @kirsteng42 @ifall4dilfs @pedro-pascal-3nthusiast @cuteanimalmama @inept-the-magnificent @mystickittytaco @arood98 @sunnytuliptime @katw474 @pascalgold @dotyoureyez @victoriaholland @loveday1219 @awkwardpaws @misstokyo7love @vinyl-and-coffee @spock1988 @readingiskeepingmegoing @kakiki3 @kayidlewild @miserysinferno @tupelomiss

[aurorawritestoescape]

PERFECT MATCH

Dieter Bravo x f!reader x Marcus Pike

Summary: Dieter becomes a face of a dating app and meets you and your husband while shooting an ad for it. Feeling an immense attraction, he invites you both to his penthouse, planning to enjoy the night and you to the fullest.

Tw: 18+ mdni, smut, fluff, threesome, shifting pov’s but it’s mostly Dieter’s, love is in the air, wholesome depravity, a lil bit of cuckolding, mm oral, body worship, lactation kink galore, pregnancy kink, unprotected piv, f/m! oral, breastfeeding, cumeating, Dieter is nasty and sweet, alcohol consumption, swearing.

Word count: 3,7k

A/n: first of all, Happy Valentine's Day, lovelies! I’m sending y’all kisses and hugs! This is written for Bouquets of Pedro creativity challenge created by @happypedrohours 💞 but also for me and for like minded ppl🥛 If it’s not your thing, it’s totally ok (give it a taste tho, you might like it hehe) Kisses to my baby @milla-frenchy for the support and beta-ing!💋Have a wonderful weekend, y’all!❤️

Dividers by @/saradika-graphics

MASTERLIST

“A face of a dating app? Me? Are you shitting me right now?”

Dieter lowered his sunglasses to stare at Erin, his PR manager. They’d met at a restaurant to discuss the future of his career after it had been hit by yet another scandal, involving the famous actor.

“It's not just a dating app,” Erin began explaining. “They guarantee that a person will meet their soulmate there. It’s called ‘Perfect Match‘. They have some kind of an algorithm to … ehm.. whatever. Not important. What’s important is that it’s wholesome, Dieter, and we desperately need to clean up your image. At least try,” the woman added, failing to hide defeat in her voice.

“ ‘s all defamation,” Dieter mumbled before taking a sip of his 11am White Russian.

The woman continued,

”If you want to ever be in a good movie, that’s a great start. Right now casting directors avoid you like a plague. B movies will be all you can get pretty soon.”

“Ouch.”

“You know it’s true.”

Dieter did know it so he said ‘yes‘.

He and his team met with the app people the next week. He missed half of the shit they discussed playing ‘animal crossing’ on his Switch but at the end of the meeting he signed the contract and they scheduled an ad shoot.

On the day of the shoot, Dieter was ready to die of boredom, filming the boring ad - he had to interview a happily married couple that had found each other on the app. In his mind he was already planning what he was going to drink, sniff, take and fuck that night, barely noticing what was happening around him on set.

Yet when he saw the couple, his attitude made a u-turn, especially when he laid his eyes on the most precious co-star - you. His mind short circuited and every part of him started buzzing.

Especially his cock.

You were a beautiful woman, there was no question about that, but what made him howl like a cartoon wolf was your big pregnant belly, accentuated by your thin summer dress. Your boobs were almost spilling out of the neckline and Dieter immediately bricked up as he shamelessly took you in.

"Meet the Pikes," his manager introduced the two of you. "They met on the app, got married and now they’re expecting a baby. Isn't it wonderful?"

"Amazing. When's the due date?" Dieter blurted out, shaking your hand, almost choking on his saliva.

"Next month," you replied without a beat, smiling widely at the actor. "I'm a huge fan of yours, Mr Bravo. And my husband too."

Your husband, Marcus, turned out to be an aspiring actor. He was hot as well, tall and well built with short dark hair and eager eyes. He looked too clean for Dieter, too put-together in his white dress shirt and black slacks, but it could be fun to ruffle the guy up a bit.

Dieter smirked, ogling the two of you. He knew exactly what he was doing tonight.

The shoot was done fast, thanks to you two being really great on camera and Dieter applying all of himself to finish the job. He couldn’t wait to spend more time with you in a private setting.

“Hey, guys, would you like to have dinner at mine? Get to know each other better?”

Your face lit up and you looked at your husband with your eyes full of hope and excitement and Marcus accepted the invitation with a polite smile.

“Yay!” you exclaimed, making a tiny joyous jump, which made your beautiful breasts jiggle. Dieter smiled and bit his lip. ‘Yay’ indeed.

Dieter took you and Marcus home in his limo and on your way there you told him about your husband’s little roles, sounding very proud of his accomplishments. Marcus asked Dieter for some advice on how to make it big in the industry and feeling flattered the actor happily shared his thoughts.

Dieter really liked you both but you made his heart beat faster and his cock throb. Talking to your husband, he couldn’t tear his eyes off you, imagining fucking you in every possible position. He’d prefer to rail you on your back so he could see your amazing tits and your bulging belly on full display. He needed to lay his hands on your gorgeous body as soon as possible.

Suddenly he noticed that you got nervous and fidgety.

"What's wrong, beautiful?" he asked with furrowed brows, his tone concerned. "Is it the baby?"

"Oh no." You shook your head. "It's - no, nothing.

It's embarrassing."

Marcus came to your help and, when you nodded for him to go on, he explained.

"She has milk coming in and it gets uncomfortable sometimes."

Dieter almost jizzed in his soft pants that very moment.

You were looking upset, trying to fix your jacket over your boobs. Gorgeous, wonderful, perfect boobs which were apparently leaking milk right in his limo. Dieter could have thrown his hands up to the sky in a thankful prayer but instead he took your hand in his and cooed at you,

"Oh, baby, don't be embarrassed. It's the most natural thing. And it's beautiful. You're beautiful."

“Thank you, Mr Bravo,” you said with a shy smile and relaxed a little.

“Call me Dieter, honey.”

Dieter didn’t lie. You were glowing, your beauty leaving him breathless. He really wanted to see your wet top but he stopped himself from asking just in time.

Soon you arrived at his penthouse and had a nice dinner, talking about Dieter’s roles, your hopes and dreams. The older man found you two delightful but at the back of his mind he was still thinking about your leaky boobs while his cock was stiffening in his pants again and again.

After the dinner, you continued the conversation in his living room, you and your husband on the couch, Dieter in the armchair. He got you some water, two glasses of white wine for Marcus and himself and then returned to the topic on his mind.

“Can I ask you something, honey? I’m afraid it’s inappropriate.”

You looked a bit surprised and glanced at your husband before saying,

“Oh…ok.”

”I thought milk comes after a baby’s born. And you have it now?“

“Yeah, sometimes it happens before,” you started explaining, looking a little shy. ”My doctor says it’s normal. The body is getting ready.”

“Yeah, nature is amazing,” Dieter mused before taking a sip of his wine.

You sighed.

“It’s not really convenient though and it hurts a little.”

“Oh, because there’s no one to drink it yet?”

“Yeah.” You both laughed and Dieter tilted his head.

“Have you ever tasted it?”

“Mr Bravo,” you gasped, averting your eyes with a timid smile on your flushed face.

“Dieter, baby,” he corrected you. He noticed the way you bit your lip and how Marcus squirmed in his seat. You both didn’t look scandalized or offended.

“Ehm, I tasted it once,” you admitted quietly. ”Just to try it. It’s sweet.”

“Oh, really?” Dieter gruffed, his eyes sparkling at your confession. He bucked his hips— even in his soft pants his erection was getting painful.

“What about you, Marcus?”

“No, it’s for the baby,” the younger man replied with a shake of his head but immediately glanced at your gorgeous chest.

“Well, the baby isn’t here yet, right?” Dieter pushed, not tearing his dark eyes off the two of you. Marcus nodded and swallowed hard as his hand darted to adjust his crotch.

“But we are,” Dieter purred, testing the waters. Your breath hitched and you pressed your thighs together. You glanced at Dieter, your pupils dilating. The actor was sure that your pussy was already tingling, so he gave you a playful wink, then leaned forward, planting his elbows on his knees, and asked,

“Can I see them?”

That’s how you ended up moaning and whimpering, sandwiched between Dieter and your husband Marcus on the couch. Your dress neckline and bra were pulled down, your naked tits pushed up, Dieter’s lips tightly wrapped around your breast, as much as he could engulf with his greedy mouth. He was growling into your tit, slurping down your sweet milk, kneading the other leaking boob with his big hand. His cock was tenting his pants, the crotch stained with pre cum, but he was hesitant to pull his dick out. He didn’t want to push you further too fast, didn’t want your husband to take you away from him.

Marcus seemed a bit uncomfortable when you showed Dieter two wet spots on your chest and when the actor held your clothed boob, as if weighing it in his hand. But Dieter knew what he was doing. He was gushing over your beauty, meanwhile mentioning how much he wanted to help Marcus with his career, how much he was going to do for him, for your family. The prospect of being Dieter’s protégé excited the young actor. Besides he couldn’t deny that watching the older man touch your milky breasts made Marcus rock hard in seconds.

While Dieter was gulping down your milk, your sweet noises were driving Marcus mad with arousal. He would hear you moan like that only when his cock was ruining your tight pussy. A pang of regret painfully stung his heart and he chided himself for never sucking on your tits, never giving you such great pleasure.

The actor interrupted his thoughts.

“Pull him out, man. I know you’re fucking hard. We both are,” Dieter mumbled, after letting your puffy nipple out of his mouth with a pop.

Milk immediately trickled down the curve of your breast and Dieter rushed to scoop it up with his tongue, before latching onto the source of your creamy nectar again.

Marcus’s head was clouded with lust, it was difficult to think straight, and he let himself get swallowed by the depravity of the situation.

“Baby?” He croaked, questioning his next move, and when you nodded eagerly, his hands immediately began unbuckling his belt. He took his stiff cock out and started stroking it, watching the famous actor suck milk out of his wife’s tits.

Dieter felt himself on cloud nine. The taste of you was divine, your soft whimpers were getting louder and needier, and you kept squirming in your seat. Just a minute and you’d be inviting him to taste not only your titty juice but your pussy juices too.

The older man moaned when he saw Marcus’s gorgeous cock. It was not as big as his, less thick, but it looked like a good time and besides was very aesthetically pleasing.

Your faces were flushed, your pupils blown out to the max. You both were ready to take the plunge into the world of lustful ecstasy.

“Fuck, you two are so hot,” Dieter breathed out and then whispered into your ear, playing with your wet nipple, ”C’mon, baby, let me make you feel real good. I wanna celebrate your gorgeous body the right way.”

He offered you his huge hand and you took it before glancing at your husband.

“Marcus, you two won’t regret tonight. I promise you,” Dieter said to the younger man who visibly shuddered with desire.

The actor smirked and helped you up from the couch. Marcus got up too, his hand wrapped around his crying cock, stepped up to you and kissed your lips. His hands were holding your face gently, his member bobbing between your bodies. The kiss was passionate and soft, and Dieter smiled, witnessing your love and lust for each other, but soon his own desire overtook him.

“Get a room, lovebirds,” he chuckled. “And I know just the place.” You parted from each other and followed the actor to his bedroom.

The first thing Dieter did when you three stepped into his spacious bedroom was undress you. Slowly, taking his sweet time, showering you with praise, he freed your wonderful body from the confines of your clothes.

Marcus hastily discarded his own clothes, watching the older man take your dress off and then slide your panties down your legs.

Dieter brought your wet underwear to his nose and the scent of you sent shivers down his spine and electricity through his cock. He got naked fast and then, taken with admiration and lust for you, fell on his knees. He looked up at you with piety in his puppy eyes, gently placed his palms on your round belly and cooed, taking in your beautiful form.

“Fucking goddess! Look at her, man,” he turned to Marcus who was sitting naked on the edge of the huge bed, slowly stroking his shaft.

“We must cherish her,” Dieter gushed, caressing your belly and your hips, “You're a miracle, honey.”

“She really is,” Marcus smiled.

You looked shy, standing naked in front of the men, one of whom you had met that very day, but Dieter saw how much you enjoyed his praise- your eyes were sparkling and your wide smile was genuine.

“May I…?” Dieter reached up on his knees and kissed your belly, gliding his hands over the roundness of your body. He was leaving soft kisses over the stretched skin of your stomach and you were breathing faster and faster. Then his lips travelled south to your mound and he kissed it gently with his mouth open. You hand flew to his disheveled hair but not to stop him - you caressed his head instead and tilted your hips forward, silently asking for more.

Dieter didn’t need to be invited twice. He spread your folds with his fingers and leaned in to give your hardened clit a lick. You gasped at the sensation and your knees almost buckled. Marcus rushed to you immediately and wrapped his arm around your torso and under your arms. Like a devoted husband he let you use him for stability while the older man was eating you out.

Dieter pushed his tongue deeper, reached your crying hole with the tip of the hot muscle, then dragged it between your folds back to your clit. Your moans filled the room when he began sucking on your engorged clit just like he’d done with your leaky nipple minutes ago. He couldn’t dare to touch his cock, he was afraid to come too soon.

After a few minutes Dieter pulled away from your cunt and admired you two, standing before him— you, beautiful and soft, Marcus strong and muscular. Your husband’s cock was bobbing in front of the older man’s face, and Dieter tentatively put his hand on the man’s hip, silently asking if he could go further. Marcus locked eyes with him and Dieter got his answer.

He slowly took the man’s cock in his mouth, inch by inch, and heard you moan.

“Baby, that’s so hot,” you mumbled watching your husband getting blown by the actor. Dieter hated leaving you without attention so his thumb quickly found your clit, two of his fingers plunged into your hole, and he began fingering your soft pussy.

At that moment Dieter dreamed of two more hands and another mouth so he could pleasure you both at the same time, but alas, he had to alternate between licking your pussy and sucking your husband’s cock.

Marcus and you began kissing, swallowing each other’s pleasured whimpers, while Dieter was feasting on your cunt and his length. Soon you came, shaking against your husband’s body who was holding you tight, not letting you fall when the waves of euphoria were hitting you over and over.

Dieter was happy with his job for now. He sat on his heels, looking up at your satisfied smile and Marcus’s engorged cock. Your tits were leaking again and he missed having them in his mouth so he ordered,

“Bed you two. Now.”

There was no harshness in his voice. Just desire and admiration for the two people giving him the pleasure worthy of gods.

You were lying down on the bed, your back resting on a few pillows, Dieter by your side. Marcus took place between your legs, licking the mixture of your cum and Dieter’s saliva off your puffy folds.

The actor began drinking from your tit again but now he wanted more.

“Can I play with you a little, beautiful? I’ll be gentle,” he purred into your ear and you moaned a soft ‘yes’.

Dieter latched to your nipple, sucked out a mouthful of your creamy liquid and sat up. He leaned down and slowly poured your milk out of his mouth right on your blooming pussy. It hit your clit first and then slid down to your hole right into the mouth of your husband, whose tongue was thrusting in and out of you. Marcus hungrily licked it off and growled against your cunt.

“Baby?” You sounded nervous.

“More,” your husband replied and you giggled with relief.

Dieter repeated the action a few more times, letting Marcus slurp your milk off your glistening cunt. Playing with you like that, they made you come again and then one more time. Drunk on euphoria you began breathing heavily, your forehead was sweaty, your lips parted and gulping air.

“My love,” Marcus cooed at you, climbing up the bed to the other side of you. “You ok?”

“Yes,” you huffed with a smile. “Just tired.”

Dieter looked at you with his puppy eyes and asked,

“Wanna stop, baby?”

You looked at his fat cock, then at Marcus’s crying member and shook your head.

“No, I wanna make you two come.”

“Oh, honey,” Dieter muttered and kissed your cheek. “You’re an angel. We don’t deserve you.”

“Where do you want us?” Marcus asked softly, caressing your belly with his sweaty palm.

“Yours in my pussy. Dieter, can I suck you off?

It took everything from Dieter not to come right then and there.

The men took their positions fast, yet still moving very carefully around you. Marcus got settled on his knees between your legs and was gliding his hands up and down your thighs, waiting for you to be ready.

Dieter kneeled next to your shoulder, bringing his cock to your mouth as close as possible, caring for your comfort.

“I won’t go deep, beautiful. Just lick him a little and I’ll come. I can bust just looking at you.”

You nodded, smiling up at his handsome face.

Marcus started first. The cold wet tip of his cock nestled at your entrance and he started pushing it in. Your cum and his pre fuck juice made it easy for you to take his length and soon your husband was growling, seeing his cock plunged deep inside your pussy.

“Oh, baby,” you moaned, watching his member move in and out of you, your greedy cunt swallowing him whole again and again. You twisted your nipple and a jet of milk burst out of your tit and hit Marcus’s lower belly. It trickled down the man’s happy trail and Dieter whined,

“That’s the hottest shit I’ve seen. Baby, can I do it?“

“Yeah,” you mumbled, delirious with lust and pleasure.

Dieter took your nipple between his fingers and gently pulled on it. ”Fuck me,” he grunted, as he began spraying your milk everywhere— Marcus’s chest, his stomach, your big belly, your glistening pussy. For some time you were mesmerized watching the sweet juice of your tits slide down your husband’s abs and then reach the place where the two of you were joined.

“Hnggg,” Dieter growled, “some extra lube for you two. Fuck this milk deep into her pussy, Marcus. Make her sweet all over.”

You were moaning loudly, drowning the lewd squelching sounds of your husband’s cock churning milk inside your cunt.

You needed to ground yourself or you’d die of immense pleasure, so you turned to Dieter who was still playing with your milky breasts and took the fat head of his cock into your mouth.

The actor made the neediest sound and bent over as if you hit him in the stomach.

“Your mouth, baby, it's heaven,” he moaned through heavy breaths and then roared, dropping his head back in ecstasy.

“Fuck— gonna come.“

A rope of his seed hit the back of your mouth and you took him deeper, breathing through your nose, letting the older man spill his cum inside your mouth and down your throat.

Marcus followed him immediately and his cock started filling you full of his hot sperm, adding even more wetness to your core. The men used both of your holes to discard their fat loads and you happily swallowed Dieter’s seed with your mouth and Marcus’s with your pussy.

When their balls were drained, they plopped on the bed on the both sides of you, panting and chuckling from time to time.

“‘s was fucking incredible,” Dieter breathed out, turning on his side, and looked at you with gratitude.

“Can I kiss your wife, Marcus?” He asked, lifting himself on one elbow.

“If she wants it.”

Marcus gave you both a tired smile.

Dieter looked deep into your eyes, leaned closer and your sparkling eyes screamed ‘yes’.

He finally kissed you. His lips were slowly caressing yours, your tongues tangled, his hand was rubbing your round belly, yours was cupping his scruffy cheek.

When you parted from him, Marcus seized your chin and turned your head to him. Your lips met and as Dieter watched your husband lick into your mouth, a satisfied smile spread across his face.

“That app is the shit,” he muttered. ”We matched perfectly.”

Thank you for reading! Please comment and reblog if you enjoyed the fic!

Also check out my favorite milky stories. They’re amazing! Leave some love to the authors if you enjoy their work.

Liquid Gold (Joel, Tommy) by @gasolinerainbowpuddles

Mother who provides (Joel) by @pedge-page

While the baby sleeps (Ezra) by @mothandpidgeon

MASTERLIST

Tag list: @milla-frenchy @harriedandharassed @iamasaddie @nervousmumbling @bbyanarchist @stevie75 @puduvallee @auteurdelabre @mountainsandmayhem @senoratess @flamingochick55 @theoraekenslover @schnarfer @mermaidgirl30 @staywildflowahchild @yesjazzywazzylove-blog @evolnoomym @keylimebeag @joelmillerisapunk @pascaltesaye @fruityreads @itwasntimethatdidit40

Tagging some friends who might be interested. No pressure to read, loves<3 @604to647 @myownwholewildworld @bonezone44 @toxicanonymity @tateypots @sp00kymulderr

[effinbirds]

[001x456]

fandom is a lot more fun when your goal isn’t to be “that big, popular account” within the fandom but just to have fun and talk about what brings you comfort and happiness by the way

[aurorawritestoescape]

D.

Din Djarin x fem!reader

Summary: Din pays a visit to his beautiful little pet — you.

Tw: 18+ mdni, smut, fluff, Din’s pov, d/s dynamics, pet play, soft dom!Din, sex worker!reader, Din’s down bad for you, collar and leash usage, praise kink, size kink, f!masturbation, edging, nipple play, handjob, unprotected piv, cum eating, no ‘The Mandalorian and Grogu’ spoilers except for a similar line of the dialogue but it’s not spoilery.

Word count: 3,7k

A/n: this is my first ever Din fic and I’m very excited to share it with you all🥹♥️ I hope you’ll enjoy the story! Lots of ‘Good girl’s from Din to @milla-frenchy for beta-ing, help and coming up with the title. ILY baby💞 Dividers by @pixopix ty🌺

MASTERLIST

Din always clenched his fists when someone called Grogu his pet. He was not a pet. He was a kid who gave him meaning, who taught him a lot even though his own capabilities were limited, who gave him a sense of family and belonging. Many couldn’t understand it but the Mandalorian didn’t correct them because their ignorance protected the baby. If Din’s enemies didn’t know how much Grogu meant to him they wouldn’t try to use him as leverage.

So whenever he heard the word ‘pet’ he wouldn’t argue, wouldn’t explain. Instead his thoughts would travel to someone who really was his cute little pet. You.

This dynamic wasn’t established overnight. It took Din time to understand his desires, to see what he wanted deep down in his soul.

Your company had given him great pleasure every time he used your ‘services’ in a brothel on Shakari. You were the one who helped him relax and forget all about his troubles, you were familiar with the most intimate parts of his body, taught him how amazing another person could make him feel, but it took him months of seeing you to realize what drove him crazy with lust — your complete and total submission.

To others Mando seemed stoic, cold-headed and resilient. And he did possess all those qualities. He hated to display his emotions to anyone, yet he had them. He felt frustrated when a target escaped, he was angry when someone tried to make a fool of him, lately Din’s heart would tighten again and again at the thought of Grogu’s future without him— it was inevitable that one day he’d leave the kid alone in the world.

When all those feelings took a hold of him he needed you. In a constantly hostile and changing world you would give him a sense of control, and when the craving got too strong, he’d leave Grogu at a local daycare or with a friend and cross galaxies to see you.

Din was careful — he kept you his secret not to put you in danger, not to attract the attention of his enemies to his ‘pet’.

The Mandalorian is walking through the city on Shakari, neon lights illuminating his way, running over his beskar armor in multicolored rivers. He arrives at the brothel, pays Madame extra to keep quiet about his visit and heads to your room. When he comes up to the door, warmth spreads through his body, anticipation of playing with you makes his heartbeat accelerate.

He opens the door to find you already waiting for him, kneeling by the bed, stark naked except for your collar. He crafted it for you himself — made of the softest leather it has a little D. burnt on the inside. The Mandalorian’s identity is his greatest secret as well as his face but Din trusts you enough to let you know the first letter of your Master’s name.

A thin chain leash is attached to the collar. It’s now hanging between your gorgeous breasts, down your stomach, the handle resting on your lap.

Din locks the door and greets you with a nod. He seems composed and relaxed on the outside but an ocean of desire and want is raging in his body.

The usual scent of flowers and dim golden light in your room calm him down a little, yet his whole attention is focused on you — nothing else exist for him behind these walls at this moment.

The Mandalorian slowly walks to the center of the room, his steps so heavy you blink every time his booted foot lands on the floor. Then he stops and says a single word that holds his power over you.

“Heel.”

Your pupils dilate as you shift on your spot in excitement and get on all fours. Steadily but with eagerness in your movements you crawl to your Master. His eyes behind the visor slide along your naked back down to your ass and he bites his lip watching your cheeks slightly jiggle with every step. You’d never see what you do to him - how his eyes grow dark when you move, how loudly his heart beats in his ears at the sight of you, how he licks his lips wishing to run his tongue over your neck, your breasts, your glistening pussy. Even Din himself has no idea how much he blushes when you look at him with those eyes of yours — they’re full of warmth, lust, understanding, they’re more beautiful than any sunset on any planet he’s ever witnessed. You’d never know what you really mean to him because he won’t let his feelings put you in harm's way.

When you reach Din’s feet and sit on your heels in front of him, he bends down and takes a hold of the leash dangling down the side of your naked body. He doesn’t tug on it, only wraps the metal chain around his gloved hand, as a sign of his ownership. He brings the other hand to your head and pets you.

“Missed me?” His modulated voice is soft and warm when he asks you that and you half purr-half whimper, nuzzling his leather clad palm. Your eyes flutter closed as you take full lungs of your Master’s scent and Din smiles under his helmet, seeing genuine joy on your face. Then his eyes trail down your body and he notices your nipples harden just from his soft caress.

The Mandalorian chuckles quietly.

“Only scratched your head, little thing.. already so excited.”

You open your blown out eyes to look up at him but immediately avert them, as if in embarrassment.

“It’s ok. Haven’t played with you in a while, huh? You needed your Master?”

Your waiting gaze locks with his again and the answer to his question is so loud, Din’s breath catches. He’s well aware of being your client but the fantasy of having you all to himself is so intoxicating, he can’t help but believe the sweet delusion.

Sometimes the Mandalorian imagines taking you with him, making you really his, but that’s just a wish, the reality he lives in isn’t as wonderful as his dreams. Besides, having talked to you a little after every session, he found out that you like your work, you love your friends, your life. And he could never be so cruel as to kidnap you, though the idea of whisking you away crosses his mind from time to time.

“Come,” he finally says and walks to the bed. You follow him obediently, still on your hands and knees, and when Din sits down and spreads his thighs wide, you take your place between his legs.

Your hands are in your lap, you’re staring up at him waiting for another command. There was a time when he had to discipline you often, teach you what not to do when your eagerness turned into a problem but those times are gone. You know how to behave, how to be a good pet for your Master and blood rushes down to Din’s cock at the sight of you kneeling at his feet, so submissive and sweet.

As a reward the Mandalorian pats his thick thigh, giving you a silent command, and you rest your head on the spot, not covered by the armor.

Din takes a deep breath to cool himself off, as just the warmth of your skin seeping through his suit’s material is enough to make him shudder.

“Good little pet,” he says, his helmet tilted to the side. He cups your face and glides his leather-clad thumb over your cheekbone. His pants feel too tight now but it’s not the time to unleash his desire. Not yet.

Din traces your lower lip with a tip of his finger, imagining a kiss he’d give you but as always it stays a fantasy. You’re looking deep into his eyes or rather into his visor but Din feels like you’re really seeing his gaze, like you know what you’re doing to him under the mask The Way has him wear. The idea of you seeing his face excites Din so much, he’s already rock-hard under his suit.

As if smelling the lust off him, you sit up and move so close to his crotch, your face hovers right over his cock.

“What is it, girl?” He asks, keeping his tone as steady as he can. “Need something?”

You don’t reply. You just stare up at him longingly until Din’s hand moves to his bulge and he palms it. Your eyes dart to the huge lump in his pants, you’re shifting on your knees between his legs in anticipation. Din feels drunk watching the desire lick at your body and leave goosebumps on your skin in its wake. With your thighs slightly spread, he can already see your folds glistening with need and he craves the relief of finally taking his stiff cock out of its confines.

He bucks his hips and gruffs, his modulated voice soft but harsh in the quiet room.

“You want this, little pet?”

You whimper at the sight of him palming himself and your eyes dart up and down from his big bulge to his visor.

You’re waiting for a command.

You’ll get it soon.

“On your back.”

You blink up at him, confusion loud in your expression, for that wasn’t what you expected to hear, but you always do what he orders.

Din doesn’t need to use the leash that’s still in his fist, your back hits the floor the next second. Your palms lying on the rug, your legs bent at the knees, you’re staring up at him expectantly. The Mandalorian rests his elbows on his knees and looks down at you, the leash connecting your delicate neck and his strong hand. His intent gaze runs down your body as he watches your belly and chest heave, your teeth pull on your lower lip, your eyes flicking over his huge armored body. Din sees how much you want him but you won’t move an inch to satiate your need without his command and this power turns him on so much, his cock is already leaking. Finally he takes pity on you and gives you an order.

“Play with yourself.”

Din loves watching you pleasure yourself. He won’t admit it but you were the one who taught him how to bring you to your peak. He’d never been the most experienced lover— his loneliness, his work, the creed, a lot had prevented him from being a good fuck but when he met you, everything changed. Your fingers taught him where you needed him the most, where to rub and stroke, your lips told him how to fuck you well.

He knows that you like to start slow so it’s not a surprise when you bring your hands to your breasts and lightly pinch your perked up nipples. You start twitching them and a soft moan falls from your lips, drawing a low growl from Din. Your eyes locked with his visor, you slide your palms over your naked body from your tits to your belly and then to your mound. Your hand massages your folds before your finger pushes between your pussy lips.

“Don’t be shy now,” Din gruffs, and watches you spread your thighs wider, making your pussy bloom like a flower for him. “That’s my girl.”

Din groans, he just can’t help it, the sight of your finger swirling around your puffy clit drives him mad with lust and he uses all his willpower to stop himself from pouncing on you.

The Mandalorian could take you right this second, push his cock into you in one swift move, feel your warmth spread around him but he won’t. He needs you to be submissive but just as much he demands submission from himself. It’s not the first and not the last time he limits himself and the fact that his spirit is winning over his flesh adds to the pleasant feeling in his body.

Soon you’re whimpering loudly, your finger dancing over your clit, your little hole clenching hard around nothing. Din desperately wants to fill it but he’s not showing it. Outside he’s fully in control over his desires and movements.

His eyes move up to your face and he’s watching your features closely, waiting for telltale signs. When your brows pull together and you hold your breath Din knows you’re close to coming. A second before an ecstasy hits you, your Master gives you an order,

“Stop!”

As if by magic your finger stills on your clit, not stroking it anymore, yet a set of pathetic mewls is escaping your lips, your chest is heaving, your pleading eyes are staring up at Din’s face behind the helmet.

Stealing your orgasm doesn’t make Din happy, it makes him unbearably hard. He could come into his pants just from seeing your own hand freeze like that at his command, denying yourself a great pleasure.

When your breathing slows down, Din scoots closer to you and gruffs,

“Keep touching yourself.” Your nostrils flare for just a moment, you’ve probably realized what he’s doing, but as soon as Din squeezes the leash in his big fist, your expression softens and you bring your hand to your pussy again. He gives you a curt nod, praising you for your obedience and then adds,

“Deeper.”

With your lips parted you slide your middle finger into your wet hole and start pushing it in and out with concentration on your face.

Din nods down at your chest.

“Nipples.” He knows how sensitive they’re, how fast you can come just from Din playing with them. You start pulling on your buds with a free hand, meanwhile a second finger slips into your entrance and you’re finger-fucking yourself in earnest, your eyes closed in pleasure, writhing on the floor at Din’s feet while he’s watching you closely, his forehead sweaty under the helmet, his heart pounding in his ears and chest. You both are greatly turned on right now and he grits his teeth before hissing,

“Stop!”

You disobey him. The command has been given but your fingers are still pumping in and out of your drenched hole, your hand still twisting your puffy nipple. Din growls, tugs on the leash, your head jerks up and you snap your eyes open. You’re staring at him with fear in your widened eyes.

“Hands off, pet!” His modulated roar sends chills all over your body and you slap your palms down on the floor by your sides. Din gets up and towers over you, a mountain of beskar steel, strength and power, his plated chest rising and falling faster than usual, the chain of your leash clinking in the ringing silence. After a few long moments he talks.

“This is my body,” he reminds you, calmer now. “If I command you to stop, you stop.”

You swallow hard, staring up at him, your eyes glossy, and as always when Din has to discipline you, he feels horrible right after. His heart tightens as he sees that the fear on your face is genuine and despite you not using your safe word he thinks that he should have been softer with you.

The Mandalorian sighs, sits back on the bed and pats his thigh.

“C’mere.”

You slowly get on your knees and crawl to the spot between his legs but he shakes his head.

“No, get up here.” You blink at him a few times and then rise on your feet and perch your naked ass on his thigh.

“Being naughty today, huh?” he coos and you push your face against the crook of his covered neck, the gesture so intimate, Din shudders again, feeling your body so close to him, your face inches away from his, even though his head is still hidden behind the helmet.

He’s holding you tightly for a few minutes, gliding his gloved palms over your back, your thighs, your head. When your hand slithers down to his bulge, Din half groans-half chuckles.

“Want to play with me now, little thing?”

You sit up straight, eagerness in your blown out eyes, and Din gives in when you palm him over his pants. Now it’s impossible to wait.

His hand as if by itself frees his cock and it bobs back and forth between your bodies. You let out an excited gasp that Din finds extremely cute but his smile soon disappears when you wrap your warm palm around his stiff shaft. It’s huge in your little hand, twitching and leaking. You lean down and let your saliva drip from your mouth right on his slit, adding more wetness to his precum-oozing crown. You expertly coat his cock with the mixture of his and your liquids and begin stroking his length with your head tilted slightly to the side. Din’s heart skips a beat at how beautiful you look but the ocean of arousal swipes him off his feet and all he can think about is how not to explode all over your gorgeous tits right this second.

He takes a sharp breath and wraps his gloved hand around your wrist.

“You do it too well,” he breathes out and then gives you another command. “Lie down on the bed.”

He pats the spot next to him and in a second you’re on your back, your torso lifted on your elbows, your legs spread and ready for him.

The Mandalorian gets up, his huge cock jumping and dropping precum on the floor, and slowly takes his gloves off. Your eyes light up seeing his hands uncovered, the reveal so intimate and sexy, you moan at the sight of his golden skin and thick fingers.

“Good pet,” he praises you when you throw your thighs even wider apart as he climbs the bed and settles between them. His cock lands heavily on your mound and lower belly, his fingers dig into your soft flesh as he’s lifting his hips up and pierces you with his manhood.

He loves how you choke every time he inserts himself inside you, loves the way your walls adjust to him as if your pussy was molded for his cock alone, loves the look you give him in those moments. It holds warmth, softness and something he’s never seen in a woman’s eyes before.

He begins fucking you deep and slow, kneeling between your legs, his hands on your hips. His modulated groans mix with your mewls and whimpers, your noises so soft and beautiful he’d like to hear them every day. “Mine..mine..,” he chants with each thrust, doubting you can hear the words muffled by his helmet. The fantasy feels so real now so he keeps breathing, “Mine, mine.. only mine.”

Soon his hips snap harder into you, your whimpers grow louder and your eyes roll to the back of your head when he bucks his hips, slamming into you at a slightly different angle, and your pussy clamps around him hard. You cry out, your walls pulsating around his thumping cock, pushing him to his peak, and ready to explode, Din hastily pulls out and begins covering your mound, your belly, your chest with his pearly cum. He hasn’t come since his last visit so his release is generous and rich, he’s moaning behind his helmet, painting your skin with his seed rope after rope, jerk after jerk. You’re watching him with your mouth slightly open, seemingly amazed by the amount.

When Din finally stills you give him a warm smile and glide your finger over the mess he’s left on your belly. He sits on his heels, breathing heavily, but then a low grunt rumbles behind his helmet when you bring the finger to your lips and lick his cum off.

“Thirsty, baby?” he breathes out and you giggle lightly, reaching for another scoop.

When you try to get up, Din stops you, his naked hand on your thigh.

“I’ll do it,” he says and goes to the bathroom. He returns with a wet cloth and carefully cleans you off his sticky load. While he’s working, you’re looking up at him with expectation in your eyes.

“You can talk now,” he says.

“I really enjoyed our time together,” you purr and Din’s heart skips a beat at the sound of your sensual voice. He smiles under his helmet, throws the cloth away and then asks,

“Bet you say it to all your clients.”

Your smile drops and you’re staring up at him with a little pout that makes you look so cute Din craves to kiss your lips.

“No.”

Din huffs and shakes his head in disbelief. As if reading his thoughts you sit up and place your hand on his.

“You’re a bounty hunter so you probably know when someone’s lying to you. Am I?”

Din looks deeply into your beautiful eyes. He sees the answer and cups your cheek, your skin soft and warm against his. His eyelids flutter close and he drowns in the sensation for a few moments.

Suddenly you grab his hand.

“We still have some time. Stay for a bit.”

Not waiting for a reply you pull Din into the bed which creaks under his heavy weight as he sits against the headboard. You cuddle up to him, your head rests on his shoulder, and he wraps his big arm around you. When you shiver from the cold metal touching your naked skin, Din covers you with a sheet. You start telling him your news, finally able to talk, and Din hums here and there, listening to you carefully. Deep in his heart he’s already missing you, already longing for you, already looking forward to his next visit.

Thank you for reading! PLEASE, leave a comment and reblog if you liked the story! I’d love to know what you think💞

MASTERLIST

Story tag list: Milla @xkyxkyxx|ylcylulucuflfluclu @pascaltesfaye @bishtrouille @ghoulettesinspace @ningaispunk @annwrites24 @okiegal68 @gravelandgrace @canonisoptional

Tag list: milla-frenchy @harriedandharassed @nervousmumbling @bbyanarchist @stevie75 @puduvallee @mountainsandmayhem @senoratess @flamingochick55 @theoraekenslover @schnarfer @mermaidgirl30 @staywildflowahchild @yesjazzywazzylove-blog @keylimebeag @pascaltesaye @meetmeatyourworst @callmebyyournick-name @tateypots @pedrofan @chloeee20 @ess-evo

[kedsandtubesocks]

cosmic love

Marcus Acacius x F!Reader x Marcus Pike

summary: a missing statue, a handsome ancient roman general, an equally handsome museum visitor - and you caught in the magical (and wonderful) mess of it all

tags & warnings: 18+ ONLY MDNI, MAJOR GLADIATOR 2 SPOILERS. time travel AU, magic elements, pining & yearning, fluff but with touches of angst, implied age gap (Acacius being older than both reader & Marcus), light use of gendered language, bi!Marcus Acacius & bi!Marcus Pike, brief mention of death & existential questioning, spicy themes, smut (threesome, m!oral, one moment of spitting) M/M/F & M/M dynamics, polyamorous exploration that leads to eventual poly relationship, no use of y/n

word count: 7.5k

a/n: I’m sorry I blame the gladiator statue pics we got & yeah now here we are lmao, this fic literally wouldn’t be here without @pedgito & @perotovar - i can’t thank you two enough for all the help i love y’all tremendously, also a sweet special tag for @morallyinept ily too… And lastly - thank you for reading, you’re what makes this so special and magical ♡

The statue that arrived with the newly updated Roman exhibition at your museum has gained attention.

As a guide you enjoy seeing all the new faces here to check out the freshly opened installation. The heightened foot traffic has kept you and your co-workers busy, but it’s been a nice welcome.

Your eyes drift to the statue now.

General Marcus Acacius stands slightly weathered yet still commanding in his bronze glory, towering among the room with all the grace a powerful Roman Army commander would be.

You learned he conquered countless territories and countries in the name of the Ancient Roman Empire. Eventually though, he was caught in a conspiracy to overthrow the ruling emperors and died within the eyes of the coliseum, the whisper of a gladiator’s death.

Now you readily explain this all to tour groups like the one you currently guide.

“Oh, he’s cute.” One of the elementary school girls currently giggles to her friend. The other school children gasp around her, teasing her.

“It’s okay. He is pretty handsome, isn’t he?” You reassure her. The girl seems bashful but relieved at your agreement.

It wasn’t just you. A local internet influencer stopped by and even made a video about the statue being her dream guy.

Even as a statue, the General is eye-catching.

The bronze figure captured his likeness bewitchingly detailing the soft curls of his hair, a lovely sharp nose, mountainous strong broad shoulders, and a pensive stare looking out to a distant horizon. He’s a man of unwavering beauty.

You constantly want to smack yourself for being wistful over a piece of art.

“He’s definitely the most attractive statue I’ve seen.” A familiar smooth sweet voice melts into the room’s quiet softness making your heart jump.

Approaching you with a molten smile and eyes twinkling in the low museum lights, Marcus doesn’t seem real at times.

A regular visitor, you first met him when he accidentally crashed one of your tours. Wholesomely thoughtful, but also being a charming yet slightly know it all, he was quick to join in on commentary of the paintings. With his Disney prince-like smile and earnest eager energy, you couldn’t dare shoo him away.

Now you happily seek his company.

“He’s become like a hot new celebrity here.” Joking, you nudge towards the General’s striking figure.

“I can see why.” Marcus whistles low. “Like look at those shoulders.”

You snicker as a bubbling fondness swells in you.

“He unfortunately died a tragic death.” Marcus comments, cloudy and mournful.

“Yeah, I heard. That means this guy is a bad boy.” You nod.

Marcus snickers at your comment then playfully nudges you with his elbow.

Later, all your co-workers beg you to ask him out to coffee.

“He’s totally got the hots for you!” Your favorite co worker often tells you, but you wave her off.

Marcus is just sweet. He’s kind and considerate, engaging to all the workers here. Besides, you don’t want to assume he possibly likes you and maybe ruin the precious friendship you have with him.

However, your favorite coworker shows up a few days later with a solution for your stale love life.

With a cheeky bright grin, she hands you the cutest pink velvet pouch in the break room.

“It’s called a love wish tea.” She declares.

She grabbed a pack of them at the local occult shop after the lovely witch who owned the place swore it worked.

“It calls in your heart’s desires and hey, it worked for me! That’s why I still have a pack left over!” She proudly recommends.

You roll your eyes but appreciate the gift.

Shoving it into your bag, you don’t give it much thought.

Then the cooler cozier weather settles in, the perfect time for museum dates. Strolling along the floors keeping a watch on everyone it’s hard not to notice the intake of couples. Some are intertwined beside each other staring fondly at a painting together, while others happily take photos of the other being silly.

A taste of loneliness fills you, but gently you sweep it away focusing back on work. Especially since tonight you’ll be locking up.

Already craving some extra caffeine, you glare seeing the break room depleted of any sweet salvation.

The small velvet pink bag in your bag immediately comes to mind. And at this point you think, why not. it will at least keep you awake.

Immediately out of the pouch the tea bag releases a soothing smell, a rich floral blending with delicate touches of a fruit scent, possibly pomegranate. You’re now excited just to taste it, love wish or not.

The tea steeps in your tumbler cup allowing a faint rose color to float into your water. Of course the tea is pretty too.

And the taste? Rich, lovely and warm, like a romantic valentine-like themed drink. It doesn’t reward you with a sensation of being in love, but instead you feel at peace.

After a few sips, you return to the floor.

There, Marcus sits on one of the benches in the Roman exhibition.

Curled over a leather sketchbook, he’s every bit the personification of a scholarly beautiful artist straight out of a romance novel. His face glanced up then back down to his sketch. Diligent concentration paints over his gorgeous face.

Cautious, yet eager, you approach.

He’s sketching a portrait of the General. The sharp edges of the charcoal, the smudges meant to mimic shadows, along with capturing the striking slopes of the General’s features - it’s fantastic.

“You’re amazing!”

Your compliment causes him to jolt slightly spooked, and you rapidly apologize. Once he catches sight of you, Marcus sighs with a dreamy relieved sleepy grin.

“Just sketching, nothing too crazy.”

You take a seat besides him on the bench.

“You captured his likeness so well already.” You’re in awe at the sketch.

Marcus laughs a bit nervously. It’s hard trying not to swoon at the light rose blush coloring his cheeks. He’s stunning.

“I bet General Acacius would be flattered.” You grin then glance back to the statue.

Marcus turns to follow your sight.

“Nah, he strikes me as a big relief fan.” Marcus comments thoughtfully.

The bad art joke isn’t lost on you, and you snicker beside him. Among the giggles you catch Marcus staring at you, the softest boyish grin tugging his lips.

The world melts into a splendid focus all on him.

This isn’t good. You can’t be thinking about possibly leaning in to kiss cute visitors while you’re still on the clock.

“Hey… so I’ve been meaning to ask if maybe we could-”

His phone ringing cuts Marcus off causing you to shoot up from the bench. Jumping on the call, Marcus seems apologetic and almost sad as you wave him bye to him.

Closing time approaches. You and your co-workers do one final look around the rooms. Marcus is nowhere to be found.

The Roman exhibition now sits sleepily still.

The dim glow coats the general’s statue, a glistening chopper. Even with the chips and weathering of time, he stands glorious as you stroll closer.

He really must have been something fierce for the empire to immortalize him in such grand fashion.

“You must’ve been a pretty amazing man.” You mutter mainly to yourself, gently touching the base of the elevated display platform he rests upon.

You wish him a good night and head home. You try not to think of stunning statues or cute museum visitors.

Next morning you’re woken up by a call from work, a frantic one.

“The fucking hot ass statue is missing.” Your co-worker hisses.

You don’t believe it till you see it.

But you’re knocked breathless at the sight.

General Marcus Acacius is missing. The once grand presence he added to the room is absent, vanished, as if plucked from the air itself.

It’s almost unnerving to see the once elevated space now hauntingly vacant.

Chaos brews humming all around. Copes scurry around everywhere, and plenty of people stand outside curious to what’s going on. A controlled whirlwind fills your museum. Various officers keep the scene roped off.

The museum decides to close for the rest of the week to let the police handle as much as they can. You adore the museum truly, but there’s one spot you love the most. Right by the break room leading from various different doors is an outdoor courtyard. It’s become a place of solace.

The bubbling dread has you stepping out here one more time. The sky above looms with a cold front approaching and casts a somber shadow over the space even more.

The shrubs rustle off the side among the thick greenery, and you figure it’s a bird.

“It’s you.” Until a new voice speaks to you. Rich, heavily accented and smooth, it startles you.

You wonder if you’re imagining things.

The man is dressed in Roman attire, elaborate white armor adorned with ornate gold pieces. Glorious graying curls frame his ethereal aged face.

How did a cosplayer manage to sneak in?

He stares so directly at you it frightens you a bit.

“You’re the one who’s voice I heard…” he continues to speak. “It was like I was asleep, drifting away. Then you woke me.”

“Sir, how did you manage to get in here?” You ask, trying to stay as calm as you can.

“I do not know. I simply woke and found myself in this strange place.” He explains with a furrowed brow.

You wonder…is this a strange bit the museum is maybe trying to pull off, and they didn’t tell you.

He steps forward now, and instinctively you walk back cautious. The man must take in your reaction because his face, his handsome face that now looks vaguely familiar, frowns. He holds his hands up defensively.

“I mean no harm. I just need to know what happened to me.”

Someone calls out your name, sounds like your boss. “Come on let’s head out.”

The stranger repeats it and how smooth his voice is, your name rolls off his tongue.

“I am General Marcus Acacius, and I am in need of your assistance.”

That makes your brain scratch.

“Wait, what?” You turn to him confused. “What did you say your name was again?”

He repeats it firmer.

Marcus Acacius.

As in… General Marcus Acacius.

There’s no way.

“Oh, so you’re an actor.” You deadpan.

“I…am confused? I’m no performer. I promise you that.” He almost sounds huffy.

You gotta give him credit. The guy stays in character pretty well.

“You shouldn’t be here, actor or not.” You tell him, heading back inside. Of course this man follows you in.

At the sight of the glass door and the movement of it, he pauses stunned, like he can’t process it. You almost want to laugh.

“You’re pretty good, even though you say you’re not an actor.” You tease.

He frowns hard not enjoying that.

“Either tell me what is going on or I will find a man who will.” He snaps loud and your eyes go wide.

His memorizing face scrunches up in frustration. Dark amber eyes are coated in fierce anger.

“I wake up in a strange place filled with artifacts and see people dressed strange. What is going on?” His voice rises confused, panicking.

Either he’s the most amazing actor ever or…

No.

It can’t be.

Too many thoughts swirl in your head like angry bees trying to make your brain explode.

You need a minute. So you grab the mystery man’s arm, practically dragging him to follow you.

“Excuse you? Where are you taking me?” He demands.

“Somewhere safe.” You half lie.

Unfortunately your boss stops you. His worried eyes catch sight of the man in the armor. You’re quick to explain he’s an actor, upset about the missing statue.

“I am not a-”

You shush the strange man harshly. Your boss, hesitant and worried, surveys him.

“He shouldn’t be here.” Your boss says firm.

“Yup, and I was just showing him the way out.” You happily explain.

Thankfully your boss gets called away, and you make your escape.

“Are you abducting me?” He demands harder.

“Look, I’m the only one here who might be able to help you.” You hiss back.

“I am the commanding General of the Roman armies.” His voice blooms stronger when you reach the lobby. “I will find my way around.”

You swallow hard. A small but chaotic idea quickly jumps into your mind, and you decide to put it into action.

So, you hold the exit door open for him. The man nods to you, then strolls out. You follow him.

The towering skyscrapers, the rush of the cars, the stretching concrete roads, it becomes an overwhelming sight while the man whips his face around eyes wide and in shock. His face falls, aghast and disoriented.

That unrealistic conclusion you thought of - you think it might not be so realistic. Because the man turns to you wearing petrified horror, terrified confusion of a man in an unknown world that no actor could truly capture.

Reality smacks into you like a bag of nails.

This man is truly the great General Marcus Acacius.

The missing statue now full man summoned to life.

Someone yells your name.

Your heart drops. Of course Marcus arrives at the worst time. He jogs up to you dressed in what looks like a gym outfit.

“I heard about the statue.” He says worried then his eyes immediately grow cloudy and confused as he catches sight of the strange Roman dressed man.

“Is he… a friend of yours?” Marcus asks hesitantly.

“It’s complicated.” You blurt, panicked.

General Acacius stands still very stunned trying to take this new modern world in. Stumbling, he returns to your side, clutching your arm like you’re the only one who can steady him.

“I…” Acacius begins then stops mid word, still trying to process a reply. Until he catches sight of Marcus.

“You,” The man surveys Marcus with narrowing eyes. “You seem familiar as well.”

This is getting out of hand.

“Okay time to go.” You rapidly try diffusing the situation, moving General Acacius away from Marcus.

“Wait, what’s going on?” Marcus questions, persistently following behind while you head to the parking lot.

You scramble out a lie that the strange man is an old friend you ran into who just came back from a play.

“I told you, I’m no performer.” Acacius insists still. You also discover he’s built like a wall and trying to wrangle him into the car proves to be Herculean.

Swiftly, Marcus firmly snaps out your name. His tone is different, urgent and enforcing. It turns you into a statue yourself.

Comedically, you’re practically halfway shoving Acacius into the car but now stand frozen. He notices the shift in tension quickly.

“Are you frightened of him?” Acacius mutters concern, surprisingly concerned. “Because I can dispose of this man.”

You shake your head no.

Swallowing hard, you finally look Marcus dead in the eyes.

“If I told you, you wouldn’t believe me.” You admit.

“Try me.” Marcus rebuffs, serious as steel.

So you sigh, what more do you have to lose now?

“General, can you please tell him who you are.” You then allow Acacius to speak for himself.

The ancient Roman clears his throat and announces his full title and name. The younger and modern Marcus’s face twists confused with a hint of concern.

Suddenly his eyes go wide. He catches on fast, figures it out quicker than you did that’s for sure.

This cute casual museum visitor you have a slight crush on is now your accomplice and partner in crime.

At least…now you don't have to deal with an ancient Roman General being brought back to life from stone alone.

— °˖➴ —

Marcus’s apartment is lush and cozy, filled with so many books and records. The warm walls, sleek modern design, make your place feel like a hole in the wall. Having a roommate, you couldn’t just bring home a very confused man out of time. So thankfully Marcus offered his home.

Now you’ve practically been living here with General Acacius trying to figure out what happened.

Acacius takes things rather well, almost in stride. Fitting for a general that explored new territories and had to face the unknown chaos of war.

The fridge fascinates him the most. You had to stop yourself from laughing seeing him open and close the refrigerator door like a child wondering if the food inside would disappear.

Marcus has a vice for candy, specifically sour ones. Seeing General Acacius try one and the disgusted face of twisted torture is a memory you’ve replayed over multiple times.

But unfortunately no one can figure out what brought the statue to life and him here.

“I’m a man. Not a statue.” The roman general clarifies.

“You are now, but we gotta figure out why.” You sigh exhausted while Marcus readies breakfast for everyone.

He’s been an incredible host. It’s been hard not lingering on how domestic and warm he is within his own space.

Especially when there’s also an archaic man looking just as handsome walking around in a tight white t shirt Marcus lent him.

Surrounded by two unbelievably gorgeous men has been a double edged sword, a blessing and curse.

General Acacius reminds you of a mountain, ever powerful, sturdy and unwavering with the change of seasons. Yet there’s still an open vulnerability to him. You’ve seen it in how grateful he’s been and how eagerly he’s tried absorbing all about this new world.

Whereas Marcus reminds you of a river, beautifully flowing, always adaptable. But he surprises you with how direct and firm he’s been, almost protective in keeping you and Acacius safe.

You also don’t miss the way Marcus’s eyes sometimes flicker to sneak a glance at the older General. You can’t blame him.

Acacius fills out modern clothes sinfully. Watching him navigate everything with a certain poised grace is attractive. While Marcus has become endearing and patient, incredibly welcoming to this new hiccup in his life. You haven't felt this comfortable with someone in so long.

Truly a river and mountain now exist in your life, and you want to stay in their atmosphere more and more.

But you can’t get tangled in the budding emotions growing for these men.

You need to figure out how to help Acacius.

“Once I get back to the office, I’m hoping I can try to find something that could maybe help.” Marcus clarifies while grabbing his work bag.

You’ve learned much about him these past few days. Like he enjoys a good run, used to be a swimmer, has a soft spot for strays, surprisingly loves football -

Also that he’s a well known FBI agent.

You realized you never once asked what he did for work, and you’ve known him for months.

“You have feelings for that man.” Acacius announces once it’s you and him alone in the apartment. You almost spit out your drink.

“We’re friends, that’s all.” You huff.

This Marcus doesn’t seem to believe you, and gives you a very modern dry eyed side glare that makes you roll your eyes.

“I’ve seen the way he watches you, the look of a man in love.” Acacius continues.

“Well I see the way he stares at you too, pal.” You reply back before you can even realize what you said.

Your words do their job stunning the general.

“He is too young for an old man like me.” Acacius rapidly fires back.

“You’re not that old.” You clarify. “If anything you’re distinguished, mature.”

“You are too kind, dear lady.” He chuckles.

You ignore how fast warmth spreads through you a dangerous wildfire just hearing him.

Your phone ringing makes poor Acacius jump. Though, it’s progress from the confused shout he used to yell whenever the phones rang.

Your boss explains that unfortunately the museum will have to stay closed the rest of the month for further investigations, and everyone’s information has been sent in to check for any suspicious activities.

It sounded serious.

Dead serious because after that phone call, you get called by the police department to head in for a few questions.

You have nothing to hide, except you did.

Because in theory you technically did and didn’t steal the statue. You just know the cops wouldn’t take your explanation.

The interrogation room you sit in is coated in a bleak serious air making you fidget worried. This is also the first time you left General Acacius alone at the apartment and that worry picks at you.

Then two officers walk in. One an older distinguished woman who gives you a nod then the other… a rather striking man.

Hawkish nose, clean shaven face, kind eyes, he smiles soft at you.

Marcus.

The agent that walked in is Marcus.

You try not to stare, but it’s hard. Dressed in an official suit and tie, the badge he wears, he sits across for you a striking professional handsome agent.

The woman introduces herself as one of the head local detectives of the case and the man accompanying her is from the FBI, specifically the head of the art crimes division.

Marcus wasn’t just an agent but someone that important.

You can’t deny how extra attractive it makes him.

“Agent Marcus Pike.” Polite and sweet he outstretches his arm to shake your hand like you’ve never met him before.

The questions are very basic.

Where were you the last time you saw the statue? Do you remember any recent guest that stopped by that maybe seemed suspicious?

You answer as truthfully and as best as you can, while also hiding the ancient Roman sized man truth away.

“Funny enough,” Agent Pike comments. “It does seem like this statue just seems to have…I don’t know, grown legs and walked out itself.”

You weakly laugh at his joke. You don’t miss the tug of his lips trying not to grin.

You leave the room as if you stepped out of a strange pocket dimension. Then again these past few days have felt strange and disorienting.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were the head of some FBI art division?!” You let Marcus have it when you both return back to his apartment.

“Is that dangerous?” Acacius asks curiously.

“I don’t know.” You sigh.

“No…This is good.” Marcus clarifies. He even picked up apology pastries. General Acacius greedily snags a cheese danish and moans in pure delight once he takes a bite.

It’s hard to ignore how incredibly sexy he sounded.

“It means I can keep looking in my records for any previous instances of situations like this, or if there’s any leads on the case I’ll know.” Marcus patiently explains.

That calms you enough.

Days pass, and Acacius grows restless.

He doesn’t sleep well, snapping at you and Marcus often more. He mourns the loss of a world that’s passed, of a wife he lost. The grief comes in waves. You and Marcus try comforting him, but Acacius reminds you of a caged tiger, restless and fanged. You understand. Being cooped up in a strange home in a strange world must be exhausting.

So Marcus and you agree to have a nice weekend out with him.

General Acacius fidgets in the cozy cream knit sweater that stretches over his broad body, but damn does he look incredible. So does Marcus in his scholarly sleek coat.

This trip also works as another opportunity to do more investigating. The nearby bookstore is the first stop. Acacius gasps seeing the stretch of books.

“Pretty impressive, yeah?” Marcus smirks, and you grin agreeing. He decides to take a look at the art history books here for any information he might have missed.

You unfortunately get side tracked with the many books in front of you and slightly wander away from Acacius when one catches your eyes.

But you quickly find your way back to him.

The elder Marcus stands stunned like a ghost among the classical literature holding a thick encyclopedia.

“I knew of what happened to Rome after you and Pike told me. But seeing the grand colosseum like this… it’s a specter of ruins now.” He mutters while taking in the photo of the ancient landmark.

“I am glad. There should be no need for more death matches.” His voice weighs with the heaviness of centuries past.

You agree, happy he shuts the book and returns it back. You’re about to dive into the Ancient Rome section yourself now until he speaks again.

“What if I am not the same man these books speak of?” The older Marcus questions hollowed.

That stuns you.

“What if the man who died many years ago… is not me?” His voice wavers.

Existential dread looms off him a dark storm growing stronger.

Marcus turns the corner smiling bright. But quickly he immediately notices the shift in atmosphere, and his face falls as he mouths asking what’s wrong.

You let General Acacius speak from the heart.

“What if… I am not me? What if I am not the real Marcus Acacius?”

His face is weighted with fear, raw and open making him appear lost and so small for someone powerful as him.

“I believe it’s you.” You reassure him gentle. “I’m sure Marcus does too. Besides… who says you can’t be the same man?”

There are pieces of yourself that you’ve left with people, even some bits of you have gotten snagged in certain places or tied to certain objects. Who says a piece of Marcus Acacius truly resided in the statue and simply woke up. And if that’s the case, then that means he’s as real as ever.

You explain all of this best as you can to Acacius. Those deep steady eyes of his waver transforming into molten earth. Your hand moves down to squeeze his stronger large warm hand.

He squeezes back tight.

“Besides the man that died is still you too. You’re allowed to be both.” Marcus jumps in with the most tender voice

“That does not sound true.” Acacius mutters.

As modern has he’s slowly become, you think it still might be too hard to explain dimensional or reality theory.

“This philosopher I read about once said something along the lines of, if you think, therefore you are.” Marcus clarifies. “You exist here and now. And sometimes that’s all that matters.”

You realize both you and Marcus slowly have huddled around General Acacius. You on one side and Marcus on the other, barricade to support your General as much as you or Marcus can.

Acacius sighs, watery, taking it all in.

Your heart aches for him. It overwhelms you, causing you to gently rest your head against his shoulder and letting your hand rest on his back.

Marcus also moves closer, placing his hand right besides yours, gingerly touching your hand.

Among the books you and these two rest simply in the stillness of the moment. You feel something hook deep in your chest, a feeling you can’t fully express.

After, Marcus treats everyone to his favorite taco truck. It's infectious seeing Acacius’s spirits brighten again. He again moans delicious when he takes his first bite. You don’t miss the awkward cough Marcus makes.

But the tacos are amazing and the cooler weather covers everything in a comforting dreamy cloud.

“I want to explore this world as much as I can.” Acacius declares with resolution and shining gilded hope.

So you start bringing the Roman general out with you more.

The museum is still being investigated, so you take the chance to enjoy the days, especially now with Marcus Acacius by your side. He enjoys your smaller apartment, becomes a fan of cooking shows fast.

Marcus and you discovered he isn’t big on sushi but has a notorious sweet tooth. Acacius embraces everything now with more gusto, a vibrant curiosity about many things, especially food. It’s endearing.

General Acacius also proves to be a lovely companion when you go grocery shopping.

“So many spices.” He says in awe in the aisle.

More people arrive and you try maneuvering your cart through the traffic. General Acacius catches on quick. Staying close to you, he places a comforting hand at your lower back and the other against yours in the cart. Shifting his body against yours, he’s a protective shield until you’re out of the thicket.

It sends the wildest hum of sparks throughout your body that persistently stays. Acacius stays firmly beside the rest of the trip.

For a man out of time, he’s open for conversation. The check out worker seems to blatantly ignore you while she happily and very openly flirts with him.

You don’t say much, ignoring the possessive emerald eyed sense of jealousy threatening to rise. He bids the flirty cashier a good day along with an elegant head nod. You keep quiet heading back to the car.

“That woman, she gave me a strange note with numbers on it.” General Acacius comments cautious, almost worried about what they could be.

You almost trip on the way out.

“Her number, she gave you her phone number.” You explain simply.

Of course you have to elaborate what that means and how it’s a modern way of signaling someone is attracted to you.

“Truly?” His handsome aged face scrunches up confused.

“What can I say? In any year you’re a catch.” You try not to sound wistful.

“I’m an old man not from this time. I have nothing worth for anyone to desire me.” Now he sounds dejected, somber and serious.

“Okay, besides being absolutely one of the most gorgeous men ever, you’re kind. Incredibly loyal and brave. Anyone would be lucky to have you.” Earnesty floats off you.

His face drops, your words finally settling within him. The soft streams of grays in his luscious curled hair and rustic beard, the beautiful scars he wears that tell of his victories…

The statue truly was not able to capture the magnetic pull of this man.

Acacius’s eyes flicker across your face. You swear something shimmers in his deep earth eyes. His gaze flickers down for a split moment, as if he’s glancing at your lips.

Then your phone rings with a text, and you sigh.

This precious bubble you’ve been in, this newly woven existence with these two gorgeous men, is one you want to stay in forever. It’s warm, easy, and feels too nice to leave.

But work eventually crashes in.

The museum finally reopens but with the Roman exhibit closed still. The missing art has brought in more foot traffic to the museum. But what surprises you is seeing Marcus at work now while he works. You and him share sweet secret smiles to each other.

Even with work getting busy for you and him, you’ve been texting with Marcus frequently. It’s even been amusing being on the phone with him and Acacius cries out surprised hearing your voice.

Your mind drifts to them again as you daze off a bit at work.

“So, did you ever drink that tea I gave you?” Your favorite coworker asks, interrupting your daydream.

The confusion must be evident on your face.

“Ya know… the sweet love wish tea?” She grins like a pleased cat that’s about to catch a canary.

An abrupt realization barrels right into you, a fierce horned bull almost knocking you out at the knees. You can’t believe a possible magical tea maybe brought a statue to life. But with that statue now a very real ancient Roman man you’ve been harboring - anything is possible now.

“Can you tell me where the shop is that you got it?” You rapidly ask her.

Your next day off you head down there immediately, not even taking either of your Marcus boys.

The sweetest shop owner greets you warm and welcoming. You compliment her lovely silvery lavender hair.

“Oh it’s to hide the grays.” She winks, and you grin.

But the nervousness rises because you don’t even know how to approach the question you have.

“Something seems to be bothering you.” Of course she notices but speaks with a gentle tone.

Your heavy sigh must say it all. Very sweetly she pulls out a stool by the register and settles in waiting to hear your story.

Even with her welcoming smile, the hesitation pulls at you. But you manage to gently explain what happened without revealing the dizzying truth.

“So I drank the love wish tea. And something… someone I never imagined would come into my life did. So now I don’t know if there’s a way I could probably send him back to what, to where, he was.” You tell her.

The shop owner hums in deep thought, crossing her hands over her chest nodding.

“Is it a ghost? Did you call in a spirit? Are you in love with a ghost?” She asks flat out without hesitation, and you almost laugh.

She’s half right in a way.

“I’m thinking…possibly the one thing that came to mind that I would do first is to do an unbinding spell. Whatever is keeping this man here, the separation of that would be what sends him back.” She says jumping off her chair, waving at you to follow her through the shop.

You quickly scurry behind her.

Grabbing a pack of two candles, the ritual she describes is simple enough. Tying a string around the two candles, lighting them until they burn, which in the process would burn the thread, theoretically severing the tie of Acacius to this world.

“And you said it was the love wish tea you drank, yes?”

You nod, and she nods back in understanding.

“What that tea is meant to do is call in your heart’s desires, simply allow the universe to bring whatever magic it seems fit to your life…But it also isn’t doing it forcefully.” She explains.

The tea is known to work because it calls in someone who desires the same thing you do, almost like a little nudge in the matchmaking department, a magic magnet.

“It works because someone else is also receptive. But of course, there is no need to stay with whoever is brought to you.”

Her words sink into a deep corner of your heart. You wonder if that meant Marcus Acacius longed for a better future, and it’s why the tea worked on him.

Thanking her graciously, you take the candles and a few cute stickers she has by the counter.

“I hope everything works out for you, gorgeous.” Her warm smile becomes a comforting hug.

You hope so too.

But the way your stomach twists, a part of you realizes… what if you don’t want Marcus Acacius to leave?

It’s selfish - but you want this trio of you, him and Marcus Pike, to last as long as it possibly can.

Driving to Marcus’s apartment, guilt and selfishness fight each other tooth and nail. You don’t know if this unbinding spell would work, but it would be a start.

With the spare key Marcus gave you, you let yourself in.

There on the couch you catch the quickest glimpse of both men heavily making out with the elder Marcus greedily holding onto Agent Pike’s sharp jaw. You wonder if maybe you’re seeing things, but the image knocks you breathless.

The younger and modern Marcus, who halfway was on the elder General’s lap immediately, bolts away as if electrocuted.

On the table, you spot two glasses of wine.

They both stare at you, caught red handed. Immediately though, you scramble out apologies.

“I should have called and-”

Marcus says your name. “It’s.. it’s okay.”

You feel so foolish right now. You didn’t even think that they had a thing, and that you were possibly the third wheel.

“I can leave. I totally understand.” You really do.

“No.” Acacius orders, saying your name, firmly shaking his head as he rises. His eyes rusted steel swords that pin you to where you stand.

“This started because of you.” He adds.

Wait.

Because of you?

“Wait, are you guys drunk?” You even voice your confusion.

Both Marcus men shake their heads no.

“We were just talking about you, about us.” The younger Marcus explains.

“And it took us some time but we both desire each other. And we both desire you.” General Acacius simply interjects, and Marcus coughs stunned.

You wonder if you’re the one who’s been brought to life in another time.

“Honey, please don’t feel pressured if you don’t feel the same.” Marcus, wonderful Marcus Pike, ever understanding and eternally good.

“I’ve liked you for so long. Even tried to ask you out a couple of times, just got a bit of cold feet. It just unfortunately took an ancient Roman to get me to finally say something.” He laughs weakly, boyishly nervous.

He’s liked you all this time.

You don’t say anything, don’t think there’s any words you can say just yet. Simply the emotions overtake you.

You head first to the younger Marcus and kiss him with a fierce tug at his shirt. He happily pulls you into him and sighs into your lips.

A soft but large hand runs up your back, and the sensation makes your body bloom.

“You both are so beautiful.” The older Marcus mutters dripping with adoration.

With a squeeze to Marcus’s shoulder and one final soft kiss, you pull away then melt into the general’s waiting arms. His mustache tickles you as his lips kiss yours, but it’s divine.

Their hands all over you touch every inch they can. You’ve never felt this desired, never been the epicenter of affection and passion like this before. You just as eagerly try grabbing at either man with as much clawed possession as you can.

They’re both yours now after all.

Tumbling into the bedroom it’s like something out of a dream, blissful and deliciously decadent, but so real with how heated your body feels.

Both men start kissing your exposed skin, with one licking at your neck from behind and the other readily nipping at your exposed chest. Your mind melts in bliss.

“Marcus,” you sigh.

You’re rewarded with two beautiful groans, different in tones it becomes a symphony you want to hear forever.

In the blurry of haze, the sticky syrupy desire, you and the younger Marcus follow each other peppering multiple kisses on Acacius’s chest as he falls onto the bed.

You and the modern Marcus work together, conquering the beautiful golden exposed landscape of Marcus Acacius’s chest. You tenderly press your lips against the various scars then happily move to kiss the younger Marcus.

The delicious sighs from General Acacius fill the room, a hypnotic soundtrack.

Soon your lips start traveling further down across his body. Your fellow lover follows your trail, kissing and kicking every inch of Acacius. You and Marcus reach his cock twitching in the loose sweatpants Acacius has grown fond of.

“Fuck.” Marcus groans as he drags the older man’s cock out.

Fuck is right. Thick, girthy and dripping already, you already ache to have him inside in any way.

“Both of you are little fiends.” The elder Marcus croaks breathless. Confidence surges in you as you lick across his length, relishing in the taste of his skin.

Marcus’s tongue also licks with you along your other lover’s cock, even moving across your tongue. The louder groans coming from General Acacius only spur you and Marcus on.

Greedily your eyes flicker up towards the towering force of a warrior. The beautiful older man’s eyes blown black, desired drenched galaxies looking down at you and Marcus like prizes he wants to conquer himself.

It makes you dizzy, completely possessed, and you kiss your way down to one of his thick large heavy balls. You tentatively lick. Acacius initially hisses until his voice melts into the loudest primal groan when you start sucking.

Your sweet Marcus immediately follows your lead, dragging his mouth down as well. You and him simply devour Acacius, licking back and forth across your lover’s balls and each other’s mouths.

Marcus quickly starts stroking your lover’s thick cock. It’s heaven being among these two, allowing yourself to get lost in the golden ecstasy.

When Acacius reaches his release you greedily lick up his cum that spilled against his skin, and he groans. Once you sit up, you reach for Marcus’s cum covered hand and begin to lick and suck his fingers clean. It’s then your sweet Marcus that suddenly grabs your mouth with the same hand, pulling your face towards his.

“Don’t swallow baby, I wanna taste.” He mutters with blazed out eyes.

Hearing that you almost come on the spot.

You sit up and slowly allow your spit and the milky cum into Marcus’s waiting mouth.

“Gods above.” The elder Marcus moans carnal.

The rest of the night consumes you in a wanton haze.

Sweaty, exhausted, but floating on a cloud, you sink into the bed with two men barricading you in their arms.

“I’m surprised you were…open to this.” You say to Acacius who chuckles a bit.

“I have loved others before, some included men. One was even a fellow General who died tragically among the same coliseum walls as I once did.” He explains gently.

You kiss his chest softly in understanding.

As you and these two lie curled into one another on Marcus’s lush bed, it’s like a new door has opened.

You and Marcus eagerly ask your General about his days in ancient Rome and his travels across the old world, about the true story of how he got his scar. Ever the steady man, Acacius answers all questions he can.

In the middle of this warm incredible double Marcus sandwich makes you giddy. But Acacius’s deep comforting lull of a voice, Marcus’s soft hands stroking your skin, create a cocoon drawing you to sleep faster than you realize.

A soft kiss comes to the top of your head.

“Rest. We will be here when you wake.”

Nodding through a yawn, you happily kiss them both goodnight. But just before you fall into the depths of sleep, you catch the two talking.

“What… will happen if I do not return to stone?” Acacius speaks first, so low and cautious you wonder if you’re dreaming already.

“I… I guess the statue will remain incomplete, stolen.” Marcus answers truthful but gentle.

A moment passes.

“What if I do not wish to return to stone?” Acacius clarifies.

You hear Marcus inhale sharp.

“I’ve longed for peaceful days away from the brutality of the frontline. And now… it’s here.”

A thick hope shines through the older Marcus’s voice, slipping past your ribs to piece your heart.

Movement shifts the bed, arms reach across for each other and seem to cage around you more.

“You’ll always have the final say. You get to make that choice. Neither of us would ever want to force you or take that away from you.” Marcus’s molten words are coated in pure understanding.

“I wish to stay here… with you and her.” Confidence, solidified resolution, radiate from the General’s voice.

The bed shifts again, and you hear them exchange the softest kiss.

“We’ll have to make sure to tell her in the morning.” The modern Marcus sighs dreamily. His hands again start rubbing your arm soothing, as if he can sense you’re fighting sleep.

“Of course. We must never forget our lady.” The older Marcus agrees.

His words along with a soft kiss to your forehead become the final push that allows sleep to settle.

— °˖➴ —

“So you’re telling me mister head of the art crimes department will be okay with a statue staying stolen and missing forever?” You smirk amused while Marcus drives down the familiar roads.

“Hey it’s no Vemeer’s Concert, but I’ll live with it.” Marcus playfully smirks and shrugs.

The investigation on General Acacius’s missing statue had run cold. There was no indication of a break in or forced exit. From the surveillance tapes, the video recordings simply shimmer, distorted for one moment, and then the statue is gone. As if it vanished into thin air.

Or is simply currently sitting in the back seat of the car taking in the world and power of a motor vehicle.

“You hear that, General? Our boy said you’re not valuable.” You tease.

“I don’t mind and I can agree.” Acacius replies bored, making you laugh. The green sweater he wears compliments him and brings out the streams of grays in his hair. You and Marcus have loved seeing him embrace modern clothing more than ever.

“That’s not what I meant.” Marcus rolls his eyes.

You snicker even more.

The occult shop arrives, and the candles feel lighter than ever in your bag, especially knowing you’re here to return them.

“Seems like you didn’t need these after all.” Your favorite lavender haired shop owner says with a coy smirk. Her eyes stay locked on your men exploring the aisles.

“A two for one deal? I'm definitely advertising that for the tea.” She adds eagerly, and you hide a laugh behind your hand.

If only you could tell her the full truth.

You return to your boys, enjoying the way Acacius seems to be a bit petrified among all of the occult objects.

“Are you sure this witchcraft is safe?” He asks worried, snd Marcus smooths by rubbing his back.

You grin.

Love, affection, might be the strangest but most beautiful magic after all.