Knife/gun kinks, bloodplay, BDSM, pain kink (no sexual gore, though)
Dubcon, CNC (but very clear on the Cs)
PIV sex, Anal sex (but I can’t promise expertise on the latter)
AFAB gender neutral reader insert (gendered reader insert versions upon request! AMAB versions also upon request, but once again, no promises on expertise)
Fluff!
Angst (but I’m a big sucker for a happy ending), hurt/comfort
THINGS I WON’T WRITE:
ABO (but I might use similar dynamics if writing aliens, monsters etc). Had weird experiences as a kid with ppl online who wanted to rp it, so while I harbor no animosity towards the genre, it’s still a bit squicky for me. Mostly it’s just the phrases, that bring me back, though, so if you’d like me to write something of the sort I’d be happy to as long as we change the words :)
I can’t/won’t write RPF, sorry (but no shame to those who do!)
Scat/piss kinks & vomit
Rape (unless in a hurt/comfort context)
Age play (sorry! it’s something I can’t really get into; I’d probably butcher it anyways). Daddy/mommy kinks aren’t normally my jam either, but who knows?
ADDITIONAL NOTES:
This is an NC-17/18+ blog. Let’s be real: if you’re a child, I can’t stop you from consuming media, and this probably won’t dissuade you, but please hear me out. I recommend waiting to read this, and can stress that these situations are fiction, and are NOT guides or even accurate descriptions in terms of sexual situations! As someone who made that mistake in childhood, I can testify that using fiction/kink media as a resource for what sex/relationships “should be” can do a lot of damage, cause a lot of shame, and leave you with a good few regrets. I’ll stop preaching before this becomes an essay, but safety (physical, social, and emotional) comes first, y’all.
If I’ve written incorrect or ignorant information about any party, feel free to tell me! Same goes for if I use inconsistent pronouns or forget to change them all in a requested non-AFAB GN version of a fic!
Hell, tell me about anything I missed! Glaring typos, inconsistent tenses, and (heaven forbid) words not meaning what I think they do.
I have mental health issues out the ass, so I might take my sweet time writing, and there’s nothing you can do about it. So there.
The above goes for a lot of other writers on here!!! Show some respect!!! They write for themselves, and we’re lucky that they’re sharing it with us, goddammit!
summary: you get stranded in the middle of a blizzard. joel comes to your rescue. you share a bed for warmth. things escalate from there...
warnings/tags: 18+ content, MDNI!, smutttttt yurrrr (vaginal fingering, unprotected piv sex, dubious consent, lil bit of somnophilia, joel is packinggg), no outbreak!joel, modern au, implied age gap, soft!joel, pet names (peach, baby, darlin', sweet girl, sweetheart), lil bit of joel being jelly, cuddling to keep the cold at bay, fluff, NO USE OF Y/N
word count: 7.6k (idk what the fuck happened)
“Fuck!”
You press down hard on the gas pedal, grimacing when your engine revs but the car doesn’t move an inch.
Your tires skid uselessly over the snow and your headlights reflect into a white wall of nothing—the snowfall so thick you can’t see anything in front of or around you, as if you’re trapped in a snow globe. The road is practically gone from existence.
Your wipers try their best.
The only thing you can hear is the wind whistling and the staticky sound of Carrie Underwood’s ‘Jesus Take the Wheel’ going in and out on the radio.
Yeah, you wish he would right about now.
“Fuuuck,” you whine again, eyes stinging with unshed tears. You hit your wheel in frustration, dropping your forehead onto the horn. It honks pityingly.
Of course, the one time you were actually going out, you had forgotten to check the weather.
You’re probably going to die out here on this back road through the woods. There’s no one around, not that you can tell, and you’re low on gas. You were going to fill up once you got out of the woods and back into civilization, but the blizzard had other plans.
Your stomach rumbles, crying out for the dinner you had skipped in hopes of having a hearty, post-sex meal with the hook-up you are—or were—on the way to see. Though, that’s certainly not happening, and the snacks you usually had stuffed into the glovebox are gone, your sister having stolen them last week after you dropped her off at school.
(Darn that growing goober!)
You don’t have anything that might prove useful in this situation besides the long, slim heels on your pumps (which could be used in defense), and the thin peacoat wrapped around your shoulders. You check your phone to see if you can call emergency services, but of course, it has zero bars.
“Shit, shit, shit,” you whimper, pressing the heel of your palm to your watering eyes.
“It’s gonna be fine,” you say to yourself, picking your head up and rubbing away the tears in your eyes. You take deep breaths and put the car into park. “You’ll be fine.”
The sudden sound of a knock on your window startles you so bad you yelp, jumping in place as ice cold terror rises up your spine.
You can hardly see who had knocked, only their gray silhouette in the white blizzard.
The stranger knocks again.
“You alright in there?” The shadow asks, a hint of a Texan accent curling their vowels. Shit. It’s a man.
You slowly grab your shoe from your foot, holding it so the heel faces the window, and snow blows into your face as you carefully roll it down an inch or two for precaution, because who knows if it’s a fucking cannibal-axe-murderer who preys on unsuspecting women stranded in the snow. Maybe he does this every year—maybe this is his prime harvesting place and time.
Your eyes are wide as you peer through the opening warily, heel at the ready.
He’s close enough now that you can make out a prominent scowl, hard brown eyes, salt and pepper hair…
…wait a minute. You’d recognize that glower anywhere.
“Joel?”
Your lungs suddenly remember how to work again, and you inhale on a shaky breath. The hand holding your shoe drops to your thigh in relief.
His brown eyes narrow. “Peach…? The hell are you doin’ out here?” He asks, and Jesus you forgot about that stupid nickname he gave you. It sends butterflies loose in your stomach. “It’s a goddamn blizzard.”
You scowl in exasperation, though, at his obvious observation. “Yeah, I think I know that, Joel. What are you doing here?”
“I heard a honk, figured someone needed help.” He looks you up and down, his gaze lingering on the circles of mascara around your eyes. “Guess I’m right.”
You straighten in your seat, the surge of gratitude at his presence is overshadowed by the need to look self sufficient and capable, because you are. You’ve been paying your rent all on your own, buying your own groceries, making your own meals. You’re a grown ass woman! So…
“Actually, I don’t need your help, Joel. I meant to go into this snowbank,” you lie.
“Oh really?” He asks, dubious, immediately picking up on it.
“Yes, and I'm going to get out of it. Just watch!"
You’re making a fool of yourself, but at this point, you really don’t want to be rescued by him if only because of the bruise to your ego and definitely not because of other extenuating circumstances. You feel a boost of confidence when Joel actually steps back from the car when you start it up again, like he really believes you, but then when you shift the gear into reverse and try to make it out of the snow bank, nothing happens.
Joel steps up again, leans an arm on the frame of your car, and taps your window once more. “C’mon. Let’s go.”
God, this is so embarrassing!
“Fine.” You roll up the window and turn off the car. Joel tugs the car door open as far as it can go and offers a gloved hand to help you out. You wobble a bit when you step out in your heels, grateful that Joel is there to steady you. Though, the feeling sours a bit when he huffs in disbelief at your shoes.
You send him a glare, “I had plans for tonight, okay?”
“In the middle of a blizzard?” He deadpans.
“It wasn’t that bad when I first started driving.”
“Riiiight,” he drawls, “Well, I’m sorry to say, peach, but you ain’t driving in this mess anymore. You can stay with me tonight.” He says, closing the car door behind you.
Stay? With him?
“Joel, I couldn’t bother you with—“
“I wouldn’t offer if it was a bother.”
Joel’s as stubborn as a bull, more so than Ellie. And she is stubborn. You don’t argue, because it’s fruitless to argue with a brick wall like him. And, faced with freezing to death out here or staying in a well-insulated building, choosing the latter is obviously the right thing to do.
“Okay,” you relent and point to your trunk. “I have a bag back there.”
He raises a brow. “Heels and a bag…What kind of plans were we talkin’ about here?”
A hook up, Joel, you mentally drawl. Because…that’s exactly why you were out.
Like hell you’ll tell Joel that, though, he’d disapprove. He’s always been the protective type. You’ve known him since your junior year in college, after your families practically merged. But you’ve never seen Joel as another dad. He’s always been…something else to you.
“A trip to Nunya.” You supply instead of the truth, crossing your arms over your chest to try and conserve some heat.
“Nunya?” Joel’s brows furrow.
“Yeah. Nunya business, Joel.” You give him a sardonic smile.
He shakes his head and sends you a look you’re quite familiar with, the one that makes you feel inches smaller. And ten degrees hotter.
Joel sighs in exasperation and wordlessly wrenches the trunk open. He slings your bag over his shoulder as if it weighs nothing.
(It weighs a lot. You’d know, you shoved five different erotica books in there, just in case your date failed to make you orgasm.)
(Though thinking about Joel probably would’ve been enough.)
You lock your vehicle with a bemused glance. “What are we gonna do about my car?”
“I’ll tow it out tomorrow,” Joel says. “Roads are a fuckin’ mess right now.”
You trudge behind Joel to his quaint cottage sleeping cozily between tall pine trees and chubby evergreens. The porch light is on, and the windows glow a comforting orange. Puffs of smoke drift up from the chimney. It looks warm and inviting, like straight out of a Christmas movie.
You’re impressed at how close you managed to strand yourself to his house. Maybe Jesus really did take the wheel.
Joel kicks the snow off his boots on his front porch, then opens the door, gesturing for you to enter first.
When you breach the doorway with Joel at your heels, warmth settles over your cold-bitten cheeks along with an alluring aroma of meat and tomato and spices that hits you in a wave. You’ve never seen Joel cook anything other than Chef Boyardee Beefaroni, or burgers on Tommy’s rusting grill before. Could…someone else be here?
“Joel,” you whisper, your hand landing on his arm. He sets your bag down in the foyer with a grunt and shrugs out of his coat.
“What?”
You point to the kitchen. “Is someone here? Am I intruding?”
Joel glances at the kitchen then back at you with a confused expression that evens out into a self-satisfied smirk when he realizes what you’re asking.
“What, you think I’ve got a date over?”
Embarrassment creeps through you. “Who else could be cooking!”
He looks offended, though there’s a twitch to his lip, as if he’s trying not to laugh. “I’m perfectly capable.”
“Joel,” you say, unimpressed.
“I'm alone, peach,” he reassures, hanging his coat up. “That’s my cookin’ you’re smellin’.”
Your eyes widen, genuine surprise written on your features, relief lingering behind it as you take your own coat off. “Is it edible though?”
“Guess you’ll have to find out.”
Joel starts toward the kitchen and you trail behind him. As you follow, you take in his aggressively Texan decor and furniture. Paintings of cowboys and horses and mountains are hung artfully on cozy, beige walls. The Eagles’ discography drifts merrily in the air from an old record player. There’s a guitar stationed in practically every corner. It’s all so very Joel, though the random space ornamentals and butterfly drawings sprinkled about are so very Ellie and Sarah. It makes you smile.
“Where are the girls?” You ask, because usually those little stinkers would be stationed at the dining room table, bickering over the answer to a ridiculously difficult math problem.
“At Dina’s,” he answers, taking off his gloves. “They wanted to play in the snow.”
Oh. So you’re here alone with him. Anxiety prickles at the edges of your mind, sinking in your stomach.
“I guess I was the only one that didn’t know about the blizzard, then.”
“You must be livin’ under a rock to not know about it.”
You grumble in protest, but your grievances disintegrate on your tongue as you enter the kitchen and near the simmering pot. You breathe in the aroma, the smell so powerful it's almost like you’re actually tasting it.
You look over your shoulder at him. “Is this chili?”
He nods. “Want some?”
“Hell yes.”
He comes up beside you to open a cabinet. “Go ‘head make yourself comfortable on the couch. I’ll bring it out to you.” Your mouth dries at the sliver of skin that peeks out beneath his flannel as he reaches up.
You force yourself to turn around. “Wow. Such a gentleman, didn’t realize you were capable,” you say, your saccharine sweet tone doing well to mask how flustered you feel. You can breathe easier the second you exit the kitchen and enter the living room.
His voice follows you. “A simple ‘thank you’ ‘stead'a this attitude would do you some good, y'know?"
"I know," you sing-song, grinning as you settle yourself down onto his couch, grabbing a blanket from a basket on the way. A fire crackles in the hearth and you study the flames with fascination as warmth spreads across your skin. You tug the blanket around you, pulling it up to your chin.
Joel emerges a minute later and your gaze darts from the fire to the bowl he holds out to you. “Here.”
“Thank you, Joel,” you say emphatically, accepting the bowl and cradling it in your hands.
He smiles, “There we go. Guess you do have some manners.”
You give him a half-bow. Joel just smiles in that familiar way, like you’re just so ridiculous he can’t believe it. It makes your stomach curl giddily.
Having rolled up the sleeves of his flannel to his elbows, Joel’s forearms are on display, muscles flexing as he tosses another log into the hearth, and you drop your gaze to your chili, as to not get caught staring. He sits down in the armchair adjacent to you with his own bowl.
You blow on the steaming chili before taking a bite, an involuntary moan releasing from you the moment it hits your tongue—paprika, peppers, tomato, cumin. It warms your stomach pleasantly. Who knew Joel could cook so well?
“This is so good,” you mumble around your bite.
He swallows his own chili down, pupils large as he watches you. “Edible enough for ya?”
You nod enthusiastically, “I’m sorry I ever doubted you.”
“Mmhmm,” he hums, unconvinced, but he’s smiling at you again, and you can’t help but return it.
Comfortable silence lapses between the both of you as you eat your meals. Joel finishes first, of course, setting his bowl on the coffee table and leaning into his chair with a satisfied groan. He throws an arm over the back, spreading his legs. You watch him while he watches the fire, heat licking through you.
Eventually, after you slow down, you speak again.
“Thank you, Joel, seriously, for letting me stay.”
His eyes find yours and he nods. “‘Course, peach. Wouldn’t’ve let you freeze out there.”
You nod and glance around, taking in his cabin. A large, stone fireplace is set in the wall, a tree trunk coffee table stationed in the center of the living room, some handmade wood carvings of horses and other animals scattered about. There’s a drawing of himself sitting on the mantel, “To: Joel, From: Ellie” signed at the bottom. Your heart swells.
“It’s been awhile since I’ve been here,” you remark.
“I know,” Joel says. “You should come around more often. The girls miss you.”
Your smile turns shy and you feel a spike of bravery. “What about you? Do you miss me?”
He takes a moment to answer, a veiny hand coming up to rub at his beard as he leans on the arm of the chair. Onyx eyes drag down your figure. “‘Course I do, darlin’”
Heat pools hot and thick between your thighs at that look, and you’re about to press him about how much he really misses you when a buzzing in your pocket captures your attention. Your phone. Guess you have some bars now.
marcus: where r u?
Oh right, the hookup!
you: blizzard blocked the roads. won’t make it tonight.
marcus: ok.
You scoff at the lack of depth in his response. Not even a “stay safe out there”? Jesus. You settle into the couch with a frustrated sigh, head thumping against the cushions, eyes falling shut as exhaustion creeps into you.
Boys always thinking with their dicks. Why do you even bother?
“What’s that about?” Joel asks. You peek an eye open at him. Firelight dances across his tan skin. He gestures to your phone. “That gotta do with the real reason for your trip tonight?”
You rub your temple, “Yeah.”
He hums. "...Listen, I know it's none of my business but—“
"It was a hookup, Joel," you interrupt, already knowing where he was going with that. He tends to do that, beat around the bush so much until you’re desperate to just say it. More desperate than he was to know it. You’d rather just skip that whole process.
"Oh,” his brows furrow.
"Yeah," you repeat dumbly, fiddling with the blanket.
"There, uh, ain't no shame in that, darlin'."
You quirk a skeptical brow, "I know."
"Alright," he mumbles, avoiding eye contact with you. Awkwardness settles between you.
"Things are just a bit dry," you supply, though you have no idea why you're still talking, or why you described yourself and the state of your love-life like that because Joel doesn't need to know that. Nobody needs to know that
But it captures his attention, because he's looking at you again, though this time annoyance is written on his features, along with something else you can’t name, his eyes practically black. Damnit, you knew he’d disapprove, even if he claims there’s no shame in it.
“And you went to some random boy for that?"
You straighten on the couch. "Who else am I supposed to go to, Joel? You?” Sarcasm drips from your words.
What the hell is he implying?
His gaze jumps to the fire, the muscles in his jaw clenching, his fingers flexing on the arm of his chair. "Never mind I said anythin'."
Your arms cross defensively over your chest. "I don't need your judgment, Joel.”
"I ain't judgin'."
"Sure sounds like it."
He stands abruptly, running a hand through his peppered locks. "I'm not, I just—listen, it's gettin' late. You should sleep. I didn’t have time to get the girls’ room ready, do you want my bed?”
You shake your head, "Couch is perfectly fine, Joel. Thanks."
“You sure?”
“Yes, Joel. I’m a grown woman who can handle her decisions.”
"I know that.” Frustration laces his words. He sighs, hand coming up to rest on his belt. “Just... let me know if you need anythin'."
“You got it.”
He turns the living room light off on the way to his bedroom down the hall. You don’t watch him leave.
Once he's gone, you change into your pajamas and settle yourself on the couch beneath a blanket or two. The crackling of the fire and the howling wind outside lulls you to sleep faster than you expect.
-----
“Fuck.”
The aggressive shivers that wrack your body are what wake you up in the middle of the night.
Your blanket is wrapped tightly around you, but it’s a thin, furry thing. Nothing like the down comforter you have at home. The fire has also gone out in the hearth, low flames flickering in the ash.
You pull the blanket up to your chin, curling in on yourself as the cold permeates your skin.
Aside from the chattering of your teeth and the squall outside, it’s eerily silent in the house. You realize, now, that the whooshes from the heating system you had grown accustomed to before are gone
Shit.
You reach for the lamp on the side table, pulling down on the chain. It doesn’t turn on.
“Shit.”
You sit up, blanket wrapped around your waist. The power is out. The snow storm must’ve knocked out a power line. It’s too cold to stay out here with only your thin blanket and the clothes on your back. And Joel had said…
Let me know if you need anythin’.
You really don’t want to bother him, but the goose flesh rippling across your skin and the pathetic way your lips are quivering, along with the shudders that wrack your body as it attempts to maintain homeostasis are not something you can just sleep through.
You tightly wrap your blanket around your shoulders and tiptoe down the hall. You can see a warm light from Joel’s bedroom, the flicker of a flame on the cream walls.
You slowly push the door open but hesitate at the sight of Joel buried comfortably beneath his comforter. You don’t want to wake him… but his room is awfully toasty from the fire crackling away in his own hearth. And his bed looks absolutely heavenly.
You steel yourself and pad to the side he sleeps on.
“Joel?” You whisper. He doesn’t respond.
You lean over to gently push his shoulder. “Joel.”
“Mm—“ His brows furrow, and he scrunches further into the blankets, reminiscent of a cat curling its paws over its head when woken up.
You push his shoulder again, a bit harder this time. “Joel. Wake up.”
He swats at the air, as if your hand is a fly buzzing around his ear. “‘M awake,” he mumbles against the pillow.
“Joel—the power went out. I’m freezing.”
He’s silent for a moment, eyes still shut. He’s no doubt rolling the words around in his head, trying to make sense of them through a sleepy haze.
Then, when he does, he wordlessly scoots back and reaches for the comforter. He lifts it, offering the space next to him to you.
“C’mere.”
You splutter, taken off guard by the invitation. “What? Joel—“
“‘M not askin’, peach. C’mere.” The last word leaves his lips like a command, and you straighten reflexively, apprehension holding your limbs hostage as want curls dangerously low in your abdomen at his tone of voice. That should be enough warning to not climb into bed with him.
You debate telling him to get his ass up and give you another blanket along with a couple more logs in the hearth so you can avoid any kind of proximity between you (lest you feel those capital-f Feelings), but you can practically feel the heat radiating from the bed and his body beckoning you in.
Oh fuck it.
You let loose a shaky breath and hesitantly slip beneath the covers, facing away from him. You stay glued to the edge of the bed, careful not to let any part of you touch him. Your legs curl into your chest for extra measure. Immediately, it’s so much better. So warm. So comfortable.
And it smells like Joel.
You inhale the earthy and spicy scent of him that lingers on the linen as your head sinks into the soft pillow, but your inhale chokes off as Joel’s strong arm snakes around your waist beneath the comforter, his large hand burning like a brand when it settles hot over your stomach.
He pulls you into him, the sheets swishing as he tucks you into his body. Your back slots against his warm, broad naked chest. His bare legs intertwine with yours, his pelvis almost flush against your ass, only covered by a thin pair of briefs.
Holy shit.
You can feel everything.
“Joel?” You question, voice quivering at the sudden closeness. “What are you doing?”
“Keepin’ you warm,” he mumbles against the nape of your neck.
You do feel warmer, though it might not be entirely because he’s holding you, but rather because of how he’s holding you. He’s curled around you, like a koala around a tree, thighs bracketing yours.
You can feel his beard scraping at the nape of your neck, breaths puffing against your feverish skin.
His thumb is rubbing softly along the pudge of your tummy, palm branding your skin, his fingers dipping innocently beneath the hem of your shorts.
You can barely breathe, or even think, heartbeat stuttering as arousal pools liquid hot and heavy between your legs. Every unknowing twitch from Joel’s fingers makes it worse. Every touch of his calloused fingertips against your skin is pure agony. Every brush of your ass against his pelvis has you throbbing. You stare wide-eyed into the darkness, gaze roaming the pitch black, as if something out there could make you forget about the ever-growing desire you feel for Joel.
You can’t sleep like this.
It seems like Joel can though, appearing to already be deep in slumber. He hasn’t moved in a few minutes, his exhales even and slow against you.
You try to ignore the wetness between your legs, ignore the instinctual urge to roll your hips back against him. You should just go to sleep. But this ache you feel, pounding and deep and relentless…You have to do something about it, even with Joel holding you close.
He won’t mind…right?
But how are you supposed to touch yourself with Joel’s hand in the way?
You could just move it. That’s the right thing to do, but it feels too good, so hot and heavy on you that you just don’t want to, and as a result, an idea so absolutely fucked worms its way into your mind, lust and desperation destroying any last semblance of rational thought. You could…
No. No. You can’t do that. He’s a human fucking being, not a hand shaped vibrator.
But… you really want to, and he’s asleep so…he won’t even know…right?
You make up your mind and slowly curl your fingers around Joel’s deadweight palm, biting your lip in concentration and shame as you carefully urge his hand further into your shorts. After each nudge of his palm, you wait to see if Joel gives you any sign of him being awake. But he’s dead asleep. After a moment, you keep going.
This is so fucked, but you can’t bring yourself to care when you finally feel his thick fingers brush over your clothed folds.
“Shit,” you whisper, breathlessly, holding back a whimper. You manipulate his hand so that his palm is resting large and warm over your aching clit, while his index and middle finger are placed heavily above your heat.
And then, you really say fuck you to your morals.
You give an experimental thrust of your hips into his palm, shuddering at the contact against your clit. Then you wait to see if Joel reacts, your head tilting a bit to look over your shoulder. But Joel hasn’t moved, hasn’t said a word. Good.
Confident he won’t wake, you rock your hips again and again, holding onto his hand with your own, pressing it down with each thrust of your hips to get that sweet contact. The heel of his palm bumps your aching clit with each thrust, and you bite back moans and whimpers well enough, but you can’t hide the deepening of your breaths as you climb closer and closer to your climax.
Everything else fades away as you just focus on that one goal. On crawling over the edge. You hardly feel the growing smirk pressed to the back of your neck, or the way Joel’s cock is now hard against your ass as you grind against his palm.
“F-fuck,” you huff, eyes tightly shut as you ground yourself in his presence behind you, the beat of his heart thudding against your spine, the rise and fall of his chest, the light, unconscious brush of his lips on your neck. Closure is on the horizon as you imagine him lifting up on his arm and leaning over to actually get you off, his teeth biting down on your shoulder as he thrusts his fingers into your aching cunt.
“Joel—“ you quietly moan.
The moment his name slips from your lips, his hand suddenly pulls back, and you let out a frustrated groan (he can’t do that!), which quickly turns into a squeak of mortification (oh yes, he absolutely can!).
Because Joel is awake.
He. Is. Awake.
And he knows what you were doing, his chest rumbling against your spine as he—is he fucking laughing at you?
“Needy girl, aren’t you, peach?”
Mortification ignites in your cheeks, nausea pooling in your stomach. “Joel, oh my god, I’m so sorry—“
His hand gravitates to your thigh, curling around it. He pulls it up, inserting his knee in between your legs and he griiiinds it into your clothed cunt. Your desperate apology is cut off by a reflexive wanton moan, your back arching as pleasure reverberates inside you.
“‘S okay, baby, I understand. So fuckin’ desperate you had to use me while I was sleepin’, huh? Didn’t get what you wanted earlier so now you’re searchin’ for somethin’ else, hm?”
His large hand finds your waist again, sliding down your stomach to inch beneath both your shorts and your panties now. You gasp as his fingertips find your clit easily.
“I’m just a ‘lil offended I wasn’t your first choice,” he chides, fingers slipping through your soaking folds. “But I like this much better than you findin’ some boy to get you off. You need’a be fucked by a man, darlin’. Ain’t that right?”
His words send heat straight to your core, thighs clenching around his knee as he ruts it against you while simultaneously stimulating your clit with his fingers.
“Yes, Joel,” you moan. “Need you.”
His teeth scrape against your throat when he growls, “Goddamn right you do.”
You can’t believe this is happening.
Joel slides his hand further into your panties, his middle finger curling in to sink into your soaked cunt. You choke on a gasp.
“Who’s the guy?” He asks, randomly, while his finger rocks into you.
You can’t think as Joel inserts his ring finger alongside the other, stretching you so deliciously. “W-what?”
“The boy you were gonna see tonight. Who is he?”
Who was it? Mark? Matt? And why does he care? You don’t know, you don’t care, only thoughts of Joel Joel Joel consume your waking being.
“I—I don’t know, Joel. Please, oh my god.”
He hums pityingly. “Poor thing can't even remember his name.” His other hand comes up to slide through your hair, gripping the locks at the nape of your neck. He tugs, and you melt. “I’ll make sure you don’t forget mine.”
He doesn’t need to worry about that.
Joel moves his thumb to circle your clit as he thrusts his thick, long fingers up and into you, curling them to hit that spot that has your heartbeat dropping between your thighs, desperate and loud and begging for release.
“Hhhoh— Joel!”
“Tha’s right, baby. So goddamn wet. You’ve been dealin’ with this for awhile now, huh?”
You nod into the pillow on a broken moan as his fingers withdraw and sink into you at a steady pace, his thumb circling and circling and circling.
“Words, baby.”
You cry out, hands gripping the pillow. “Yes, yes. Joel. Been wanting this f’so long.”
“Should’a come to me first. Would’a helped you out a long time ago,” he drawls.
Yes you absolutely should have, based on how quickly you’re approaching your orgasm.
Your cries are so loud, but you don’t care, focusing only on your pleasure and the feel of Joel’s mouth on your throat.
You’re finally getting what you want. And fuck, is it amazing.
Your eyes roll back as it all builds up inside you, Joel’s hand unrelenting as he fucks you closer and closer to the edge.
You’re scorching, everything hot and intense, your stomach tightening, your legs stretching out as the pleasure builds and builds.
Fuck, you’re gonna cum—
It rips through you violently, eyes prickling with tears, your thighs clenching as your walls bare down repeatedly around Joel’s fingers, making him groan.
“Good girl,” Joel murmurs, hand eventually inching out of you and your shorts to squeeze your thigh appreciatively as aftershocks run through you, thighs quaking and clit throbbing. “That’s what you needed, huh? S’it feel good, cummin’ all over my fingers?”
His fucking voice!
“Mhmm,” you hum in agreement, sinking into the sheets, eyes drooping shut as pleasure lulls you to sleep.
He tsks, “Wake up, darlin’ I ain’t done with you yet.”
His beard scrapes against your neck as he moves to your ear.
“It’s my turn to use you.”
Your eyes shoot open. Fuck.
Joel pulls your panties down your legs as far as he can, and you squirm to wriggle them off of you.
He pulls away for a moment, but when he’s back, the bare, hot, thick length of him is pressed between your ass cheeks, and a full body shudder runs through you.
Holy shit, he’s big.
He grips your thigh again, but this time he throws it over his own. And then you feel it, the slick head of his cock as he guides it through your folds.
Oh fuck.
“You okay, peach?” He asks, laying a gentle kiss on your shoulder. Now you have tears in your eyes for an entirely different reason. His hand slides across your waist and up beneath the hem of your shirt, palming your breast. Your nipples tighten.
Your mouth feels dry and you swallow down a lump of lava. “Y-yes, Joel.”
“Good. Wanna give you all of me, how’s that sound, darlin’?”
You will take whatever, anything you can get from Joel.
“Good, Joel. Yes, please, oh my god.”
“There are those manners.”
A desperate whine slips from your lips as he directs the head of his cock into you, slowly and carefully, his hand running up and down your thigh in comforting strokes. God, he’s stretching you so much, hot and thick and pulsing inside you. It’s almost painful, but it’s a welcome pain.
“Jesus, Joel,” you moan when he stops to let you breathe, “You’re so big.”
“I ain’t even halfway in yet, darlin’.”
“W-what?” How is that even possible?
“You can take it.” He says, sliding in some more and fuck you don’t have much of a choice. but you can, and you will because he feels too fucking good, and you’re ready for him to make you feel it into next week.
“Is…is it all the way in yet?” You ask, thoroughly stretched and filled.
“Almost, sweet girl,” he breathes. “Goddamn, you’re tight.”
That makes you clench down even more, and he releases a pained groan behind you. “Relax, darlin’, c’mon.”
You do your best and let yourself sink into the bed, taking deep breaths and concentrating on the crackling of the fire.
And then, he thrusts fully into you, filling you up completely, and your mind is right back to him, a soft cry slipping from your lips into the pillow.
“There we go, tha’s it. Good job. Taking me so well,” he croons, stroking your side.
“F-fuck me, Joel, please move.”
He squeezes your ass in his large palm in retaliation to your command. “You use me, I use you, remember?”
But he listens anyway, likely desperate to move himself, because then he’s gripping your hip with a large hand and pulling back just to sheath himself fully into you once more, his cock head bumping against your cervix, and holy fucking shit.
“Joel!” You cry, and he leans over to kiss you, teeth biting at your plump lower lip as he thrusts into you again.
And again.
And again.
And again.
He rolls into you at a steady, bruising pace, and you’re practically boneless as you just take it. Cries and whimpers and moans spilling out of you like a gas leak as he mouths down your throat, sucking and biting and oh my god this is way better than just getting yourself off on his hand.
Then Joel shifts, pushing at your side to press your stomach into the mattress. You whine as he pulls out of you to situate himself behind you. He grabs your hips with both hands and pulls them up and backwards, easing himself back into you until your ass meets his skin, then he rolls his hips, driving his cock deep from a brand new angle.
All you can do is sob into the pillow.
He’s so fucking big, so fucking deep you can’t think of anything else besides him and his wonderful cock, or the filthy things he’s whispering into your shoulder blades.
His large hand plants itself on your spine, and your hands scramble for purchase on a pillow.
“Sweet girl, taking me so fuckin’ well,” he purrs. “You were desperate for this cock, huh? God, I wish you could see yourself. Split open on me like this. Your little boy toy wouldn’t be able to fuck you like this, ain’t that right?"
You shake your head. God, why did you even make that dick appointment in the first place?
You hadn’t even realized what being fucked by a “real man” meant until now.
Joel knows how to fucking deliver, you guess that’s why he’s so successful in his contracting business. He’s delivering you straight to that blessed release.
You clench around the girth of him, the filthy sounds of your arousal echoing in his room along with the cracks and snaps from the fire burning steadily in the hearth.
If you couldn’t sleep before, you definitely will be able to after this because you’re mindless as he fucks you into oblivion.
“Joel, fuck—mmph—!”
“Yeah, that’s right. Can’t say anythin’ but my name.”
His breathing has become more labored, desperate grunts escaping his lips as his cock twitches inside of you. He’s getting close, deep and gravely moans falling out of him as his thrusts become harder and more sporadic.
His hand sneaks around your front, spanning your entire stomach as he slides down to your soaking folds, his middle and ring finger finding that sensitive bundle of nerves and giving them a gentle tap before circling, using that same method from before that had you squirming.
You writhe on his length, legs falling out beneath you as your orgasm swells within you.
“Please Joel,” you whimper into the pillow.
“I’ve got you,” he promises.
It’s there, filling your body, building and cresting and searing white-hot through your limbs.
And then he thrusts a certain way, hitting that spot within you, and his fingers are circling and—
Yeah.
You fall boneless to the mattress as you come apart, your arousal coating Joel’s cock as he continues to fuck you through your release, stroking your spine. Pleasure floods through your body as the tension releases, and tears freely fall as you cry into the pillow.
Because goddamn it!
How can something feel so good?
And then Joel’s pulling out of you and letting loose a long, satisfied moan as he comes all over your back, hot stripes painting you.
He collapses next to you, groaning something about his back.
And you can’t help but laugh, delirious and soft, and Joel’s laughing too, brown eyes sparkling. His calloused hand comes up, runs his thumb along your jaw, and he’s smiling at you, soft and unlike anything you’ve ever seen before.
“You alright, peach?”
“Ohhh yeah,” you giggle, sighing with contentment.
You’re gonna be feeling this for days, just like you wanted.
Joel’s lips brush against your forehead gently, and you’re too tired to acknowledge it, slumber pulling you under far too quickly. You think you can feel the gentle swipe of a wet washcloth on your back before you pass out.
-----
“Fuck…”
The bed is empty when you wake, and a spike of anxiety shoots through you as you sit up. A fire still crackles in the hearth, a fresh log dropped in the ash. On the night stand is a note, beneath it, one of Joel’s t-shirts, your jeans, and a pair of your underwear.
Mortification climbs through you as you read:
Peach,
My bathroom’s on the left if you’d like to shower. I hope you don’t mind, I went through your bag to get you some panties underwear. Lot of books in there. You sure like to read.
Oh god, he found your erotica stack. The covers are not misleading, either, he definitely knows what kind of books they are. You force yourself to keep reading through the humiliation.
I’m out picking up Sarah and Ellie, I’ll be home soon. There’s pancakes on the counter. We’ll tow your car when I get back.
Also–about last night…we don’t have to talk about it, if you don’t want to. But, I want you to know that if you ever need something like that again, I’m here. And for anything else. I’m here. Always.
See you soon.
Warmth fills your body and you reread those last sentences over and over.
Always. Does he really mean that?
You check the alarm clock on his nightstand–it’s eleven fucking a.m. Holy shit, you haven’t slept that late in a long time.
When you stand, an ache radiates through you, and memories of last night flit in your mind and along with them, a fresh new wave of arousal. You scramble for the shower.
You emerge fresh and clean twenty minutes later, smelling like Joel, having only his body wash and shampoo to use. Each inhale is practically torture, and the ache between your legs is just another reminder. Seeing yourself in his shirt makes it worse. You try and push it away.
You descend the steps, halting when you hear the sound of Ellie’s voice from the kitchen.
“And I was like, pew pew! And I got both of them out!”
Sarah’s scoff of disbelief follows. “Nuh-uh! You didn’t even hit me!”
You creep down the steps, smiling a bit at Ellie’s outcry of “Yes I fucking did!”, and then you hear it–Joel’s low laugh, the Texan drawl.
“You kiddos are gonna drive me crazy. Just eat your damn pancakes.”
“Why’d you make these in the first place? You don’t even like pancakes,” Sarah teases.
“Uh…”
You decide you should probably help him out. “Hey girls.”
Three heads snap in your direction. The eyes of one skirting down your body, a blush creeping across his cheeks. The other two brighten in shock.
“What are you doing here!” Ellie gasps.
“We haven’t seen you in forever!” Sarah adds.
You enter the kitchen and come up behind them to pull them in for a hug, your arms hooking around their necks. You smush their cheeks against yours. Ellie grumbles, Sarah laughs.
“I know! I’ve missed you guys so much. I’m just super busy with being an adult and all that shit,” you say, letting them go so they can breathe. You round the island, grabbing a plate and stacking two pancakes on it.
“Well, stop being busy. We miss you,” Ellie says.
“If I could, I would.”
“Why are you wearing Dad’s shirt?” Sarah asks, eyes narrowing, a mischievous smile pulling at her lips.
“I–um–” the question catches you off guard, and you scramble for an excuse, eyes flicking to Joel desperately. He clears his throat and crosses his arms over his broad chest, now covered in yet another, dark flannel. How many does he own?
“Snowstorm stranded her here last night, and she didn’t have any clean clothes,” Joel says, definitively.
It’s not a lie at all, and yet, it feels like one.
Sarah and Ellie exchange a look that says, yeah fucking right. You shovel pancake into your mouth to try and cool down the blush in your cheeks.
“Speakin’ of,” he continues, “I’ve got the tow dolly all hooked up so when you’re done, we can tow your car out.”
“Great. Thank you, Joel.”
His brown eyes flick between yours, his hand coming up to rest large and warm on your shoulder. “‘Course, sweetheart.”
You finish your pancakes without any more embarrassing questions from the girls, thank God, and then you’re out in the snow wearing a pair of Joel’s boots stuffed with socks (they’re too big, but they’re better than heels) and bundled up in one of his coats, watching Joel tow your tiny car out of the snowbank.
It’s just as cold as yesterday, though the dreary sky has cleared into a baby blue, the sun bright and high above the clouds. The roads are clearer, the snow plows having come by not too long ago.
You grimace as you hear your car groan and creak as Joel pulls it out of the snow, big puffs of it falling off the roof in clumps. Eventually, it’s on solid ground once more, and he tows it back toward his cabin.
Back in the driveway, Joel hops out of his truck and double checks your car. He pats the roof of it when he deems it accetable. “All good to go, sweetheart.”
You sigh in relief, “Thank you so much Joel, seriously.”
He nods, though he looks…nervous for some reason. “‘Course, darlin’. Glad I could help.”
You don’t really want to leave, but you’ve bothered him long enough, so you stroll to the driver's side and go to open it, but suddenly Joel’s hand comes down to keep it closed. You look up at him confused.
His expression is hard, serious as he looks down at you. “Do you regret last night?”
Well. You were not expecting that. You thought that, maybe, it would just remain undiscussed. A blip. Something you both shared, but never spoke of again. You know your answer, though.
“No. I don’t.”
“Good,” he says, eyes dark, “me either.”
He opens the door for you, pauses for a second then shuts it, voice desperate. “I just need to say this, before you go.”
You nod, encouraging him to go on.
He takes a deep breath, rakes a hand through his graying locks. Pinches the bridge of his nose, and shuts his eyes tight. When he opens them again, there's a hard determination in them. Your pulse quickens, your legs turn to jelly.
“I like you, peach,” he says. “I understand if you don’t want to be with me because of the whole single father thing. And, also because I’m me. But I just thought I’d tell you how I felt, because,” he huffs out a laugh, shakes his head, “I’m thinkin’ you might like me, too.”
Your hands are shaking, and not because of the cold. Maybe you should buy a lottery ticket with how lucky you've been these past fifteen hours.
“I’ve liked you since the moment I met you, Joel," you confess.
“Oh,” he says, breathless, and a smile pulls at his lips.
“Yeah,” you breathe, your own grin forming to match his.
The breeze shakes the evergreens, drifting flakes of snow onto Joel’s graying hair. His nose is reddened by the biting cold, but his eyes are warm as he smiles down at you.
“Not gonna lie to you sweetheart, I’m kind of glad you got stranded here.”
"Yeah, me too," you laugh, and then you pull him down to you, pressing your lips against his, smiling into the kiss.
This kiss is the exact opposite of the one he gave you last night. It’s careful, sweet, tentative. He reveres your mouth, rather than ravishes it. You’re both bundled in multiple layers, standing in the freezing cold rather than lying naked in a warm bed.
And yet, it’s just as perfect, if not more.
Eventually Joel pulls back, hands heavy on your waist. He’s still grinning. His hands frame your face, his thumb running softly along your cheekbone.
“Peach,” he says. “Would you like to stay for dinner?”
Warnings: sexual innuendos and allusions! there’s also mentioning of taking off clothing while our narrator’s snoozing (consensual, i promise!)
Summary: “He’s dead.”
You sit down in the holding bay, still confused. “But—”
“I slit his throat,” he says, his voice unreadable through the modulator. “I’m not collecting anything for him.”
Suddenly, too quickly, it all comes rushing into focus. The bounty was Merle. You stifle a small sob, trying to comprehend the gravity of the situation. Regardless if you left the Crest in that ridiculous, half-baked runaway attempt, Mando would have brought Merle back to the ship. Either way, you would have been face to face with your past, painfully, quickly. But Mando could have gotten money for him, you realize, he could have dragged Merle alive back to the ship, to trade him into the Guild. But he didn’t. He killed him instead, to protect you.
You gasp again, trying to find the words to thank him, for protecting you even when you didn’t deserve it. Even without having to ask him. “I—thank you,” you manage. “Thank you, so much.”
Warnings: there’s a lot of explicit violence in this one, mentions of past physical abuse, semi-graphic warnings of violence, and explicit sexual content. PLEASE let me know if there’s anything you stumble upon that needs a warning tagged!
Summary: “Listen to me,” Mando says, and you do. “I’m not good with words.” He pauses, as if to prove his point, or maybe it’s so you feel the weight of the next one. “I’m better with action. And I would have killed everyone in that village if I thought they were threatening you.”
You sob again.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers, and you’ve never heard him apologize, never heard him this earnest. “I won’t do that again. I won’t…hide from you. I’ll stay.”
Din Djarin/Reader | 5.9k | Rated E | afab reader, no y/n, PIV sex, emotional hurt/comfort, angst, oral sex, reader is blindfolded, vague breeding kink, themes of religious doubt re: the creed
‘I have always felt ashamed at being witnessed in the act of wanting something I could not have.’ - Jennifer S. Cheng
Part 2 to Someday
a/n: wanted to play around with the ‘struggling between your faith and your lust’ trope with Din and Reader. All the mythology/constellation stuff I made up.
Rated: Explicit (we’re FINALLY getting to the actual explicit stuff y’all!)
Warnings: descriptions of violence, mentions of stalking/hunting, descriptions of sexual activity
Summary: “Too bad,” you manage, finally, hoping that your voice doesn’t break, “you protect me, I protect you, give and take, Mando, that’s how this works—”
And then you stop because his hands are on you. So fast. Lightning quick. One grabs at your side, thumb pressing lightly against where your scar bottoms out on the left of your abdomen, the other on the right side of your face, fingers tangled in the mess of your hair. You gasp, shudder, and breathe out as he grabs you. As easily as he squeezes, though, his grip detracts to barely there at all, and he slowly pushes you back against the wall. Every nerve on your body is on fire. You breathe, uneven and desperate, as his grip on your hip trails up your side until he has both big hands cupped against your face.
He’s eclipsing you. All you can see in your line of vision is him, and, peripherally, the distorted reflection of your heaving chest pressed up against the cool beskar, everything swallowed up by him. It’s devastating. It’s everything. You can barely breathe.
Rated: Explicit (not this chapter, but future chapters will be)
Warnings: descriptions of violence
Summary: “What…” he starts.
“You got hit—” you interrupt.
“…Are you wearing?” Mando finishes, and your cheeks flush, looking down at his giant shirt you never changed out of.
“I was—when you called, I was in the fresher,” you say, scooting slightly closer to him, resting on both knees. “I didn’t have time to put anything else on before you told me to hide.”
“Oh,” he sighs, and then he’s pushing himself off the floor despite literally every single warning you spurt at him, and finally, he’s up against the same wall you’re leaning against. The space is small, small enough that two people would be pushing it, and the fact that one of those people is much larger than the other and in giant beskar armor means that your forehead is almost flush against the visor when he turns his head into you. Your breath catches in your chest. It’s not lost on you that in the heat of the moment, you didn’t run. You ignored where you were, and you forged on to save him. That didn’t happen the last time you were on this planet and the fact that belonging to something—to someone—was enough to push past the fear and do it anyway sung inside you.
Rated: Explicit (not this chapter, but future chapters will be)
Warnings: descriptions of violence, violence, there’s an interaction between the reader and a threatening man but it’s not that in depth and it ends quickly (but if that will trigger you PLEASE skip over it!! <3), descriptions that are sexual in nature
Summary: “You’re not fending for yourself on Corellia,” he says, and it’s abrupt. He turns back around, and you swallow a few mouthfuls of air because what are you supposed to say to that?
“I’m a big girl,” you chance, leaning forward, ever so slightly. “I can handle myself.”
“I’m not leaving you here,” he counters, and you fall silent. Okay, then. Your heart does a backflip in your chest. He’s not leaving you here. From the way he’s refused to let you leave the Razor Crest on the last few locations in sketchy places, you have a sneaking suspicion he’s gotten accustomed to your presence, and maybe even that he doesn’t want you to get hurt. It sings in your chest. Either that, or you’ve unknowingly been kidnapped for the better part of the month, but, if you were being honest with that deep down adrenaline rush that follows him around, you don’t even care.
Rated: Explicit (not this chapter, but future chapters will be)
Warnings: light descriptions of violence
Summary: Meeting the Mandalorian was like colliding into the rest of your life at a moment’s notice. Like oh, there you are. It was both jarring and familiar at the same time, like stepping into a minute with no intentions and stepping out of it in deja-vu. You had always been told you made too much out of everything, that you blew up every circumstance to fit some kind of grand destiny, some huge significance. If anyone asked, you’d swear up and down this was different. It was different. The Mandalorian sweeping you off your feet and out of your back alley haunts and narrow escapes was something kismet. Something cosmic. Something more.
Or, a slow burn love story across the stars featuring you, Din, and your little green baby. With love, angst, lust, and everything in between following you across the galaxy.*this deviates from canon for the most part, the plot begins at the very end of season 1 and will deviate for about half of season 2! there is LOTS planned for this (i already have 19k words written & will be posting regularly) so i hope you all enjoy!! <3 muah*
this is 1000000% completely inspired by the incredible behemoth SUPREME Mandalorian fic Rough Day by our lord & savior @no-droids but it will have its entire own plot & more of a slowburn in both love & smut, specifically for suffering long haul romance lovers like myself!
i already have 19k words written & will be ATTEMPTING to post updates regularly (and if i get excited about getting new chapters up, they might come early. i’m gonna try to post Saturday evenings every week, extenuating circumstances notwithstanding <3
pairing: detective tim rockford x f!cat burglar
(no descriptions. no name is used, just an alias and she/her pronouns)
summary: This cat and mouse game - when will it end? Detective Rockford is growing tired of The Belladonna Thief’s games.
"Oh, don’t be coy, detective. You must’ve thought of it. I know because I have.”
His head is warring with whatever is telling him there is a sweet promise in her steps. Slowly, ever so slowly. Slinking towards him in that serpentine way. Harmless, languid steps—her voice keeping him rapt, like some siren willing its next victim to the sea.
rating: E, for explicit sexual situations - !! 18+ only, you will be blocked !!
(no age/age range in bio? right to block list!)
tags/warnings: dirty talk, mentions of a gun, no use of it though/blink and you miss it, unprotected sex, creampie, unsafe sex, rough sex, hate fucking kinda, like one spank, praise kink, the detective is a lil mean, vaginal penetration, art heist, jewelry heist, pretentious conversation about the significance of art lol, oc has a poison alias but no use of poison at all, the only weapons at play here are their hearts.
note: do i look like a clown, cause i feel it. can't blame cleaning products on this one. also, i don’t know shit about belladonna/nightshade, google has no meaning to me here. no editing we die like true stans.
Anyway, I do really like the playlist for this fic!
| playlist |
|| read on AO3 ||
The chase reminds him of a music box. Winding, winding, winding, and the same infernal song playing on and on…and on. Tittering and twinkling, soothing yet chilling.
He knows the rhythm, the melody, the crescendo, and then—
Right when he thinks it's about to end…it starts up again. An extra creak, a twist he didn’t account for, another unsettling chime from plucked steel.
He wishes he could slam the lid shut.
This infuriating game of cat and mouse, where Rockford didn’t know if he was more cat or more mouse these days. A back-and-forth that’s sent his blood boiling, because it’s never as simple as it seems. Never as clear-cut as the high-end diamonds that have vanished across banks, museums, and luxury jewelers all across the state.
It started with one painting.
Renaissance. Something 16th century that Rockford had no prior knowledge of. But from the way the curator’s wide eyes, pale and sweating forehead, and emphatically gesticulating at him…Rockford garnered it had been a massive loss for the museum.
When he’d first turned up at the scene, ducking under the police cordon, the last thing he’d thought he’d find was a sprig of…
Belladonna. Nightshade, also known as “the devil’s berry”. A carefully snipped branch. Delicate dark green leaves with at least three dark berries hanging off it—and a barely-budding dark purple flower, trumpeted and ominous.
The curator had hastily whispered something about what it meant. In antiquity, a gift of belladonna was often seen as a warning—or a symbol of death.
Rockford had brushed him off.
It had been hit, after hit, after hit. Never any rhyme or reason to even begin to thread together a story of motive for the steadily growing notorious thief.
And every time, a sprig of belladonna. A calling card.
It had earned her the name of The Belladonna Thief.
Nigh on half a year of chasing his own tail, until one evening he’d cracked it. There was no way he’d get the sign-off of men and a full stakeout for what was a hunch.
And that had been his first brush with her.
The surprise on her face had been brief—almost as brief as his when he realized he’d been right all along.
He’d found her in the darkness, slight profile. The only light from the moon, streaming in from the snowy, tessellating glass roof. She’d been simply standing in front of a large painting in the main hall of a severely under-funded county art gallery.
The painting. Immense, depicting a grotesque and detailed scene from a battlefield. Roman or other—Rockford wouldn’t know either way.
In any other circumstance, Rockford would have mistaken her for a visitor. Her hands tucked into her long, camel-colored winter coat and staring up in rapt admiration. Moonlight touching the highest points of her face.
Deep inside Rockford, something unfurls in his chest. Something warm and disquieting, making Rockford wish he could hold the silence just a second longer…to figure pull at it. Tug at it like the loose end of a fraying sweater. What would he discover, he doesn’t know because what set her apart from any other visitor—besides the obvious—was the tentative way she moved her hand from her coat’s pocket and out to touch the painting.
Tracing her fingers down the canvas and tipping head her left, then right.
“Oil always feels so violent, doesn’t it?”
He had stiffened behind his cover, thinking he’d done a good job at securing a spot where he could observe her unseen.
“The brush strokes. They’re wilder in some places, and invisible in others.”
Rockford steps out from behind the marbled statue.
“I don’t think you’re meant to touch the paintings.”
She looks over at him. Whatever shock to find him there, long gone as she returns his long look. Her eyes flick down to where his hand twitches, ready to unholster his gun.
And then she smiles and nods.
“No, no you’re not,” she agrees before turning back to the painting, hand safely tucked back into her pocket. Her voice takes on a wistful quality. “But I could never help myself. Even as a kid. I’d set off the alarms. As a teenager, I’d get kicked out—and then all through university I worked hard to learn how to undo any and every motion detector.”
She tosses him a large smile, dropping her voice to a playful whisper. “I’m gentle. I promise.”
Rockford replays the memory. Their first back and forth. Belladonna’s disarming smile and wit. The way he’d snipped that it was an “awfully large painting” for one person to carry out.
She’d assured him with a loud laugh that echoed around the gallery’s main hall, that she had no intention of picking off a county’s only prized possession. And then that wistful look again, dragging away from the painting and meeting Rockford’s gaze.
Holding, holding, holding.
“It’s just too beautiful not to touch—converse with in private.”
Her words. Heavy with meaning and potential. They zapped all reason from him. All he could do was watch as she took a step back, producing a small sprig from her coat pocket and laying it on the viewing bench behind her.
She’d slipped away, in the opposite direction, into the darkness where he’d quickly lost track of her. Swearing, echoing in the empty darkness—remnants of a flowery scent, lining his nose.
He’d been the only one ever to get this close.
And then again.
And then it was as if she were just…letting him.
It had caught the attention of every top dog in the game, making Rockford the lead on the case of nailing down The Belladonna Thief.
And now.
Now, she’s everywhere. Almost with a vengeance.
Letters litter his desk. Carbon copy correspondence from The Belladonna Thief had been sent out to every crime department from Seattle to Key West. Each one detailing a thorough plan for a hit at one of the galleries or museums or safety deposit boxes in their remit.
The oddest part? Time, location, and what would be taken were given.
It made no sense.
There’s no chance every single department would be funded to safeguard what could ultimately be a big hoax.
Cat and mouse. Cat and mouse—
Until he remembers, after three beers and one-commercial-too-many that Friday night, what exactly hangs up on the walls of the Classical Gallery in downtown Boston.
Yes. Rockford knows exactly where The Belladonna Thief would hit the gallery…and why.
When he arrives the security staff are already unconscious, slumped over their 2 AM coffees and pastries.
The systems have been disabled and the cameras are dead. Just like the first time they met…and every time after that.
And although they’d never had an altercation, he treads with caution. Sticking to the walls and keeping to the shadows. Listening out for sounds and making minimal noise, he works his way up the stairs.
And yes.
There she was.
Belladonna.
Her berry-red painted mouth, the color of what could—arguably—eventually become its eponym. She’s bent over a painting straddled over a short column, once exhibiting a bust (now at her feet), and the wall behind her is blank; an aching sight to anyone’s eye, letting them know something is missing.
She’s working something out of the canvas with a scalpel-type tool—cutting into the painting. A portrait of a woman, dark-haired, and dressed in white and gilded gold.
“Funny,” Rockford rasps. “It’s not every day a thief gives away their exact location.”
She immediately stops, her muscles tensing at his voice cutting through the quiet. Raising her head, she meets his gaze and smiles. A smile that reminds him of inside jokes and shared, quiet conversations.
A tug, and something unspools quicker inside him, making his blood run hot. Not in irritation this time. No. Hot like when kisses taste like cheap beer and stilted conversations that end in head-shaped dents in his pillow the next morning.
Hot like when he finds himself thinking about her when things go quiet, and his mind has no choice but to wander. Filled with the quiet purr of her voice and the flowery, thick scent she always leaves behind that makes his slacks feel a touch-too-tight.
“Maybe I wanted to be found?” She offers with a shrug. The shift of her shoulders in her dark-green sweater makes the motion of her breasts under the fabric all the more noticeable.
He resents her for it.
He scoffs. “That why you’ve told every crime department from here to Illinois you’d be putting a hit out on all their galleries?”
“Oh,” the faux-pained noise she makes is derisive. “You didn’t like my love letters?” She pouts, an overdramatized display of her bottom lip jutting out.
“Hard to feel special when you’re sending them to every detective across the northeast.”
Then a slow, mischievous smile forms on her face.
“Yes,” she hums. “Yes, but you’ve always been my favorite, Detective Rockford.”
It’s distracting the way his name and title sound from deep within her. A disruptive and curious thought, too quick to contain, asks him what other pretty sounds she can make. What sounds Rockford is capable of pulling from her.
She quirks a brow at his silence.
“Drop the diamond.”
“I was going to put it right back. I swear, I was just looking,” she jests, again with a giggle so girlish that Rockford has to blink hard, just to make sure he’s really got an Interpol-wanted thief cornered.
She holds it between a forefinger and a thumb. So small, it reminds him of the olives she might take in her martinis. One he might offer to buy her. If they met in another life, in one of those upscale bars she probably frequents with her penchant for the finer things.
“This is a little too predictable,” Rockford says instead. “Even for you.”
She scoffs. “And here I was about to compliment your astute knack for detail. Very few would have made the connection.”
“You’re right. Not many would have. But not a lot of people tend to pass out in front of the History Channel as often as I do.”
Maybe he’s imagining it, but she perks up at this. “I didn’t take you for a historian, detective.”
“I’m not,” he says, and chances taking a step forward. She frowns, so he stays where he’s at. “I’m just too tired to change the channel.”
She points a gloved finger down at the painting she’s neatly cut into, where she scooped the diamond out of. “This is where urban legends work in my favor. No one actually believes that a one-of-a-kind diamond would be hidden inside a portrait by…by some…up-and-coming painter—because why would an Italian merchant sit on his wealth? I know.”
He stays quiet, lifting his chin and observing her.
“I can imagine why,” she sighs at the diamond twisting left and right in her fingers. “I can see why sitting on pretty, shiny things has value.”
“Or maybe,” Rockford interrupts. “We leave things where we found them.”
The diamond goes up in the air and he nearly launches himself at it before she swiftly catches it in her palm, fist clasped around it. As if she were tossing something as ordinary as an apple.
The adrenaline in him pumps faster, feels the prickle of sweat at the nape of his neck. She must see the look on his face because she laughs, the sound tittering and twinkling. Music box melody.
“Where’s the fun in that?”
He shakes his head and he’s just about to tell her to quit it. He’s got her cornered, and it ends here. Tonight.
But she speaks again.
“Do you know why it’s called Belladonna?”
He knows because he’s watched the stupid conspiracy theory cloaked as a documentary when he couldn’t fall back asleep. But Rockford doesn’t answer her, jaw clenching.
Maybe she’s mildly peeved he won’t humor her, from the way her eyes assess him under dark lashes, but she continues anyway, examining the black diamond—as black as pure obsidian. As dark as her eyelashes when they touch her cheeks.
“Folklore says women during Renaissance Italy would take it to enlarge their pupils, which they thought would make them more alluring to their suitors.”
She leans over the canvas, propped up on her elbows, and tosses Rockford a wicked smile. “Isn’t it savage the things women do to their bodies to appease the male gaze?”
Rockford stops tracking his eyes over the long lines she creates with her body, stretching over as casually the way she does. He wishes he could keep her there, still and bent at the waist and—-
A teasing smile works over her lips. “So savage that the painting’s commissioner thought he needed to make a point of his wife’s beauty by embedding his second greatest possession right into the pupil of his first.”
“The Belladonna Diamond.”
“Yes.”
“So, you understand,” she straightens up. “It’s been right there all along. Just asking to be taken. Uncherished. Neglected.”
Rockford points a finger at the spot she’s desecrated. “What I don’t understand is why ruin a piece of history by separating a distinguishable part of it. You have a skewed sense of morality.”
She appears to be tickled by that and nods. “Or, you can see it as adding myself to a part of its history. Tying the two together. Equal parts with deserved notoriety.”
He can’t hold back the mocking laugh then.
“This is ridiculous,” he mutters, annoyed. Annoyed that his blood is still warm in his vein and threatening to rush below his belt. “We’re done here.”
“Oh,” she whines, pouting cartoonishly again. She flutters those eyelashes at Rockford and he’s on the brink of doing something. Like tasting the lipstick off her mouth and pinning her to the wall where the art piece once hung.
“Or,” she draws out the word, slow and low. “You can let me off the hook, just like every other time.”
“I didn’t—”
“You did,” she glares at him. “You could have perp walked me to your dingy little car the first time we met. Back when you did get the jump on me. The one and only time.”
The nerve. The audacity of her smart mouth, her words rooting something dark and hot inside of Rockford.
“Admit it,” he growls. “You’ve never had an exit plan. You’ve been operating on dumb luck, every single time. Praying I’m the detective on the case, on the off chance you can distract me while you wax on lyrically about fucking art and jewels. Isn’t that right…”
Rockford pauses for a long beat. Drinking her in, her face, the defiant tip of her chin, at the way he’s about to bring her world to a halt and squeeze her back into the role of mouse. Prey trapped in his snare.
He says it before he gives himself too much time to think about it. Been curious what it would taste like along his tongue, the brush of air past his lips. He’d imagined it in the antithesis of this scenario. One where she was feverish beneath him, maybe in the backseat of his car, writhing and panting for more.
He calls her name.
Her real name.
No alias, no masks, no claim to her sought-after notoriety.
Her face falls instantly, and it’s intoxicatingly gratifying, the fear there makes his victory all the more alluring. She catches herself, licking her lips, and she settles into a blasé expression. Achingly, something about it makes her even more attractive. Like a challenge waiting to be answered, to kiss and touch until he makes her break.
Her gaze is hard when it suddenly flicks over at Rockford.
“You know not to use our safe word when we’re just getting started.”
An undeniable twitch of his cock behind his zipper.
“You talk too much,” his voice is unrecognizable. A low register, slow and husky. “Very…mouthy.”
She tries and fails to hide the shiver, but it’s too sudden albeit subtle. Rockford allows himself the luxury to smirk, which doesn’t sit too well with Belladonna.
He adds. “That’s what lands you in trouble, sweetheart.”
A shift, a switch on what sides of the table they're on—another unexpected winding of the music box.
Cat and mouse, cat and mouse, cat—
She tucks her bottom lips between her teeth, a devious smile accompanying the flirty nip at her mouth.
“Hmm,” she nods. “It seems like I’ve already given a lot of myself away. What else shall I give you? Hmm, detective?”
The use of his title, in that sweet-honeyed tone, sends a rush of arousal straight to his cock. Again. Distracting him…or letting himself become distracted.
“Enough with the games.”
She clucks her tongue. “Oh, don’t be coy, detective. You must’ve thought of it. I know because I have.”
Slowly, she moves away from the spot she’s stood behind their entire interaction. Around the painting precariously balancing on the column, leaving the diamond behind with the scalpel atop it. The closer she gets him, the more intense the urge to back away becomes. His head is warring with whatever is telling him there is a sweet promise in her steps. Slowly, ever so slowly. Slinking towards him in that serpentine way. Harmless, languid steps—her voice keeping him rapt, like some siren willing its next victim to the sea.
“I’ve thought about…” she begins. “How you’d touch me—rough…I think.”
He feels the twitch between his eyebrows, like he’s fighting the urge to raise them in intrigue—to keep her talking. But he tries his best to remain as stone-faced as always. Giving her a long, stern look through the strain in his breathing.
They stand in a silence that painfully stretches on. Eyes searching one another, equally guarded, and equally roving. The closest they’ve ever been, the strongest he’s ever smelt—was it wild lilies?
“I can see it in your eyes, detective,” she whispers. “The possibility. If I just…let you.”
“You don—”
He can barely get his words out, tight in his throat, when she shakes her head.
And then she’s nodding softly. “You do. You want to—I want you to.”
Rockford doesn’t miss the gentle hitch in her breath and feels his resolve quickly fading—can feel reason and logic leaving his body when her hands slowly come up to grip his tie, gently adjusting the knot.
“Sometimes, I let myself think about just how bad you want to hold me down,” she tries to smile but fails, her hands pressing and spreading across his chest. His own tense at his side, the very little sanity left inside him telling him this isn’t the moment to let his guard down. Although, it is the moment he’s been envisioning in the darkness of his bedroom and when his sleep-deprived mind gets away from him.
Because he has thought about it. The way he’d keep her from wriggling away, how he’d finally keep her in place and let her meet the consequences of this sick chase.
Liquid heat moving through him, a heat so wanting it begins to hurt him, enrage him.
“Not handcuffs. No.”
Fuck.
She keeps talking, breathy and uneven. She’s tipping and angling her head toward him, then tipping and angling away. Rockford resists but can almost materialize his demise. And it’s soon. The way he’d hold the back of her head in place and capture her mouth with his. No good awaits him at the end of that thought.
Then she closes her eyes.
“No. After all this time, you wouldn’t use handcuffs. You’d use your hands. You’d pin me down with just your weight and your hand around my wrists. You’d made it hurt so good—”
It’s all too much. He’s only human. Warm-blooded and aching for this woman and her foul play. So, he breaks. He breaks because if going down with her feels this good, then maybe he’d drink from the well.
“Shut up.”
And his mouth crashes against hers, his hand spreading across the back of her head and holding her in place. Her body immediately melts into his, hands clutching earnestly at the front of his shirt, and her knees might be giving up because she’s holding herself up against him. He swallows down all her tiny, sweet sounds—whimpers from a mouth so bold and quick to delve out sass.
And she’s as sweet as the little noises she’s making, licking into her mouth with ravenous purpose.
“You need to learn to—-to shut the fuck up,” Rockford grunts and wheels them around, walking her back into the empty wall next to him. He pushes her back toward it roughly, but the protective railing stops her short. She doesn’t protest, instead reaching out to pull him closer, back down to kiss her.
His touch is everywhere, gripping and cupping and pinching—a palm spreading over her lush ass and grabbing fists full of her until she’s mewling into his mouth. He’s positively throbbing, more so now with the promise of his every fantasy right in the palm of his hand.
“We don’t have time,” she shakes her head. “The guards—they’ll—”
“Then you’ll just have to be good for me. Yes?”
She looks up at him with stunned wide eyes and it might be the first time she’s ever been truly caught off guard. He’s curious about the people before in her life, if they’d ever taken the time or had the patience to put her first. Because she’s painfully fuckable like this. Rockford decides that now isn’t the time to discover something new about himself, especially as he stares at her thoroughly-kissed mouth, disheveled and heady with arousal.
He knocks the tip of her chin with the knuckle of his forefinger—calling her attention and repeating himself.
“Are you going to be good for me?”
He’s stern but sharp.
Those pupil-blown eyes blink fast at him. Disoriented and turned on, she nods slowly at first before giving him a definitive one.
“Yes, detective.”
“Fuck you,” and he covers his mouth over hers again, hands pushing under her sweater until he finds the edge of her bra. “Like you don’t fucking know what you’re doing when you call me that.”
Rockford pinches down on a pert nipple and her hips buck into his erection, sending him reeling.
They don’t have time for all the things he wishes he could do to her. They have to be quick.
He whirls her around, presses the front of her thighs up against the small railing lining the perimeter around the room—the one meant to dissuade visitors from getting too close to the art pieces—and snatches down the tight material of her black leggings.
And with it, her underwear.
Rockford groans, like he’s in pain.
Her own moans are strangled when she’s exposed to the open air. He knows he has to be swift about this, but he needs to take time to appreciate her like this. She should be pinned up against the wall with the rest of the pieces, on display and revered. The roundness of her ass perked up toward him, the sight of her wet cunt prettily on display for him. Slightly folded at the waist, she keeps a curled grip on the railing and the other on the wall in front of her.
Her hips twitch and she pants. “Hurry—”
He lands a hard slap against her right cheek, and she buckles slightly with a garbled moan.
“Shut it, I said,” he grunts, soothing the spot he struck with a soft stroke of his palm. “Only good girls get rewarded.”
Her response is a reluctant nod, and his head is swimming, halfway between believing he’s slipped out of reality and planted in one of his dreams, and that he’s actually passed out on his couch. Dreaming of her once again.
But she feels real. Real and soft and wet. He runs a knuckle down her slit until it meets her clit, the nudge earning him an eager little jump on her part. Rockford allows himself the chance to smirk.
“You usually get this wet for detectives chasing you down?”
She tosses her head down, falling between her shoulders, and speaks to the ground. “Fuck—fuck you. Y-you shut up n-now.”
“You’re right,” and he unbuckles his belt before unzipping his pants. He fishes himself out of his underwear, and the immediate relief as he grips himself. With a slow stroke, he watches the bead of precum slip down. “We do way too much talking. Maybe fucking your pretty cunt will shut you up for a while.”
“Fu—oh!”
Whatever snide backtalk she was about to launch at him never makes it out because he sheathes himself fully inside her.
When he broke earlier, Rockford thought of himself as purely human and prone to error. But now, fully seated inside the end of his every desire, he doesn’t feel very man or human. Not anymore. At least not now. He feels like a carnal, craving thing that’s out to claim her.
She’d been right.
He wouldn’t even dream of handcuffs. He’d want to restrain her with bare hands, until the prints of his fingers left bruises and all she could think about was how he’d been the one to make her come so hard she was seeing stars.
Sputtering, gasping noises. She’s keening and pressing back into him.
“Don’t let go,” he warns her, barely able to think for himself with her so tight and wet, wrapped around his cock so soundly like a wet dream. Rockford grips her waist, he draws back and slams into her with such force she moves over the edge of the railing. “Don’t. Let. Go.”
And repeats the motion.
This is beyond words. Fucking doesn’t cover the way his head has gotten away from him as he thrusts in and out of her. But this wasn’t at all like the late-night invitations after small talk at the bar. No. This is catastrophic.
Perhaps they were simply taking out of their frustration one another. Finally giving in to the thing that pulsed tangibly between the two of the, after every brush encounter.
He reaches around once he’s sure she has a good hold on her position and finds her clit with two fingers. Rockford brushes her slick, sensitive nub and listens to the change in her voice—the sweet alternating of high-pitched sighs and deep, low moans. There’s little precision to his touch, but she’s receptive, making a mess at the front of his slacks.
She’s close.
He can feel it. The way her walls tighten around him, the way her breathing is getting louder and her moans quiet to focus on her breathing as she gets sucked under.
“You’re so—so fucking,” Rockford pauses to groan throat a shot of pleasure down his spine. “So fucking good for me.”
“See?” He can barely huff out the words, panting and sweating with every punishing thrust. “See what you could have if you’re just—just—good for me.”
He clucks his tongue disapprovingly. Even through her pleasure, while tossing her head back, she tells him to go fuck himself. Rockford retaliates by pressing down onto her clit and speeding up his fingers.
It sends her over the edge and nearly takes him with her from how hard she squeezes down around him. Bucking and pressing back into him as she falls apart around him, moaning raspy and quickly.
“Fuck. Gonna—gonna—”
“Inside,” she whispers out of breath and over her shoulder. “Inside. Please—need you inside.”
It’s too much for him. Too good, too irresistible from the flutter of her pulsing aftershocks—of watching her from this angle. Disarming and thoroughly fucked by him. His orgasm takes him by surprise, coming on quicker than he can pace it. It’s hungry and possessive, and yes, yes, he wants to be the one to fill her up.
He’s shaking at the end of it, barely able to take one full lungful of air, and still pressed deep inside her.
And although he can barely get his head wrapped around what just happened, he tucks himself back inside his slacks and does the gentlemanly thing. Rockford helps her slip her underwear and leggings back over her hips. He twists her around, their warm faces, panting and humming their satisfaction. Her pupils are blown so wide he remembers vaguely the story of Belladonna.
She leans forward, closes the space between them, and kisses him. Unlike the kiss they shared when she first approached him, before the mind-melting sex. She presses up against him, her gloved fingers in his hair as she kisses him hungry and desperate this time. Her hands trailing everywhere that it’s hard to predict where they’ll go next.
He soaks it up. Drinks from what she offers, and grips the railing behind her. His own tired muscles shake with resistance, reminding him of how he’s recently exerted himself. It’s so quiet like this, with her brushing mouth against his that he could almost be led to believe this could be something. Something other than some ridiculous daydream he allows himself.
She breaks the kiss, parting barely a breath away. Their heavily lidded gazes holding one another.
Click.
He freezes.
Another winding turn, a symphony that’s haunting and familiar.
The music keeps playing.
She reaches up to press a kiss to his cheek and backs away swiftly.
“I always have an exit plan, detective.”
Rockford looks down, and just as he assumed (with cold dread dropping straight down to his stomach), he finds his wrist locked around his own handcuff.
The other hooked and shut around the railing he folded her over moments ago. He pats at his pocket, but it’s futile.
She’s already halfway across the room, showing him the keys to his handcuffs, and then drops in the hole in the painting she made. With it, her usual sprig of belladonna. Picking up the Belladonna Diamond, she pockets it in a small velvet bag.
He can’t even find his words, and he’s sure he’s wearing the world’s stupidest expression on his face. One enough to make her smile that mischievous smile.
“I had a good time,” she says, moving towards the exit briskly, but stopping short of the door. Leaning against the jamb, she bites her bottom lip coquettishly before whispering. “I’ll call you sometime.”
And just like that, the Belladonna Thief slips out into the night—the music box takes another twist.
note: i spent my entire saturday, about eight hours, writing and "editing" this...reblogs and comments make me light up like the fourth of july (& i don't even celebrate it) - and also i would like to be friends with you so, hi!
it is in the silence of us that i know where we are.
type: one-shot
word count: 10k (holy moly im sorry)
pairing: the (dark?)mandalorian x afab!fem!reader
warnings: mature language and content, mature (but soft) written sexual content (read at your own discretion), 🔞⚠️
summary: you are unable to spend another day without the mandalorian knowing how you truly feel.
complete masterlist
It was quiet, for the first time in a long time. Quiet in the sense that there was no noise around you. There was no hum of a ship, no loud sounds of alarms or radio transmissions from far acquaintances or the press and click of buttons and levers and lights. No, at this moment, it was quiet. The only sound was the slight whirr of wind outside and the gentle sigh leaving you. It was peace, and it was quiet; so why didn’t you like it?
You looked down into your lap, smoothing your hands over your legs. It was too quiet for your taste, perhaps? No, that wasn’t it. Quiet was good; but it was this quiet that wasn’t good.
You had gotten very used to having a presence at your side. For a long while now, a towering, heavy wall was your shadow. They did not speak much; in fact, for the months you had spent sitting beside them, you thought perhaps you could count the amount of words they said to you on both hands. While that was a stretch, it didn’t ignore the fact that the words spoken between you were usually from you and you only.
The helmet was his way of communicating. A slight tilt to the side, a heavy nod, a firm stare. You had become accustomed to this way of speaking, and you even were able to read his silence. Sometimes if you asked a question, he said nothing at all. You recently realized that you knew if his answer was yes or no just by the feel of the air around him. He seemed to realize that, too, and he seemed content at the fact that he could speak to you without speaking at all. It was a quiet, comfortable companionship; a quiet that you adored. A quiet that, at this very moment, you missed very much.
A shared quiet. A quiet that I spend with him, and only him, staring into the stars and wondering where he’ll take me next.
Will we be here a few more days? A quiet linger, a gentle sigh. You understood, preparing yourself to settle down for a little longer. Did you find what you were looking for? Nothing said, but he flicked several switches on the console in front of him with ease, very sure of his movements, and you smiled as you sat beside him. He had indeed found what he had been searching for. Is it okay if I borrow this? No response, but his absence of a protest meant you could do as you pleased.
That quiet was bliss.
You stood up from the small bed you were occupying. You found refuge at a local inn, and he had given you your own room. You had given him wide, wet eyes at this realization. You were rarely apart from him, and when you were, you were left in the protection of his ship, one that had yet to fail you. When you had climbed the mud clay stairs to the lodgings, he made it obvious that your room was right beside his. It was a silent declaration of if you need me, I am beside you. He had even slipped a small device into your hand, one curved in a way that could fit snugly in your ear. Communication, even if you only had to walk a few feet to his door. You looked at the device now, sitting on the bedside table, and your heart ached a bit. He thought of every fear you might have, and he accommodated each one of them.
He would not be far away from you; his room was beside yours. You would not have to sleep without saying goodnight to him; he had left a way into his ear in your hand.
You slipped the blankets back from the bed, getting inside of it. It was a comfortable bed, but you still were not at ease. You wanted to see him. In the dark, sometimes you saw flashes of lights as the buttons and panels of his ship reflected off his armor. It always put you at ease. Now, you stared into complete darkness, with nothing but an ugly quietness that left you breathing shallowly. You reached for the device on the table, fitting it into your ear.
A small beep sounded in your ear, a sound to indicate the connection had been made. You closed your eyes, biting your lip hard.
“Are you still here?” You asked suddenly, very softly. If he was asleep, you hoped your soft voice would not startle him. It was silent for a few long moments, and you sat up as the panic already started to flood your insides.
“Yes.”
You sighed a deep breath of relief, laying back down. “Are you crazy?” You breathed. “Why didn’t you answer me sooner? Geez…”
You closed your eyes, shaking your head as you brought the blankets back up. You wished he had just gotten one room with two beds, you wished you had said something; but you supposed even Mandalorians needed their privacy. You supposed he might have wanted to take off his armor and breathe in fresh air, and guilt crept in you as you thought about how your intrusion of his space probably kept him from being at ease, completely at ease.
“Are you alright?”
His voice brought you out of your thoughts, and you swallowed hard.
“No,” you whispered. You wanted to be honest. You weren’t capable of lying to him. He would know if you were lying, anyways. “I hate it here.”
There was a slight pause. “Are…is the room not to your liking?” He asked. He sounded confused and unsure of himself. He thought he had found a place that seemed comfortable enough for you. He had left a few days prior to find somewhere he deemed appropriate.
“The room is fine,” you said softly. It wasn’t the room. You could sleep on the cold dirt floor just fine, without complaining. “I just…” You closed your eyes tight, squeezing your eyes shut. “I…I’m not used to being without you. I’m…I’m sorry.”
You winced at how pathetic that sounded. Not used to being without him? You had slept many nights without him. You weren’t sure how to voice what you were feeling inside.
“No, I’ve…” You laughed nervously. “I’ve been without you a lot, it’s just…” You took a deep breath, but you hated how shaky it was breathed out. “This place is new, and I’m…I-I—”
“It is safe here,” he interrupted you. You brought the blankets up more, over your face.
“Can…” You turned over onto your side, clutching the blankets to your chest. “Can you get us a room together next time?” You asked quietly. You hoped he would understand the heaviness in your tone. It was your unspoken plea to tell him that you needed him.
There was a long pass of silence, but it was one you were used to. He hummed lowly, but not in a bad way. He was acknowledging your worry, you anxiety, the discomfort you felt without him.
“I miss you,” you said suddenly, your voice clear and soft. “That’s all.”
He did not reply. You smiled to yourself at the comfortable silence. You had no way of knowing how heavy his heart felt, the ache inside of him. Being away from you, even though you were only separated by a thin wall, had him on edge. He enjoyed where your sleeping quarters were on his ship; he could see you always, and this line of sight comforted him to no end. With you apart, there was a voice in him that almost convinced him to take to the wall and break it down just to relax your worries.
“Places are not safe, Mandalorian,” you continued. “You…you are.”
Your eyelids drooped, your conscious slipping a bit as you relaxed into the bed. Knowing he was listening to you made you feel the warm, familiar togetherness that you normally felt with him.
“You make me feel safe,” you finished groggily. It was the last thing you said before drifting off. He said nothing on the other end, but he knew you were asleep when he heard the evenness of your breath. He did not take the device out of his ear. He refused to, in fact, and he had been wearing it all night to make sure he would be able to hear you if you needed him. He closed his own eyes so he could let your words melt into him. He wanted to remember these words forever.
He was never going to get separate rooms ever again. He would appease any request of yours. He did not think he was capable of refusing any wish of yours; not when you asked him in that honeyed voice of yours.
When it was morning, you awoke to the bright sunlight that came in through the window. It was right in your eyes, and you turned over to move away from it. You looked at one of the screens in the room, touching it to reveal the time. It was early in the morning, earlier than the time he had told you to be awake, but you felt rested enough. You didn’t want to be away from him any longer.
You got out of bed and rummaged through your bag for something to wear. You picked out an unfitted white dress, just long enough to skim the tops of your thighs. The sleeves were fitted until your elbows, and then they belled out until the end of your wrist. You grabbed a dark pair of pants to put on underneath and reached for the leather thigh holster you wore over it, and then you bent down to tie up your boots. You had many dresses, but your wardrobe quickly adapted to the lifestyle you now led. The countless times you needed a quick getaway, to bolt into a fast sprint, to face a new adversary, were endless, and simply wearing a dress quickly became unfit for life with a Mandalorian. He had given you the holster you now wore and suggested these pair of boots; you had cooed at him when he bought them for you, and you remembered being restless when he secured the holster on your thigh for the first time.
You always pretended you didn’t know how to secure the holster. You enjoyed the way he was careful to put it on you. You had seen him do this for you every day; if he knew you were lying every time you told him you needed his help to secure the leather, he never said so. Perhaps he wanted to do it for you; maybe he even liked it.
The dress was not fitted to your frame, so you reached into your bag for the leather corset there. You held the corset and the holster in hand before leaving the room, making the short way to his door. You raised your hand, knocking gently on the metal of the door.
“Are you awake?” You asked, shifting from boot to boot as you waited for him to answer you. The door suddenly slid open, making you jump a bit backwards. Before you could fall back enough, a leather glove shot out and held your waist to keep you still. You smiled sheepishly, laughing a bit as he brought you closer. “You’re awake,” you nodded to yourself. Your eyes trailed up gleaming beskar to his helmet, where you looked into the dark visor and smiled wider. You held up the leather items in your hand, tilting your head to the side. His hand had yet to move from your waist. “I was hoping…you could help me.”
It was your usual morning routine. You padded into his room, and his door shut behind you. You noticed, for the first time, that he had yet to put all of his armor on. A pauldron and his belt of shiny rifle rounds and small detonators lay on the bed, and you turned to face him once you did your once-over of his room. He just stared at you, and you moved the items to the side before taking a seat on his bed. He took a chair from the side of the room and placed it in front of you, taking a seat as he took a hold of the thigh holster. You scooted closer to him, lifting your leg for him. He took it into his hands, laying it over his lap as he wrapped the straps around your thigh.
You leaned back on the palms of your hands as he did this. You watched him carefully, your eyes gentle as he worked of the leather straps through its belt buckle, securing it. The Mandalorian was in a well-acquainted place. This procedure was as it always was, and his movements were methodical. He was easily able to find the notch of the belt that he usually put the prong through. The leather was worn there more than the other notches, and it was so familiar the way he secured the strap and pulled on it to make sure it would not come undone. He continued with the next strap.
The silence was warm again. The setting was different, but you were still spending your morning with the Mandalorian, getting dressed with him.
“Did you sleep well?” You asked. He did not respond, still focused on pulling on another secured strap. You reached over gently, putting your fingers on the chin of his helmet and using enough pressure to make him look at you. Perhaps he wasn’t looking at you, but the visor made it seem so. He gave a curt nod, and you hummed with a smile. “I’m glad.”
He finished securing the holster, smoothing a gloved hand down the length of your leg before letting it fall back from his lap. You wished he would’ve kept you there, but he reached over and picked up the corset from your lap, standing to help you put it on. You didn’t completely register the fact that the Mandalorian was touching you; his hands had slid down your leg, he had held you close to him as he had secured the leather to you. He was touching you, more than necessary, and if you had been thinking correctly, you would have realized the significance of it. You weren’t; you were distracted by watching his broad frame sit so close to you, care for you, help you.
You stood up, your eyes now level with the bottom of his helmet. You looked up, keeping this moment still. You stared into the visor for a long while, and then you finally turned your back to him, lifting your arms a bit so he could fit the leather around your middle. You helped move the corset into place. It was comfortable, just a structured piece of leather solely to act as a fashionable overlay. You had, however, sewn a fibrous piece of flexible armor on the inside of it to protect you. Many times, it had stopped an angry blade from sinking into your side.
You let out a soft breath as the Mandalorian put a finger between the first set of laces and tugged firmly, tightening it. You put your hands on the front of the leather to keep it in place as he started to tighten more laces at your back.
Neither of you ever spoke about this routine. It was intimate. In the early hours of morning, with few words spoken, you would get ready for the day together. Fastening armor, tying dresses, fixing holsters, slipping weapons into place; it was a scheduled dance that you both were very used to, and no matter what events had transpired in the hours before, in the sleep or anger of the night, you always got up in the morning and had something for him to fix onto your person. Sometimes, it was just the holster. Other times it was your dress, or you would pretend to struggle with securing your blaster in your belt. In truth, you needed an excuse for the Mandalorian to touch you. He was pure and professional and respectful, always. You had found a loophole in his never-faltering demeanor. It was gearing up, getting dressed, tripping over your feet in front of him. In those times, his touch was never hesitant, nor did it ever shake. His touch was faith and security, supportive and strong.
His touch is fire, and I am ice, and even though it burns, I want more.
You remembered a night long ago; you had gotten hurt because you let your guard down. An ugly bruise had been blooming on your jaw, and he had scolded you like a child, angry that he had to turn his back away from his quarry and get to you. He had trusted you to keep yourself safe, and now he was coming to your aid in the middle of securing an important bounty, a valuable one. You remembered sitting on your bed that night, with tears in your eyes. You had not been hurt by his words and your wounds did not ache; you were embarrassed and feeling miserable that you had let him down. But in the morning, when the suns came out again, he had reached over and secured your holster just as he always did. He had gone slower, soothing your leg with soft touches and squeezes, and when he finished, you felt those gloved knuckles skimming the bruise on your jaw so softly. It had been his silent apology, and the tension simply evaporated when you leaned forward, your cheek against his cuirass as you hugged him.
It was a touch that kept you awake at night. It was a touch that made your skin hot and your toes curl and your brain liquify until all your thoughts were only him and the leather hands he had on you. Even now, with his dexterous hands fixing your outfit, you knew your legs were weakening. The Mandalorian was pure death and smoke in one terrifying hunter, but you had never, ever been afraid. He only made you feel pure desire and unfaltering reassurance.
“This is my favorite part of the day,” you said into the quiet. The Mandalorian continued without pausing, and your breath hitched a bit as he pulled particularly rough on the next set of laces. “It’s…quiet, and…” You looked out the window at the sun rising higher, telling you it was getting later into the morning. “—and it’s just us.”
You let your hands fall to your sides when he had tied most of your corset. You bent down and picked up his pauldron off the bed. The beskar was shiny and incredibly heavy in your hands. It looked freshly polished, and you smiled at the thought of the Mandalorian seated on this bed, a careful hand rubbing a cloth between the crevices of his armor. He was simple, and he did not need much to keep himself together. His armor and his weapons; the Mandalorian needed little more to thrive.
He tied off the last of the laces at your back, his hands smoothing around to touch your waist. It was his way of telling you he had finished. You turned in his grasp, meeting his visor again. You tilted your head to the side a bit, training your eyes on the dark material there. You thought maybe if you stared long enough, squinted hard enough, you might be able to see his eyes, but there was nothing but your sweet face staring back in a distorted reflection. You knew you had his eyes though, since he was unmoving and quiet.
You reached up carefully, breaking eye contact as you lifted the pauldron to his shoulder. You fit it where you thought it might go, moving it around gently until it seemed to drop into place. You heard a satisfied clicking sound that told you that his armor was in its place, and then you smoothed your hand over the front of his chest plate. You stared up at him again for just a moment before reaching behind yourself and picking up his heavy belt of ammunition. His hands left yours to help you, putting the belt around his waist as you brought the strap over his helmet to sit across his front. As he fastened it around his waist, you fixed it to sit properly around his neck. You realized that the strap and his cape were tangled together now, and you laughed a bit sheepishly as you had to lean on him to fix it properly. There were many things the Mandalorian was, but unkempt armor and imperfect dressing was not one of them. You wondered now if perhaps you had gotten him dressed in the wrong order, but he had yet to correct you.
Some of the slots for his rifle rounds were empty, so you simply reached into his open pack on the bedside table and grabbed a handful of them. It was a blissful calm as you began to refill the vacant slots carefully.
“I like it when it’s just us,” you murmured. You fit another round into its place, laughing a bit. “I know it doesn’t make sense. We don’t really…talk,” you shrugged a bit. “But you…you know so much about me already. And…I…” You kept your hands busy, too nervous to meet where you thought his eyes might be. “I-I would like to think that I know a lot about you.”
You might not have known his name. You might not have known his favorite song or where he came from or what the soft words were that he whispered when he was asleep meant, but you hoped that your observations were enough that you knew him in ways that others did not. In danger, you would curl knowingly around his defensive side without being told. He could tilt his helmet just right at you, and you would know if he wanted you to stay or to go. If he used his hands a certain way, if he reached for an extra bite of rations, if he stepped fast or slow or sideways, these were all ways you had learned to observe him and gauge his mood and memorize his likes and dislikes. You had an unspoken, unwritten bond, one that no amount of distance or separation or time apart could break.
“You do,” The Mandalorian admitted. His voice was low and careful. “You know…you know more about me than anyone else.”
You finished refilling his belt with ammunition, and you looked up at him through your lashes, biting your lip gently.
“Is that right, Mandalorian?” You asked, keeping your hands on his chest. The metal was cold under your fingertips; your skin was too hot. He simply moved his helmet just enough to tell you yes, you know me unlike any other being in the galaxy.
You stood on your toes, one hand leaving his chest to cup the underside of his helmet, your lips close to where his ear might be. “You don’t let just anyone put on your beskar?”
He nearly choked on his breath at the tone of your voice. Low, sultry, cooing as it sang along the edge of want and desire. He slid his hands up your back, his fingers ghosting over the laces of your corset he had just tied nice and tight. He moved his head just slightly, angling his neck to get a better view of the knowing expression on your face. You were smug, as if you knew what you were doing to him. As if you knew your words were absolute fire and smoke, and you had just pierced his heart head-on with it. He shook his head slightly to answer you, and he leaned in even closer, the front of his helmet skimming the plush curve of your bottom lip.
“I don’t let just anyone take it off, either.”
Oh.
Your knees nearly buckled at the admission. You swallowed hard, your hand curling around the neck of his cape. You gripped him tightly to keep from collapsing, your mouth suddenly dry and completely devoid of a quick comeback. You stared at him, mouth agape as you registered his retort. He liked this reaction from you. He was never completely confident that he had an effect over you, but the way your body clung to his for support just by a few choice words told him there was a warmth in you that rivaled his own.
“Well,” you laughed breathily, in disbelief almost. You stepped even closer, your hips suddenly flush against his. “Was that…are you flirting with me?”
You broke out into the brightest smile, leaning back a bit to get a better look at him. He was breathing hard, his chest rising and falling steadily, staring down at you as piercing as ever. You adored him like this; you always wanted his attention on you and only you.
“The Mandalorian flirting…” You bit your lip. “I like it.”
He tilted his head to the side, and you giggled, getting up on your toes to press a kiss to where you hoped his mouth was under the helmet. You nuzzled your nose against the metal for a moment before moving back. You took a step or two back away from him, his hands forced to fall from your waist. Your hands never let go of his though, and you squeezed his palms gently before letting his hands finally fall to his side.
“I had no idea Mandalorians could flirt,” you said as you started to help him pack up his room. His rifle was leaned up against the wall by the bed, and he had other weapons and supplies strewn about. “Is that something you learn during your training?”
“No.”
You laughed at his response, shaking your head slightly.
“I suppose not,” you sighed happily. “I’m sure everything with Mandalorians is very serious. I bet you court each other with a strict protocol.” You made a little salute with two fingers to your forehead.
“I…am not too familiar with Mandalorian courting rituals,” he said lowly as he put the rifle around his shoulder. “I have never felt the need to abide by them.”
“And why is that?” You asked casually, stuffing some credits into a small pouch so he wouldn’t lose them.
“The rituals I’m acquainted with are subtle,” he replied matter-of-factly. “I did not think you would notice them. I have had to resort to other methods.”
Your paused your movements for a moment, frozen in your spot. You swallowed hard, shaking your head again and continuing to organize the bag in your hands.
“Ha, ha,” you said sarcastically. “You’re hilarious. I didn’t know Mandalorians told jokes either.”
“I would never lie to you,” he replied simply. You suddenly had a lump in your throat. Your mouth was dry, so dry it hurt. Your heart tightened in your chest, and you clutched the bag to your middle. You had your back to him, and although he moved quietly, you could feel him stepping closer to you. You trembled just a bit, feeling your hands shake.
You thought this had just been teasing. You thought he was just entertaining your flirty remarks, letting you giggle and laugh and joke because it was what you needed to feel comfortable. You thought Mandalorians were the greatest warriors in the galaxy, and there was no room in their Creed for courting or love or romance, at least not with someone like you.
You did not swear on any Creed. You did not wear any helmet. You were not bound to any covert or Tribe or people of any kind. You were technically not even a warrior. You knew only what the Mandalorian had shown you, and while you could hold your own at his side, you did not grow learning how to make a blade an extension of your hand or the intricacies of a blaster. You were you, and that was all you had to give, and you did not think that would be enough for a Mandalorian. A solider, a warrior, however you wanted to call them, they were master hunters and avid fighters and women like you did not belong with them. In fact, you really couldn’t picture anyone belonging to a Mandalorian except perhaps another warrior of equal standing. You pictured, at the Mandalorian’s side, a woman who perhaps could spar with him and win.
A woman who could understand him in ways that I might never be able to.
When you turned to face him, your eyes were wet with tears. You looked up at him with a quivering bottom lip, and the Mandalorian tilted his head to the side, examining the defeated expression on your face. You were in love with him, more than you had ever been with anyone else before. You had never seen his face, you had no idea the name he was given by his mother, but you were in love with him. Despite the past you knew he had, the Mandalorian was noble and honorable, at least with you and those you had encountered. Every day with him was an adventure. New planets, new people, new languages, incredible experiences, a new skill here and a beautiful view there. Your life was color and vibrance and noise and wonder, and you had never slept more peacefully than in your small cubby in his ship, layered with pillows and blankets that he had bought for you. The Mandalorian showed you, time and time again, that he was not the murderer he once might’ve been. He was care and protectiveness and safekeeping incarnate in impenetrable armor, and you were in love with him.
You had loved him since he first touched your face after you watched him kill his first adversary for you. One green, slimy hand had touched your waist, and that was all he needed to sink the blade from his boot right through the creature’s middle. His violence in response to your wellbeing should’ve terrified you, but it pulled you right in. He had touched your face in a silent question, to wonder if you were okay, and you had just nodded up at him, letting his leather glove sweep over your lip and rub the smudge of blood away from it.
The Mandalorian was not good. In fact, he had a past that followed him darkly, a grey cloud that flooded his mood with rain when you met someone he once knew.
The things Mando used to do…has he ever told you about the bounty we captured in the Outer Rim?
Mando, have you gone soft?
Mando always needed target practice, isn’t that right, Mando?
He took down an entire platoon with just that blade. What he would do with that rifle of his…
You admired the stories, but you could tell they did not soothe him or fill him with any sense of pride. The Mandalorian said nothing about those comments, only moved the conversation forward. He never wanted to be reminded about who he once was; that, or he did not want you to know who he once was. If you discovered the shell of a man he used to be, he feared you might still find him worthy. Worthy of what, he wasn’t quite sure, but he knew he was unworthy, nonetheless.
“I thought…” The Mandalorian paused. He did not want to say the wrong thing. “I know I am not…it is not easy to feel a certain way for me—”
“To love you?” You scoffed, letting a tear finally fall. “Just say it. It’s not easy to love you? Is that what you meant to say?”
Your voice was shrill and hurt. You put his bag down, your fingers fiddling with each other to keep yourself occupied. The Mandalorian just moved his helmet in just a way to agree with you. You shook your head at that, looking away from him as you sucked in a deep breath.
“That’s the understatement of the century,” you murmured. “Not easy to love you? You’re…you’re impossible!” Your voice came out as a curt yell, and you surprised yourself with the heavy anger there. “You’re impossible to love. It’s like…sometimes I feel like I’m talking to the wall…” You closed your eyes, your cheeks wet now as your tears fell and fell and refused to stop. “I feel like I’m talking to the wall, and you still manage to drive me insane.”
He stepped even closer, shielding you from the rising sun. His broad figure cast a dark shadow over you, and despite the heavy ache in your chest, his closeness was welcome.
“You’re—” You continued, and he let you. “You barely talk. You barely tell me anything about yourself. I don’t even know your name…” You nearly whined when his hand came up to cup the side of your face, his thumb wiping the wetness of your tears from your skin. “But I can’t help it—” You relaxed when he brought both hands up to cradle your face in his hands. You were at peace here, so tranquil in the silence of his company. “I have never…I have never felt this way before. And I feel it with a kriffing Mandalorian…”
“What do…what do you feel?”
You opened your eyes again, staring up into his visor. He sounded nervous. It was a tone of voice you were unfamiliar with. The Mandalorian was never nervous; and he certainly was never insecure nor unsure of himself.
“Are you kidding me?” You breathed, putting your hands over his on your face. “You know, for a Mandalorian, you suck at reading the room.”
He tilted his head to the other side, and you squeezed his hands under yours. You slid your hands down the back of his own, over his wrist. You traced the beskar of his vambraces, up and over his elbow and along his biceps. You slid your palms over the pauldrons on his shoulders and then brought your arms around his neck. You stepped even closer, close enough that your hands pushed on the back of his helmet and dipped his head down to yours.
You closed your eyes as the sweet, cool kiss of beskar touched your forehead. You knew the significance of such an embrace; you had asked a member of his covert once, when you and he sought refuge, if Mandalorians were capable of showing affection when they never showed each other their faces. They had mentioned the act of polishing armor, of securing it to each other’s bodies, of giving each other gifts of their signet, but the one that stuck the most in your mind had been the kiss of their helmets. You noted the fact that none of these were words of affection; like your Mandalorian, their rituals were silent in manner and deep in meaning.
You had no way of knowing how wonderful the shake that ran through the Mandalorian all the way through his toes felt. He was warm all over at your kiss, and he was afraid that if he opened his mouth, the only sound that would come over the vocoder would be a groan, a sound of relief at the fact that his all-consuming love for you was in fact not unrequited.
You had learned a meaningful part of his culture and were using it to tell him everything he needed to know about how you felt. It was as if you could peer directly into his heart, as if you knew exactly how to communicate with him. You were so clear and pervasive, and at this, the Mandalorian knew you understood him in ways not even his Tribe was ever able to. This was a union that he would never find anywhere else, an invisible link he shared with you that no one else could ever imitate.
“I love you,” you whispered. Speaking love, this was your way of life. He listened, not daring to speak, to allow you to share your thoughts without interruption. “I…I can’t remember how long it’s been. I’ve loved you for so long, that I…I don’t even remember what it was like to not feel this way.” Your hands curled around the back of his neck again, feeling the rough fabric of his cape there. You had patched this cape many times yourself, sewing up the holes left by blasters and the singed hem from fire. “And I never want to forget this feeling. Ever.”
You stayed there for a few long moments with him. His arms were wound tight around your waist, holding you to him. Your own were wrapped around his neck, your forehead pressed to the helmet as you breathed warmly against the metal, your lips kissing it lightly as you breathed in the moment. He was quiet, and so were you, and it was in the silence of your embrace that you could feel the joy radiating off his armor like heat. The Mandalorian was happy, and you smiled the longer you held each other.
“We should get going,” you said finally, lifting your forehead off his helmet and letting out a content sigh. “Shouldn’t we?”
He was quick. He bent slightly at the knees, his hands falling from your waist to grab at you from under your knees. He lifted your legs to wrap them around his middle, and you gasped in surprised as, with incredible grace and strength, he planted you on the edge of the dresser. You looked down at him easily in this position, and he took his place between your legs, so close that your lips bumped against the forehead of his helmet as he got comfortable here.
You laughed a bit, your hands moving up to hold where his cheeks would be. You had never seen his face, but he was beautiful in ways you couldn’t describe. Physically, the broadness and firmness of his unyielding figure were enough to have you weak in the knees; but his sweltering physique was coupled with a tender heart and skillful hands, and it made the Mandalorian a physical amalgamation of every need and desire you had ever dreamed about.
The Mandalorian was far from perfection; but on the stars, he was perfection in your eyes, and you would change nothing about him. You would not even change the fact that you did not know what his kiss felt like or what color his eyes were. You welcomed the idea that the Mandalorian you knew was faultlessness and loveliness inside (at least to you), and no matter how many layers he was unable to shed for you, you were familiar with the most important part of him all, the part that rested underneath all of the heavy beskar and warm skin.
You knew him. That was all that mattered, and that was all that would ever matter to you.
“There are…” He did not know how to voice the ache in his chest. “There are things I can’t tell you, things that…I might never be able to—”
“Shhh,” you rested your cheek against his helmet, closing your eyes as you hugged him as close as possible. “I…I love you as you are. I…I will never ask for more than you can give me. You are enough. This is enough.”
If he never showed his face to you, you would still be content. If he never told you his name, you would still love him more than anything in the galaxy. If he never let you feel his skin or kiss his lips or understand what colors his eyes were when he voiced his own love, you would still be the luckiest woman that ever lived. There was no need to wonder. You never wondered, in fact. None of it mattered to you; the Mandalorian was enough just like this, staring up at you with firm hands holding the pieces of you together.
“You deserve more,” he said gently.
“I don’t want more,” you shook your head, breathing in the scent of him deeply. He smelled so good; he smelled like warm sand and a spring waterfall, just a hint of smoke and fire. It was more comforting than anything to fill your senses with him. “I want you.”
You said it as if it was the simplest answer; you said it easily, smoothly, with no hesitation or shake or fear. You said it as if it was the easiest announcement you ever gave; and truthfully, it was. You were certain no creature or being anywhere among the stars could ever make you feel this way again. You had discovered your person. Your person was a Mandalorian. This Mandalorian—adorned in sparkling silver beskar, smelling like blaster fire and pretty skies, with an arsenal around his waist and a heart of pliable steel.
Pliable. Not rigid, not unfeeling. Pliable. At least in my hands.
“Did you hear me, Mandalorian?” You asked, a bright smile widening over your face. You leaned back a bit to look at him better. “I want you.”
“Yes,” he swallowed hard. His voice was so low, barely audible over the modulator. “Yes, I heard you.”
You gave him soft eyes as you felt his hand slip low, over the outside of your leg. Your breath hitched as you felt his careful fingers slip over the edge of your thigh holster, undoing the first buckle. Your hands dragged around his neck, your palms pressing flat against his chest plate, letting the cool metal soothe the heat in them. He had spent some time fitting you into your armor, and now he was taking it off just as carefully, just as slowly, just as teasingly. He had to know now what his touch did to you.
He had to.
Once the holster was undone, it fell to the floor, and you both stared at each other wordlessly. You continued to say nothing as you reached around him to undo the ties on your boots and toe them off until they fell with a thud onto the floor. You kept your gaze fixed on his visor as you moved his hands higher up on your waist, hooking your fingers into the sides of your pants and tugging them down and off your legs, discarded haphazardly over your boots on the floor.
This was an invitation. It was a silent offer of you can have me and I am yours. You were perched up in his grasp, sitting pretty in his arms, and while the Mandalorian could not give you all of him, you could, and you would. His resolve was faltering at your request; it was selfish to give into you when he could not give you the same in return, but he could feel himself physically hurting the longer he tried to resist his intense cravings of you.
It was almost saddening to think that he did not know how much you didn’t care. You didn’t care about how much he was able to give you, or for how little time. You wanted him in whatever way he would allow, and you would savor that for the rest of your days. Love was unseeing, and it was not patient, but weakly, you hoped it would be forgiving.
“Din,” he murmured lowly, so quiet, you barely heard it. He could at least give you this; it was a sacred word, but he felt this would be enough for now. “My…name is Din.”
His name. The crackle between his words warned you enough. His name could only be spoken like this; in the quiet of your presence, with no one else around to hear it. He had let you have of piece of him, and you promised, silently, that you would hold it so tight and keep it safe. You would never say his name to another, not even in death.
Is that how far you will go for him?
Your head lulled back against the wall when you felt him for the first time. Filling you to the brim with a warmth and heaviness that you had always longed for, he was perfection in one man, you were convinced of that now. His voice gave in, uttering a broken groan of utter pleasure and relief that made your insides feel as if they were on fire. You were so mistaken before; you thought him flawed to the outside stars but perfection in your eyes, but you knew now that there was nothing the Mandalorian lacked. He was perfect, so perfect, and gods, he felt like he was going to break you in two with how good he was making you feel.
I would do anything for him; and yes, I think I’d even die.
You cradled his head to your chest as you pressed your hips flush against his, your eyes closing tight as he grasped at your waist. He was pawing at your back, his gloved hands clutching onto the fabric of your dress and corset as he tried to calm the feeling of unhinged pleasure that was rippling through him. It was no use; you were so tight and welcoming around him, and the feeling was forcing him to lose all sense of focus. The Mandalorian had never felt so helpless to one single thing; you were breaking his resolution without even trying. No, that was lie; the sudden, aching grind of your hips against his was agonizingly effective.
You didn’t remember how you made it from the dresser to his bed, but suddenly he was on his back and your hands were fixed on his chest plate, and you were pushing your hair back as you kept up the grueling pace he had already begun. His knees bent, supporting you from behind, and you bit your lip hard to keep yourself together. The firmness of his thighs were only heightened by the beskar secured around them, and the metal was digging into your back deliciously. Your teeth biting down into your lip muffled the sounds you might make, and he couldn’t have that. Sitting up to support you even more, he reached up with a gloved hand and used his thumb to open your mouth wide, a high-pitched gasp leaving you as soon as you could voice it.
I want to hear you, the action told you. I want to hear how you sound when I make you mine.
You looked into the depth of his visor, your hands sliding up onto his shoulders, finding the space between his neck and the pauldrons he still wore, squeezing the firm muscle there. You had slowed your movements to look at him, to get comfortable again in his arms, and you both were having a difficult time trying to breathe properly. You leaned forward, pressing your forehead to his helmet, whimpering as you sank down even further on him. He was nestled deep, and you were clenching hard. You thought it might be awkward to fuck the Mandalorian with his helmet still on; the thought of not being able to kiss him made your heart ache. Instead, it was an intimacy that comforted you to no end.
You could not know what he looked like, but you knew what he felt like. You would learn what every ridge of him felt like, what every curve of him touched inside of you, how hard he remained even with the relief of how tightly you squeezed him. There was not another woman or creature in the galaxy that would ever memorize this; you were determined not to allow that. The Mandalorian was yours now, and you would fuck him blind to make him understand this.
“Promise me this won’t be the last time,” you begged, tugging his chest to yours, kissing the metal of his helmet wherever your lips touched. “Promise me I can have you…please.”
Gods, he’s making it hard to breathe. I can’t think.
“Please, Din.”
You did not get a response. Instead, he gripped your hips tight and guided them back into a rhythm, a pace that started slow and gentle and climbed in stride as your own desire climbed in you. His touch was soft, but the tormenting feeling of him hitting you deep again and again and again was anything but gentle. The Mandalorian was skilled in not just combat, and you grew jealous wondering how a man such as him learned to be such a capable, intense lover.
“Din, promise me,” you whined. Now that you knew his name, you did not stop. It felt so good to say it, and he seemed to fuck you harder each time you said it. He liked the sound; your sweet, soft voice saying his name like a prayer. You were beginning to think your Creed was this, the panting cry of his name as you met each of his thrusts with just as much fervor, the—Din, Din, gah—please!—it was the mantra you wanted to say for the rest of your days. The Mandalorian had whittled you down to this; a half-naked woman who was beginning to forget every word in her vocabulary just at the feeling of her lover’s touch.
But he wasn’t doing much better than you. His jaw was slack beneath the helmet, his visor fixated on the beautiful bounce you carried as you met each grind of his hips. He memorized the way sweat clung to your skin, beading along your hairline and a little down your neck, and he refrained from the urge to smear it around you and make you sparkle with your own desire. The Mandalorian was fully clothed, gloves still fastened and armor clanking together and digging into your soft skin, but he felt utterly naked at this moment. It was daylight, and the love of his life was whimpering his name—his fucking name—and he had nowhere to go and felt no other sense of purpose except for getting you to that sense of haven and watching you let go. You were tighter than he imagined, taking him so deep he thought he might feel your throat, and the way your body enveloped him made him realize just how much you wanted him in the same way he wanted you.
You were bound. There was nowhere to go. No matter what the Mandalorian did for the rest of his life, this was where he would always end up. You could leave, he could leave, there could be lightyears between you, but somehow, he knew, he would end up here again. He could see it, as if he could see some distant future, visions of himself coming back to you. In some of those visions, he saw his own eyes, brown and blown wide and starving for your touch.
“Din, stars—” You choked out, bracing yourself against his chest. “Focus on me…” You laughed a bit, leaning down and nuzzling your face into the fabric of his neck. Even fully donned in armor, you knew his mind was somewhere else. You needed it to be on you. “I need…ahh…I need more.”
No, that wouldn’t do. The thought of you needing more from him was too much to bear. He took a hold of your throat, gently, but you seemed to enjoy the grasp, and with a startling burst of strength, the Mandalorian flipped the two of you, your back hitting the bed as he curled your leg around his waist. You stared up at him, lifting a hand and putting it to the curve of his helmet, stroking it gently with your thumb.
“Need you,” you whispered, looking up at him through half-lidded eyes. You were drunk on the presence of him, feeling as if he had already taken you over the brink of bliss, and yet you were still needing to feel a release. He was driving you crazy, and you hadn’t even come yet. You had never seen his face, and yet there was no one in the galaxy that had ever made you feel quite this lustful; wet, dripping onto him like spring rain, staining the dark of his flight suit, a sinful, gushing reminder of what he was doing to you.
He kept his hand at your throat, soothing your pouty lips with a smooth leather finger. He gripped your face roughly, his forehead to yours as he continued the pace you had both set. Now, he was stuffing you full of him, his weight pressing into you and drilling you into the bed deliciously. You wanted more of him, all of him, heavy and broad all on top of you. He was holding your gaze and gripping you tight and fucking you with the control and determination of a true Mandalorian. He had promised you this, and Mandalorians were true to their word.
It would be against his Creed to do anything else besides make you his.
You let out gurgled moans, your eyes rolling back a bit in your head as he started to hit that warm, spongey place deep inside of you. He could feel how you responded, the way your stomach tensed, thighs trapping him against you, your nails digging into fabric around his neck. You were seeing stars, real stars, blinding your vision of him as you said his name again and again and again. He was so focused on you, starting to lose control of himself and fuck, how he wanted so badly to kiss you. He almost dropped the helmet and forced his mouth on yours, but both your hands rose up and gripped the sides of his helmet for support as you felt that cord ready to snap, ready to break, ready for him.
“Din—” You whined. “Din, I-I…I’m gonna—”
“Take it,” he spoke finally, and you moaned so loud at the heaviness of his tone, the desire in his voice. “Take it…take what you want—”
That was his promise to you. Whatever you needed, whatever you wanted, the Mandalorian would give it to you. If you wanted this moment to last the rest of your days, he would give it to you. All you had to do was take it.
All she has to do is ask, and I will do whatever she says. Whatever burns her, I will set on fire. Whatever hurts her, I will make nonexistent. Whatever wound of her cries, I will mend.
You buried your face in the crook of his neck, trying to hold yourself together. It was impossible. You closed your eyes and clawed at the fabric around his neck, shifting your head close enough that you revealed the skin beneath it and kissed it, your lips wet and eager to touch any part of him. You bit down gently, sucking soft, bruising the skin there as he took you to another place entirely. Someplace bright and euphoric and never-ending, someplace where your entire body shook, your thighs closed, your moans never ceased. He was taking you to another planet maybe, at least in your head, and you soothed the bites you were leaving on his neck with wet licks and sweet kisses. He would be bruised when he looked in the mirror. Your insides turned at the thought that when he took off his helmet later, alone, he would be the only one to see your marks littered there.
Even as the searing pleasure faded a bit, you kept your legs tight around his waist. You let out quiet whimpers as he kept up his intense rhythm, your hips still trying desperately to meet his own. You wanted to feel him, needed to feel him, and you pulled away to look into the depth of his helmet, hoping he would see the pure want in your eyes.
“Yeah?” He asked lowly, squeezing the flesh of your throat. You licked your lips, nodding hurriedly. He lost his composure, a few sloppy thrusts before he choked out a low groan, right into your ear. You thought maybe you fell over the edge again as he filled you to the brim. You shut your eyes tight, a soft moan escaping as you reveled in the feeling of being so full and so elated. You felt your thighs become sticky as he pulled out just slightly, wetness pooling between you, and then you yelped with surprise as he pushed right back in, squeezing your throat possessively.
You giggled in a daze, lifting a hand and dragging your fingers down the side of his helmet. You both were panting hard, drinking in the fog of pleasure. You smiled up at him, leaning up and kissing the helmet wherever you could.
You hummed softly when he left you, your eyes fluttering shut as you tried to relax. You heard the rustle of clothing, the heavy clank of beskar. You steadied your breathing as you heard him move around the room, and then you sighed deeply as you felt his hands on you, gentle as they wiped you down and got you dressed. You sat up slowly, finally opening your eyes, and you grinned up at him again, feeling warm all over as he fixed your corset again. His thumbs grazed over the swell of your cleavage, and you bit your lip at the feeling. The Mandalorian was touching you now, and he was not shy about it. It drove you wild inside to know he couldn’t help himself.
He picked up your thigh holster off the floor, taking a seat in the chair again. You stood up, on wobbly legs, and you took a seat in his lap this time, one arm going around his shoulders as he fastened the first buckle around you. You were being affectionate now, leaning your head against the side of his helmet as he continued carefully, silently, contently. He did not push you away or tense at your touch. He liked having you close.
“You know…” You said hoarsely, watching him buckle another strap, “I know…how to do this. I…just…I like when you do it. For me.”
He rested his hand on your thigh when he finished, turning his head to face you. You swallowed hard, nervous as he stared at you.
“I…want to do it for you,” he said lowly. You smiled at him, framed by sunshine and soft wind, and he had to tell himself to breathe as he looked over you.
You leaned forward, closing your eyes as you rested your forehead against his. He closed his own, savoring the kiss you so easily gave him, the love you had no problem expressing. You were so at ease like this, as if you were made solely for the purpose of giving the love you held so dearly. In truth, you had bottled up these feelings for so long. You feared crossing a line with him, doing something that went against his sacred religion or the vows he had made to wear the beskar he had become. Now that you had crossed the threshold, you feared not showing exactly what you felt. The Mandalorian made you feel new again, whole again. You would not go another day without showing him the very parts of you that ached to be seen.
Because he sees me. He does not look through me, he sees me. I have no idea what his eyes look like, but I know they are on me, and I know he’s looking at me, and I know he sees me.
In the silence of this room, on a planet you could not remember the name of, you made your own vows; a Mandalorian as your Creed, his name your prayer, and his touch the salvation that brought you home.
A/N: Naaaah whoever decided Joel Miller should be played by Pedro Pascal did it for the people who have daddy issuesssss. Here’s something I whipped out because Pedro leaves in my mind rent free. Pleaseee give me some suggestions or prompts for things to write
I tried starting a tag-list but it literally burned in flames when I tried setting it up. Please just turn on notifications if you would like to be updated for @cherryblossom-enthusiast if you want to keep up with my writing :)
Synopsis: Joel Miller was neither friend or foe. You’ve barely talked to the man considering his reclusiveness. But you can’t stop staring and wanting. Turns out, he can’t stop staring and wanting you either.
Warnings/ Tags: E (18+). Smut bby. Fluff, GrumpyxSunshine (Reader is a florist!), Unprotected PinV, Language, Dirty talk! Joel, Praise Kink, Rough sex, Fingering, SLIGHT spoilers
Word Count: 5.3K Words
Masterlist
Your breath clouds your vision like a puff of white smoke.
Winter. The very word is a tragedy.
Food is harder to come by, light leaves much faster. The world is as bleak as it is and yet winter still cascades around you, turning everything black and white. A lifeless painting.
The chilly wind picks up and a shiver runs through your body.
“Y’good?”
The voice is lazy. Slow.
Warm.
Considering who it’s coming from, the level of warmth is a fucking marvel.
A hulking figure approaches your side. With a deep sigh, you turn your head and you’re met with the most tired eyes you’ve ever seen on someone. No shine, no luster, just an outpour of exhaustion from every small gesture he decides to do.
Joel fucking Miller.
You remember the first time you talked to him all too clearly.
You’d never been friends. Acquaintances even. Makes it a bit hard when the son of a bitch was as recluse as he was. They were the new residents of Jackson. Him and the girl he holds tight to his chest.
You were intimidated by him at first. Joel was all gruff words, long sighs, and blank stares. But the more you paid attention to him, the more you understood how he worked. Especially, when it came to the people he cared about. The man didn’t take shit from anyone. Nobody bothered him, and he returned the favour.
For the most part, that stayed true. Joel was the kind of person who always vied to stay invisible, be like every other person. Unaffected for the most part. But as you start to water your flowers on a clear-skied summer day, you hear him laughing.
The richness of that laugh is still embedded into the deep recesses of your mind.
Joel wasn’t hard to understand as long as you really looked at him and boy did you stare.
You look over to his porch and there he is, “take no shit” Joel Miller with Ellie, teaching her how to play the guitar. You can’t quite remember what they were talking about. Something about “dinosaurs” and “T-rex hands”, but his adoration for the girl was so palpable, so intoxicating.
It was your first time seeing him so- loose. Like he actually gave a damn.
As we discussed: Human weighted blanket + Din, please 🥺 smut if you're inspired!
Sorry for taking so long with this!! I hope you like it! I took a little different route from my original idea but, here we go lolll. Thanks @kittyofalltrades for reading it over bb ❤️
*NSFW under the cut* 2k of Din Djarin smut.
You look up from your place on the cot to see the small amount of light being blocked by a giant, dark figure and your heart beats a little quicker at the sight. The way he looks in his beskar is familiar, but it still gives you the same fluttering in your lower belly every time you see him standing tall in his armour. Shoulders so wide you find your eyes dragging over the width of him regularly, wherever you may be.
Right now, Din looks like he’s about to collapse on you, like he’s allowing himself to drop all his weight forward. Frantically holding your hands out to shield yourself, you yell, “Don’t come in the bed in all that metal, you’re gonna crush me!”
Sighing dramatically, he leans away from his previous position, which was seconds away from climbing on top of you, and slowly removes his helmet. Soulful brown eyes meet yours as the black visor is out of sight and drops to the ground. Maintaining eye contact, he begins taking off his chest plate, followed by his under armour garments.
When he first came in, you thought he needed comfort, but the more layers he removed to obey your demand, the more heated your gaze became. He noticed. So, yeah, he starts peeling off the layers with a little more flair and a little less haste. Your mouth goes dry as your lips part. He noticed that, too.
Din finally climbs on top of you in your makeshift bed, and you begin to shift because you think he’s going to hold you from behind. Instead, he holds himself parallel to you before plopping his weight on you completely, face burying into your neck and his hands sliding up and under your pillow to get comfortable.
You’re frozen before your body acclimates to the weight of the warrior, currently nuzzling his nose into you and humming low in his throat. Your legs split on their own accord, hips notching together naturally. Din’s thighs keep your legs open as your hands slide up his back into his curls, holding his head in place from the nape of his neck.
Din’s nuzzling slowly transitioned into pressing his mouth into your skin, leaving you slightly breathless. The combination of melting into the mattress with his full weight on you mixed with the addictive feel of his lips dragging on the sensitive part of your neck was dizzying. He tried to be subtle with the grinding of his hips into yours, causing your breath to catch.
You whimpered when he started sucking slightly after each press of his lips.
“Din…” you sighed.
He responded with a quiet groan before pulling out one of his hands to slide down the side of your body, slightly squeezing the flesh as he did so. He only stopped when he reached your sleeping bottoms, fingers dancing along the waistband.
Pulling back to look peer down at you for permission, you nodded, kissing his chin softly as confirmation. Resting his forehead against yours he reached into your bottoms, fingers seeking out your hot sex, breath heavily leaving him as he finds you already wet.
“Mmmm.”
The usual raspiness of his voice through his modulator left you wanting, but this? When you could feel the vibrations of every noise he made against your rib cage, against your whole being, it lit your skin on fire.
“Din, please,” you whimpered again, desperate for his teasing fingers to fill you in the ways you know your own can’t.
His lips twitch. Bastard.
“Din, Maker, I’m going to-“
“You’ll what? You can’t move even if you wanted to, which we both know you don’t.”
That shouldn’t make you wetter than you already are but you felt yourself leaking on the fingers that rested just outside where you needed them. He pushed the tip of his finger into your hole, just resting inside to feel it flutter around his skin. You close your eyes in an attempt to control your breathing as you realize you’re panting into his mouth, his face inches from yours.
“I love it.”
You have no idea what he’s referring to because all you can focus on is where you need him and where he’s not touching you.
“W-what?”
“The face you make. Especially when I do this.”
At the last word, he thrusts the two fingers the rest of the way into your cunt, feeling your walls hug them at the intrusion. Your eyes scrunch closed, mouth drops open and a tiny mewl leaves your lips.
Kissing his way back to the spot on your neck he was nuzzling before, he rests his weight on you entirely again, leaving your limbs heavy. How was it you felt both relaxed and pent up at the same time?
After keeping his fingers still for a long, tense minute, Din begins to slowly drag his fingers out, plays with your folds a bit, spreads your slick around and then pushes back in. He repeats this at such a leisurely pace, thoroughly enjoying just playing with you and building you up, but not paying it any mind. He wasn’t trying to be cruel, you know this. Din just really liked the feel of you, of how your body reacts to him, how even with soft and slow touches he could bring you pleasure. In a steep contrast to his wide knowledge of combat and lethal interactions, he found a reprieve in between your legs.
You keened as the pressure built steadily between your thighs, regardless of his slow pace. The low gruff voice in your ear telling you how soft and wet you were for him was pushing you towards the edge, and you felt engulfed by him. The way you were literally pinned to the mattress by Din’s sheer size, unable to do anything but take the slow torture he was inflicting on you. Your bodies were so tightly pressed together you couldn’t reach his hand, leaving him truly in charge of your pleasure at the moment, and the thought only made you whine louder in his ear.
“Such pretty noises,” he groaned into your neck. “Are you going to come for me? Gush all over me?”
Maker. That almost did it for you, just a little push was all you needed, your breath coming out in half whines now as Din continued to mar your skin with licks and bites.
“Uh-huh.” Was all you could manage with the intensity of the first wave of pleasure washing over you. He curled his fingers inside on the next stroke in and- “Oh!”
Your vision went black as your eyes closed in bliss, pussy clamping down on his thick fingers, which had stilled inside, giving you something to hold on to while you rode out your high.
Belatedly you realize Din is looking at you, perched on one elbow, and he’s been grinding his hardened length into your thigh. The thought of him filling you up in this position sends another shot of pleasure to your core, clenching on his fingers once again.
“Mesh'la, did you need something else? My fingers not enough for you?” At that he pulls them out, resting them against your lips waiting for you to clean them.
You lazily take them into your mouth, licking your spend from them and humming around his digits. Looking up at him through your lashes while he pulls his fingers back, you raise your hips up to press against his length, wordlessly asking for his cock.
Din leans down to kiss you messily, languidly dipping his tongue to dance with yours and your mind goes white in the kiss. It’s all consuming, like a slow fire in your veins, your hand tightening in his curls desperate to keep connected.
All you can think about is his taste, his skillful fingers that he just made you come apart on, the heavy stature of your strong lover resting against you comfortably, Din, Din, all Din.
You’re so lost in his indulgent kiss that you miss his hand moving to line himself up to your entrance, moaning loudly into his mouth when you feel the tip of him starting to breach your core.
Breaking apart for air, Din takes the opportunity to swiftly push all the way inside and watches your face as you fall into pleasure.
Resting his elbows on the bed again, he lets his weight settle into you again, effectively melting you into the mattress before he begins his slow torment. The pace he chooses to start with drives you mad, fingernails digging into his back at every hard thrust back in, but the slow drag when he pulls back is what causes the air to leave you in a gasp.
He continues like that for Maker knows how long, muscles flexing under your hands, low grunts in your ear as you continue to gasp and sigh in his ear, moaning loudly on a particularly hard thrust. After that he picks up the pace, still resting heavily on you but Din’s strength allows him to fuck you into the mattress without ever letting up.
You come a second time, pussy clenching hard around his cock and making his already slick thrusts much smoother. He groans as he feels your slick smearing across your thigh, messily spreading as he continues to fuck you through it.
“That’s it, good girl, that’s what you needed, right?”
Din finally rises to his knees, his length pulling out entirely. He shifts your legs so they’re splayed wide across his thighs before he pushes his cock back in, both of you moaning at the new angle. Holding your hip with one hand, the other pushes down on your lower belly as he begins to brutally fuck into you again.
“Look so good like this. So wet, you take me so well.”
Your fingers scramble to clutch on to him, hands reaching his forearms, desperate to ground yourself as you feel the pressure building uncontrollably again.
“Din, it’s too much, I-“ your pathetic whine as he presses down on you cuts you off from your weak protests.
“Be good for me. You can take me, can’t you? Don’t you want to be my good girl?”
Your whines were hysterical now, his thrusts knocking something devastating inside you, and the large heavy palm that kept its weight on your lower stomach inched its way towards your clit, thumb rubbing you just right.
“Take it, take me. That’s it.” He growls the last part while you cry out, coming for the third time.
A few more brutal, erratic thrusts and he joins you, hot ropes of cum painting your insides as he stills his hips.
Din looks ethereal like this, a marble sculpture with his head thrown back, eyes shut in ecstasy and muscles glowing from exertion.
You’re staring at him, completely dazed as he starts to leak out of you, but you’re not paying it any mind. Even as he comes to and starts to pull out, the action causing you to whimper pathetically from sensitivity, you still can’t take your eyes off him.
He’s saying something now, asking you something.
“Mmm?”
“I asked if you were okay to walk to the fresher on your own or if you needed my help.”
Blinking owlishly at him as you processed what he was saying, he huffed out a laugh before collecting you in his arms.
The man literally fucked you into the mattress and now he expected you to walk right after?
“Shh, I’ve got you, mesh’la. Did so good for me, let’s wash up now.”
Resting your head against his collarbone as he carried you across his ship, you laughed at the memory of how tired he looked when he initially came to you. Laughing even harder at the idea of how crazy you probably looked to him, hysterical giggles bubbling out of you as he looked down at you in concern.
Excerpt: “Did you hear what I said, mesh’la?”You waited, heart pounding in your skull.
“We’re all alone. Now I can talk your pretty head off all to myself.”
Warnings: MAJOR dirty talk, swearing, depictions of sexual bodily reactions, praise kink on both ends, Din’s a bit dom in some parts but so is reader, probably incorrect spaceship talk, and Din Djarin just cannot keep it in his pants
A/N: First fic of 2023, and definitely not a pregame before the epidemic (pun intended) that I can only presume Joel Miller is about to have on me and my writing. I hope you all enjoy :)
Pedro Masterlist
If you’d like to leave a like, comment, ask, or reblog, it would be greatly appreciated <3
(GIF gotten from Pinterest (I think))
You felt his breath heave and his thighs clench as he lifted you into the air and—delicately—placed you into the pilot’s seat of his brand-new ride. You knew it was brand-new because you had hammered in the last panel seconds before
“Mando—”
“You get first drive,” he said, setting you in the seat and buckling you in.
normalizing pansexuality is just. as a bisexual person having dealt w multiple pansexual ppl calling me transphobic, to my face, on several occasions for identifying as bi instead of pan, i fucking hate when people make art of and bi and pan flag as like a union of sorts, like two characters hugging and repping the flag colors or some shit. and that sounds like such a dumb nuanced thing to obsess over but fuck! i see it everywhere and it’s annoying as hell because so many bi people have said that pansexuality is the same thing as bisexuality while actively being biphobic. if youre admitting it’s the same thing why are there two things that mean the same thing. like i just dont see how thats a good thing and if the goal isnt to erase bisexuality and replace it with pansexuality then what is it? you cannot be ‘more inclusive’ than a sexuality that already included every gender under the sun. bi means attraction to ppl who are the same gender identity as you, and people who are not. everyone falls into that category. by forcing ‘inclusion,’ youre actively erasing/rewriting the work that was already fucking done by bisexual predecessors. they literally acknowledge the existence of more than two genders and state that bisexuality does, has, and always will include trans/nonbinary/neo-gendered people. the microlabeling is redundant and unnecessary and causes so much biphobia, no matter how unintentional.
and like, if so many people are telling you that youre being bi- and transphobic, maybe u should reconsider the label you use to identify
Thank you for writing this! I’ve considered myself pan for a while bc I always thought the bi prefix implied to the gender binary rather than the binary of your gender and not your gender. I’ll admit, I’ve met a good pack of pan people who’ve been transfetishy but stuck with the label because I felt like it was the only choice for me (I’ve come across a few anti-nb bi people and that ended up making me feel like I was intruding on that community). But I am definitely going to look into the history of the bi label and will most likely bit the bullet and make the change.
P.S. I say bite the bullet because I DONT WANNA GIVE UP MY OLD COLOR SCHEME :’((( i will miss my off-color primary colors 😔
Summary: During the day, you rarely talked, saying only a handful of sentences to each other. At night, he never spoke as he coaxed every sound from your mouth in bed. Tonight though… tonight was different.
A/N: Thank you @altarsw for your submission! The selected prompt you chose is bolded in the text. This took me forever to write, but I finally got in the headspace to write this out for you. Enjoy!
Warnings: 18+ only, smut🔥 (like .2% plot), PinV, Fem oral, over stim, darkness
Masterlist & How to Send a Prompt | Read on AO3
Reblogs and feedback are always appreciated!
-
You were used to the quiet.
You spent weeks in the quiet as he hunted his bounties, and you took care of the kid. He would leave you for weeks on those long hunts, coming back to the Crest without even saying a word. Your conversations never lasted more than a sentences, and those were rare occurrences.
Mando was always silent when he came to your bed.
You don’t know when it started, but when it did, he never spent a night on the Crest without going to you. He would enter your quarters, taking his armor piece off by piece except for his helmet. He would touch you in the dim lighting, breaking you apart every night under his hand before he would fuck you into oblivion on your cot. He never spoke a word other than an occasional groan. When you’d wake, he would be gone, and the warmth of his body wouldn’t linger in the sheets.
The day after would continue as normal with a silence returning between you and the Mandalorian.
Tonight, you went to bed uneasy. Mando had been gone a long time. This was probably the longest time he’d ever been on a hunt. His deadline for returning to the Crest was approaching tomorrow. The kid was starting to notice his absence. You distracted the little green womp rat with a heaping pile of tadpoles you sourced from the stream on this planet. He went to bed without a fuss, and the Crest was quiet as you shut your light off, unable to sleep at the thought of not seeing Mando walk up that ramp tomorrow.
Your thought weren’t plagued for long as the door to your room slid open to a familiar, armored bounty hunter.
Mando’s silhouette towered in door frame as your eyes settled on him. The beskar was coated in dirt and blaster fire. Kriff, he must be hurt. You immediately crawled over the bed to your med kit, fearing the worst.
“Stay,” he said, steadying your movements.
Mando turned to the door, hitting the button to close it.
The room submerged into darkness once again. Your heart rate quickened knowing what this action always meant.
Mando never came to you this soon after a hunt. He typically walked into the fresher upon entering the Crest, before acknowledging you and the kid. A few days might pass before you finally felt his ungloved hands part your thighs late into the night.
“Mando,” you said, ask if asking a question he had to know the answer to. He was off tonight, and you couldn’t put your finger on it.
After a long moment, he said into the darkness, “I want to try something.”
You relaxed back on your heels.
The locks of his beskar hissed as he detached them from his body. As you felt the bed dip over to the left, he paused.
“Trust me.”
Maker, your heart was slamming in and out of your chest by the tone in his voice. You trusted this man with your life. He never gave you a reason to doubt him. He protected your life just as much as the kid’s life.
You laid down, letting your movement and silence be your answer. It was the only acknowledgment he needed before standing up from the bed.
You then heard him take off another piece of armor before feeling him slowly crawl over your body, quiet as the dead. The heat of him radiated down over your form as you attempted to calm your breath. Mando’s ungloved hand reached for yours, sending a jolt down your body. He traced it up to his forearm, which was bare.
Sith’s hell, he wasn’t wearing his armor weave. You were used to grasping the thick material when he came to you, but tonight, he’s arms were bare.
Maker, you couldn’t even compute a thought if he was bare over his entire body.
As he traced your palm over his arm up to his shoulder, you could hardly contain your shaking as you felt warm muscle under your fingertips. You knew he was strong, but to feel was another matter in and of itself.
Nothing could stop the gasp tearing from your lips as he moved your hand to the scruff of his neck.
The helmet was gone.
There was only him.
He moved your hand over the contours of his face, and he was beautiful. By the Maker, he was beautiful.
He remained fixed over you, and it was only when you brushed a thumb over the shape of his mouth, then did Mando finally sigh. You realized this was the first time you heard him with the modulator. He moved your palm to his mouth, kissing it hotly with his mouth.
You moaned. He was going to make you come without even touching you fully yet. He continued kissing every inch of your palm before you couldn’t stand the feeling any longer.
You reached for his hair with your other hand, the soft curls entwined in your fingers, as you attempted to pull him down to your face. He remained fixed over your body, continuing to adore your hand.
“Mando,” you begged softly. “Kiss me.”
He gently smiled over your palm. Maker, you could have cried at the feeling of his smile for the first time, but it was gone as he grasped both hands in one of his palms, lifting it above your head on the mattress. His other hand parter your thighs as he settled between your hips. You hissed at the contact of his naked body on your nightshirt, his hardness already digging into your stomach. You squirmed, wanting to… no needing… to kiss and touch him.
And then he began to kiss your neck, his tongue coaxing the soft moans from you as he ravished your skin. Everything in your body went taught at the same moment. He had to feel the buds of your breasts through your night shirt hardening under the heat of his chest, yet he made no move to relieve your ache as he suckled and massaged every inch of your neck with his mouth. Mando continued his ministrations south, as he parted your shirt to kiss the center of your sternum hotly. Instead of kissing exactly where you needed him to, he moved further down, his mouth lavishing every inch of your stomach. Your newly wet skin caused you to shiver even more as he moved back up your chest, his breath louder than it was before.
You were going to combust into nothing as you felt his stare at you in the dark. He couldn’t see you but you had a feeling he knew exactly what you looked like thanks to many nights behind his helmet. His mouth finally reached one of your breaths and you nearly cried out in pleasure at the sensation. His massaged the other, mimicking the same movement as his tongue with his hands over your nipple.
He repeated the same movement with his tongue back and forth until you had to rock into him, the heat of your core dripping down your folds into the bed. You were going to come in nearly the next moment until he stopped.
You collapsed into the bed, pining for that release he robbed until you felt a callused hand slide up your leg as he shifted to the side. The cool air hit your core, releasing a shudder down your spine. He stoked up to the apex of your thigh, massaging your leg until you couldn’t stop another moan from escaping your lips.
“Please,” you strained, gripping his hair tighter. To pull him up to your mouth? To push his down? You didn't know.
He made the decision for you, settling further south, kissing the top of your mound where the your curls began. Your eyes rolled back into your head as he gently pushed your thighs further apart as his mouth parted your folds.
You were going to die at the feeling of his mouth on your cunt.
He groaned at the taste of you, coming up to breathe reverently, “You taste so good, mesh'la.”
The sound of his voice flushed your entire body. It was soft without the voice modulator. Maker if you weren’t soaked then, then you were now.
Mando did not allow you another thought to cross your mind as his mouth went back to your heat. He continued to moan at the taste of you, rocking his hips gently into the mattress.
You gripped his hair gently as he sucked and teased your clit. Pleasure rocked through you in spurts as he began pumping a finger in and out of your soaked core. It was not long before he added another finger, increasing his speed inside you and adoration of that small bundle of nerves.
You unintentionally rocked your pelvis into his face, chasing your precipice you so badly needed. He moaned into your folds, gripping your hips as he shoved you deeper onto his face, his beard eliciting shocks over your sensitive skin. You could practically feel the planet shift when he sucked your clit hard, pushing you into your release.
You felt your back fly off the mattress as he sent you into sweet oblivion while you continued to rock your hips into his face. He continued to lap your folds and core you through your high, drinking the release of his work. The continued shocks of pleasure rattled bones as he brought himself up over your body.
Only after you floated back to reality did he finally kiss your lips. You groaned immediately, grasping at his back and neck as he parted your lips. He kissed your mouth like he did your core, sucking and massaging with his tongue as your pleasure began to grow again. He shifted your legs once more upward, curling your pelvis up as he sunk his length into you, groaning over your mouth.
Mando never left your room without satisfying both parties. The pleasure he gave you was always good, but tonight, the feeling of his mouth and skin were too much. He barely began to rock at a steady pace before you felt release approaching once again, your legs spasming around him.
“You feel it, mesh’la?” He asked, knowingly. “Your thighs are shaking so much.”
You were practically screaming now, as he fucked you harder into the bed, the walls of your core around him fluttering.
He struggled for air, his own release approach as he drank in every breath you gave him. You came in a rising wave, each rock of his hips pushing your pleasure further and higher. He found his release with yours soon after, kissing you passionately through both your highs.
You stayed like that, in each other's arms, joined together through your bodies and souls, until he hardened once again in your arms and made your legs shake again and again.
When you awoke sometime again in the night before dawn, you felt him beside you in the dark.
His breath was quiet on your neck as he slept deeply in your arms.
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