Peter Solarz
art blog(derogatory)
"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"
No title available
taylor price
Andulka
roma★
No title available
almost home
Stranger Things
Xuebing Du
tumblr dot com
Misplaced Lens Cap
he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
wallacepolsom
Discoholic 🪩
No title available
Janaina Medeiros
let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open
hello vonnie
seen from Belgium
seen from United States
seen from Poland
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Denmark
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Germany
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Malaysia
seen from Australia
seen from China
seen from United States
seen from Malaysia
seen from United States
seen from Malaysia
seen from Türkiye
@integra1127
MASTERLISTS
💦 - SMUT
🎆 - IMPLIED SMUT
💞 - FLUFF
💔 - ANGST
⌛ - COMPLETED
⏳ - ONGOING
MAGIC CITY - IKE EVANS
THE WALKING DEAD - NEGAN
THE LOSERS - Lt. Col. FRANKLIN CLAY
THE RESIDENT - Max
SUPERNATURAL - John Winchester
WATCHMEN - EDDIE BLAKE/THE COMEDIAN
JDM CHARACTER ONE SHOTS & SHORT STORIES
JDM CHARACTER REQUESTS
HIS WARRIOR PRINCESS 💞💦💔⏳
Javi Gutierrez
Joel Miller
Dave York
Marcus Acacius
then came you (epilogue)
summary: one year later... and life's better than ever.
pairing: harry castillo x fem!reader content warning(s): fluff, one year time jump, stevie being the best big sister, no use of y/n. word count: 2.6k a/n: Y'ALL!!! huge thank you to everyone for reading this story. i really didn't expect so many people to love it and i truly didn't think it would have lasted this many chapters. it's so bittersweet to say goodbye to this story and this family that i created, but... who knows? maybe there might be a drabble or two in the future. we'll see! love y'all and enjoy the final part of then came you. <33 part 29. | series masterlist.
One year later…
Harry was sitting on the carpeted floor of the living room with Frankie on his lap as he leaned forward to give Frankie raspberry kisses on her cheek and neck, her giggles filtering the room. He smiled to himself and leaned back, eyes widening and lips parting playfully as she reached out to touch his face.
“Dada!” She giggled again, gently trying to push him away.
“You’re an early riser like daddy, aren't you?” He teased, pulling back to look at her as he rested her against his knees. “Stevie and mama like their sleep.”
She stared at him and smiled, her small hands touching his cheeks. “Mama?”
“Yeah, mama,” he smiled. “Can you say Stevie?”
She tilted her head. “S—Sissy!”
“Close enough,” he smiled, pulling her gently to his chest as he stood from the floor. Harry looked around and smiled, keeping Frankie against him. They moved out of the penthouse a few months after Frankie was born, finding a smaller two-story home in a much safer neighborhood.
As he walked towards the kitchen to make a pot of coffee, Harry heard the quiet patter of feet coming from down the hallway. Within a few seconds, he saw Stevie round the corner with her hair in complete disarray as she rubbed her eyes sleepily.
“Morning, Stevie girl,” Harry said, keeping Frankie propped up against him with one arm as he kneeled down to pick Stevie up with his other arm. “You look like you had a good sleep.”
“I did,” she yawned, resting against his shoulder as she opened her eyes to look across to see Frankie. She grinned immediately and reached out to touch her younger sister’s cheek. “Hi, Frankie.”
“Sissy,” she smiled.
Stevie’s eyes lit up.
Harry smiled, looking between both his girls with loving eyes. “Alright, what are we thinking for breakfast?”
“Pancakes,” Stevie answered. “Right, Frankie?”
Frankie nodded excitedly, lifting her head from Harry’s shoulder.
“Pancakes,” Stevie repeated.
“Whatever my girls want,” he smiled. “They’re gonna get.”
“Can I help, daddy?”
“Of course, Stevie girl,” Harry answered, turning his head to kiss the crown of her head. “Go and get your apron while I put Frankie in her high chair.” He continued, setting Stevie down on her feet. He set Frankie down in her high chair and positioned it so that she could watch both him and Stevie make pancakes, while Stevie jogged to the pantry to retrieve her apron and stool so that she could reach the kitchen counter.
“Okay, you comfortable, Frankie?” Harry asked, making sure she was buckled into the high chair before lowering the tray to secure her.
Frankie flashed a smile. “Ya!”
He chuckled and leaned down to kiss her forehead. “Cutie.”
Frankie giggled, then looked over to see Stevie putting her tangled hair into a hair tie. Harry looked over his shoulder and smiled, walking over to her. “You don’t want to brush your hair, honey?”
“No,” Stevie answered. “This is fine!”
“Hmm… you know mama’s gonna wake up and bring out a brush for you if she sees that your hair isn’t brushed,” Harry smiled, tapping the tip of her nose with his finger.
“But it’s fine,” she sighed. “Can you brush it then? While I make the pancakes?”
“Oh, you’re gonna make the pancakes, huh?” Harry chuckled.
“Duh,” she giggled. “But you can make the bacon. It splashes sometimes.”
“You’re lucky you’re cute,” he smiled. “Let me go get that brush. Don’t start without me or else you’re going to make a mess.”
“I never make a mess!” Stevie giggled.
Frankie kicked her feet and giggled too.
“See, Frankie agrees.”
Harry laughed, looking between both Frankie and Stevie. “I’m outnumbered… but fine. You girls have me wrapped around your fingers.”
Stevie smiled.
Frankie grinned.
“I’ll be back,” he said. “Stevie girl, I mean it though, don’t start yet, okay?”
“Okay, daddy,” she nodded.
Harry left the kitchen briefly to walk towards Stevie’s room as he heard her start talking to Frankie, who erupted in giggles. Their laughter echoed throughout the home and down the hallway, a large grin lining his lips.
Stevie was holding onto Frankie’s hand while Harry was holding the tray of food that both he and Stevie made. The three of them were walking down the hallway to surprise you with breakfast in bed and he glanced over his shoulder to see both his girls giggling to each other.
Quietly, Harry opened the door with his foot to see you sit up with a quiet yawn, your hands coming up to rub your eyes like Stevie had done that morning too.
“Mama!” Frankie said first, squeezing Stevie’s hand as she tried to walk a bit faster, though her steps were still a bit wobbly.
You smiled instantly, eyes fluttering open to see Harry with a tray of food followed by your two girls trailing behind him.
“What’s this?”
“The girls wanted to have breakfast in bed,” Harry smiled, setting the tray down on the nightstand and leaning over to peck your lips.
“We helped with pancakes,” Stevie said, helping Frankie onto the bed carefully before she climbed onto it too. Frankie quickly crawled over to you, a quiet giggle escaping her lips once you scooped her into your arms.
“Ooh, I love when you make pancakes, baby,” you replied, using your free hand to cup her cheek gently. “Did daddy help?”
“Help? I made it,” Harry said teasingly. “Stevie helped.”
Stevie giggled and felt him pull her onto his lap as he sat down next to you on the bed. “I think we both made it,” she corrected, curling in his arms as she glanced over at the tray of food.
Harry laughed to himself and gently tickled Stevie’s sides, her laughter filtering the room and Frankie joining in now too despite not her understanding why she was laughing.
You grinned to yourself, leaning against Harry’s side. “Ah, so a team effort,” you said.
“Exactly! Team effort, daddy,” Stevie grinned. “Now, can we eat?”
“Yeah, Stevie girl,” he chuckled, reaching over to grab the tray to set it on the bed in front of the four of you. You reached for the cup of coffee first, taking a careful sip of it as you looked over at him.
“Morning,” you whispered.
“Morning, baby,” Harry smiled, leaning in to peck your lips. “Sleep okay?”
You nodded, turning your attention to the pancakes as Frankie began reaching for it. “Okay, baby,” you said. “Careful now. We don’t want syrup getting on the sheets.”
Frankie looked up at you and tilted her head. “Mama…” She was a spitting image of Harry—dark hair with slight curls and deep brown eyes too. When she grinned, there was a subtle dimple on her cheek as well.
Stevie cut up a piece of a pancake and dipped it in the syrup before she brought it Frankie’s lips. “Here, Frankie,” she said softly. When Frankie leaned forward to take the pancake from the fork, Stevie carefully cupped her chin to make sure that nothing spilled.
Then, she turned to look up at Harry. “See, I’m careful. I don’t make a mess.”
“You’re sassy today,” he teased, gently tickling her sides as she squirmed against him.
You laughed to yourself and watched Stevie and Harry, biting your lower lip. There had been a part of you that wondered how their relationship would shift now that Frankie was born, but nothing changed. If anything, they just got closer.
“I was thinking,” you began, taking a piece of bacon and lifting it to your lips. “We could go to the park today.”
Stevie’s eyes widened excitedly. “Can we?!”
Frankie was focused on the pancake as you handed her a smaller piece for her to hold. She was grinning to herself as she took careful bites, leaning back against you. You looked down at her briefly and smiled, kissing her cheek before turning your attention to Harry and Stevie who were sitting next to you.
“I think that sounds like a good plan,” Harry said. “Then maybe… we can go get ice cream at Central Park.”
You smiled to yourself. “Maybe there might be music too.”
Stevie nodded, eating carefully as well. She reached for her cup of orange juice and took a sip of it before setting it back on the tray. “And daddy will keep his eyes to himself.”
You let out a snort and looked over at Harry.
His eyes widened. “Hey! I was not watching the two of you that afternoon…”
You laughed quietly. “I think you were, baby.”
“You guys were just… there,” he reasoned. “I was listening to the busker and you guys just so happened to be there too.”
Stevie giggled, looking over at you before she turned her focus on eating.
“Best day of my life, though,” Harry continued, looking over at you and smiled to himself. He watched you look down at Frankie, the young girl lifting her small pancake to your lips to offer you a bite, which you took a small bit of it.
“It was?” Stevie asked, looking up at him.
“One of the best days of my life,” he corrected. “Because it gave me you guys, gave me all of this,” he smiled.
Stevie grinned and leaned up to kiss his cheek. “I love you, daddy.”
“Love you too, Stevie girl,” he said, grabbing a napkin to wipe at the corner of her lips. “My messy girl.”
“Okay… maybe I do make a mess sometimes,” she smiled.
“Hmm, sometimes, okay,” he teased.
“Dada!” Frankie giggled, holding up the same piece of pancake over to him.
“Oh, you want to share with daddy too?” He smiled, leaning over to take a small bite. “You’re so sweet,” he said, gently kissing her forehead.
“After breakfast,” you said, “We’ll get ready for the park.”
“And daddy brushed my hair,” Stevie pointed out. “So, I don’t need to brush it again.”
“Yes, you do,” you laughed quietly.
“But why?”
“Because, baby,” you said, reaching over to cup her cheek. “How about I braid it, hm? That way, it won’t get tangled so easily when you play at the park.”
“Can daddy braid it?” Stevie asked.
Harry grinned. “Yes, I can,” he answered. “I’ve gotten better. I’ve practiced.”
“Yes, on me,” you smiled. “He is getting better.” You gently set Frankie down on the bed next to Stevie as you leaned over to peck Harry’s lips.
“I love you,” you whispered.
Harry smiled, hand coming up to your cheek as both your girls were eating amongst themselves.
“I love you too, baby,” he whispered.
Later that night, Harry had managed to get both girls to sleep rather quickly. The day at the park tiring them both out. Stevie was already fast asleep in her room after Harry had sung her to sleep and Frankie finally was asleep in her crib in her own room too.
As he walked back into the main bedroom, he noticed the bathroom door open to see you standing in front of the sink with a towel in hand after you finished washing your face. Smiling to himself, he crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the doorframe of the bathroom. “What do you think of a honeymoon, baby?”
“A honeymoon?”
“Yeah, belated honeymoon at least,” he answered. “We never got the chance to take one after we got married.”
“Where were you thinking?”
“Wherever you want,” he said, walking over to you and wrapping his arms around you from behind. Harry stared at you through the mirror, turning his head to kiss your cheek. “We can go to Europe. We can go to Asia. We can go anywhere.”
“Anywhere?”
He nodded.
“Hawaii,” you said. “I’ve always wanted to go to Hawaii.”
He smiled. “Hawaii it is,” he said. “I was hoping you’d choose a place where you can walk around in your bikini.”
You rolled your eyes playfully before reaching for something on the counter. Then, you slowly lifted it for him to see.
“Guess we should go sometime soon then,” you said. “Before I get too big.”
Harry’s eyes widened slightly. He pulled away from you to look at the pregnancy test that you lifted to his view. “You’re pregnant?”
“Took a couple of tests,” you answered, a small smile lining your lips. “All positive.”
“You’re pregnant,” he repeated. “We’re gonna have another baby?”
“Yeah, Harry,” you laughed quietly, hands cupping his cheeks gently as you leaned in to peck his lips. “We’re gonna have another baby.”
Harry’s smile grew as he wrapped his arms around you and lifted you gently off your feet. “I love you,” he whispered. “I love you so fucking much.”
“Yeah,” you smiled. “I know you do… it’s why I’m pregnant again,” you teased. “But I love you too, Harry.” You felt his lips move to your neck, feeling his stubble brush against your skin, causing you to erupt in a fit of laughter. He held you closer and smiled to himself.
His house had been quiet and empty.
But since marrying you, it had not only been filled with so much love, but also with so much laughter.
He pulled back to look down at you, hand coming up to rest on your cheek lightly. Harry ran his thumb across your jawline. “So, Hawaii…”
“Hawaii,” you nodded.
“And then another baby,” he said.
“Guess Charlotte was right,” you smiled.
Harry grinned. “Yeah, guess so.”
“We’re gonna have a shit ton of kids,” you laughed quietly.
“Well, that was the plan all along anyway,” he replied, leaning down to peck your lips. “I love you,” Harry repeated. “Thank you for giving me everything I ever dreamt of,” he whispered.
“You’re unreal,” you teased, referring back to what you two would say to each other in the beginning of the relationship. You moved to wrap your arms around his neck as you leaned in to lightly peck his lips. “And thank you for giving me everything I ever wished for.”
Harry smiled, lifting you off your feet once more and taking you towards the bed. “Kids are asleep…” he said, gently setting you onto your back as he settled himself between your legs. “Thinking we can celebrate the good news.”
“Celebrating is what got us the good news,” you laughed quietly, running your hands through his hair as you felt his hands run along your legs and up towards the waistband of your shorts.
He hummed, resting his forehead against your own. “Well, guess we’re celebrating again then.”
You laughed quietly as his hands moved underneath your shirt to touch your bare skin as Harry’s lips moved to the side of your neck.
“Just can’t get enough of you,” he mumbled.
You smiled, eyes falling shut as you wrapped your arms around him. “Can never get enough of you too, Mr. Castillo.”
Harry lifted his head to look down at you. “Oh, Mrs. Castillo,” he grinned. “You know I love it when you call me that.”
You slowly rolled him over onto his back as you straddled his waist, hands moving to rest on his chest. “Oh, I know,” you chuckled.
Harry moved a hand to your tummy and smiled to himself, sitting up as his other hand wrapped around your waist. “Dream come true,” he whispered.
Then, he leaned in and pressed his lips firmly against your own.
Everything in his life made sense now.
You and Stevie were the missing pieces that he didn’t realize he needed.
And this growing family he was going to share with you really was something he always dreamt of having.
taglist: @picketniffler @pleurspetal @glitterspark @notyourlovemonkey @enchantedreader @fearlesslypascal @just-mj-or-not @sunnytuliptime @christinamadsen @wildthyng @missladym1981 @maried01 @dugiioh @woodxtock @bibimysoul @nightwitchlurker @brittmb115 @beezusvreeland @mrsbilicablog @needz1nk @honey-moon-13 @orcasoul @arianmock13-blog @idk-tbh127 @mariamorales1998 @lizzie-cakes @pedritosgfreal @blog-luvdance @wkuwcb @hoddystark @madmelz @stylesispunk @vickie5446 @thatcorporategirlie @ashleyfilm @mcthsman @inept-the-magnificent @billionairecowgirl @06nasyrah13 @dotyoureyez @matt-sturnioloo @callmebyyournick-name @joelsarchive @ultimatewolverine @cowboylover00 @kneelforloki @sesdeuxyeux @noooway555 @b1bbles @msdariaknight @comfortzonequeen @maryfanson @cameronsbabydoll @the-curator1 @truffleshuffle12
Brat Decisions
Pairing – Joel x fem!reader
Companion piece to Pour Choices
Summary
Setting foot into Pour Decisions definitely was one of Joel's better choices. He'd went for coffee and left with a brat that kept him on his toes. Smug grin and gum popping. He'd lie if he'd claim he didn't enjoy that just as much as reminding you how much of a good girl you can be. Like when you steal his shirt and cause him to be late to the construction site because of that.
Warnings
+18 – mdni; pure smut, pwp style, bratting, breath play, spanking, p in v sex, orgasm denial, multiple orgasms, semi-public sex, cunnilingus, implied spit kink, daddy kink, unspecified age gap, alternating POVs
a/n
I loved their dynamic too much to leave it at a one-shot, so here we are with a companion piece/continuation. my notes for this one literally were more porn less plot so here we are! enjoy <3
word count: 3.8k
as seen on archiveofourown
You.
“Babygirl, have you seen my—” the word shirt died on his tongue when he found you standing in your small kitchen in front of the coffee machine that was far too expansive for your little kitchen. Wearing the flannel he was looking for. The red flannel he’d worn last night when he’d picked you up from the café. It reached down to about mid thigh, not that it was covering much, given you’d left it unbuttoned. Giving him quite the view because you wore nothing underneath it.
Somewhere over the last couple of weeks a good chunk of your clothes had wound up at his place and his at yours. Making mornings easier. Unless you hadn’t done laundry because you’d spend the last week and a half almost exclusively at his place. First he’d gotten sick, and you’d been there to make him soup and tea and make sure he actually stayed in bed and rested and then just as he’d gotten better, you’d caught the plague.
And if Joel was attentive and caring before, you’d gotten princess treatment after. Going as far as him taking another day off work just to be there for you. Soup and terrible horror movies and spending the better part of the day in his arms included.
“‘m ‘fraid, I need this,” Joel breathed when he remembered to speak, tucking you closer by the flannel.
“Nope,” you offered, a grin on your lips. “’s mine now. Finder’s keeper’s and all that.”
“Finder’s keeper’s?” He arched a a brow, unable to keep his fingers from slipping under the flannel and settling against your waist, his thumb tracing against your skin.
“Mhm,” you were close enough now that your nose brushed against his. “Found it here actually,” you remarked. You’d gotten sidetracked while cooking. Enough so that the stove had to be turned off temporarily while he had fucked you on the counter top beside it.
Dinner was head half naked after that.
“So it’s mine now.”
“That so?” He was hard, you could feel him pressing against you through the denim of his jeans. Not the first time he would be running late because of you. Because there was no way he was leaving on time now. You can tell by how his hand had that had slipped to your ass. Making sure you stayed pressed against his bulge.
You nodded, lips still impossibly close to his. “If you want it back, it’s gonna cost you,”
“’n what’s that?”
Your fingers slipped down, palming him through his jeans. Joel moaned hips rolling into your touch. “Hmm…,” you pretended to think for a moment. “Three orgasms.”
“Babygirl,” he groaned. “Ain’t got time for that,” he complained, glancing towards the clock on the microwave.
“Guess then you gotta leave without your shirt,” you sighed dramatically, pulling your hand away and taking a step back, just for Joel to pull you right back in.
“One,” he bargained.
“Two,” you countered.
“You killin’ me babygirl,” his head fell back into his neck, but his hands slipped to your hips, hoisting you up and throwing you over his shoulder, his palm connecting with your ass while you squealed. “Ya lucky I ain’t got time t’remind ya how good girls behave.”
“You can always tonight.” You already know he would. Because you’d learned quick that Joel was a man who stood by his word. Because he had fucked you bent over the bar one quiet Saturday morning. He had come with you, to set up opening. Well practiced by now, you’d breezed through the tasks with him and when you had poured him his coffee, he’d stepped up behind you, caging you against the counter, already rock hard.
And then he’d fucked you right there, in plain view of any passers by. Slow and deep, fingers on your clit and his voice a low rumble by your ear. “What’d yer regulars think, you over the counter, ’n me balls deep inside o’you?” and “Promise me y’ll be thinkin’ bout me inside o’you all day. Errytime ya stand here.” You had. Every fucking time you’d stepped toward the register you’d clenched around nothing. Remembering the sensation of the hard, unforgiving countertop underneath you while he’d spilled thick ribbons of his cum deep inside of you.
The CCV footage, you’d copied and erased — just in case.
He’d watched it that very same afternoon, while you’d knelt between his legs, his cock in your mouth. It’d been the first time he’d cum on your tongue.
The flannel stayed on, when he settled between your thighs, breath hot against slick skin before his lips had closed around your clit and two fingers had easily sunken into you. And god was he skilled with his fingers and tongue. Easily reducing you to a mess of moans and gasps. “Should be punishin’ you,” he curled his fingers, tips dragging over that sweet spot that made your thighs quiver and hips buck. “’n not reward you f’stealin’ my shirt.”
“As if you,” you pant, “Don’t like it when I—” his tongue flicked against your clit, pulling a moan from your lips “When I wear your shirts, I see how—-” you fall, your orgasm crashing over you before you can finish the sentence.
“Y’were sayin’” the smug smile barely stayed on his lips, making room for utter bliss when he sunk into you with one hard thrust.
“That,” you breathed, licking yourself off of his lips. “I see how,” his pace was unforgiving, easily pushing you up high again, barely that you had time to come down. His grip on your hip, keeping you in place, hard enough to bruise. “How hard it makes you when I wear them.”
“That so?” Half a growl somewhere by your ear, followed by the weight of his hand settling around your throat. With just enough pressure to remind you that he was calling the shots here.
Not always, sure, but certainly enough for you to notice. But you don’t manage to tell him that, toes curling, back arching.
So close. So fucking close.
“Thought so.” Smug fucking bastard. And you would tell him as much, but you were too busy moaning his name, too busy teetering on that fucking edge. He was right there with you, when you fall again, his cock twitching and spilling deep inside of you.
His hand stayed, even after you caught your breath. “Hope ya enjoyed those,” he breathed against your lips, “Coz they were the last, for a while.”
“What?” He’d gotten off of you, jeans already pulled up again.
“Ya heard me,” he huffed, “Shirt. Now,” he held his hand out.
“Joel no,” you sat up, scooting towards where he was standing in front of the bed. “No, baby, don’t say that?” Although you were quick to hold out the flannel shirt for him.
“Y’made me late,” he breathed, buttoning it up. “Again. ’n now I gotta go t’work smellin after you ’n sex coz’ve no time t’get changed.”
“No, Joel, you don’t mean that—- please?”
“Beggin’ already,” a grin tucked on his lips, “’s not hard bein’ a good girl, is it?” He leaned in to press a kiss to your lips and you had half a mind to pull him back into the sheets. To give him a million and one reasons why he couldn’t do that. “But ya had t’go ’n be a brat.” His teeth caught your bottom lip “’n now I got all fuckin’ day thinking ‘bout how I’ll punish ya,” a grin tucked on his lips when he stepped back. “’n so do you.”
──────────
Joel.
Yeah. Tommy’d had a field day with him about being late yet again. He had repeatedly before, ever since you’d shown up one noon with a coffee and a sandwich for him. Popping gum included.
“Tough tryna keep up with ya girlfriend, eh?” Tommy greeted him, a shit eating grin on his lips. At least he was no longer berating him for being with a girl half his age.
“Not really,” was all he gave, voice gruff when he handed Tommy a cup of coffee too. Means to shut him up. Bribery, if you will.
“Sure,” Tommy grinned. “’s why ya haven’t managed to change ’n look like ya jus fell outa bed.” Well, he wasn’t wrong about the latter part. Though, Joel wasn’t pointing that out.
Just like he wasn’t pointing out that every time you showed up for his lunch break on whatever site he was working, with a coffee and a sandwich, you’d fucked in the trailer that functioned as his office.
On the desk, against the wall, in the chair on his lap, bent over the floor plan. Every time with his hand covering your mouth or around your throat, to make sure you’d stay quiet.
Like that time you’d shown up in a dress, when he’d you on the desk. His thrusts slow and measured. “Shhh, quiet baby,” he’d breathed by your ear, “Be quiet f’me,” he’d encouraged you, nearly pulling all the way out before sinking back in. Torturously slow. Inch by thick fucking inch. And you’d whimpered, breath hitching. “Good girl. Feel how ya squeezin me? Fittin’ me like y’were made f’me.”
You’d bit down hard enough on his neck in an effort to remain quiet, to leave a mark he’d struggled to cover for the rest of the day.
And of course he’d loved every fucking second of it.
His phone chimed with a text from you halfway through the morning. ’Tell me you didn’t mean that!’ Oh so you had spent the day, so far, thinking about him and what he’d said.
Good.
‘Bein demandin ain’t gonna get ya anywhere babygirl!’
‘🙄🙄🙄’
Right, and now you were being a brat about it. No surprise there really. Ever since the first time he’d fucked you in the back of the café, when he’d found out how pliable and soft you could be when you wanted to, gone the snark, the smug smiles, the popping gum when you’d remember to use your words and asked him as nicely as you managed to, to finally fuck you or touch you.
Yeah. He liked that.
Liked reminding you of that, of your place as his good girl just as much as he enjoyed it when you were everything but. When you effortlessly kept him on his toes without even trying. Even now, months after he’d first walked into Pour Decisions.
Definitely one of his better choices.
You showed up around lunch. Tommy’d just left to get food; a coffee and a sandwich in your hands. “Came t’bargain’ again?” He’d grinned, when you’d locked the door to the trailer that functioned as his office, leaning back in the chair, feet kicked up on his desk.
“Can’t I just wanna spend time with my favourite construction worker?” You’d slipped into a short skirt that came down to about mid thigh. Just where his shirt had ended. No doubt hoping you could sway him on his earlier claim about no orgasms for the foreseeable future.
“Sure,” the grin turned a little smug as he watched you approach, gum popping. The sandwich along with the coffee landed on the desk, and his hand settled on your hips when you climbed onto his lap, legs bracketing his. His lips found yours, “Always.”
“I’m sorry for making you late,” he watched a pout settle onto your lips, the gum now popping between his.
“You ain’t,” he clicked his tongue, his hand having found a place on your ass again, pulling you in close enough so you knew he was appreciative of you showing up regardless. “Nice try though.” The pout disappeared, just long enough for you to roll your eyes. “Didn’t mind bein’ late babygirl,” he hummed.
“No?” You perked up, hips rocking forward, against the bulge in his pants.
It was quick work, fly opened, pants tucked down just enough, panties pushed aside and without much ado, you’d lifted your hips and guided his cock to your opening. “Been wet all morning,” you breathed, easing down on him. “Been thinking about how you’ll punish me for my little stunt.”
“Y’know how’ll punish ya babygirl,” he grunted, his hips on your hips, guiding you. “Y’ain’t cummin’”
As much as he liked watching watching how his cock sunk into you again and again and again, his eyes stayed on you. Waiting for your reaction. For when his words had fully sunk in.
Oh and through the motions you went.
Surprise, shock, disappointment and then—- spite. Because who was he to tell you when and when not you’d cum?
Except that he very much could decide that.
Your movements grew faster, and if just to proof a point. For a moment he let you. Your quiet moans and the wet sound of skin against filling the small space. Only when your fingers made their way down, did he intervene.
A hand catching yours, the other holding your hip.
“No.” He breathed against your lips, biting down hard on your bottom lip. “If you cum now,” his voice heeded a warning, “‘m not gonna fuck you f’a week.”
“You wouldn’t dare!”
“Two weeks,” he countered, because, fucking try me. “No fingers. No tongue. No cock.”
“As if you’d last,” a scoff, “You were balls deep inside of me within seconds of our first kiss.” His hand connected with your ass once, sharp.
“Another word and I’ll make it four weeks, ’n’ll find out just how long’ll last.”,” you crumbled quietly, but didn’t breathe another word.
“Good,” he praised, “Good girl,” you clenched around him hard, making him groan. “You wanna cum, don’t cha, babygirl?” You nodded, eagerly, “Tell y’what, babygirl. If y’re a good girl f’me and ain’t cum now, I’ll let y’cum later.”
“Later?” You voice shook.
“Eventually,” a nod.
“Today?”
“Today,” he thrusted once into you, making you moan again. “Promise,”
“I’ll be good,” you promised immediately, “Not gonna cum.”
“‘ll tell me when y’re close?” You nodded and Joel stood with you, shifting you to the desk before he started moving, his pace fast, unforgiving. Chasing his own release.
And fuck, how tight you were squeezing him, pulling him in deep. “Wait, wait please—-” you moaned, and at once he stopped. Pulling out of. “N–not gonna cum,” you promised. “J–just n–need a moment.”
“Good girl,” he praised, slowly stroking himself. His cock glistening with your slick. “Breath through it,” and fuck he could tell you tried, your body so wound tight. Your breathing laboured. He gripped his cock tighter, moving faster.
“‘m gonna cum, babygirl. Think y’can handle me?” You nodded, and he sunk back into you, one thrust, two—- and he was humming, cock twitching, seed spilling, thick rope after rope, with a grunt.
You moaned, walls fluttering, but you didn’t cum. True to your promise. “Good girl,” praised, pressing his lips to your forehead while you whimpered, hips bucking, chasing, begging. “’s my good girl,” his spend was already leaking out of you around his softening cock. He slipped out fully of you then, not thinking to reach for a tissue in an effort to clean you.
No, he wanted you full of him, so he just tucked your panties back into place. “Proud of you babygirl,” he breathed, lips finding yours, in a slow, deep kiss. “Y’did good. Real good.”
“Don’t feel like I did,” you complained, slipping off the table on to uneasy feet. “Gonna hold you to your promise,” you breathed, rising onto your toes to press another kiss to his lips. “Gotta get back.”
“Don worry, babygirl, I’ll keep it,” he grinned against your lips before letting you slip away. “Still gonna punish you.”
“Good, you called back, stepping out the trailer, watching Tommy approach, “Because I spit into your coffee.”
Brat.
──────────
You.
He kept his promise. Of still punishing you. You’d barely gotten home, after he’d picked you from from the Café — his place this time. Perhaps to avoid a repeat of today; when he’d you bent over his knee. Skirt pushed up and panties down. “Count f’me,” he’d ordered before landing the first slap.
Biting, sharp.
Your breath hitched, “O-one.”
“Should spank ya f’every minute ya made me late,” he was breathing hard too and from how you were resting over his lap you could feel him hard and pressing into you.
You’d made it all the way up to ten.
“B-but you said you didn’t mind that I made you late,” you protested, voice a whimper while his palm soothed over angry, red skin.
“’s true. Doesn’t mean y’shouldn’t be punished babygirl.”
Another smack, hard. You yelped, “E-eleven.”
“Y’know how late y’made me?” You shook your head, breath caught somewhere in your lunges when he squeezed the abused flesh between his strong fingers. “Use y’words, babygirl.”
“N-no.”
“Forty-five fucking minutes, babygirl.” He landed another slap and you helped before calling out twelve. “Got s’much shit from Tommy—- after y’little noon stunt too.” His hand connected with your skin again.
“Th–thirteen,” you managed, tears now biting at your eyes.
“Should punish ya f’that too,” you whimpered, expecting another stinging slap that didn’t come. Instead he pulled you into his arms. “But ya were so good f’me. Not cumming, just like I asked ya to,” his hand settled against your cheek, so fucking tender that it was hard to imagine the very same hand had left your ass stinging and you sure that sitting would be painful for the next little while. “Think ya can do that again?”
You nodded, just for him to remind you to use your words again. “Yes,” you breathed.
“Yes what?” He prompted gently.
“I won’t cum unless you tell me to Daddy.”
“There she is,” he praised softly, “My good girl.” His lips found yours, slow, unhurried. Your lips easily parting to his tongue. “Think you can stand, babygirl?”
You started to nod, but then breathed a “Yeah,” before carefully easing off of his lap.
He walked you into the bedroom, before helping you to undress. Your shirt, your bra, your skirt, your panties. “Look at you babygirl,” he praised, taking a moment to take you in. The curves and dips of your figure, the smoothness of your skin. The spill of freckles that doted along it like small constellations. “How lucky’m, t’call you mine. ‘m good girl. ‘m babygirl, ‘m brat.” A grin tucked on his lips. “Y’like that, huh? Bein my brat. Keepin’ me on m’toes.”
You nodded.
“Words,” he reminded you yet again.
“I do,” you affirmed, struggling to hide your own grin.
“Y’gonna continue t’be a brat?”
“Duh,” now the grin stood in full bloom, “Course I do.”
“So y’gonna make me late for work again?” He asked, already knowing the answer.
“Yes Daddy,” his breath hitched. Quietly, barely noticeable. Who would have thought. Joel liked it when you called him Daddy. He did when you moaned it, begging him to touch you, but he did too when you said it with a smug grin on your lips, in the snack aisle of the grocery store, because he’d again only picked the plain pretzels.
“’n ya’ll show up at work too?”
“Promised,” you nodded, “With a coffee, a sandwich and a quickie.”
“Fucking menace,” he groaned, fingers soothing through his salt and pepper hair.
“You complaining, Daddy?” You teased.
“Course not!” He was quick to answer. “Never,” now a grin tucked on his lips. “Means I get t’remind ya who’s in charge.”
“Me,” you grinned too. Standing in front of him, fully naked while he was still completely dressed. “Obviously.”
You lost track, somewhere between his tongue, his lips and his fingers, of how often he’d gotten close enough to fall. Just to stop. Knowing from your breathing, from the moans that kept falling from your lips and the way you tucked on his hair just how close you were. You didn’t even need to say anything. Giving you more room to whine and groan in frustration.
“Not yet babygirl,” he breathed against slick skin.
“But you promised,” you reminded him, tucking impatiently on his hair. “Please Daddy?”
“Day ain’t over yet,” he hummed, blowing warm air against your oversensitive clit. Causing your hips to buck forward, chasing him. “Gonna make sure y’cum plenty, babygirl. Just wanna worship this glorious pussy first.” He sunk his index finger back into you, slick walls immediately clenching around him. “Feel how she’s clenching ‘round me? So tight,” he curled his finger, teasing over that sweet sweet spot that made your hips buck. “So eager f’me.”
All you could do was moan, your hips rocking forward, chasing his touch. Just for him to stop again right before your orgasm hit.
He finally showed mercy, once he was balls deep inside of you and a string of please, and please Daddy, stumbled from your lips. “Cum f’me babygirl,” he moaned against your lips and that’s all you needed to finally let go. Your orgasm crashing over you like a tidal wave, nails breaking the skin of his shoulder, leaving crimson indents while a silent scream fell of your lips.
“Fuck,” he grunted, losing his pace for a moment. Barely long enough for you to catch your breath before he was moving again. Slow and deep. Measured and you knew that he’d see to at least one more orgasm.
In the end it was three, before he spilled inside of you with a grunt that closely resembled your name.
“Don’t think I can walk or sit tomorrow.” You breathed, when he walked back into the room, wet cloth in his hand.
“Gonna carry ya,” he promised, gentle movements cleaning your thighs and sensitive skin with the warm cloth. “Gonna make sure y’re okay, babygirl.” He promised, pressing a gentle kiss to the inside of your thigh and then your pubic bone.
“You better,” you huffed, even if there was amusement in your voice.
“Ya did so well,” he praised, slowly easing you to turn around. “Such a good girl f’me,” he gently, carefully massaged a cream into your sore skin.
“So I can steal your shirt tomorrow morning again?” You asked, voice muffled by the pillow. Your body utterly relaxed.
“Ya can steal all of ‘em. Whenever.”
You shifted just enough to look at him. “Coz you like it when I wear them,” he nodded. “Makes you hard, doesn’t it?” You arched a brow.
“Careful, babygirl,” he huffed. Giving your backside a soft, playful smack. Not enough to sting.
“C’mon,” you whined, an over dramatic pout on your lips when he drew you into his arms. “You can tell me. I know I’m right.”
“Fine,” he groaned in defeat, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Makes me hard, seein’ ya in my shirts. ‘specially if ya have nothin’ under.”
“There,” you grinned, drawing him into a kiss. “Wasn’t so hard, now was it?”
“Brat,” Joel huffed, tucking the sheets in around the both of you.
“You love it,” you countered, fingers soothing through his hair. Nails scratching along his scalp.
“Sure do,” he affirmed, tucking you in close against his chest. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”
Pour Decisions
Pairing: Joel Miller x Reader
Summary:
TLOU Coffee Shop AU — Joel Miller didn't think much of those fancy coffee places that sprouted up everywhere until one morning he forgot his travel mug at home and the dire outlook of a day without coffee lead him to brave the world of a coffee shop. Maybe one of his better choices!
Warnings:
+18 – mdni; smut, fluff, piv, semi-public, spit kink (if you squint), oral, reader is a brat, older!Joel, younger!reader, alternating POVs
Word count: ~7k
as found on: archiveofourown
a/n – y'all I haven't used tumblr in a hot second but wanted to come here with my fics too bc why tf not? so hi!! I'm chaos or c and hope y'all enjoy this as much as I did writing it <3 (in the meantime I'll work on rmr how to work this site lmfao)
Joel.
He’s running late. And Joel’s never running late. But today he is. Damn alarm clock gave out on him. Or maybe he’d just forgotten to check if the damn thing was set like he did every night… Either way, now he was fucking late. Had to rush through his morning and as a result—- left his travel mug on the fucking kitchen counter.
There was contemplation to go back and get it, because starting a day without his caffein hit, was evidently worse than being late. He still opted against it, already more than halfway to the construction site by the time he had made up his mind.
But then he passed the small coffee shop another five minutes later. The same one he had passed for the last two weeks and never thought twice about stopping. Because Joel didn’t believe in all this fancy shit. With artificial flavours and a hundred-and-three ways to make coffee. He just wanted plain coffee, strong preferably, the kind he could easily make at home. So he had no reason to stop at Pour Decisions — that fucking name alone; but he’d left left his mug on the fucking counter and he needed caffein. So with an irritated grunt at his own damn choices that had led him here, he pulled into the almost deserted parking lot in front of the small coffee shop.
A bell chimed overhead when he opened the door, bracing himself for an onslaught of that modern industrial architecture the whole fucking food industry seemed to be after, just to find a lack of a clear design all together.
A mix of mismatched chairs and tables, a couple of surprisingly comfortable looking couches. No brick walls, instead there were two massive bookshelves in an L-shape lining the wall, and plants fucking everywhere.
Had he set foot into a café or…?
“Good morning,” a warm voice greeted him while he still tried to find the theme of the decor. The first thing he noticed was your smile, not that fake costumer service one, no, a genuine smile. The kind that made your eyes sparkle. “What can I get for you?”
“You ain’t from around here,” he blurted out instead of an order or a greeting.
“No shit,” you laughed, “What gave it away cowboy? The lack of an accent?”
“Ain’t a cowboy,” he huffed. He’d come in here for a much needed coffee and not a round of small-talk. What the fuck was he doing? God he felt out of place here. Yesterday’s dust still clinging to his clothes—- the name definitely did fit. Pour decisions and all that.
“Sure,” you tilted your head, still flashing him a smile. “Now that we’ve that out of the way, what can I get for you?”
“Coffee.” He should have braved the day on no caffein. Coming in here was definitely the wrong decision.
“Excellent, you happen to be in luck, we sell exactly that.” He really wanted to be irritated by your smart mouth, but didn’t really managed to. You made a point of looking him up and down, wrinkled flannel, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, yesterday’s dust still clinging to his jeans—- could he feel any more out of place? “Let me guess, a triple-upside-down caramel macchiato, cinnamon-dolce instead of vanilla and… with almond milk?”
“What?” Joel blinked, trying to sort the words you’d thrown at him into meaning. “I—,” he hesitated.
“Relax,” you flashed him a grin. “Coffee, drip,” you pushed off of the counter you’d been leaning against, grabbing a large paper cup and fastening a sleeve around it. “I’m going out on a limb here,” you continued, filling the mug with steaming black liquid, “Strong,” he watched you place the lid on top. Your fingers pressing the down on the rim. “No sugar, no milk,” you place the cup in front of him, watching him pull his wallet from his back pocket. “Oh no, it’s on the house. View it as first time costumer bonus.”
“That ain’t sound right? Won’t you get in trouble?”
You snorted, waving him off. “Let me worry about that. Just promise me to come back tomorrow if you liked the blend.”
“I— yeah.” he grabbed the cup, his expression betraying that he wouldn’t come back under any circumstances. “Sure.”
By the time he made it back to his truck, he still tried to comprehend what the fuck had just happened.
Except, that the coffee was good. Really, really good. Better than anything he had had before, if he was honest with himself. So when he got up the next morning, on time, thanks to a replaced alarm clock and checking twice before bed that it in fact had been set, he eyes his travel mug like it had offended him.
His coffee wouldn’t be as good and he had promised to come back if he liked the blend. And Joel Miller was a lot of things but not a man who didn’t keep his word.
At least this time around he felt less awkward when the bell above his head chimed, announcing his arrival. Probably too, because you stood behind the counter again. If anything, the smile on your lips wider, and a tad pleased. “So you liked it,” you greeted him. “Good. We just got the blend from a new, local roastery. I’d sell you a pack, but,” you pop the bubble of your gum, placing a freshly filled cup before him. Same like yesterday. “Then you wouldn’t come back, and where would be the fun in that?”
Joel left, paying for his order this time around and leaving the same amount and then some in the tipping jar, having been too bewildered yesterday to even leave tip. He has a stamp card in his wallet too.
Nine more visits and he’d get another cup on the house.
──────────
You.
He came back. Every single fucking day of the week until Friday. You half expected him to ask you out or for your number at the very least. From how he’d stared at your lips while you talked and the way he’d stammered himself through a conversation.
It took you until Thursday to find out that his name was Joel. Sometimes you wished you wrote names on the cups like Starbucks did, but that wasn’t quite on your mind when you had decided to open pour decisions. The name stemming from literally everyone telling you that it was a terrible idea to open your own coffee shop in a world of Starbucks and Dunkin Donuts and whatever else those fast-food-frenchaises were called over-saturating the market.
And yet here you were. Almost two years in, a handful of good and loyal employees, and surprisingly successful with your chaotic-none-concept. The books in the shelves were your own, or those left by guests in a trade, the plants got bought on occasion, if — and that was a big if, you managed to part with them. The caffee was from small and for the most part local roasteries and the pastries freshly baked by a bakery you had partnered with.
By no means would your café make you a millionaire, but that wasn’t what it was about. You loved what you did and you had enough to live comfortably. By your standards anyway.
Joel hadn’t exactly fit the description of your regular clientele. Looking utterly lost the first time he’d stepped inside. With the stamp card had come the confidence you expected a man like him to carry himself with.
Not arrogant or snobbish, the chunky work boots and flannel shirts didn’t fit that, just sure of himself and his footing. So it had been a little hard not to feel disappointed when he hadn’t asked for your number or a date when he’d been in on Friday. He wasn’t in Saturday, but from your Sam, your barista, you knew that he’d stopped by on Sunday.
‘Your cowboy’s in, looking like he just left Sunday lunch. He cleans up nice. Looked disappointed that you weren’t there.’
You’d only shot back a bunch of eye-roll emojis.
He came back Monday morning, bright and early, 7 AM on the dot, like he had last week. You already have his order ready by the time he stepped to the counter. Another flannel, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, salt-and-pepper hair somewhere between pushed back and and left to it’s own means but begging you to run your fingers through it regardless.
“Knew I would make a regular out of you,” you greeted him.
“Ain’t a regular,” he huffed, pushing dollar bills across the counter and dropping another set into the tipping jar.
“That stamp card begs to differ,” you counter, after adding a fourth crescent moon shaped stamp to the card.
“Just collectin’ another five of ‘em to get my free coffee,” he countered, though the hint of a smile that showed around his eyes told a different story.
“Maybe it’s about time I got you hooked on something else then,” your gum popped and his eyes dropped back to your lips. “You you indulge,” you continue, pushing off the counter and stepping towards the pastry. “Sometimes at least,” you flashed him a smile before turning towards the food display “Let’s see…” you study the layout for a beat, glancing back to Joel who only eyed you curiously. “Yeah.” You settle a moment later, pulling a cinnamon roll from the display before popping it into the small oven you kept behind it. “You know we do sandwiches too,” those you made yourself in the morning. “We even take requests, occasionally,” you pack the cinnamon roll into a small paper container before pushing it towards him too.
He’d already placed enough to cover the pastry and a tip on the counter, apparently not taking another it’s on the house. “Yeah?” He asked, thumb briefly toying with the edge of the box. “How’s that work?”
You flashed him a smile, “Come back tomorrow and tell me the cinnamon roll was spot on and maybe I will tell you.”
And sure, like clockwork, Joel came back on Tuesday. “Donno how you keep pulling’ that, but… you were right about the cinnamon roll.”
“Course I was,” your gum popped, a smug grin on your lips. His coffee already on the counter.
“Alright,” he eyed the sandwich display. An assortment of bagels and bread rolls filled with different kinds of meats, greens and cheeses. “Which one I’m getting?”
“None of those,” you offered without missing a beat and Joel almost look offended by how spot on you were again.
“Fine, what d’you got me pegged for, then?”
You glance at him for a moment, before answering, like it was the most obvious thing, “Cheddar, turkey, no mayo,” your gum popped again, “Mustard instead, not too much greenery. A slice of cucumber perhaps for the crunch, no tomatoes, too soggy. A bit of lettuce. Toasted.”
“Fucking hell.” Right on then.
“Not to brag, but, I’d be burned at the stake during the witch trails.”
“Yeah no shit,” he laughed. Actually laughed.
Come Wednesday, you had both the sandwich and his coffee ready. Only trading the sandwich for another cinnamon roll on Friday, for it being the end of the week and all.
“Looks like you’re almost at your free coffee,” you remark, after sliding the stamp card back towards him.
“What if I want your number instead?”
A grin tucked on your lips. “Get the last stamp then and see if you’ll get it.” As if you hadn’t placed a napkin in the box with the cinnamon roll with your number written on it.
Your phone buzzes some time around noon. You’d just settled into the back of house, ready to tackle shift scheduling for the next two weeks when your phone buzzes and the screen flashes with an unfamiliar number.
‘What type of witchcraft you practice again?’ followed by a simple “Joel.” Just in case, no doubt, you handed your number out to multiple times today.
’The kind that keeps you on your toes ;)’ you shot back, before you add, ‘You better still come in to collect that last stamp though.’ Since he got your number already.
‘Be a terrible regular if I didn’t’ Good, because you’d be really disappointed if he wouldn’t. ‘Gonna have to use it on somethin else now’
──────────
Joel.
The kind that keeps you on your toes.
Yeah right. You did a mighty fine job of that. Guessing his coffee order, what fucking sweet treat he liked, right down to the kind of sandwich he’d order.
And that fucking gum that you kept popping while grinning at him like you’d had him aaaaall figured out. Which apparently you had. His orders anyway. While he made a fool of himself, trying to hold a conversation. The fact that it had taken him three fucking days to ask after your name?
Embarrassing.
He’d still saved you as coffee witch into his phone. Just because.
Texting was a whole lot easier. Perhaps because you weren’t as distracting and he had time to think about his answers. So it’s no surprise you did from pretty much Friday afternoon straight up to Sunday evening.
He learned that you moved here for a relationship that no longer existed some eight years ago after dropping out of college, and stuck around because you’d already started to build yourself a life here. He learned too that you’re a good chunk younger than him. Which, in all honesty, he’d suspected but it still almost got him to stop this — whatever this was right here, right there. But then you looped him back in.
‘Thought of something to cash the card in for yet? Once you’ve collected the last stamp?’ Easy as that. Not even phased by his 52 admission, when you’d asked after his age.
You made it really fucking easy, which should have been scary but Joel couldn’t really bring himself to care. Not when stopping by the coffee shop every morning had, admittedly, become the favourite part of his day.
The only issue, they’d wrapped the site in Friday and his next gig didn’t bring him past pour decisions. He’d considered telling you or asking how long you’d be in to see if he could swing by later.
Joel did neither, naturally, in true fashion of the coffee shops name, this resulted in an early set alarm that sent him utterly deserted parking lot at the crack of dawn. And only when he spotted you inside, among chairs that were still on tables, he realised, he hadn’t checked for the opening hours.
Fuck. Way to make a fool of himself. He was set to get back into his truck, already trying to come up with a time he could come back withoutcutting slack from Tommy for running off when you opened the door. “Joel?” He winced, of course you’d seen him through the large glass windows. “You’re early.”
“Yeah,” a shrug, “I— uhm, we wrapped the site on Friday, new site’s across town…”
“I see,” you snort, which did very little to ease how ridiculous he felt, “And I take it you still wanted to collect that last stamp?” You arch an eyebrow.
“Yeah,” he took the offered out.
“Alright,” you took a step back, holding the door open. “C’mon in then.”
“What? You sure?” Joel asked even as he took a step towards you. “Ain’t wanna cause any trouble?”
“Trouble with whom?” You cocked your head to the side, gum popping.
“Donno,” a shrug. “Your boss?”
Another snort, “Nah, I think she’ll understand.”
“Alright,” he decided, following you inside. “If y’say so.”
“Coffee’s not ready yet though,” you offer, locking the door again. “Won’t take long. You in a rush?”
He was, but he decided that he wasn’t. “Got time,” he heard himself say and the way you beam at him at that, made the looming ordeal of morning traffic and being late easily worth it.
Joel didn’t watch you move about the café and the morning prep for long before he offered help. First in front of the bar, taking the chairs off of the tables, wiping them down and watering the plants and then behind.
“You really do not have to help,” you argue yet again while showing him the setting the coffee beans needed to be ground on.
“’s the least I can do,” after the free food you’d slipped him over the week. No amount of tip he left could make up for the free sandwiches he’d enjoyed.
“You always this stubborn?” You challenge, before disappearing into the back to continue with the sandwiches.
“Funny, comin’ from you,” he’d called after you.
Once the coffee was ground and weighted like you’d shown him, he opted to head to the back too. Deciding that, since he was already here during closing hours, he might as well head into the back of house too. And if only to tell you he was done and what else he could do. Just in time to see you climbing up into a shelf to fish for a pack of cups. Without another thought he’s behind you, “Easy,” he breathed, voice a low rumble, hand raised and hovering inches from the small of your back.
You startled; not having seen him enter with your back turned to him, making you lose your balance and slip. But he was there to catch you, hands immediately grabbing onto your waist and hip to steady you and catch your fall.
“Fuck, sorry, I—” he stammered, trying to apologise but you only burst out laughing, not even attempting to step away from him. So maybe he forgot to loosen his hold you when he joined in too.
“The hell Joel,” you laughed, turning to face him. “You can’t just scare me like that!” You swat at his shoulder, drawing another low chuckle from him.
“Gonna make sure to catch you‘gain when I do,” he breathed into the space between you, voice rough. He hadn’t even realised he’d raised one of his hands to brush a loose curl out of your face until his palm settled against your cheek.
“I’ll hold you to that,” he couldn’t have said if you’d whispered or screamed, because he’d been busy was watching your lips move. But he was acutely aware of your breath hitching and his hand on your waist tightening a little further. He wasn’t thinking, when he closed the gap between you.
Your lips were soft when they met his, tasting finely of coffee and cherries and a hint of mint. That damned gum he’d watched you pop again and again and again.
“—shit,” he stumbled back, “No, I—-” he ran a hand over his jaw, a quiet fuck falling from his lips. He’d wanted to. God he’d wanted to since the first time he’d come in here but not like this. “I’m—- I,” he tried, fumbling for words. Wanting to apologise but also not wanting to.
Because apologising meant that he regretted and he didn’t.
His mind went blank again — running overdrive one moment and blissfully calm the next; when your fingers curled into his flannel shirt and card through the hair at the back of his neck to draw him in close again.
His hand naturally settled on your waist again, bringing your body in flush against his while your lips parted to deepen the kiss.
It was a blur after that. If asked later, he couldn’t recall how you got from kissing or well… down right making out and the next he had you pinned against a wall, your back to his front. Pants shoved down, panties tucked tucked aside and his lips moving against your neck.
He could feel you tense when his cock inched into you. “Holy fuck,” your voice was half a moan, half a whine.
“I know babygirl, I know. It’s a lot to take.” Quite literally. He couldn’t really hide the smugness from his words. Even if his voice more resembled a low groan. One of his fingers slipped lower, from where he easily held your weight. A lack of time and logistics—- if he’d have it his way you’d have already cum and if he would have been of sound mind he wouldn’t have done any of this. Not in the back of the coffee shop, not against the wall, not without protection. But as it were, his thumb rolled over your clit.
“Just like that babygirl. Look at how well you’re taking me,” his voice had turned to rough gravel, strained from both the effort it took not to just fuck you and how gloriously tight you were. “Almost there,” he encouraged you, “Fuck, baby, you feel how tight you’re squeezing me?” His resolve broke the second your hips rolled back into his. Begging him to move.
A hand braced against the wall you’re leaning against, the other arm wrapped around your middle, keeping you pressed against him, Joel started to move. Hard and fast. “Fuck baby, squeezing me so tight,” he groaned against your neck, realising he was about to cum embarrassingly fast. “Touch yourself f’me babygirl.”
And you did, moving a hand off the wall and down, down, down.
If he could think stright he would have made a note of how much more pliable you were like this. No snarky remarks, no clever comments, no smug grins. Just moans and gasps and a tight fucking grip around his cock.
He knew when your fingers rolled over your clit. Could tell by the way you were clenching around him while a moan made it past your lips. Drawing him in deeper. In the end he couldn’t even warn you, let alone try to pull out. Caught in the tidal wave of your orgasm, of your body tensing, of your walls clenching. He cums with a grunt and his teeth scraping against your neck and thick hot ribbons flooding you.
“Fuck,” he groaned against your neck, leaving a kiss where his teeth had just been.
“Yeah,” you breathed, not making a single move to get away from. “I’d say that’s what we just did, but…” you chuckled and Joel grumbled something unintelligible, while hiding his face against your neck. “Well—-” you started out but a melodic sound ringing through the air interrupted you. “And that would be delivery.”
And Joel was still balls deep inside of you.
In the end he made it to the site barely on time. After tucking clothes back into place and all but running out of the café, not even managing to look you in the eyes when you handed him his coffee while the delivery got unloaded tight where you’d just fucked. Not managing more than a “I— yeah, I gotta…” while he’d gestured towards the door. “I’ll…” he’d tried just to stop himself before dipping out the door.
Way to fucking go.
His ears were still tainted pink when he felt his phone buzz in his pocket.
‘Think you forgot to collect your last stamp ;)’ relief fuelled the grin that tucked on his lips. ‘Your sandwich too!’
“The fuck are you grinning into your phone for?” Tommy gave him a side eye, trying to catch a glance of his screen. But Joel was faster, averting it. It was worse enough that he’d pointed out the frequent appearance of the pour choices to go cups. “You got a girl or what?”
“None of ya business,” he huffed.
“Right, right,” Tommy laughed “’n you’re chewing gum since when?”
──────────
You.
‘Crap. Can I pick that up later?’ his reply came a little towards lunch. When you’d retreated into the back, where he’d fucked you, to tackle the daily admin work. Already sore and with him still dripping from you.
‘Tough luck,’ you texted back, along with a picture of you and the half eaten sandwich beside you, ‘I’m taking hostages!’ A heart popped up on the edge of the picture. ‘Will negotiated about the stamp though ;)’
‘Lucky fucking me ;)’ he responded and you knew he was over whatever had him bolting from the café in the morning. He’d been down right awkward, not even managing to look at you, and not to mention the crimson shade his ears had taken on... ‘When d’you get off today?’
‘Well I did this morning’ you shoot back because you can’t help yourself.
‘Yeah walked right into that…’ he was quick to respond.
‘Maybe ;)’ You sent back ‘Three-ish, why?’
‘’You got time after or nah?’ He doesn’t tell you that he full on intends to ditch the site early — Tommy could handle handle the rest, it meant seeing you again.
‘You wanna pick me up, cowboy?’
‘Ain’t no cowboy.’ Followed up by ‘Be there at 3’
It started raining around 2 PM, not the sudden, strong summer downpour accompanied by a thunderstorm that barely brought any relief from the heat but a proper downpour. When 3 PM rolled around, and you were just wrapping up, it was still raining. Turning the coffee shop down right cozy.
Sometimes you liked to imagine what your little heaven would be like if you’d set up somewhere with actual seasons, like Boston or maybe somewhere cozy and isolated, like a small town in Wyoming.
But then you wouldn’t have met Joel, would you?
“She’s back there,” you could hear Sam over the hum of the dishwasher and radio. “’s alright, you can head on back,”
You could make out the sound of his heavy work boots on the tiles behind the bar before he was in the hallway, an expression on his face like he wasn’t sure Sam knew what the two of you had been up to here in the morning and smug about just that.
“You sure’s okay I’m back’re?” He asked, while you tossed your water bottle and wallet into your tote.
“Why wouldn’t it be?” Joel looked unsure, both of a reason and how to properly greet you. All that was missing were the crimson tainted ears and you were right back where you were some eight or nine hours ago. So you rose onto your toes, to draw him into a soft kiss. Joel instantly relaxed. “Made you another one,” you pressed a sandwich into his hand. The bread still slightly warm. “Got your stamp card?”
“Yeah, yeah.” He fumbled for his wallet for a beat, before producing the card from it.
“Good,” you grinned, plucking it from his fingers and heading out front. Joel followed, looking everywhere but at Sam while you added the last crescent moon stamp to the card. “Alright,” you hand it back to him. “You got everything?” You looked over to Sam.
“Yep,” a grin. “See you tomorrow, boss.”
Joel blinked.
“Don’t forget to turn the water off,” you responded, “And make sure you locked up. I don’t wanna hear another story of you tracking here in the middle of the night to make sure the doors are locked.”
“Only happened twice,” Sam grumbled.
“Three times,” you corrected, heading for the door with Joel following you. “See you tomorrow.”
“You t’boss?” Joel asked barely that you’re outside.
“Yeah,” you grinned up at him. “I’m the boss.”
“Why you never…?” He lead you to his truck you’d seen pull into the parking lot countless times now, a hand at the small of your back.
“Because you never asked,” you countered while he opened the passenger door for you. Gum popping. His truck was beat up and clearly used for his job; he had told you he owned a construction business with his brother, but well kept. “And it was kinda funny seeing you all concerned about the potential trouble I could get in for the leeway I’d cut you.”
Joel scoffed, but looking amused when he got into the drivers seat.
“So, what you wanna cash your stamp card in for?” You asked while the engine hummed to life and he pulled into traffic.
“Was thinkin’ dinner?” He glanced at you. “At my place?” He sounded a hint unsure. “You been making me sandwiches’n,” he shrugged, “Wanna treat you. Cook for you.”
“Yeah,” you smiled, “I’d like that.” Joel relaxed, a smile settling onto his lips too.
“Good. Was thinkin’ we grab groceries together?” he asked and you nodded while the city flew past rain-slicked windows.
Getting groceries together felt oddly domestic, right in a way. That your hand easily found his, and tucked him along to the snack isle first. You hadn’t even decided yet what you’d cook but you knew you needed snacks.
“Sour skittles?” He asked, “Thought you’d taste,”
“Says the man with the plain pretzels,” you scoff, a grin tucking on your lips.
“They ain’t plain. Got salt!” He huffed, and you snorted.
“Yeah right,” you rolled your eyes, gum popping. “Plain. ’s what I said.”
“Careful now, babygirl, or’ll give your smart mouth somethin’ better to do.” Your breath hitched and a smug grin tucked at the corners of your lips. “Figured,” he hummed, hand settling on the small of his back as he guided you towards the produce aisle. Once bbq chips had made it into the cart too.
You quickly decided on steak, potatoes and green beans. A bottle of wine got added to the menu too. Before you head to the register, you excuse yourself for a beat. Wanting to grab a new pair of socks. After being on your feet pretty much all day and not really being able to change or freshen up, that was the least you could do.
You find Joel lingering in front of the condoms. “Presumptuous,” your gum popped and his ears turned pink again.
“No I didn’t—- I just,” he fumbled, looking everywhere but at you, clearly flustered.
“Relax,” you laughed, leaning up to press a kiss to his cheek, “I’m kidding.”
Joel’s hand found your waist again, keeping you close. “Listen, ‘bout this mornin, I…” he tried. “Normally don’t,” his cheeks were burning too. “’s not somethin’ I do…”
“Joel, if I’d regret what we were up to, you’d know it,” you can feel him relax. “Also,” your eyes drift towards the display, “I’m on birth control and clean, if you’re good too then…” you trail off.
“Am too,” he affirmed, palm still resting on the small of your back. He glanced back to the shelves too, contemplating for a beat, before guiding you towards the registers without grabbing a pack.
“And for the record,” your gum popped again while he followed him back to the car. It was still raining, Joel carried both the groceries and an umbrella he’d had in his truck. “I haven’t invited anyone, back who doesn’t work with me.”
You could see the grin tucking on his lips when he helped you into his truck again after storing the groceries. A dash relieved and a whole lot smug. “‘m honoured,” he breathed into the disappearing space between the two of you before his lips found yours.
His house was gorgeous, he mentioned that he he built it himself when he’d pulled into the driveway. And you don’t mean to snoop, and you don’t, but you still wander through the living room after he excused himself to freshen up.
He’d build a one-story house, wrap-around porch with a swing, the living space took over most of the front of the house, a surprising amount of light and a less surprising amount of wood. The couch looked comfortable but judging from the book resting on the armrest of the recliner, it’s easier to assume that he preferred that over the couch. The space didn’t lack warmth but—- it seemed more functional than anything else.
There was a set of photographs on the mantle above the fireplace, all depicting a little girl. They’re older, dated and they seem to stop. At least there were no more after she looked about thirteen or fourteen.
“Sarah,” Joel’s voice cut through the silence. “My daughter,” he stepped closer to you. “Hit and run,” a heavy sadness carried through his voice.
“I’m sorry,” you turned towards him, he’d changed into a simple shirt and a pair of clean jeans, hair still damp. You leaned into him, arm around his back.
“Thank you,” his hand settled on your waist again, keeping you close. “Was a long time ago. She woulda liked you. Your place.” A soft, sad smile settled onto his lips. “Was too smart for her own good."
Over the course of the dinner preparations — you took over potato duty after he begrudgingly let you, you learn that he’d bought the property before. Always with the intention to build. A life for himself here, and Sarah. And how for a while, he did nothing. Swung like a pendulum between working too much and not working at all.
“Got too much. Saw her everywhere,” you got that and couldn’t fault him for deciding to leave and literally, rebuild somewhere new. She’d still come with him, in small ways. The photographs, a framed drawing of two stick-figures you spotted on top of the fridge, in the way he talked about her.
“‘m sorry. Didn’t mean to dull the evening” he’d shooed you from the stove, once the potatoes were in the boiling water, so you’d settled outside with him. Settled on one of the porch chairs while he dealt with the steaks and beans, a glass of wine beside you
“You didn’t,” you were fast to reassure, because he really hadn’t. “She’s a part of you, ’n always will be. Means something you decided to share that with me.”
“How’d you do that?” Joel shook his head. “Always knowin’ what to say?”
“Wanted to be a psychiatrist, once upon a time,” you’d never disclosed what you’d studied for when you dropped out. “Guess I might have made a good one.” You could see the question in his eyes when he glanced back at you. “Long story, life happened.” Joel didn’t press, and you were grateful for that. So the silence that followed wasn’t an uncomfortable one, while you watched the rain that had softened to a drizzle and he flipped the steaks.
“No wonder you read me to shreds,” he huffed, good humour in his voice. “Going three for three between the coffee, sandwich and cinnamon roll.”
“Don’t worry, I won’t psychoanalyse you,” you joked “Or maybe just enough to keep you on your toes.”
“Sounds ‘bout right,” he huffed, plating the steaks just as the timer he’d set for the potatoes went off.
He wasn’t too presumptuous about the condoms, that much became obvious quick when you settled on the couch with him after dinner. Because it didn’t take long for the conversation about everything and nothing to die down because you wound up in his lap instead, fingers in his hair and lips moving against his. You could feel him get hard against you.
“Babygirl, no…-” his voice was rough and he tried to stop you when your fingers moved to the fly of his jeans. “I want—” the words died in his throat when your palm pressed against him.
“Let me,” you breathed against his lips, easing the button open and gradually slipping off of his lap.
“Fuck,” Joel groaned, “You sure?” After your nod, he didn’t try to stop you again but aided you in easing his pants enough until his cock sprung free.
Holy fuck. After this morning you knew that he was bigger than anyone you’d been with before but fuck. Thick and long, pre-cum beading. Mesmerising. You liked your lips, fingers closing around his length, pumping him, once, twice, keeping your eyes on him. Joel watched you, continued to, when your tongue dragged along his tip.
His fingers found your hair, not to guide, just to hold. So he could continue to watch while your lips wrapped around him. Only when you hollowed your cheeks and moved your pumping fingers in tandem did he stop. Because his head fell back and and a moan fell from his lips. “Fuck—- babygirl,” his grip on your hair tightened, but he still didn’t force your head down. “Y’know,” his voice was breathy, when his eyes found yours again. “Been fuckin’ thinkin’bout this,” he admitted, while you kept working him. “Since— since’first time ya popped that fuckin’ gum. Smug smile’n all.”
“Oh I know,” you grinned up at him, string of saliva between your lips and his cock.
“‘course you do,” he groaned, stopping you from working him back into your mouth and before you can protest, he had you on your feet, leading you towards the bedroom. Pants still open and his cock out. “Somethin’ else I wanted t’do,” his voice was low gravel when he guided you down into the dark sheets. And fuck you know what he’s after. “Somethin’ I shoulda done this mornin,’” you lose our pants, the old band tee you’d thrown on in the morning.
You were drenched by the time he eased your panties down your legs, a quivering mess, really because you knew what he was after the second he settled between your thighs. “Gorgeous,” his breath was a hot puff of air against slick skin. “Couldn’t stop thinkin’ bout her all day. After how tight she squeezed me.” On cue, you clench around nothing.
“Joel,” more whine than moan. “Please?”
“Look at you,” you could hear how smug he was, “All polite,” he rewarded you, with a slow drag of his tongue along the length of your slit. “All please n’ no sass.”
“Fuck,” you cried out and that bastard chuckled, “Quit teasing!” Your fingers tucked on his salt and pepper curls, impatient.
“Or what?” Another chuckle “You gonna sass me? Smug grin’n all?”
“Goddamnit Joel!” You whined, “I swear to god if you don’t fucking touch me right I’ll spit in your fucking coffee!”
A single smack, sharp, stinging, right against your clit.
You yelped and Joel hummed. “That’s now how you say please, babygirl.”
“Joel,” you whimpered, “Please, Joel, please, please—” and he gave in, his lips closing around your clit and his index finger sinking into you. You’re wound up so tight, the coil behind your navel ready to snap that you were already teetering on the edge when he added a second finger.
“Wasn’t so hard now, was it?” He murmured lips glossy with your release when he settled into the sheets beside you. While you still tried to catch your breath. “Sayin’ please, ’n bein’ a good girl.”
“Asshole,” you managed and he snorted. “Still gonna spit into your coffee.” He laughed against your neck where he was peppering kisses.
“Sure you’ll,” he sounded amused “Still gonna drink it.” As if he hadn’t chewed your fucking gum for half of the day.
“Freak,” you laughed, your thighs parting to easily accommodate him as he settled between them, after finally kicking his jeans off.
“Careful now, might need t’bend ya over the bar next time,” Joel teased, his cock dragging against your clit when he hooked one of your legs over his hip.
“That a promise?” The grin died on your lips when your mouth fell open around a moan, drawn forth by him finally sinking into you. Slow, inch by thick fucking inch, letting you feel all of him. You clung to him, fingers in his hair, nails digging into his shoulder, when he finally bottomed out inside of you.
“Look at you squeezin’ me,” he groaned when he started he started to move. “Didn’t got enough this mornin’, did’cha?” even if you would have wanted to, you couldn’t manage a reply. “Greedy girl.”
You fell just a beat before him, pulling him with you when your second orgasm ripped through you, feeling his thick release spilling deep inside of you.
──────────
Joel.
He woke you with a gentle kiss to your forehead and a rumbled “Mornin’ babygirl,” against your temple. You’d told him, before falling asleep, what time you needed to be at the store to open up and he’d set his alarm to ensure he’d have time to take you to our place before. So you could freshen up.
No need for a walk-of-shame.
You life about halfway between his place and the café, and much to his surprise he discovers that you’re quite grumpy the first twenty or so minutes after waking up. Complaining and huffing and puffing and “Gonna bump the hours to 9—8, fuck the early bird,” until he had you into the passenger seat with a handful of cotton-candy-grapes he’d bought on accident.
He pulled into the parking lot right on time, and like the day before, he joined you inside. Needing no instructions this time around to help you set up. At least up to where he’d stopped yesterday.
“I’m afraid I can’t swing three today,” he frowned, watching you pack his sandwich.
“You know where to find me whenever you can,” simple as that. He’d been to your flat now. Had caught a glimpse of the chaos of plants and books you called home. “Might even have dinner ready,” you grinned, “Not steak but, how’s pasta sound?”
“Good, real good,” he mirrored your smile.
“Alright, cowboy,” Joel wanted to roll his eyes but then he watched you pull his travel mug from your tote that you’d left on the counter. He hadn’t realised you’d taken it from the counter beside his coffee machine. Where it had sat, clean and unused, since the day he’d forgotten it for the first time. He was about to grab it, once you’d filled it, except you pulled your hand back. “Wait, almost forgot.” He watched, how you unscrewed the lid and spit into his coffee just like you’d promised you would. Before closing the lid again and handing it to him.
“You’re lucky I don’t have time to bend you over t’bar.” And just to prove a point, he took a swig of the coffee. “‘m sure’ll find a surface fit enough in your flat.”
“Promises, promises,” you sighed dramatically, gum popping and a grin on your lips.
“Fucking menace,” he laughed, drawing you into him. “Don’t spit into any other coffees though, alright?” He breathed against your lips.
“Nope. Just yours.”
“Good girl.”
Continuation: Brat Decisions
Through The Wall - Part Six
Pairing: Din x Reader.
Chapter summary: You have some news for Din.
Warnings: 18+only. Smut with feelings.
A/N: Thanks for all the kind comments! 🥰
Part One/Part Two/Part Three/Part Four/Part Five
➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰🚀➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰
It begins, the way most things do, with something so small you almost don’t notice.
You’re in the cockpit – Din in the pilot's chair, you in the co-pilot’s – your feet tucked up under you the way you sit when the jump is long, a datapad balanced on your knee with a book you’ve been reading off and on for a week. The hyperspace tunnel runs its long, blue spiral past the viewport and the cockpit smells, faintly, of the caf he brewed an hour ago in the small thermal pot mounted by the navicomputer – a smell you’ve loved, for over a year now.
You set the datapad down because the smell of the caf, very suddenly, isn’t the smell you love, but a thicker, sharper smell. It’s the smell of caf but turned by some small chemical wrongness in the air, or in your head, into a thing that climbs the back of your throat and sits there.
You swallow, “Din?”
The visor turns.
"Can you…" you swallow again, “can you put the lid on the pot. Sorry. The smell is…"
He puts the lid on the pot without asking, doing it the way he does most things you ask of him, with a competent immediacy that’s become a thing you take for granted. The smell eases and you breathe through your mouth a minute. Then you lay the back of your hand against your forehead and find it cool.
You pick the datapad back up.
The visor is still on you. "Cyar'ika?"
"It's alright, it just hit me funny for some reason."
"You're pale."
"I'm fine, Din. Just…" you wave a hand, “maybe I'm coming down with something. The water on Helvista, maybe. I read that some of those swamp bugs can take three weeks to come up."
"Drink something," he says. "Not caf."
You drink water, it tastes fine and by the time the jump drops you back into realspace an hour later, you’ve forgotten the caf entirely. You laugh at one of his small, dry observations about the spaceport controller's traffic patterns, and the moment slides away under the accumulating weight of the day.
You don’t think about it again – not that day anyway.
Two days later it’s the ration bars.
You’ve unwrapped one, in the hold, sitting on the bench where he cleaned his rifle that night six weeks ago when the long, careful conversation about wanting had begun. You unwrap it. lift it to your mouth and the smell of it – the slightly sweet, processed smell of the protein binder, a smell you’ve eaten through cheerfully twice a day for over a year –stops you cold. You set the bar down and stare at it.
He’s at the carbonite chamber, checking a seal and the visor turns towards you.
"Cyar'ika?"
"I just…" you say, "I'm really not hungry."
"You haven't eaten since the morning."
"I know but I'll eat later, Din. Just not…not that. I'll find something else."
You find something else, a piece of dried fruit from the small tin he keeps in the galley locker, and it was fine. You eat three more pieces with a kind of grateful greed that surprises you, because dried fruit isn’t a thing you usually eat by the handful. You wash it down with water and feel a million times better.
Again, you don’t think much of it, convincing yourself that it’s a swamp bug, as feared, or the water on Helvista. Simply some small, persistent disagreement between your body and the last bounty, working itself out the long slow way.
A week passes and it’s a quiet week.
He comes down from the cockpit, every night of that week, strips his armour and climbs into the bunk in his undershirt and trousers and pulls you back against his chest with the helmet on and his hand splayed warm across your stomach. His thumb strokes its small, slow absent circle, and nothing else happens.
You’ve both agreed on doing things this way and you’ve both been keeping it the way he keeps everything once he’s agreed to it, with a careful, patient discipline that doesn’t waver. You love him for it more than you have words for and you don’t tell him so, because telling him will make the holding of it harder. You let him hold it.
You sleep hard against him, the way you’ve not slept since you were a child – long, heavy sleeps, the kind that leaves a small, disoriented hollow in you in the first hour after waking, where you have to remember, slowly, who you are, where the ship is in its drift and what day it’s supposed to be.
You notice it, after a while because the small, disoriented hollow has become a thing you wake into more days than you don’t.
"You're sleeping a lot," he says one morning, the vocoder soft. He’s leaning against the bunk with a cup of caf in his gloved hand and you realise that he’s stopped offering you caf, three or four mornings running, without saying anything about it.
"I know."
"Do you…?”
"I'm tired. I don't know why. I think the swamp bug’s taking its time."
The visor keeps still.
"It's been three weeks."
"I know."
He doesn’t say anything else. He drinks his caf and presses the brow of the visor to your forehead before he climbs back to the cockpit. his gloved hand stroking once down your cheek allowing you to lean into it and close your eyes.
You sleep two more hours and when you wake, the Crest is still in drift, and the bunk smells of him. You sit up slowly, put your bare feet on the cool deck plating and feel, for the first time, a small lift of nausea that doesn’t have anything identifiable to attach itself to. There’s no caf in the air, no ration bar in your hand. Just a soft turning of your stomach, the kind that comes and goes in the space of a breath and leaves you sitting on the edge of the bunk with one hand pressed flat to your sternum, wondering.
You don’t yet know what you’re wondering.
You stand up and move over to the cycler, washing your face in cool water. You look at yourself in the small mirror over the basin and think that you look normal. A little tired, perhaps, the faint shadow under your eyes that comes of long sleeps deeper than usual. Your skin has a small warmth to it that’s not quite a flush, your hair longer than you’ve been keeping it.
You lay your hand flat against your sternum again and move it slowly down past your ribs to the soft place below your navel where, six weeks ago, on a bench in the hold, with a blindfold over your eyes and a man between your knees, you felt his warm, bare, patient hand splay possessive across your skin for the first time in fourteen months without anything in the way.
Your hand stops there.
You don’t, even then, let the thought form. You let your hand rest, let your palm be warm and let yourself, for the small space of a breath, simply notice the small warm place beneath your hand.
Then you take your hand away and finish washing your face. You go out to the hold and eat four pieces of dried fruit and a small piece of flatbread from the locker. Then you drink a glass of water and climb up to the cockpit to sit with him for the long quiet hours of the drift.
You don’t say anything to him because you don’t yet have anything to say. You have a swamp bug and a long stretch of quiet nights and a slightly turned stomach and a body that wants to sleep through every afternoon of the blue cycle. You don’t have anything to say.
Another week passes and your body doesn’t get better.
It doesn’t get worse, exactly, but it becomes…different. The sleeping continues. The nausea comes up in unprompted moments, mostly in the morning when you’ve not yet eaten, mostly easing the moment you put a piece of dried fruit or a corner of flatbread in your mouth. Your breasts have been tender. In the bunk one morning when his hand drifts in its small absent rhythm up from your stomach to settle against the underside of one, you flinch slightly and he feels it. He moves his hand back to your stomach without a word and without comment.
You know he’s watching you and that he has been for at least a week. The visor angles in small, careful checks at the cockpit, at the bench and at the bunk. It’s the inventory of him noting that you’ve refused caf again, that you’ve eaten only the dried fruit, or that you’ve napped through the late afternoon. He hasn’t said because you understand he’s waiting for you to say something. He’s waiting because he’s a man who’s learned that pressing you on a thing you’re not ready to be pressed on is not the right move.
You love him for the waiting.
But you also understand, lying in the bunk on the morning of the day you finally let yourself think the thought, that the waiting isn’t going to last forever. He’s a man who can hold a question a long time, but not one who can hold it indefinitely, and the question he’s holding is getting heavier in his hands by the day.
You let yourself think the thought.
You do it in the cycler again, standing in front of the small mirror in your sleep shirt with the cool water dripping off your jaw and your hand laid flat low on your stomach where it’s been wanting to lie for two weeks.
You count backward.
Six weeks since the night in the hold. Six weeks and three days, to be precise, because the night in the hold is a thing your interior calendar has marked.
Three weeks since the night on the bench when he bent you forward and pulled your hair and you said stop.
Three weeks of just-this since. Three weeks of his bare hand splayed warm across your stomach in the dark without anything else. Three weeks of no possibility, no possibility at all, that anything else could cause what your body is, very quietly and very persistently, telling you is happening.
Six weeks and three days.
You’ve not had your cycle since.
The realisation comes up the way the nausea comes up – quietly, from underneath, without preamble. You stand in front of the mirror with your hand flat low on your stomach and watch your own face in the glass and see the slow recognition arrive in it.
Oh.
Oh, Din.
You sit down on the small fold-down stool by the basin because your legs are not, just then, doing what you need them to do. You sit with your hand still on your stomach and stare at the deck plating between your bare feet and let the thought, finally, take its shape.
You’ve not been tracking it because there’s been no reason to track it. You’ve been on the Crest for fourteen months now and the small reliable rhythm of your body has been a thing you’ve been able to take for granted because you have been given the contraceptive shot by the medic on Sorgan just before you climbed aboard.
“Six months,” you remember her saying. “Six months and then you need to come back for the booster, don’t forget.”
You said you wouldn't, and meant it, because your life up until that point had been all about measuring things in six months intervals. You hadn’t known that morning that you were going to escape and steal aboard the Crest the way you did. Then it had lifted off Sorgan, carrying you to some kind of freedom, and you’ve never been back.
You do the count again and come to the same answer the second time and the third time. You sit on the stool in the cycler with your hand on your stomach and the soft, slow recognition warming you from underneath.
You sit there until the cool water on your jaw dries, and the small, disoriented hollow of the morning fades, and your legs are doing what you need them to again. Standing up, you look at yourself in the mirror and notice that you look the way you looked an hour ago. Tired, and a little flushed, but the same woman.
You lay both your hands low across your stomach and let yourself say the words.
"I'm pregnant."
The woman in the mirror smiles a small, surprised smile, the kind a person smiles when they’ve been told a thing they weren’t expecting and which turns out, when they hear it, to be a thing they’ve been wanting without knowing they want it.
Only you do know, because you asked him – weeks ago now – about family and, in a roundabout way, whether that might be something he’d consider.
You stand there a long moment with the smile on your face and your hands low on your stomach and you let yourself, finally, be inside the knowing of it. There’s a small, warm thing low in you the size of nothing yet – a clustering of cells, a possibility, a beginning – but it’s there. It’s there, and it’s his, and yours, and the two of you have made it in the bed you share with a blindfold across your eyes and a man between your knees who set down, for one careful moment, the last unbroken thing he’s carried out of the wreckage of his covert.
You close your eyes a moment and let the clarity of it organise itself. Then you open them again, wash your face, dry it on the worn towel that hangs by the basin, and go out into the hold to find him.
He’s at the workbench with a strip of new leather across it, a small awl in his gloved hand and the visor angled down at his work. From the careful set of his shoulders, you can tell that he’s been at it a while and that the work is a thing he’s using to hold himself steady while he waits for whatever you’re going to come and say to him.
You cross the hold and stop at his elbow, the visor lifting to look at you.
"Din…” You lay your hand on his bracer. "Come sit with me."
He sets the awl down without a question follows you to the bench by the carbonite chamber and sits down beside you, his armour catching the warm light of the hold, his gloved hands settling open and easy on his thighs.
He doesn’t ask – just waits.
You take one of his hands and draw it toward you, laying it, palm flat, low across your stomach.
He holds it there a long moment, the gloved hand splayed warm across the place under your navel that he’s been splaying warm across most nights of his life for the last six months. You watch the visor angle down to look at his own hand on you and watch the involuntary stillness that comes into him – the kind of stillness that comes into him only rarely, when a thing is settling on him that he’s not been expecting.
The vocoder catches a small uneven breath.
"Cyar'ika."
"Yes."
"I…"
"Yes, Din."
"You…?"
"Yes."
He doesn’t say anything for a long moment and the gloved hand on your stomach doesn’t move. The visor stays angled down, and you watch the careful slow recognition arrive in him the way it arrived in you an hour ago in the cycler. You see the same soft turning of the world on its axis, the same clarity that’s almost laughter and almost not.
"Cyar'ika…"
"I think so. I'm…I'm almost sure. I haven't…" you smile at him, a little crooked, “I haven't peed on anything, Din because I don't have anything to pee on. But I'm…I've been counting. I counted back and there isn't another answer. The dates…" you stop, because you see, behind the visor, that he’s already done the count.
You can see it in the careful held stillness of him, the small mechanical breath through the modulator, the way the gloved hand on your stomach presses, very faintly, in the involuntary pressure of a man who’s just located a thing in time and is, in his own quiet way, marking the spot.
"The night in the hold," he says very low. “When I…”
"Yes."
He doesn’t say anything else – just sits very still, his hand still splayed across your stomach, the visor staying angled down at it.
"Din," you say softly. "Are you alright?"
"Cyar'ika, I’m…" he searches, “I’m not alright, cyar'ika. I’m…" the vocoder cuts, “I’m something, but I don’t know the word. There is…there is no word."
"Tell me anyway."
The visor lifts and he looks at you. You feel the long, careful weight of him through the visor, the small, focused attention you’ve been the focus of, on and off, for fourteen months, the kind that makes you understand, every time, why people have been afraid of him before they’ve known him.
"I have a foundling," he says. "Cyar'ika, I have a foundling that’s also…a foundling that’s also of my body. I didn’t know I was going to get to have that. I didn’t…" the modulator cuts on a small uneven breath, “I didn’t know that was a thing the Creed was going to let me have. I thought the foundlings I might get to have were going to be the ones I picked up off other people's wrecked planets, like I myself was picked up, and I thought that was going to be enough, and I was grateful, cyar'ika. I was grateful for the thought of even those, and now you’re sitting on this bench telling me…"
He stops, his hand pressing gently against your stomach.
"You’re sitting on this bench telling me that I get to have one of my own."
You lay your hand over his.
"You get to have one of your own, Din, with me. The two of us. On this ship. We get to have this. I know that you said it might not be a place for a child and that living here, on the Crest with one is something that you wouldn’t want to ask of the woman who might bear you one but…"
He bends forward off the bench and comes down off it, slowly, the way he came down off the copilot's chair five weeks ago, his knees finding the deck plating in front of you, his cape settling around him, his hands coming up to either side of your hips. He presses the brow of the visor to your stomach in the small, substituted kiss that he’s been giving you for fourteen months in place of the other and holds it there a long shaking moment, breathing through the modulator.
"Cyar'ika."
"I'm here."
“I don’t deserve this."
"Din…"
"I don’t, cyar'ika, I don’t. I…"
"Din, listen to me."
You lay both your hands against the sides of the helmet and hold him there at your stomach, the brow of the visor pressing warm now from his breath against the cool inside of it, his gloved hands cradling your hips.
"That’s not how deserving works. That’s not how any of this works. You didn’t earn the night in the hold by being a man who deserves it. You didn’t earn me by being a man who deserves me. You got these things. You got this baby because it came to you, and the only thing in front of you now is to be the man who has it."
You stroke the sides of the helmet with your thumbs.
"And you’re going to be a very good father," you say. "I’m not saying that to make you feel better. I’m saying it because I’ve known for a long time that whatever else you’re going to be in this life, you’re going to be that. So, you can put down the worrying about whether you’re going to be one because you are.”
He doesn’t answer. He presses the brow of the visor harder to your stomach and his hands at your hips tighten.
You let him kneel because you know the kneeling is a thing he’s doing for himself and not a thing it’s your place to lift him out of. The light of the hold falls across his cape, across your bare feet on the deck plating and across the careful held weight of his hands at your hips. Somewhere very far above you both, in the cockpit, the proximity scanner keeps its steady sweep, and the pale starfield turns slowly past. The unrecorded hour of this happens the way every other unrecorded hour on this ship has ever happened, without ceremony and without witness, except by the two of you and the small warm thing under his hand.
Eventually, he lifts his head, the visor finding your face.
"We need a medic."
The practical, immediate competence of it, the way he’s moved, in one breath, from the shaking awe of recognition into the planning of the next step, makes you laugh. You don’t mean to, but it comes out as a soft surprised sound, and his shoulders ease in a way that tells you that he’s been waiting to hear it, to know that you’re as all right with this as you’ve said.
"Yes, we need a medic, eventually. But not tonight."
"Cyar'ika..."
"Not tonight, Din. Tonight I want to sit with it. I want to sit with you, and the two of us, and the…" you lay your hand over his on your stomach, “the three of us. I want one quiet night with just the three of us before there are medics and supplies and a thousand practical things to plan. Can we have that? Please?"
"Yes,” he says quietly. “Yes, cyar'ika, we can have that."
"Good."
You draw him up slowly, your hands at his elbows. He stands and you lay your forehead against the brow of the visor and close your eyes a moment, because it helps you think. You breathe against him, he breathes back through the modulator, and for a long quiet stretch the two of you stand in the warm light of the hold without saying anything.
"Din?"
"Mm."
"I'm hungry."
He laughs, a small, modulated laugh, the one you know, but underneath you hear the warm, hoarse unfiltered laugh of the man from that night with no helmet on, low and surprised and pleased.
"What do you want?"
"Not caf."
"I know."
"Not ration bars."
"Noted."
"Dried fruit, and the flatbread. And…do we still have any of that nut paste from the market three planets ago? The one with the seeds in it?"
"Yes, I believe so."
"All of that. Together. On a plate." You make a face. "I know it sounds strange..."
"It sounds…" he searched, the way he searches when he’s being careful with words, “it sounds like a thing a pregnant woman would ask for."
You laugh again and lay your forehead harder against the visor, feeling his hand come up to the back of your head and cradle there. The warm, careful held weight of him against you is a thing you’re going to remember the shape of for the rest of your life – just like his true face is.
"Get me my strange plate, Mandalorian."
"Yes cyar'ika,” he replies with a low chuckle then goes and gets you your strange plate.
You eat it on the bench with him sitting beside you, his hand splayed once warmer and more possessive across your stomach in the new way you realise it’s going to splay there from now on. You eat the dried fruit, the flatbread and the nut paste and it tastes the way nothing in three weeks has tasted, which is good, and right, and the thing your body’s been wanting and hasn’t been able to name until you put it in your mouth.
You eat two pieces of flatbread loaded with nut paste, a small pile of dried fruit and drink a glass of cool water, then you sit back against him with the warm satisfaction of a meal that has finally agreed with you, and you close your eyes a moment, as the small slow circle of his thumb begins its absent rhythm low on your stomach.
"He's going to be hungry like this."
“He?”
“Yes.”
"I know."
"All the time, so you’re going to have to learn to make more than four things."
"I’ll learn."
"Good." You hesitate. "I know I said he, but I don't…I don't know that. I shouldn't say it because it could be either. I just…" you laugh at yourself, “I keep thinking he. I don't know why."
The hand on your stomach presses, very faintly.
"I know, it's silly."
"It's not silly."
"I just…I've been thinking it since I worked it out and I keep thinking him. I keep thinking the small warm thing is a him. I don't know why.”
"Cyar'ika, if he is a he, then he is a he and I will teach him as my father taught me. And if she is a she…”
He breaks off and you raise your head to look at the visor.
“If she is a she?”
“Then…I’m not entirely sure what I’ll do.”
You lay your hand over his on your stomach and lace your fingers through his as best you can through the leather. Closing your eyes, you let the new shape of your family settle into the shape it’s going to settle into.
A father in beskar.
A mother with nothing but her wits.
A small warm thing under your palm that’s going to be, in the long, unwritten months ahead, a person.
"We’re going to need a bigger ship."
The vocoder catches and he laughs, the long, low, full laugh, the one that comes up from somewhere deeper than the modulator can quite strip, the one that you’ve been given once unfiltered and will always now hear underneath. He laughs and the hand on your stomach shakes with it.
"Cyar'ika..."
"I'm just saying."
"I know."
"The bunk is already small."
"I know."
“Where will we put a cradle?”
"We'll figure it out." He presses the brow of the visor to your temple. "Tomorrow.”
"Alright.”
"Tonight we have the three of us."
You lean into the warm familiar bulk of the cuirass against your shoulder and the cool curve of the visor against your temple and the hand splayed warm and possessive across your stomach.
The night in the hold had given him one thing and it’s now given him two.
It’s given him a small, unrepeatable moment with no armour between you. And it’s given him a small warm thing under your palm that’s going to grow, that’s going to be born, that’s going to have his small, crooked nose, perhaps, or your eyes, or both, or neither. A small warm thing that’s going to be raised on this ship, or on a bigger one, by a father in beskar and a mother with her wits, and that’s going to be loved in a way that not very many small, warm things in this galaxy ever get to be loved.
In the morning, you’ll talk about medics, about supplies, about timelines, and about the thousand practical things that the small, warm thing under your palm is going to require of you both.
In the morning.
Tonight, you have the three of you, which is more than enough.
It is, you think, very nearly everything.
And you have no idea what is about to come.
➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰🚀➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰
Taglist: @thelittlebats @sassythejedi @millercontracting @porganas @lovely-kitsune-exe @themilkhasjustexpired @dream-alittlebiggerdarling
PTaglist: @copperhalfcent @missladym1981 @whattheflipsiesss @brittmb115 @elizabeth4th @peepawmiller @angelwithablade @cassieorz @somedayheaven @silversvu12 @madpanda75 @johnssherlock221 @madnessofadaydreamer @kirsteng42 @ifall4dilfs @pedro-pascal-3nthusiast @cuteanimalmama @inept-the-magnificent @mystickittytaco @arood98 @sunnytuliptime @katw474 @pascalgold @dotyoureyez @victoriaholland @loveday1219 @awkwardpaws @misstokyo7love @vinyl-and-coffee @spock1988 @readingiskeepingmegoing @kakiki3 @kayidlewild @miserysinferno @tupelomiss @untamedheart81 @ilovequeen978 @g0ldenstarr @missadangel
Through The Wall - Part Five
Pairing: Din x Reader
Chapter summary: The ramifications of Din removing his helmet hit harder than you expect.
Warnings: 18+only. Smut with feelings. This chapter gets a little bit darker.
A/N: Hoping I’ve kept this on the right side of consent. Thanks for all the kind comments! 🥰
Part One/Part Two/Part Three/Part Four
Din Masterlist
Read on A03
➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰🚀➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰
The thing about giving him something he can’t have again, you understand later, is that you’ve not thought about what it’ll cost him to give it back.
You’ve thought about a great many things, in the long warm afterglow of that night. You’ve thought about the shape of his face under your fingertips, the unfiltered laugh, low and surprised, and the warm, hoarse, human voice underneath the modulation, and the soft warm patient slide of him with nothing in the way. You’ve carried all of it, in the days after, like a small bright stone in a pocket, taking it out in the quiet moments and turning it over in your hands.
You’ve not thought about him taking it out in the quiet moments and turning it over in his.
You should have. You should have known. He’s a man who takes things out and turns them over in his hands – that’s the whole architecture of him, that’s how he’s built every interior room of himself. You’ve given him a thing to turn over, and he’s begun to wear it smooth.
The first week is very good.
He’s quieter in a way that’s not withdrawn but settled, the way a man who’s been given something that has rearranged his small interior furniture and is taking the time to learn the new layout is quiet He sits closer to you in the cockpit. He touches you more in small, absent ways and calls you cyar'ika more often. He says it through the modulator, and you hear, every time, the human voice underneath, because you’ve been given it once and you’ll never not hear it underneath now.
The second week is where it begins.
It begins so small you almost don’t notice and you only do because you’ve now spent a year learning to notice small things about him.
You’re in the bunk with the lights out. He comes down from the cockpit and strips his armour, piece by piece, laying it aside in the careful ritual he’s built around the night cycle. He climbs in behind you in his undershirt and his trousers with the helmet still on, pulls you back against his chest and splays his hand across your stomach, his thumb beginning the small, slow, absent, familiar circle of your skin.
And then his hand stops a second too long.
You feel him hold his breath and feel the helmet press, very lightly, to the top of your head. Then you feel the small involuntary tightening of his fingers against your stomach, as if he’s been about to do something and stopped himself.
Then the thumb resumes, the breath is let out and the helmet stays. You don’t say anything. You just close your eyes, let him hold you and tell yourself it’s nothing.
It happens again, three nights later. He bends to press the brow of the visor to your forehead, and you feel him pause, the cool beskar a hair's breadth from your skin, and you feel the small held breath of him through the modulator. Then the visor presses down and he pulls back.
You look up at him in the half-dark.
"Din, are you alright?”
"Yes."
He’s not alright, but you don’t push, instinct telling you that he’s not ready to look at whatever it is yet.
You let it lie and it gets worse.
He starts to take longer to settle in the bunk. He starts to lie behind you with his hand on your stomach and not move at all, to hold so still it’s like he’s teaching himself not to. When he takes you in the dark, he starts to keep one hand always braced against the bulkhead beside your head, as if he needs the anchor of something cold and unyielding to remind him of where the discipline is supposed to live.
He starts to fuck you, in those nights, with a small, new, desperate edge underneath the old patience. Not rough, just…wanting. You feel it every time in the small involuntary catch in his breath when he buries himself in you, the small held-back sound he makes through the modulator when he comes, the way his hand tightens on your hip and then deliberately eases, the way you can feel him pulling against some invisible leash.
You know what the leash is and yet you don’t say, because you also know that the thing he’s leashed against is a thing he can’t be allowed off the leash for again. Maybe not ever. The Creed has given him one negotiated night because you built him an argument he could climb through, and the same argument doesn’t climb twice. You both understand that and asking him for it again will be asking him to break the thing the night only carefully bent.
So, you let him stay leashed. You hold him afterwards, tell him you love him and feel, every time, the small flinch of him hearing it whilst you pretend, every time, you don’t.
But it doesn’t work.
The third week is when you have to start admitting it’s not working.
This is when he starts to pace again. Not the wide easy pacing of a man with nervous energy to spend, but the small, contained pacing of a man who’s holding something down with his hands and can’t quite manage to hold it down with the rest of him. He paces the cockpit between jumps, he paces the hold at night, he strips his rifle and reassembles it twice in one evening, which is something he hasn’t done since the first month of you living on the Crest, when you were still learning to read him and he was still learning to be read.
You try twice to talk to him. The first time is in the cockpit, where you lay your hand on his bare forearm and stroke the skin there gently.
"Din?"
"Mm."
"Talk to me."
He doesn’t turn his head.
"There's nothing to talk about, cyar'ika."
"There is."
"There's not."
"Din…"
"There is nothing."
His voice through the modulator is very level and so you take your hand off his forearm and nod as though he’s given you an acceptable answer.
"All right," you say softly.
The second time is in the bunk. He takes you from on top this time, the way he sometimes does when he wants to watch you – your hands braced on his shoulders, your weight in his lap, his hands at your hips guiding the rhythm. He finishes with the small held-back sound through the modulator and then lifts you off him with the careful competence he always brings to it, laying you down beside him, and beginning the slow absent stroking of your stomach with his thumb that means he’s settling toward sleep.
You lay your hand over his. "Din."
The thumb stops.
"I miss it too," you say, very quietly. "I do. But I have it in my head, and it’s enough. It’s more than enough. We don't have to chase it. We don't have to…to keep looking back over our shoulders at it. It’ll still be there in a year, or five, or twenty. We don’t have to chase it."
The thumb doesn’t resume and he remains silent for a long time before responding.
"I’m not chasing it."
"Din…"
"I'm not, cyar'ika. It was a gift. I know what it was. I'm not…" the vocoder cuts on a small uneven breath, “I'm not the kind of man who chases gifts."
"I didn't say you were."
"Then don't worry about it."
“I only…"
"Sleep, cyar'ika, please."
You sleep or at least pretend to. Behind you, in the dark, his hand stays splayed across your stomach without moving, and you understand, lying there with your eyes closed, that you’ve pushed and he’s pushed back, and that’s the end of the conversation for tonight, and possibly for longer.
The third week ends and the fourth week is Helvista.
It’s a long bounty, seven days of hard tracking on a swamp moon, a quarry who moves at night and sleeps in trees, a stretch of work that leaves you both filthy, underfed and tired down to the small bones of your wrists. You eat ration bars on the bounty's last night without speaking, haul the carbonite slab into the hold at dawn and shower, one at a time, the way you always do.
You come out into the warm dim of the night cycle with your hair damp and your skin warm and find him sitting on the bench by the carbonite chamber with the helmet on and nothing else and a look about him that you’ve not seen in a month.
His visor turns and he watches you cross the hold.
You don’t stop in front of him, moving past him to the bunk, because you understand, from the small set of his shoulders and the careful angle of his helmet, what he wants, and that the bench is not where he’s going to take it.
He follows, his hand coming around your waist from behind and pulling you back against the warm heat of him, the visor pressing to the side of your throat with the small hungry edge of a man who’s been holding something down for a long time and is, tonight, going to let himself stop.
"Cyar'ika."
"I'm here."
He turns you, pressing your back to the bulkhead, then he kisses you through the helmet as his hands go under the loose sleep shirt you’ve pulled on after the shower, finds your breasts and palms them.
You should have stopped him then, but you don’t.
You want him too. You’ve wanted him for a week of swamp moon and longer than that of small held-back hands on your hip and a leash neither of you is talking about. You want him and so you turn your face up to the visor, let him push the shirt up over your head, and guide you into the bunk.
He bends you forward over the edge and that’s the first place it goes wrong, only you don’t realise it at the time.
He’s taken you from behind before many times. There’s nothing wrong, in itself, with him bending you forward over the edge of the bunk, pulling your hips back against him and pressing the visor to the back of your neck while his hands run the small inventory down your sides.
But you understand, with a small far slow part of your mind, that he’s chosen this position because he can’t see your face from it and that he’s choosing it because tonight, he doesn’t want to have to remember whose face it is.
You set the thought aside, because you want him.
He presses against you, hard, the blunt heat of him sliding through the wet of you, and the small, low sound he makes through the modulator is rougher than the small, low sound he made through the modulator a week ago. He sheathes himself in you in one long stroke, you cry out against the mattress, and he presses the visor to the base of your skull, beginning, with very little patience at all, to fuck you.
It’s not the rhythm of any night in the bunk before.
It’s hard, harder than he’s been before. This is a man who’s been holding something down for four weeks and who’s decided, somewhere on the swamp moon or in the shower or on the bench, that he’s going to stop holding it down for the next ten minutes, and that the way he’s going to stop holding it down is through you.
His hands grip your hips tighter than usual. You felt the small involuntary pulse of pressure where his thumbs dig into the soft place above your hipbones, where you register, dimly, that there will be bruises tomorrow. He pulls you back against him on every stroke, using you as the anchor he’s been bracing against the bulkhead for. The small, hoarse sounds through the modulator are not the warm, low, pleased ones you know. They’re rougher, the sounds of a man working at something. The sounds of a man trying.
"Din."
"Mm."
"Din, slow…"
He doesn’t slow. The visor presses harder to the base of your skull. The hand on your right hip slides up your back, fists in your hair, and tips your head back. Not gently, not the careful tipping he’s used before, but a harder tipping. A tipping that pulls, that hurts a small clean line down your scalp, and you make a sound that’s not entirely pleasure.
He doesn’t seem to hear you.
He keeps going, the pace never breaking. The pressure of his hand in your hair doesn’t ease and the other hand on your hip pulls you back harder. The visor presses to the side of your neck and the modulator catches a small, rough sound that’s almost a growl. You feel him driving toward something, chasing something, and the small, far, slow part of your mind finally understands.
He’s chasing the feeling of having no helmet between him and you.
He can’t have it. The helmet is on, the Creed is on, the leash is on, he can’t get it off, and he’s trying, in the only way left to him, to fuck through it.
You know you can’t let him – can’t let him chase a thing through you that you’re not going to be the chase for.
"Din."
He doesn’t slow.
"Din."
The visor presses harder, the hand in your hair tightening.
"Stop."
The word comes out small. You don’t even know, at first, that you’ve said it. You haven’t said stop to him before. There have been times when you’ve asked him to slow, to wait, to give you a moment, but you’ve never, not since this all started, said the word stop.
He doesn’t hear you and you say it again, louder.
"Stop, Din. Stop."
He stops so completely it’s as if a thing has been switched off inside him. The hand in your hair releases. The hand at your hip releases. The visor lifts from the back of your neck and the rhythm breaks. He holds inside you a long, shocked moment, breathing through the modulator, and you feel the long uneven shake of him.
Then he pulls out, fast, and steps back. You hear him stumble with the small, uncharacteristic ungainliness of a man whose body is no longer obeying him. You straighten up off the edge of the bunk, slowly, and turn to look at him.
He’s standing in the half-dark of the bunk alcove. The visor’s angled at you, but only barely, the rest of him angled away, shoulders set, hands at his sides, the breath through the modulator coming in small, uneven bursts. He looks, you think, the way a man looks who’s just watched himself do something he doesn’t believe he’s capable of and is, in the space afterward, deciding what kind of man he’s going to be on the other side of having seen it.
"Cyar'ika…"
"Din, it’s alright."
"I…”
"Come here, it's alright. I'm all right.”
You reach for him, but he flinches back, a half-step, no more, and you feel it in your own chest like a blow.
"Cyar'ika…"
"Din, stay, please."
But he doesn’t stay.
He turns and goes across the hold, lifting his discarded flight suit and clumsily pulling it on over his naked form before heading for the ladder. You watch as he climbs it, then hear the small bang as the cockpit hatch closes, the lock engaging.
You stand naked in the bunk alcove in the half-dark with the warm wet ache of him still inside you, listening to him moving above, then sit down on the edge of the bunk and lay both your hands flat against your thighs, breathing slowly, the way he’s taught you to breathe when you’ve come back too hot from a fight and can’t bring yourself down. You take the breaths, count them and let your shoulders come down.
Your hips hurts and when you look down, you can already see, in the small backwash of light from the hold, the dark beginnings of bruises above the bones. You press one with your fingertip and the small, bright ache of it is almost a relief.
You scout the floor for your trousers, pull your sleep shirt back on and think, first, about whether you’re alright.
You are – you know you are. Your hips are bruised and your scalp feels tender and there’s a small soreness inside you that’s nothing you’ve not had before. You’re alright. You said stop and he stopped, the way you knew he would. He stopped completely.
The Creed is a discipline, and the discipline has held, even at the end, even with him chasing something through you that he can’t have.
You sit there a long time wondering if you might cry and quickly realising that you won’t. What comes instead is a long, slow, steady clarity telling you, firstly, that he’s not alright and secondly that he’s not going to be alright by himself.
The third thing the clarity tells you is that you’re going to have to go up there after you’ve given him some time to be alone with the thing he’s just discovered about himself, the way an animal that has been caught in a snare needs a stretch of being alone with the snare before it’ll let anyone near to take it off.
But you know the stretch can’t not be too long, because you know the decision a man like Din Djarin is capable of making about himself, when he’s just hurt the woman he loves and it’s not a decision you’re going to let him reach unattended.
Standing up, you move slowly, around the hold, making yourself useful. You fold the blanket that has slipped off the bench. You pick up the scarf from where it migrated days ago to the small shelf beside the bunk, fold it and put it back. You drink a glass of water and stand in front of the small mirror in the cycler looking at your reflection.
Your hair is wild from his hand and there’s a small flush along your throat. Your eyes look tired, but not frightened, and you don’t look, when you turn at the waist to check, like a woman who’s been hurt past mending. The bruises on your hip are already coming up dark, and you trace one with your fingertip, thinking about how you’re going to tell him about them and deciding you’re going to tell him the truth, because the truth is the only thing that’s going to be useful to him tonight.
You wait fifteen minutes and then walk to the foot of the ladder, laying your hand on the rung.
"Din?"
The cockpit hatch doesn’t open, not that you expect it to. You stand at the foot of the ladder with your hand on the rung and speak up the shaft just loud enough that he can catch your voice through the hatch.
"Din, I'm coming up in a minute. I just want you to know that."
You’re met with silence and you stand there a moment longer, stroking the cool metal of the rung with your thumb the way he strokes your stomach, and you breathe.
"I'm alright," you say quietly. "I want you to hear me say that.”
The cockpit hatch doesn’t open and he doesn’t answer.
You wait two more minutes and then begin to climb. At the top of the ladder, you lay your hand against the hatch.
"I'm at the hatch. I'm not going to open it because I want you to open it when you're ready. I'm just going to sit here on the ladder and wait."
Sitting down on the top rung, you lean your back against the bulkhead beside the hatch, fold your arms across your knees, lay the side of your head against the cool metal, close your eyes and wait.
You don’t how long you wait for but, eventually, the lock disengages. You don’t sit up or push the hatch open. Rather, you wait for him to open it.
The hatch slides open from the inside and when you open your eyes and look up, you see him sitting in the pilot’s chair, turned to face the hatch, with the helmet on, the visor angled at the deck plating between his feet.
He doesn’t look up as you climb the last two rungs and sit down on the lip of the hatch, your legs dangling into the shaft, your hands folded loose in your lap.
"Hi.”
"Cyar'ika...I…"
His voice through the modulator is the voice of a man who’s been crying. You don’t know how you know that because, in all the time you’ve flown with him, you’ve never heard him cry, never even been entirely sure he’s capable of it. But the small uneven catch in his breath and the slight thickness in the way the modulator handles the word tells you that he has and is.
"Can I come in?" you ask softly. “Or do you need me to stay here?"
He doesn’t answer right away.
"Come in," he says, eventually.
You don’t go to him. Instead, you go to the copilot's chair and sit down in it sideways, so that you’re facing him, your bare feet tucked up under you, your hands still folded loose in your lap. You look at the dash, at the dim glow of the navigation readouts, at the small steady spin of the proximity scanner, so that he doesn’t have the weight of your eyes.
He doesn’t look up, the visor remaining angled at the deck.
"Din, I need to tell you some things, okay?"
"Yes."
"Firstly, I’m physically alright. I’ve got two bruises on my hip from where your hands were and my scalp is a little tender from where you pulled my hair, but that's all.”
He doesn’t answer and the visor stays angled at the deck. You watch, very faintly, the small involuntary shake of his shoulders under the flight suit.
"Secondly, I'm going to tell you that I love you and I want you to hear me say that now, before I say anything else. I love you, Din. I’m not any less in love with you tonight than I was this morning.”
The vocoder catches a small broken sound that’s almost a word and also not. You sit with him while he takes in what you’ve said and let him have whatever time he needs.
"Alright," he says quietly.
"Good. Now I'm going to tell you the third thing. And I'm going to say it once, and then we're not going to talk about it tonight again, because tonight isn’t the night to talk about it. We’re going to talk about it tomorrow, or the day after, or when you’re ready. But I want you to hear it once tonight, because I want you to carry it into whatever you’re about to do with yourself in your own head, and I want it to be in there with you."
The visor doesn’t move.
"You were chasing it, weren't you?"
He doesn’t answer.
"You were chasing the way it was that night, and you’ve been chasing it for four weeks. I’ve watched you chase it and I haven’t said anything because I didn’t know how to say it without taking something away from you that I’ve got no business taking. But tonight you chased it harder than you’ve chased it before, and tonight I felt it, Din. I felt you trying to get through the helmet at me with your body because you can’t get through it any other way."
The vocoder catches a small, wrecked sound.
"I’m not angry," you say. "I want you to hear that. I’m not angry, Din, because I understand why. We had something that was real, and it’s not something a man can put down easily after he’s had it. I should’ve understood that better than I did. I should’ve asked you, the morning after about how you were going to carry it and I didn't, and for that I’m sorry.”
You uncurl your hands and lay one palm flat on the armrest of the copilot's chair, facing up, as an offering.
"But you can’t chase it through me, Din. Not because you hurt me, but because if you chase it through me, you’re not being true to yourself. You’re not letting us be what we are to each other. I don’t want to be a thing you have to fight your way through your armour to reach. I want to be the thing inside the armour with you."
You let out a long breath, and still, he says nothing.
"That's all I wanted to say. “
You sit there watching the proximity scanner until he finally speaks and, when he does, the voice through the modulator is very small. The voice he keeps for the things that hurt him.
"Cyar'ika."
"Yes?"
"I…I didn’t know that I was. I thought…I thought I had it under control. I thought I had…I had set it down the morning after. I had taken it out and I had looked at it, and I had set it down. I told myself I had."
"I know."
"I told myself I had every morning. Every morning I would pick it up and look at it and set it back down, and I told myself the setting down was the work. I told myself I was doing the work. I…"
The vocoder catches.
"But I wasn’t doing the work," he says. "I was wearing it smooth."
"I know, Din. I saw you do it."
He bends forward in the chair and lays his hands across the visor of the helmet, the way a man holds his head in his hands when he’s trying to keep something inside it.
"I hurt you."
"Not badly."
"I hurt you."
"Alright, you did, a little. And I said stop, and you stopped. I want you to hear that part – you stopped. You stopped completely, Din, the second I said it. You heard me and you stopped."
"That’s not…that’s not the bar, cyar'ika. That’s not the bar I want to meet."
"I know it isn't."
"I don’t want to be a man who has to be told to stop. I don’t want to be a man who…who chases a thing through the woman he…" the vocoder cuts on the word.
"I know, Din."
He doesn’t say anything for a long time, his hands remaining flat against the brow of the visor. You don’t move from the copilot's chair, but you keep your palm up on the armrest, letting it be a thing he can come to if he wants.
"I’m afraid."
The vocoder almost strips the word, but you hear it anyway.
"Afraid of what?"
"I’m afraid that I’ve…I’ve learned a thing about myself I didn’t know was in there. That there’s a man in here who…who wants past the Creed. Who wants past it badly enough to put his hands on you and pull. And I don’t…I don’t know what to do with knowing that cyar'ika. I’ve built my… my whole self on top of the Creed. The Creed is the floor. If I’m the kind of man who…who pulls against it through you, then I don’t know what the floor is."
You sit with his words for a long careful moment, because the thing he’s setting down between you is a thing that matters, and you’re not going to answer it cheaply.
"Din, will you come over here? I’m not going to ask you anything. I just want you over here because you’re too far away, please.”
He doesn’t move and the hands stay on the visor.
"Din, please."
Finally, he stands slowly and crosses the small space between the chairs. He doesn’t look at you or sit. He stands in front of the copilot's chair with the visor angled at the deck and his hands hanging useless at his sides.
You reach up and take both his hands in yours, gently drawing him down to you. He comes down to his knees in front of the chair, kneeling between your feet on the deck plating of the cockpit, and you cradle his hands in yours and turn them, slowly, so the palms are up, and you lay your own palms flat on them, and hold him there.
"Listen to me."
The visor remains angled at the deck.
"Look up, Din."
He looks up slowly.
"There’s no man in there who wants past the Creed. There’s a man in there who loves a woman and wants to be close to her. That’s all that is. You’ve built your whole self on top of the Creed, and the Creed is the floor, and the floor is fine. The floor is not cracked. The floor held. You said yes to a negotiated night, took it, and then you tried, for four weeks, to carry it without telling me you were having trouble, and that’s the only place anything went wrong tonight. You should’ve told me. The next time you have trouble carrying something, you need to tell me. Yes?"
The visor is very still. "Yes.”
"Good."
You stroke his hands with your thumbs.
“The night in the hold was a gift, we both said so. But a gift isn’t a debt or a thing you have to chase. A gift is a thing you get to have once, and the having of it doesn’t require any more havings to stay real. The night in the hold is real, it will stay real and it will be real in a year, and in five, and in twenty. I’m not going anywhere, Din, and the night in the hold is going to be one of the things I take with me to whatever is on the other side of a long life on this ship with you. It doesn’t need to happen again to stay real. Do you hear me?"
"Yes," he replies, softly. “I hear you."
You sit there with his hands in yours and after a long moment, you feel the long shudder of a breath go out of him through the modulator that you understand, with a small flat clarity, is the first whole breath he’s taken since the bunk.
"I’m sorry, cyar'ika."
"I know."
"I won’t…"
"I know."
He lays his forehead against your knee and you place one hand against the back of the helmet and hold him there, stroking, very slowly, with the pad of your thumb, the small place where the lip of the helmet meets the collar of his flight suit, the small bare strip of skin you’ve touched a thousand times.
"I'm going to ask you something now, Din, and I want you to answer it honestly.”
"Alright."
"Do you need a stretch of nights where we don't do anything at all? Just…nothing but sleeping.? Just my back against your chest and your hand on my stomach and the helmet on and nothing else? Would that help?"
You feel the small careful stillness of him at your knee, the slow consideration of a man who is, for the first time in four weeks, letting himself actually look at what he needs instead of what he’s supposed to be capable of.
"Yes."
The word comes out small.
"Yes, I think…I think I do. I think I need that."
"Then we'll have that."
"Cyar'ika…"
"We'll have that, Din. As long as you want it. You tell me when you’re sitting with it clean, when you’ve stopped chasing it, when you’re settled. And then we can go back to the way it was before, the way I love, Din, the way I love…"
Your voice catches small and unexpectedly, and you steady it quickly.
“And we won’t be chasing anything. We’ll just be having what we have, alright?"
"Alright."
You stroke the back of his helmet.
"And we’re not going to talk about doing the other thing again. Not for a long time, maybe not ever. I’m not going to come to you in six months or a year and ask you to take the helmet off. The night in the hold is not a thing I’m going to ask you to give me again. If it ever happens again, it’ll be because you, the man inside the armour decides that you want it, and not before.”
The vocoder catches a long uneven breath and the helmet nods slowly.
"And if that night never comes, I won’t be wanting for anything. I have the one night here." You lay your free hand flat to your sternum. "I have the shape of your face under my fingertips, and I have the sound of your voice without the modulator, and I have the feel of your mouth on me and I’m full of it, Din. I don’t need another helping. I want you to never, ever again be lying behind me in the bunk wondering if I’m wanting more than I have because I won’t.”
He doesn’t answer and you feel, against your knee, the small uneven shake of him. You sit like that a long time, letting the time be a thing that happens around you until he eventually lifts his head, the T shape of the visor finding your face.
"Cyar'ika, will you let me see the bruises?"
You don’t flinch at the request. Instead, you stand, gently drawing him up, take his hand and lead him down the ladder, across the hold and into the bunk.
You sit on the edge and ease the waistband of your trousers down, slowly, so he can see. The dark shapes above your hipbones have come up in the last half hour to a deep blue-purple, the kind of bruise that will be ugly tomorrow and uglier the day after and will, by the end of a week, be a soft greenish-yellow.
He looks at them for a long time.
“I’m sorry.”
He kneels slowly and lays both hands very lightly on you, cradling the curve of your hips, his thumbs not pressing, just settling near.
"May I?"
"Yes."
He bends, the brow of the helmet pressing, very lightly, to each bruise in turn, holding there a long moment, breathing through the modulator, his thumbs stroking once across the soft skin above the bones.
Then he moves and climbs into the bunk behind you, pulling you back against his chest with the helmet at the top of your head and his bare hand splayed warm across your stomach.
His thumb begins the small, slow, absent circle, and you close your eyes, feeling the warm familiar weight of him. You feel the visor against your hair, the bare hand on your stomach, the thumb in its small slow rhythm, the bare arm warm along the underside of your breasts.
The helmet is on. The Creed is on. The bruises on your hip ache, dully, against the warm length of his thigh behind yours, and the small, clean ache of it is, somehow, against every odd, a comfort – a thing you can feel, a thing that proves you’re both still inside your bodies. A thing that will, in a week, be greenish-yellow and then nothing at all.
"Thank you," he says softly.
"You’re welcome."
"I love you."
The vocoder catches a little on the words, and you hear, underneath, the human warmth of the voice you’ve been given once and will not be given again, and the hearing of it underneath is not a thing that hurts – it’s a thing you have.
You lay your hand over his on your stomach and lace your fingers through his.
"I love you too, Din."
His thumb resumes its small, slow, absent circle against your skin.
You don’t know yet how many nights of just-this it’ll take. You don’t know if there will be a slow careful return to the long, patient rhythm of how it has been, or whether something between you will have to be built newly out of the rubble of tonight, piece by piece, the way the covert he lost is a thing that can perhaps, in some long quiet future, be rebuilt out of the materials at hand.
You don’t know if there will be other nights when he’ll need to lay his bruised wanting at your knee and have you hold it, or whether the work of tonight will be enough.
But you know that you’re both here.
Closing your eyes, you let the warmth of him be the thing your body settles into. You let the small slow circle of his thumb be the metronome your breath organises itself around as you sleep.
When you wake, in the small blue hour before the Crest's day cycle comes up, his bare hand is still splayed across your stomach, and his helmet is still pressed to your hair, and the long warm length of him is still against your back.
He’s still here and the work in front of you both is work that two people who love each other can do.
You lay your free hand over his on your stomach and close your eyes again, sleeping another hour, against him, in the small, warm, blue dim, before the day asks anything of either of you.
➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰🚀➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰
PART SIX
Taglist: @thelittlebats @sassythejedi @millercontracting @porganas @lovely-kitsune-exe @themilkhasjustexpired @dream-alittlebiggerdarling
PTaglist: @copperhalfcent @missladym1981 @whattheflipsiesss @brittmb115 @elizabeth4th @peepawmiller @angelwithablade @cassieorz @somedayheaven @silversvu12 @madpanda75 @johnssherlock221 @madnessofadaydreamer @kirsteng42 @ifall4dilfs @pedro-pascal-3nthusiast @cuteanimalmama @inept-the-magnificent @mystickittytaco @arood98 @sunnytuliptime @katw474 @pascalgold @dotyoureyez @victoriaholland @loveday1219 @awkwardpaws @misstokyo7love @vinyl-and-coffee @spock1988 @readingiskeepingmegoing @kakiki3 @kayidlewild @miserysinferno @tupelomiss @untamedheart81 @ilovequeen978 @g0ldenstarr @missadangel
Through The Wall - Part Four
Pairing: Din x Reader.
Chapter summary: Din needs something from you and you’re more than happy to oblige.
Warnings: 18+only. Smut with feelings.
A/N: I saw the film today and it was so good! Not enough un-helmeted Pedro but you can’t have everything! It inspired me to post this today 🥰
Part One/Part Two/Part Three
Din Masterlist
➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰🚀➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰
The first thing you notice is that he won’t sit down.
That, by itself, is not unusual. He’s a man who paces, a man who stands at the edge of rooms, a man who has been trained never to take a chair that doesn’t have its back to a wall. In the time you’ve spent together, you’ve learned the geography of his stillness and his motion, and ordinarily you can read him through the soles of his boots.
Tonight you can’t read him.
It’s a slow night – the bounty puck spent, the credits locked away, the next job not yet pulled. You’ve eaten the simple meal you made together, wiped down the small fold-out table in the hold, sat with him on the bench by the carbonite chamber while he field-strips his rifle, and you’ve read aloud, in the small companionable way you’ve begun to develop, from a book of poetry you picked up from a stall on Bestine for two credits.
It was the closest you’re going to get to a bookstore.
He’s been listening with the slightly tilted helmet that means he’s paying attention. And then, somewhere between the second and third poem, he sets the rifle aside half-cleaned, stands up, and begins, with no apparent destination, to pace.
He paces the length of the hold once, pausing at the carbon-freezing controls, then paces back. He stops at the foot of the ladder, sets one gloved hand on the rung and stands there a long moment as if considering whether to climb it. Then he turns and paces again, ending up at the small fold-out table, and he stands there with his hands resting on the edge of it and the visor angled at some middle distance of the deck plating.
You watch him through all of this with the patience of a person who’s learned that the surest way to make him close up is to ask him directly what’s wrong. So, you don’t ask. You set the book down, tuck your feet up under you on the bench and wait.
He paces again and comes back to the table, stopping at it again as if it’s a thing he hasn’t noticed the first time, and exhales unevenly.
"Din,” you say gently, the helmet still turned away. “Come sit.”
He doesn’t move for a long moment. His bare fingers on the edge of the table flex once and go still. Then, slowly, as if it costs him something he doesn’t want to spend, he comes back across the hold and sits down beside you on the bench.
He sits forward, elbows braced on his knees, his bare forearms catching the warm sodium light of the hold. He laces his fingers together loosely and stares at them, or at the deck, or at nothing in particular through the T-visor and says nothing.
After a long time, the vocoder catches a breath.
"Cyar'ika."
"Yes?"
He goes quiet again, so you lay your hand on his forearm. The skin’s warm, the small dark hairs there soft under your palm, and you stroke it very slowly with the pad of your thumb.
"It's nothing," he says, finally. "I'm…being foolish."
"You're not foolish."
"You don’t know."
"Tell me."
He remains quiet so long this time, that you begin to think he’s going to stand up again and pace, but he stays by your side.
"I want something," he says, the vocoder very low. "I want something, and I can’t have it, and I’ve been…I’ve been turning it over in my head all evening like a man turning over a stone he can’t put down. And I’m being foolish, because the wanting changes nothing. So, I will put it down. And we will…" he gestures, small and helpless, at the book on the bench beside you, “we will read another poem, cyar'ika, and I’ll be alright."
You don’t pick up the book. You continue slowly stroking the inside of his bare forearm with the pad of your thumb and feel the small involuntary tightening of muscle there under your hand.
"Tell me what you want," you say.
"Cyar'ika…"
"Tell me."
He draws a long breath through the modulator and turns his hand over under yours so that his palm is up. He lays his bare fingers across your wrist, and traces – with a small careful absent motion, as if he’s not aware he’s doing it – the small bones there.
"I’ve been thinking," he says very quietly, "about a thing I can’t do."
"What thing?"
The visor turns and he looks at you. You feel the weight of it, the long careful look, the way you always feel it when he’s deciding how much of himself he’s allowed to give you.
"I want to put my mouth on you."
You don’t move, don’t even breathe for a moment, because if you move or breathe you might break the small fragile shape of what he’s just set down between you.
"I want…" he says slowly, “I want to taste you, cyar'ika. Your mouth, your body, your…your heat. I’ve been wanting it for…for a long time. Tonight it won’t leave me, I don’t know why. Sometimes it’s like that. Sometimes the wanting climbs out of where I keep it and walks around the room with me, and tonight it’s been walking with me for hours, and I am…"
The modulator cuts on a small almost-laugh that’s not, you think, a laugh
"I’m tired. I’m tired of pacing around it. I need you to know what’s in my head. I don’t need you to do anything with it. I only…" his bare thumb strokes the inside of your wrist, “I need you to know."
You sit with his words for a long careful moment, because the thing he’s just said is a thing that matters, and you don’t want to answer it before you’ve understood the shape of it.
But you do understand. To put his mouth on you – his true mouth, not the substitute chin of the helmet, not the small kiss of the visor against your skin – is a thing he can’t do without breaking the Creed he’s sworn to uphold.
You know that he’s not asking you to ask him to break it – even though you have before. He’s asking you to know that he wants to.
You lay your hand against the cool curve of his helmet at the cheek and tip your forehead to the brow of the visor, closing your eyes to help yourself think.
"Din,” you say, slowly and carefully, “what if I close my eyes."
The helmet doesn’t move.
"What if I close my eyes the whole time, and I don’t open them. Not once, not for any reason, not even at the end. You could…you could come and go without me ever seeing you. The light could be on or off, whatever you want, but I wouldn’t see you. I swear to you I wouldn’t see you."
The vocoder catches a long uneven breath.
"I'm serious."
"I know you are."
"It wouldn’t be breaking the Creed."
"Cyar'ika…"
"It wouldn’t, Din, think about it. The Creed says, no living being may see your face. If my eyes are closed, no living being sees your face. The helmet is off, but no one sees. The thing the Creed protects is protected."
He sits in silence for a long time and the bare hand on your wrist tightens, very slightly, and loosens, and tightens again.
"I don’t know," he says, finally, “I…."
"I know you don't."
"It’s…" he searches, “it’s the kind of argument a man makes when he wants the answer to be yes."
"Maybe." You stroke the curve of the helmet at his cheek. "But it might still be the right argument, Din. The Creed is about the spirit of the thing, isn’t it. You told me that the covert who raised you cared about the spirit."
"They did."
"And the spirit is that no one sees."
"Yes."
"Then no one would see."
"I don’t know if I can trust myself," he says. " I don’t know if I can trust myself to…to put my mouth on you and not, in some moment of not thinking, demand that you open your eyes and look at me.”
"You can, Din. You’ve spent your life not doing the thing the Creed forbids. You have a discipline. You won’t ask me to do it."
"And if I do?"
"You won't."
"Cyar'ika, if I do…?"
You stroke his cheek through the beskar. "Then I won’t see you, because I won’t open my eyes. You can trust me, Din. I know I asked you to take off the helmet before because I wanted to see but…if we do this, knowing how you feel…I promise I won’t open my eyes."
“I do trust you,” he says softly. “That’s not…that’s not the question I’m holding."
"Then what is?"
He exhales heavily. "Whether I can trust myself to be the kind of man who tests it."
You understand, then, in one long flat clarity, what he’s holding. He’s not afraid that you’ll open your eyes because he has no doubt that you won’t. He’s afraid – he, who has carried the Creed for so long and who has built every other thing in his life on the foundation of its discipline – of what it says about him that he wants it badly enough to negotiate around the edge of it.
You lay both your hands against the cheeks of the helmet and tip his forehead to yours.
"Listen to me. You have spent your whole life not asking. Not for yourself. You have spent your whole life giving the Creed everything it asks of you. You’ve given it well, and you’ve given it without complaint, and the Creed has, in return, taken almost everything from you. And you’ve carried that, Din, without flinching, for longer than most men could."
He goes very still.
"And now, after all of it, you want one thing. One small thing. You want to put your mouth on the woman who loves you. And you’ve built – we have built, between us, you and I – a way that you can have that thing without setting down the spirit of what the Creed protects. And you’re sitting here on this bench asking yourself if wanting it makes you a worse Mandalorian."
You stroke his cheek.
"It doesn't, Din. It makes you a man, that’s all. Just a man. A man who has loved a woman for a year now and who would like, for one night, to put his mouth on her. The Creed is large enough to hold that. The covert that raised you – the one that cared about the spirit – I think they would have held it. I think they would have wanted you to have it."
He doesn’t answer for a long time and the bare hand on your wrist stops its small stroking. It’s simply holding, now, the fingers laced loose through yours.
"Cyar'ika," he says, eventually.
"Yes?"
"I don’t have a blindfold."
You don’t laugh, but you very slowly, smile against the brow of the visor. “I have a scarf.”
****
The scarf is dark blue, almost black in the sodium light of the hold, a long soft length of woven Tatooinian cotton you bought in a market on a planet you can’t now remember the name of. You’ve used it as a head covering on dusty worlds and as a pillow on cold nights and as a small comforting weight around your shoulders when the bunk is too quiet and he hasn’t yet come down from the cockpit. It’s a thing that smells of you and him and the Crest.
You carry it back to the bench, sit down and set it across your lap.
He sits the way you left him, elbows on his knees, his bare fingers laced loose between them, the visor angled at the deck. But when you sit down beside him, he turns, slowly, and lays one bare hand against the side of your face.
"If you change your mind at any moment…"
"I won't, but if I do, I’ll tell you. I’ll say stop, and you’ll stop, and that’ll be the end of it, and we’ll not talk about it again until you want to. I know how this works."
"I know you do,” he says softly.
"Then trust me."
The bare hand at your cheek strokes, slow, the pad of the thumb tracing the small line beneath your eye where you have a habit of pressing your fingers when you’re tired,
"I trust you," he says.
You hand him the scarf, and he kills the lights at the small wall panel by the bench, the sodium glow going down to nothing in one slow fade. The hold drops into the low blue half-dark of the night cycle, where the only light comes from the small standby diodes on the bulkheads and the faint backwash of the cockpit instruments down the ladder shaft. You sit on the bench in the half-dark and watch the silhouette of him come back across the hold to you, the helmet a darker shape against the dark, the cape moving slightly with the air-recycler's breath.
He stands in front of you, holding the scarf in his bare hands. "Close your eyes."
You close them and feel him kneel in front of you, feel the soft brush of the scarf across your forehead, his bare fingers gathering your hair carefully out of the way, the fabric settling over your closed eyelids with a weight that’s somehow both very light and absolute. You feel him tie it at the back of your head and then test it with one fingertip along the upper edge, where it presses gently to your brow.
"Can you see anything?"
"No."
You feel him kneel a moment longer and the visor presses, very softly, to your scarfed forehead – the last kiss of the helmet before it comes off. You lay your hand against the cool beskar of his cheek and smile.
"Take your time," you say.
He draws a long breath through the modulator, then rises to his feet. You hear the small, soft hiss of pressure release and the faint click of a seal disengaging. It’s an intimate sound, one he’s probably not let another living being hear in years.
You don’t move or even consider opening your eyes. The thing he’s setting down, in the small space of the hold, is a thing he’s built every other thing in his life on top of, and you understand that the only way to receive it is with stillness.
You hear the soft thump of the helmet being set down carefully and the next breath you hear is his.
It’s unfiltered, a man's breath, low and a little uneven, no modulator, no metal. It’s the most naked sound you’ve ever heard him make.
You stay very still as he kneels again, feeling his weight come down in front of you, his hands settling on your knees.
"Cyar'ika."
It’s the first time that you’ve ever heard the word without the vocoder.
His voice underneath is lower than you thought. Softer, a little hoarse, perhaps from the suddenness of the unfiltered air, perhaps from emotion, perhaps from both. It has a small warmth in it that the modulator has stripped from you for a year without you ever quite knowing it was there.
You don’t move, but you smile.
"Hello, Din."
You hear him laugh for the first time ever. Really laugh, not the small vocoder-clipped almost-amusement you’ve become an expert in, but the actual sound, low and a little surprised, as if it’s escaped from somewhere he hasn’t been guarding. It breaks against the inside of your chest the way the first cold water of a stream breaks against your bare feet.
"Hello, cyar'ika."
"You sound…like a person."
"I am a person."
"I know you are. I just haven’t heard…" you break off, because you don’t have the word, He laughs again, very softly, and you feel his bare hand come up to your face and lay against your cheek.
Then you feel his mouth.
His mouth.
Not the chin of the helmet, or the brow of the visor, but his actual mouth, warm and slightly chapped, pressing to the corner of yours.
You don’t open your eyes. You only turn your face blindly the small distance it needs to turn, and let your lips find his, and the small soft sound that comes out of you when they do is not a sound you knew you know how to make.
He kisses you slowly, the way a man kisses for the first time something he’s been wanting to kiss for a very long time. The soft press of his lips against yours, the small careful catch of his upper lip against your lower, the warm uneven breath of him through his nose against your cheek. You feel the brush of stubble and, very faintly, the tip of his tongue, tentatively brushing the seam of your lips, asking.
You open your mouth to him.
The sound he makes is small and broken and not for anyone but you. His tongue slides against yours, warm and slow, and you taste him for the first time – a clean simple human taste, the faint trace of the caf you shared earlier, the warmth of a mouth that’s been hidden from you for a year and that is, now, very deliberately, no longer hidden.
He kisses you the way he does everything else – with a careful patient attention, as if you’re a thing he’s been given permission to study and intends to study well. The hand at your cheek slides into your hair behind the knot of the scarf whilst the other finds your waist. He kisses you and kisses you and kisses you, and you sit there blindfolded on the bench with your hands fisted lightly in the fabric of his undershirt, kissing him back. Dimly, somewhere behind the warm flood of it, you realise that you’re going to remember this for as long as you live.
He pulls back, finally, his forehead pressed to yours, his breath uneven against your mouth.
"I’ve wanted that for so long."
"I know, Din."
You stroke the back of his neck, where the hair is curled and soft and feel the small involuntary lean of him into your hand.
"Take your time," you say, again. "Take all of it. I'm not going anywhere."
He kisses you once more – a slow soft press, his lower lip catching at yours – and then he begins to move down.
He kisses the corner of your mouth, the line of your jaw and the soft place beneath your ear that, for a year, has only ever been touched by the cool curve of a visor. The sound you make when his actual mouth finds it is small and shocked and entirely involuntary. He laughs against your throat, low and pleased, and the warm breath of him there makes you shiver.
"That," he says, against your skin, "is a sound I’ve wanted to be the cause of for a long time."
"You have been the cause of it."
"Not like this."
He kisses the hollow of your throat and the small notch above your sternum, his bare hands sliding down to the hem of your shirt, fingers finding the small fastening at the side and working it with the quiet competence of a man who has undressed you a hundred times in the dark. He draws the shirt up over your head, careful of the scarf and your closed eyes beneath it. You lift your arms and let him. Then you feel the cool air of the hold on your skin, and a moment later, the warm slow trail of his mouth down your sternum, between your breasts, to the small soft place at the base of your ribs where you once told him, in the dark, that you’re ticklish.
He pauses there, smiles against your skin, and then, very gently and deliberately, he kisses you there.
You laugh and he laughs against your stomach, unfiltered and warm.
"Din…you’re enjoying yourself."
"I am."
His hands slide up your sides, find your breasts, cups them with a warm careful weight that he’s given you many times before, but which feels now like something entirely new. His thumbs stroke across your nipples, slow, and you arch into his hands. He makes a low pleased sound that the modulator has never been allowed to give you, and you feel his mouth close warm and wet around one nipple, making you gasp.
He takes his time, kissing, licking and drawing gently with his teeth whilst his hand kneads the other breast in slow rhythm. You sit blindfolded on the bench with your hand fisted in the back of his hair and let him learn you, finally, with the part of him he’s never been allowed to use.
He moves to the other breast and gives it the same patient attention. His mouth is hot, and a little wet, and the small hoarse appreciative sounds he makes against your skin are the most undisciplined things you’ve ever heard from him.
When he finally lifts his head, you’re breathing hard, the scarf warm against your closed eyes.
"I want…"
"Yes."
"You don't know yet what I’m going to say."
"I do, Din. Yes."
You feel him laugh again, very softly. His hands slide down your sides to the waist of your trousers and work the fastening, drawing them down, carefully, over your hips, down your thighs and then off, over your feet. He sets them aside and you sit naked on the bench in the blue half-dark of the hold with a blindfold tied across your eyes and a man whose face you’ve never seen kneeling between your thighs.
You had never, in your entire life, felt safer.
"Lie back," he murmurs.
The bench is narrow, but he guides you, his hands warm at your hips, until you’re settled along its length with your head pillowed on your bunched-up shirt, your knees bent and your feet planted on the metal. You feel the cool air of the hold on every inch of you then feel his hands stroke up the inside of your thighs, parting them, and your knees fall open for him.
You do not, for one single second, consider opening your eyes.
Then he kneels at the foot of the bench, and you feel his hands slide up under your thighs, lift them gently, hook them over his shoulders and his face come down between your legs, the warm uneven breath of his open mouth against the inside of your thigh.
You feel the small drag of stubble against the soft skin of your inner thigh and the warm wet press of his tongue. The small low sound he makes in the back of his throat is, you know, simply pleasure and he kisses his way up, taking his time. He kisses the crease where your thigh meets your hip, then the other one. He kisses the small soft place just above where you’re already wet for him, and the warm exhale of his breath against you there makes you shake.
"Din…please…"
"I’ve waited a year for this," he says, against your skin, his voice low and unfiltered and warm. “Let me have this."
You lay your hand on the back of his head. "Have it."
His mouth closes over you and the sound that comes out of you is not quiet and not in any language you know. He’s…he’s good at this, in a way you haven’t been prepared for, the way a man can be good at a thing he’s never done because he’s thought about doing it for a very long time and has spent that time paying close attention to the woman he’s going to do it to.
He knows where you’re sensitive. He knows the small place just to the left of centre that makes your hips lift. He knows the rhythm you like, the slow building one, the kind that gathers and gathers and doesn’t break and doesn’t break – and finally breaks.
He makes small sounds against you, low, hungry ones. Sounds that the modulator has never given you, that come from somewhere deep in his chest and vibrate against you in ways that make you fist your hand in his hair and gasp his name aloud in the half-dark. You hear your own voice come back to you off the bulkheads, but you don’t care.
He licks into you, drawing you into his mouth and sucking, slowly and carefully, the small steady rhythm of it building a low heat in your belly that climbs by inches and then by feet. He slides one hand up your stomach to find your breast, and his thumb strokes your nipple in time with his mouth, the small precise coordination of it almost more than the heat itself.
The other hand slides down and you feel two fingers slide into you.
"Din…"
He hums against you, the vibration running up your spine.
"Din, I'm…"
He hums again and doesn’t stop or slow. He draws you steady into his mouth, curls his fingers inside you and the climb gathers and gathers and the warm wet patient rhythm of him doesn’t let up. You feel your hand tighten in his hair, your hips lift against his mouth, and your breath catch on a sound that’s almost a sob.
And you break.
It washes over you in long white waves. You come against his mouth with your back arched off the bench and your hand fisted hard in hair and his name – Din, Din, Din – falling out of you in a wrecked rhythm that matches the pulse of it. He doesn’t stop. He stays with you, his mouth gentling but not lifting, his tongue easing into a slow patient stroke that draws it out, the small careful hum of him still vibrating against you, until the waves ebb to a long warm ache and your hand in his hair loosens and your hips settle, trembling, back to the bench.
He kisses you, easing his fingers out of you. Then he lays his cheek – warm and rough with stubble – against the inside of your thigh, and stays there a long moment, breathing.
"Cyar'ika..."
"I'm here,” you say, your voice wrecked. "I'm here, Din."
You stroke the back of his head and feel the wave of his hair under your fingers.
"You…" you try, “are very good at that."
He laughs again, low and a little surprised. "Thank you."
"I'm just saying."
"I’ve been thinking about it for a long time.”
"It shows."
He laughs again and you love him so much, in that moment, that you have to press your free hand to your mouth.
Minutes later, he kisses his way slowly back up your body – your hip, your stomach, the soft place at your ribs that makes you laugh, your sternum, the curve of your breast, the line of your throat, the soft place beneath your ear – and he settles, eventually, half over you on the bench, his weight braced on one forearm beside your head, his other hand stroking slow lazy circles on your stomach. He kisses your mouth slowly and you taste yourself on him.
You stroke his face with your fingertips, eyes closed, learning it the way he’s learned you in the dark of the bunk. You feel the line of his jaw, the rough patch of stubble there, the long bridge of his nose which is a little crooked, the curve of his cheekbone, and the small warm corner of his eye where there are the faint lines of a man who, despite everything, has laughed often enough to mark them.
He holds very still and lets you map him.
"I'm just…looking," you murmur.
"I know."
"Without looking."
"I know."
You stroke the line of his mouth and feel him smile under your fingertips. You feel the small, dry, warm press of his lower lip and the slight chap at the corner and the small, unguarded, pleased curve of him under your touch, and you lay your palm flat against his cheek and hold it there.
And you let yourself say a sentence you’ve never said before.
"I love you, Din."
"I know," he says. “I know."
"I needed you to hear me say it."
He kisses your palm.
"I love you," he says. “I love you, cyar’ika. I’ve loved you for a long time. I’m…" he searches. “I’m still learning how to let myself say it. But I do."
You lie there for a long moment, the cool air of the hold raising small bumps along your bare skin, your mind absorbing the words he’s just spoken. The warm weight of his forearm beside your head, the warm slow circles of his hand on your stomach, the small steady unfiltered breath of him near your ear – you catalogue all of it, eyes closed, the way you’ve catalogued him through the visor.
"Din?"
"Mm."
"Don't put the helmet back on yet."
The hand on your stomach pauses.
"I want…" you turn your face blindly toward where his is and feel the warmth of his breath against your cheek. "I want you, Din. Like this. While you're still…still like this."
He doesn’t answer and you stroke his cheek again, feeling the small tense stillness of him, the careful held breath, the place where he’s sitting with the size of what you’ve just asked for.
"I won't open my eyes," you say firmly. "I haven’t even thought about opening them. The scarf can stay. I just…I want to feel you. I want all of you. Once, just once, with nothing in the way."
He’s silent so long you think, briefly, you’ve asked too much. Then his forehead lowers to yours and, for the first time, you feel the skin of him against the skin of you there.
"You don't have to. If it's too much…"
"It's not too much. I’m only…I’m only trying to remember how to breathe. Give me a moment."
You lie there blindfolded with his bare forehead against yours, his warm breath against your mouth and his hand splayed motionless across your stomach and let him have whatever moment he needs. You have time. For the rest of your life with him, you have time.
Eventually, his breath evens and his thumb on your stomach resumes its small, slow circle.
"Yes," he says quietly and starts to undress.
You don’t see it of course, you hear it. The soft rustle of him sitting up, the quiet drag of the undershirt being pulled over his head, the small clink of his belt unfastening, the rough whisper of fabric over skin as he strips the trousers off. You hear him set everything aside, carefully, the way he sets the armour aside at night, not because it matters where the clothes go, but because the small ritual of placing them gives his hands something to do while the rest of him catches up.
The bench is too narrow, and you feel his hands slide under your shoulders and your knees as he lifts you against his bare chest and carries you the short distance to the bunk.
You feel the familiar give of the mattress as he lays you down on it and kisses you again, his hand coming up to cradle the back of your head where the knot of the scarf still holds, warm now from your skin. It doesn’t slip and you don’t open your eyes.
He settles between your thighs, hard against the soft, warm wet of you, the blunt heat of him pressing where his mouth was not long ago. He presses his bare forehead to yours.
"Cyar'ika…tell me if…"
"Yes, Din. Yes."
He slides into you in a way neither of you have had before – his actual skin against your actual skin from head to toe. He presses his forehead harder to yours and holds there a long shaking moment, just breathing against your mouth, and you understand – blindly, behind the scarf, the warmth of him everywhere on you – that he’s as undone as you are.
"Cyar'ika..."
"Oh Maker, Din…please move."
He moves slowly. He has to because you realise that anything faster will break him. He draws back, almost out, then slides back in, and the warm long stroke of it without anything between you is a thing that makes your breath catch on a small, wrecked sound. He kisses you while he does it, his mouth on yours, swallowing the sound, his tongue moving in slow time with his hips, the unfiltered uneven breath of him pouring into you between kisses. His hands are on you everywhere – your face, your throat, your breast, your hip, your thigh, the small place at the back of your knee where he once told you he likes to touch you in the dark because the skin there is the softest – because he can’t decide where to put them.
You wrap your arms around his back, feeling the long, warm muscle of him and slide your fingers up into his hair, the shape of him under your palms entirely revealed, entirely yours, for this one moment in this one bunk, in the warm blue half-dark of the Crest.
He kisses you over and over whilst he moves in you with that long, warm, slow rhythm, his hips finding yours, the small soft sounds of him unfiltered against your mouth, the warm, wet, patient slide of him building a heat in you that’s slower and deeper than anything you’ve felt with him before. You feel it climb the way the sea climbs a beach, by inches, no hurry, no urgency, only the inevitable.
His hand slides down between you, his thumb finding where his mouth has been and circles it in time with his hips. You break the kiss on a small, wrecked sound and he presses his forehead to yours and breathes against your mouth and watches you as the tide climbs and climbs.
"I'm…"
"I know."
"Din…"
"I know. Come for me, cyar'ika. I want to feel you. I need to…I have you."
You come hard, his body pressed flush to yours, his mouth on yours, his thumb steady and patient through every shaking pulse of it. You sob his name and he drinks it, kissing you through it. He doesn’t stop moving, the long, slow stroke of him in you carrying you all the way through and out the other side, until you’re limp and shaking and gasping against his lips.
Then he lets go and the broken sound he makes when he does is the most undone thing you’ve ever heard from him. His body locks against you, his forehead pressed to yours, his hand fisted in the bedding beside your head, and you feel him spill into you in long, warm pulses with his mouth pressed open and shaking against yours. You hold him through it, your hands flat against his back, your knees high around his hips, and you understand that you’ll never, for as long as you live, have anything more than this.
He stays inside you, on top of you, his forehead against yours, his breath slowing against your mouth. You stroke his back and the hair at the base of his skull and don’t say anything for a long time, because there’s nothing that needs saying.
Eventually, he kisses you, slow and sweet, the kind of kiss you’ve not known a person could give until tonight, his mouth lingering on yours with the small soft drag of his lower lip.
"Thank you," he whispers.
You stroke his cheek. "Thank you, Din."
****
He holds you for a long time before eventually carefully easing out of you and settling his weight beside you in the bunk, pulling you against his chest with your scarfed face pressed to the warm hollow of his throat. You feel his pulse there, feel the small, unfiltered rhythm of his breath against the top of your head, feel his hand splayed warm and possessive across the small of your back, the thumb stroking slow absent circles.
You lie there with your eyes still closed under the scarf and listen to him breathe then feel his lips press, eventually, to the top of your head, the warm, soft kiss of his actual mouth in your hair.
"I'm going to need to put it back on,” he says finally.
"I know," you say, feeling a pull in your throat.
"Not yet."
"No?"
"A few more minutes."
"Take all the minutes you want."
He holds you and somewhere in the small warm dark of the bunk, in the long patient afterglow, the man whose face you haven’t seen, and will not see, presses his bare mouth to the top of your head once more and you understand that he’s committing the unguarded moment to memory the way you are – building it into a thing he’ll carry with him in the long, modulated dark of every day after.
Eventually, he stirs.
"Cyar'ika…keep them closed."
"They’re closed."
You feel him ease out from under you and the cool air of the bunk rushes in to where his warmth has been. You hear the quiet click of the helmet's seal engaging and the small mechanical breath of the vocoder coming back online.
The next sound out of him is filtered again, modulated, but the voice underneath is yours now. Privately and permanently. A thing you’ll carry like the shape of his face under your fingertips. Something that nobody else in the galaxy will ever be given.
He comes back to the bunk, his hand moving to rest on the back of your head. Then he unties the scarf and draws it from your eyes.
You keep them closed a moment longer and then, when you open them, the visor’s waiting and you smile up at him in the blue half-dark.
"Hi, Din."
The vocoder catches a low pleased sound as he bends and presses the brow of the visor to your forehead in the substitute kiss, the one that hasn’t become any smaller for the existence of the other. If anything, it’s grown larger, because you know now exactly what it stands in for, and how willingly he set it down for you, and how carefully he’s picked it back up.
You lay your hand against the side of the helmet and hold him there.
"Come to bed."
He climbs in behind you and pulls you back against his chest, the helmet pressing to the top of your head, his hand splayed warm and possessive across your stomach.
The scarf is somewhere on the floor of the bunk and, tomorrow, you’ll find it, fold it and put it back where it belongs, with the rest of the small private inventory of things that smell of you and him and of the ship that has become, against every odd and every doctrine, the home you didn’t know you were going to find.
You close your eyes and, behind you, in the dark, his thumb strokes once across your stomach and the vocoder catches a long even contented breath.
And the man who lives inside the armour, the man whose face you haven’t seen, holds you against his chest and doesn’t, for the first time in a very long time, find anything in himself that needs pacing around.
➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰🚀➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰
PART FIVE
Taglist: @thelittlebats @sassythejedi @millercontracting @porganas @lovely-kitsune-exe @themilkhasjustexpired @dream-alittlebiggerdarling
PTaglist: @copperhalfcent @missladym1981 @whattheflipsiesss @brittmb115 @elizabeth4th @peepawmiller @angelwithablade @cassieorz @somedayheaven @silversvu12 @madpanda75 @johnssherlock221 @madnessofadaydreamer @kirsteng42 @ifall4dilfs @pedro-pascal-3nthusiast @cuteanimalmama @inept-the-magnificent @mystickittytaco @arood98 @sunnytuliptime @katw474 @pascalgold @dotyoureyez @victoriaholland @loveday1219 @awkwardpaws @misstokyo7love @vinyl-and-coffee @spock1988 @readingiskeepingmegoing @kakiki3 @kayidlewild @miserysinferno @tupelomiss @untamedheart81 @ilovequeen978
Through The Wall - Part Three
Pairing: Din x Reader.
Chapter summary: A sparring lesson turns into more and you ask Din a question about family.
Warnings: 18+only. Smut with feelings.
A/N: Really enjoying thinking up scenarios for Din and Reader to have sex and then deal with deeper feelings - i.e. a bit of a plot 😛 If anyone has suggestions, let me know 😂
Part One/Part Two
Din Masterlist
➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰🚀➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰
For once, it’s quiet onboard the Crest – no pursuit, no atmospheric chop, no proximity alarms screaming about Imperial remnants or Guild rivals breathing down the exhaust. Just the steady drone of the hyperdrive and the gentle tick of cooling plates somewhere behind the cargo netting.
Which leaves the hold all to the two of you.
You've been lying flat on your back on the cold durasteel grating for what feels like an hour, arms splayed, hair fanned out, staring up at the bundle of conduit that runs along the curve of the ceiling. You've counted rivets and reached seventy-three before you give up and roll your head to look at him.
Din is at the weapons rack, doing what Din does when there’s nothing pressing to be done – maintenance. Always maintenance. The man can field-strip a blaster in his sleep and probably has. The pulse rifle lies in tidy components on the workbench, each piece arranged with that quiet, ritual precision that you've come to recognise as a kind of meditation for him. The beskar catches the low amber light of the hold, dulled and scarred and gorgeous, the T-visor angled down at his work.
You watch him for a long time – the shift of his shoulders under the flight suit beneath the cuirass, the flex of leather across his back where the harness crosses, the slow, deliberate movement of his gloved hands, knuckled and competent.
Before you met him, Mandalorians had been people to fear, hidden behind their armour. Now, you can’t help but think it’s the most arousing thing you’ve ever seen.
"Din?”
He doesn’t look up. "Mm."
"I'm bored."
"Read something."
"Read what, your weapons manuals? I’ve read everything on this ship at least twice. Next time we pick a planet to land on, I want to be sure there’s either a bookstore or a library."
"There's a holo in the locker."
"It's a sabacc tutorial from before the Clone Wars."
He exhales faintly through the modulator, not quite a laugh, but the shape of one. Then he sets down the bore brush and finally turns his helmet toward you, that black T-slit fixing on you with a patience that’s become deeply, infuriatingly familiar.
You prop yourself up on your elbows. "Teach me to fight."
The visor doesn’t move. "You know how to fight."
"I can shoot, sort of. You said yourself my left guard is a disaster, and the last time someone got me at close range I almost ate a vibroblade. If I'm going to keep flying with you, I want to be able to put someone on the floor when it goes sideways. And let’s be honest here, it always goes sideways."
“If you’re going to keep flying with me?”
You try and fail not to smile, because there’s no if about it. He’s keeping you and you’re keeping him, regardless of what you want to name it.
“Okay,” you nod, “because I’m going to keep flying with you…yada, yada, yada.”
He considers you for a long moment. You can’t see his face, of course, but you've learned to read the helmet by now – the tilt of it, the pauses, the way the visor lingers on you a beat longer than necessary when he’s deciding something.
He sets the brush down, pulls off his gloves, folds them, and lays them on the workbench beside the pulse rifle's disassembled receiver. Then he reaches up and begins unclipping his pauldrons.
Your stomach does a small, traitorous flip. If seeing a Mandalorian in armour – your Mandalorian – is the most arousing thing, then watching your Mandalorian remove it is off the scale.
"Up," he says.
You scramble to your feet, suddenly very awake.
He sets the pauldrons aside and unclips the cuirass next, lifting it off over his head with a practiced economy. Underneath, the dark flight suit clings to him in ways that the beskar always hides, and though you’ve seen him out of his armour before many times, there’s something different about watching him take it off in the middle of the hold under the workbench lights.
Methodical. Intentional. Like he’s preparing.
The vambraces stay on. The greaves, the boots, the codpiece, the belt and the helmet. He strips down to the parts that won’t bruise you if he has to take you to the floor, and you understand, with a small thrill, that he’s taking this seriously whilst you’re looking to end up on your back.
He rolls his shoulders, the flight suit pulling across the breadth of him.
"Centre of the hold," he says. "Feet apart. Shoulder width."
You go where he points and set your feet.
"Wider."
You widen them as he circles around behind you. You feel the warmth of him before you feel the touch – a hand at the small of your back, the other at your shoulder, adjusting, broad and hot.
"Bend your knees. Keep your weight on the balls of your feet, not your heels. If I push you…" his hand comes to your sternum, flat, and gives a small, testing shove, "…you should be able to absorb it. Try again."
He pushes and you stagger.
"Again."
He pushes and you hold.
"Better."
His voice through the modulator is always a little flatter than a person's voice ought to be, a little more metal-edged, but you've long since learned to hear the texture underneath – the dry approval, the rare, gravelled humour, the rasp when he’s tired. Right now, it’s patient and instructive.
He steps around to face you, the T-visor angled down, and you look up at your own warped reflection in the dark of it.
"Hands up."
You bring them up.
"Higher. Cover your jaw. Elbows in. You're inviting me into your ribs."
You adjust and he nods once.
"Now I'm going to come at you slow. Don't try to hit me back. Just keep your guard and move your feet. If you can put your hand on my chest and keep me from getting past you, you win, yes?"
"Yes."
He comes at you slow, a wall in dark fabric and battered beskar at the wrists, and he doesn’t punch, doesn’t grab – he just walks into your space with the inexorability of weather. Your hand comes up to his sternum, and you genuinely try to keep him off you, but he simply puts a hand on your wrist and turns it and you’re suddenly facing the other way with his arm across your collarbone, your back flush to his chest.
"Dead," he says quietly, right next to your ear, the modulator buzzing against your hair. "Again."
He releases you and you shake out your hands, trying not to think about how solid he had felt behind you, all that warm fabric over all that warm man, the shape of him pressed up the length of your spine for one held second.
You set your feet and he comes at you again. This time you get a half-step further before he hooks your ankle with his boot and you nearly go down. He catches you, his hand fisting in the front of your shirt and arresting your fall with a casual strength that turns your knees stupid, and holds you there for a beat, suspended, while the visor tips down at you.
"Watch my feet," he says. "I telegraphed that. You looked at my shoulders."
"Maybe I like your shoulders."
The visor tilts and you feel, rather than hear, the small exhale through the modulator.
"Focus."
"I'm focused."
"On the lesson."
"Mm-hm."
He sets you back on your feet, steps away, and you see the deliberate way he resettles himself – rolls his neck once, plants his stance – and you realise with a flush of triumph that you’ve gotten to him, just a little. Just enough.
You set your guard.
On the next pass, he moves faster. Not full speed – you know that full speed from him will put you on your back before you blink – but faster, real enough to mean it. You watch his feet. You move when he moves. You keep your hands up, and when he steps in, you slide your palm onto his chest, push and pivot at the same time, the way he's shown you. He lets you slip past him by maybe six inches before his hand closes around your upper arm and turns you neatly back into his orbit.
"Better," he says.
"Did I…?"
"You did good. Again."
You do it again and again and again. And somewhere around the eighth or ninth pass you've worked up a sweat, your shirt sticking between your shoulder blades, your hair clinging to your temple, and his hand has been on you – wrist, arm, collarbone, hip, ribs – so many times that the contact has begun to register as something else entirely.
The next time he comes in, you don’t try to slip him.
You let him close, and you grab two fistfuls of his flight suit at the chest and yank. His weight is suddenly committed in a way he hasn't intended, and you twist and use his own forward momentum to bring him down with you, the both of you crashing to the grating in a tangle of limbs and hot breath and the dull clank of beskar vambrace on metal.
You end up half-under him, half-pinned, one of his thighs heavy across yours, his weight braced on a forearm beside your head, both very still.
The T-visor is a hand's breadth from your face.
You can hear his breath through the modulator now – uneven, the smallest catch in it. You feel the rise and fall of his chest against yours. His other hand is somewhere at your hip, and you can’t quite remember how it’s gotten there.
"That wasn't the lesson," he says low.
"Wasn't it?"
"No."
"I improvised."
"You cheated."
"You said put you on the floor."
"I said put me down, there's a difference." His head tilts, that slow, considering tilt, and you watch yourself in the curve of the visor – flushed cheeks, parted lips, hair stuck to your forehead. "You used your weight against mine."
"You taught me that two passes ago."
"I taught you to use it on someone your own size."
"You're not that much bigger than me."
"I'm exactly that much bigger than you," he replies dryly.
His thigh shifts, moving an inch higher between yours and you make a sound you haven't meant to make, small, barely anything, and you watch the visor go very, very still above you.
You lie there under him in the warm hum, and you don’t say anything, and he doesn't say anything, and the silence stretches out and gets heavier and heavier until it’s its own thing in the air between you.
Then, slowly. he lowers his forearm closer, until the bare skin of it is alongside your cheek. His other hand leaves your hip, comes up and brushes your hair back from your temple with warm fingers that then trail down the side of your neck and stop at the dip of your collarbone where your shirt’s damp with sweat.
"Tired?" he asks quietly.
"No."
"Mm."
"Are you?"
"No,” he replies with the smallest sound of amusement.
"Lesson's not over, then."
He looks at you for a long second through the visor, then his hand on your collarbone slides lower – up over the cotton of your shirt, over the curve of your breast, his thumb dragging slow across the peak of it through the fabric – and he watches your face the entire time. The watching is almost worse than the touch. The unreadable beskar dark of him, that helmet that hides every micro-expression, the only feedback the steady weight of him on you and the slow, deliberate motion of his hand.
"No," he agrees. "Lesson's not over."
You arch up into his palm before you can stop yourself, the sound that leaves you something between a gasp and his name.
The hand at your chest tightens. His thigh presses up between your legs, the seam of his flight suit drags across the seam of yours and you grind down on him without meaning to, your hips lifting off the grating, chasing the friction.
The modulator buzzes with what might have been a curse in Mando'a.
"Up," he says.
"What?"
"Up. The floor's cold and I'm not fucking you on a grate."
The casual filthiness of it, said in that calm, modulated voice, like he’s telling you to refuel the thrusters, makes heat punch low through your belly. You let him pull you to your feet, but he doesn’t go far, backing you the three steps to the wall of the hold, between two crates of foodstuffs. His hand moves to your jaw, thumb tracing your lower lip, the visor tipped down close enough that you can see your own eyes reflected in it.
"I shouldn't have let you bait me," he says.
"You didn't let me."
"Mm. Tell yourself that."
His hand leaves your jaw, goes to the hem of your shirt, and pushes it up in a single steady motion, baring your stomach, your ribs and the underside of your breasts. You lift your arms and he pulls the shirt off over your head and drops it somewhere on the floor. Then his bare hands are on you, both of them, palms hot, and he’s looking at you, just looking, the visor moving slow down the length of you and back up.
"I want…" you start.
"I know."
"I want you to…"
"I know."
His hands cup your breasts, thumbs dragging over the tight peaks, and his head tips down so that the cold smooth curve of the helmet's cheek presses against your cheek, the modulator vent so close to your ear that you can hear the small mechanical click of the rebreather as he inhales.
"Tell me," he says right against your ear. "Use words."
"Touch me."
"I am touching you."
"Lower Din, please…"
He makes a low sound through the modulator, something almost like a laugh and almost like a growl, and his hand leaves your breast and slides down your stomach, over the waistband of your trousers, his palm pressing flat against you through the fabric.
You buck into it and he lets you. He holds his hand there, steady pressure, and watches you grind yourself against the heel of his palm with your head tipped back against the bulkhead and your mouth fallen open.
"Look at you," he says with a quiet reverence laced with a roughness that isn’t reverent at all. "Wanted me to teach you how to fight, huh?"
"I…"
"Is this what you really wanted?"
"Yes."
His fingers work the closure of your trousers open, slide inside, and his bare fingertips find you slick and burning and ready for him. "Yeah, I figured."
His fingers move in the way he’s learned over the last year. He’s good at this in the same way he’s good at everything. Two fingers slide into you, and his thumb works you in slow, tight circles. Your hand grabs at his shoulder, at the bare skin of his neck where the flight suit dips, anywhere you can reach, and you make noises into the helmet's cheek that you'd be embarrassed about in any other situation but this one.
"Din…Din, I'm…"
"Not yet," he says.
"What?"
"Not yet." His hand withdraws and you whine, openly, shamelessly. "Easy. Easy, mesh'la."
He strips your trousers down your legs and you step out of them, kick them aside, and stand there against the bulkhead in nothing at all while he’s still mostly dressed, the disparity making you shiver, making you press your thighs together because the air of the hold is cool against the wet of you.
He sees it the same way he sees everything.
"Look at me," he says and you look up at the T-visor, steady on your face.
"Stay there."
He steps back and unfastens the closures of his flight suit at the throat, the chest, the waist – not all of it, just enough – and his bare hand pushes the dark fabric aside. You watch as he frees himself, watch him take his own cock in his bare hand and stroke once, slow, the visor tipped down toward you the whole time.
You make a small sound.
"Come here," he says and you go without question.
He turns you gently until your palms are flat against the bulkhead, your back to him. His bare hand smooths down your spine, over the curve of your ass, and his other hand comes up to brace beside your hand on the wall.
"This okay?"
"Yes."
"Tell me if it's not."
"It's okay, Din, please."
You feel him line himself up, feel the blunt heat of him press against you, drag through the slick, and then sink in – slow, slow, slow, the patient relentless press of him filling you up inch by careful inch until his hips are flush against yours and you’re panting open-mouthed against the cool durasteel. His hand comes up to wrap around the front of your throat, not squeezing, just there, holding you in place against him.
"Breathe," he says as he starts to move.
You let out a gasp at his long, deep, deliberate strokes, the kind of fucking that isn’t fast or frantic but is somehow worse than fast and frantic, because it gives you no relief, no chance to climb the edge and tumble over. It’s just the steady relentless drag of him in and out of you, the slap of his hips against your ass, the low constant noise of him through the modulator that’s somewhere between a breath and a growl.
His hand at your throat tightens, fractionally, the bare pads of his fingertips against your pulse. His other hand leaves the bulkhead and slides around your hip, down between your legs, his fingers finding you again where you’re stretched open around him, working you in time with his thrusts.
You come apart on him almost immediately.
It hits you with no warning – one second, you’re panting and the next your knees are going, your whole body clenching, and the only thing keeping you upright is his hand at your throat and the press of him inside you. You sob his name mixed with something less coherent. The modulator buzzes at your ear with a sound that might be approval and might be a curse, and you can’t tell and you don’t care.
He fucks you through it, not slowing down or speeding up, just keeping the steady devastating rhythm of him while you flutter around him and shake and try to remember how breathing works.
"That's one," he says and you can’t answer. "Going to give me another one, mesh'la?"
"I…can't…"
"You can."
His hand leaves your throat. He turns you again, your legs jelly, and you whimper at the loss of him for the two seconds it takes to get you on your back on a stack of crates that he's dragged together with the side of his boot. Then he’s inside you again, your legs hooked over his arms, the cool of the vambrace on the back of your thigh, the helmet tipping down to watch where your bodies meet.
"Look at that," he says, quietly again. "Look at you taking me."
"Din…"
His thumb comes up to your mouth, and you open for it without thinking. He presses the pad of it onto your tongue, and you suck, eyes locked on the visor. He watches you suck like it’s the most important thing happening in the galaxy, like he’s filing it away, every detail, the way your tongue moves against the pad of it, the hollow of your cheeks.
"Good girl," he says.
You moan around his thumb as he presses it down on your tongue and you feel yourself clench around him hard enough that he makes a sound – a real one this time, low and bitten-off, the kind of sound that comes from deep in his chest and barely makes it through the vent of the helmet at all.
"Fuck," he breathes.
His hips snap up. The slow methodical fucking falters, just for a beat, into something rougher, and your back arches off the crates, your hands flying up to grab at the edge of the helmet where it meets his collar.
The visor tips down and watches your hand hover at the edge of his throat, and then his hand leaves your hip, catches your wrist and guides it back down to his chest, over the open flap of the flight suit, to the bare hot skin of his sternum.
"Here," he says, rough. "You can touch me here."
Your palm flattens against him, his heart hammering beneath. Your Mandalorian is an immovable mountain of a man, and yet his heart is going like a hunted thing under your palm, and you understand with a hot dizzy lurch that you do this to him. That for all his patient methodical control he’s as wrecked by this as you are, just better at hiding it under all that beskar.
"Din…come in me…” you beg, even though he does every time.
His hand tightens on your thigh. The vambrace is cool against your skin and his bare fingers are burning, and the difference makes you shiver.
"Get yourself there first."
His hand slides down between your bodies, finds you again, and his thumb works you in those tight little circles while he fucks into you harder now, less measured, the crates creaking under your back. You can see him losing it, the way his breath comes faster through the vent, the way his free hand has fisted in the strap of his own harness like he’s holding himself together by main force.
"Look at me," he says, “and don't look away."
You don’t look away. You come on him for the second time staring straight into the dark of that helmet, into your own reflection, and see your own face break apart in the curve of the beskar. You feel him follow you a half-dozen ragged strokes later, the modulator choking, his hips stuttering hard against yours, the hand on your thigh going white-knuckled as he spills into you.
He holds there and doesn’t move, the brow of the helmet lowering until it rests against your forehead, cool beskar to hot skin, and you both breathe. His thumb drags along your jaw, slow and gentle.
"Lesson over?" you whisper.
The modulator gives back the smallest huff of breath.
"Lesson over."
He doesn’t move for a long time. He stays inside you, over you, his hand stroking idle warm circles into your hip while your breathing evens out and your heart climbs back down out of your throat. When he finally slides out and steps back, he does it carefully – one hand at the small of your back to help you sit up, the other already reaching for the rag he keeps clipped to his belt for blaster maintenance. He cleans you up with the same patient methodical care he used on the pulse rifle an hour earlier and the thought makes you laugh, breathless, the visor tipping at you with mild inquiry.
"Nothing," you say. "Just…you really do treat me like one of your weapons."
"Mm." He fastens his flight suit closed with one hand while the other smooths your hair back from your damp temple. "Best thing on the ship."
"Flatterer."
"It’s the truth."
He bends and retrieves your shirt from where it fell by the bulkhead and pulls it gently back over your head, threading your arms through the sleeves with the same quiet attentiveness he gives everything. He helps you off the crates and your legs wobble, so he catches you with an arm around your waist and holds you there against his side until you've remembered how to be a person again.
"Same time tomorrow?" you ask into the leather of his harness.
"Footwork tomorrow," he says. "Real footwork. You're still dropping your left guard."
"Din, I just came twice on your cock. Let me have this."
He pauses. "Footwork. Tomorrow."
You laugh into his chest and feel, more than hear, the small answering rumble of him laughing back.
****
Later, you sit curled into the copilot's chair in the cockpit with your bare feet tucked beneath you and a thermal blanket over your shoulders in the long blue silence of the hyperspace run and watch the stars not move.
His hands are still bare, and you’re holding one now across the space, running your fingers over his knuckles and the small white scars there as if you’re reading a book in a language he’s taught you only the alphabet of.
You don't know, even now, why you asked it then.
Maybe it was the afterglow. Maybe it was the year that has piled up behind you like snow against a door. Maybe it’s the way he says cyar'ika, the way he holds you afterward, every time, with a tenderness that feels like a promise he hasn’t yet decided he’s allowed to make.
"Have you ever thought about family?"
The hand under yours doesn’t flinch. He has a long-trained body that doesn’t give away surprise easily. But you feel the very small adjustment of him, the half-degree settling, the way a man sets his weight before he answers a question that matters.
The vocoder catches the slow exhale.
“My parents died when I was young. The Mandalorians are…were…my family.”
“No, I know, I…I wasn’t meaning that. I meant more…a partner and…and children.”
He moves slightly again.
"Why do you ask?”
"I don't know." You stroke his knuckle. "I was thinking about what kind of life this is. About whether…" you break off, because you can’t quite ask it the way you want to.
Whether we could. Whether you want to.
He’s quiet a long moment, the blue light moving across the visor.
"I have thought about it," he says, finally. "I'm not sure what kind of life I could give a child, cyar'ika. This…" his free hand makes a small gesture that takes in the cockpit, the stars, the bounty puck still glowing on the dash "…this is not a life for children."
"There are Mandalorians with children, aren’t there?"
"Yes, in covert, in community. With…a place. The covert I came from is gone. I have no home to bring a child to but this one."
"This is a home."
He turns the helmet, slowly, to look at you and you feel the weight of the visor's attention. The thumb of the hand you’re holding strokes, very lightly, over the inside of your wrist.
"It’s a ship," he says gently, “and it’s a life of running, and hunting, and being hunted in return. I would not…" he breaks off, the vocoder catching a small rough sound. "I would not ask that of a child. Or of the woman who might bear me one."
Or of the woman who might bear me one.
You feel the sentence land somewhere under your ribs and stay there.
You don’t let your face change because you’ve learned not to let your face change when he gives you a piece of himself you’ve not earned by asking. You only stroke his knuckle once more, slowly. "I see."
"Cyar'ika…"
"It's alright," you smile at him and mean it, but also don’t mean it. Both things are true at the same time, the way many things have been true at the same time since the day you first climbed aboard the ship. "It was just a question."
You know he doesn’t believe you because his bare hand turns, under yours, catches your fingers, and holds them.
"It’s not a no," he says, quietly. "It’s…" he searches for the word. "It’s a thing I haven’t let myself want because wanting it without being able to have it is…" the vocoder cuts on the next word, very briefly, the way it does when his breath goes uneven "…a wound I've already carried once."
You squeeze his hand. "Alright," you say softly.
He holds your fingers a long moment more, the bare warm pads of his thumb tracing the small bones of your hand as if he’s committing them to memory in case he has to give them up. Then he lifts your knuckles to the chin of the helmet, very briefly – the small substitute kiss that has become his, and yours – and lets you go.
"Get some sleep," he says. "We drop out at oh-four-hundred."
You nod, stand and touch the curve of his pauldron in passing because you can’t quite bring yourself to leave the cockpit without touching him. Then you climb down the ladder into the hold with your blanket trailing from one hand and a sentence echoing somewhere behind your sternum that you can’t yet make peace with.
Or of the woman who might bear me one.
You crawl into the bunk and lie on your back in the dark with your hands folded across your stomach and the hum of the Crest under you like a long patient animal breathing.
You turn the conversation over in your head.
I'm not sure what kind of life I could give a child.
That, you understand. You’ve seen in a year, what this life costs him – the wounds you’ve patched and had patched, the credits that come and go, the bounty pucks that sometimes glow with the faces of people who deserve what’s coming and sometimes with the faces of people who don’t.
He wakes from nightmares sometimes, but you’ve learned not to ask about them. He carries the weight of a creed and a covert and a long list of names he doesn’t speak aloud, and you’ve never once in your year together heard him use the word future about himself except in the most narrow sense –the next jump, the next bounty, when the Crest will next need its compressor flushed.
Or of the woman who might bear me one.
That’s the sentence that won’t lie down.
Because he said it out loud, with you in the chair beside him, your thumb on his bare knuckle and the blue light of hyperspace running over the visor between you. He didn’t say some woman or a woman. He said it with a particular pause before the article, the small hitch you know from a year of cataloguing his hesitations, the place where he thought about the word and chose it anyway.
You lie in the dark and let yourself, for the first time in a year, name the thing properly.
He was thinking of you.
Not promising or asking or perhaps, even hoping, in any active sense. He’s a man who knows how to hope, you’ve begun to suspect, in the way some people know how to swim or to bake bread. But he was thinking of you. He let himself, however briefly, however privately, set the word child and the word you on the same workbench and look at them together. And then he put them away because the workbench is a ship and the ship is a hunting ground and the hunting ground is not a place to raise a small life.
You close your eyes and think about your mother, who didn’t raise you well, but who raised you. You think about the way she once looked at you over the edge of a cup of caf and said, Sweetheart, a person can change a life. A life cannot change a person. Remember that.
You hadn’t understood it at the time, but you think you might be beginning to.
He isn’t going to change. You know that with a clarity that doesn’t hurt the way you might expect it to. He’s not going to wake up one morning and decide that the Crest is a nursery, that the helmet can come off, or that the creed can be set down. He’s told you what he can’t give, and why, and he’s done it not because he doesn’t love you – because he does, you know he does, you’ve heard it in every cyar'ika and feel it in every careful hand at the small of your back – but precisely because he does. Because he’s a man who’s been trained, since he first fit under a Mandalorian's cape, to think first about what he can ask of other people and last about what he can ask for himself.
He hasn’t said no to the question. He said, I have not let myself want it.
The two are very different.
It’s a door he hasn’t locked. A door he’s only set his shoulder against, on the inside, because he’s not yet been given any reason to believe it can be safely opened.
You don’t know if you can give him that reason. You don’t know if any of the things you know how to do around him amount to a reason. You don’t know if you can be a covert for a man who’s lost one. You don’t know if a ship can be a home for a child, even one raised by two people who will, between them, kill the galaxy to keep that child fed.
But you know you’re not going anywhere.
You’ve been waiting, perhaps, for some part of yourself to use the conversation as a door of its own – to look at the or of the woman who might bear me one and decide it’s a polite warning, an exit cue, a closing of accounts. You wait for the part of yourself that has spent a long life slipping out of cantinas at four in the morning to lift its head and say time to go.
It doesn’t lift its head. It’s sleeping somewhere deep, curled around the place where his hand held yours, and it doesn’t stir.
You’re not going anywhere.
You’ll stay by his side. You’ll patch him when he comes home bleeding and let him patch you when required. You’ll feed him caf strong enough to dissolve a spoon and let him have you in the cockpit with the helmet on and his gloves on your hips and you’ll ask him about children again.
Not yet.
You’ll let him sit with the question because you can be patient and because you’re used to waiting for him.
Opening your eyes, you hear, through the deck plating, the small sounds of him moving above – the creak of the pilot's chair, the soft clink of a buckle, the tiny exhale of the modulator as he adjusts something on his vambrace.
He’s not asleep and, you suspect, he’s not going to sleep for a while.
You wonder if he’s thinking about it too. If he’s sitting up there in the blue light with his hand on the throttle and the helmet tilted slightly to the left and a sentence of his own echoing somewhere under his cuirass that he doesn’t yet know how to put down.
You hope he is. You hope he’s thinking about a covert that can be rebuilt instead of mourned. You hoped he’s thinking about a somewhere – a small dirt-floored house on some forgettable moon, a garden that won’t grow much but will grow something, a cradle that he can come home to between bounties and lay his beskar down beside.
You hope that he’s beginning to let himself want it.
You don’t know if he will. You don’t know if you’ll still be on the Crest a year from now, or five, or twenty, or for the long quiet rest of your life. You don’t know if the door he’s set his shoulder against will ever open.
But you know you love him and you know that loving him is the work of a long time, not a short one, and you know that you’re willing to do that work.
So, you close your eyes and sleep.
Above you, in the cockpit, the helmet tilts very slightly to the left. The hand on the throttle flexes once and goes still. The vocoder catches a slow even exhale, and another, and another, and the man inside the armour sits with words on his own workbench in the blue light and looks at them, for the first time in a long time, without putting them away.
He doesn’t know yet what he’s going to do with them.
But he’s taken them out.
➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰🚀➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰
PART FOUR
Taglist: @thelittlebats
PTaglist: @copperhalfcent @missladym1981 @whattheflipsiesss @brittmb115 @elizabeth4th @peepawmiller @angelwithablade @cassieorz @somedayheaven @silversvu12 @madpanda75 @johnssherlock221 @madnessofadaydreamer @kirsteng42 @ifall4dilfs @pedro-pascal-3nthusiast @cuteanimalmama @inept-the-magnificent @mystickittytaco @arood98 @sunnytuliptime @katw474 @pascalgold @dotyoureyez @victoriaholland @loveday1219 @awkwardpaws @misstokyo7love @vinyl-and-coffee @spock1988 @readingiskeepingmegoing @kakiki3 @kayidlewild @miserysinferno @tupelomiss @untamedheart81 @ilovequeen978
Through The Wall - Part Two
Pairing: Din x Reader.
Chapter summary: Back on the Razor Crest, you and Din continue to enjoy one another, until a moment of panic brings everything into focus.
Warnings: 18+only. Smut with feelings 😛
A/N: I’m not going to create a Masterlist page as this was originally a one-shot but I’ll link back to each chapter.
Part One
Din Masterlist
➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰🚀➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰
The hum of the Razor Crest in hyperspace is a sound you've come to know better than your own heartbeat – that low, throaty thrum that vibrates up through the deck plating and into the soles of your boots, into your knees and into the soft hollow behind your sternum where want lives. The cockpit lights are dimmed down to a smoulder, blue-edged shadows pooling in the corners, the wash of streaking star lines turning the inside of the cabin into a slow blue snowstorm.
He sits in the pilot's chair like he always does, spine straight, gloved hands resting easy on the armrests, helmet tilted just a fraction toward you, the dark T of the visor swallowing every flicker of light it catches.
He hasn't said a word in three minutes and neither have you, but the air between you has thickened to where you can cut it with a vibroblade. When you finally push off from the bulkhead and cross the metal floor toward him – bare feet silent, your tunic loose at the collar – you see the leather of his glove flex once against the armrest.
Just a twitch. A tell. Mandalorians aren’t supposed to have tells, but you've been studying him for months now, cataloguing every microscopic concession his body makes to your presence, and that little flex of his fingers tells you everything you need to know.
You sink to your knees.
Three weeks.
That’s how long it’s been since the cell on Vane's facility, and in that time, you haven’t stopped sleeping with him, and he hasn’t stopped sleeping with you, and somewhere in the middle of all that sleeping-with the geometry of the two of you has quietly, irreversibly, changed.
It isn’t just the sex, though the sex is good. The sex is unhinged. The sex has taught you things about your own body that you have not, in thirty years of inhabiting it, suspected. He takes you against bulkheads and over crates and on the floor of the cockpit with the autopilot blinking placidly above your head. He takes you slow in the bunk in the middle of the night when neither of you can sleep, and he takes you in the refresher with the water running and the steam fogging the visor and his bare hands skating slick down your spine.
The helmet always stays on. You haven’t stopped wanting, but you’ve stopped asking, because the wanting is your problem and the not-asking is, you’ve decided, a thing you can give him.
But it isn’t just the sex.
It’s the way he starts making caf for two in the mornings now, instead of for one. It’s the way he sets his armour down in the order he always sets it down but pushes your half of the bunk smooth before he lays himself on it. It’s the way he says your name when he wants your attention from across the hold, low and unhurried, like a hand on the small of your back.
You know what it is. He knows what it is. But it’s clear that neither of you are going to be the one to use the word. He’s a man who’s spent his whole adult life saying as little as possible about anything that matters, and you’ve decided that you respect that – that you’d rather have his silence honestly than someone else's words pretending. And so, you carry the unspoken thing around in your chest like a small warm coal and you feed it kindling and you do not, blow on it, in case the smoke makes him bolt.
For three weeks you mould your body to his and sink to your knees and allow yourself to have whatever this is between you.
The deck plating is cold under your knees through the thin fabric of your trousers, but you barely feel it. You kneel in the narrow space between his boots, the worn leather scuffed and dust-pale, and let your hands settle very lightly on his thighs, right where the flight suit emerges from beneath the cuisse plates, where the dark quilted fabric stretches taut over muscle.
You feel him go still. Not tense, just still. The way a predator goes still when something interesting walks into its sightline.
"Din." Your voice comes out lower than you mean it to. "Tell me to stop."
He pauses for a long moment, the vocoder hissing faintly with his breath before he speaks.
"No."
That one word, filtered through the modulator, gravel-rough and warm at the edges, lands somewhere low in your belly and blooms outward like a struck match. You smile up at him, slow, and slide your palms upward, over the quilted dark of his inner thighs, fingers spread wide, taking your time, mapping the heat of him through the fabric.
You feel the moment his thighs flex under your touch, feel the way his breath catches and stutters out through the vocoder as a soft static crackle.
"Good," you murmur. "Then sit back and let me take care of you."
His head tilts in that maddening way, the visor angling down so that you know, you know, he’s watching every move you make. You've never seen his eyes, never seen his mouth go slack, never seen his jaw clench, never had the satisfaction of watching this man fall apart in the conventional way. All you have is the helmet, the dark immovable mask of beskar, and the small involuntary sounds the vocoder can’t quite scrub clean.
It’s enough, a delicious little game, dragging every reaction out of him by force, pulling each one through the filter of his armour like coaxing music from a closed instrument.
You work the codpiece loose first. There are clasps along the underside, hidden, fiddly things, and you take your time finding them, letting your knuckles drag deliberately against the swell already firming up beneath the plate. He inhales sharply and the vocoder catches it, distorting it so that it sounds like a low electronic rasp. You hum approvingly and finally get the last clasp free, lifting the codpiece off and setting it down on the deck beside you with a soft, careful clink of metal on metal.
The dark fabric beneath is obviously, undeniably tented. You let yourself look for a long moment, savouring it – the shape of him straining against the cloth, the small dark spot where he's already started to leak through. Then you raise your eyes back up to the visor and give him your sweetest smile.
"Look at you," you breathe. "All this control and you're already this hard for me."
The gloved hand on the armrest tightens, the leather creaking.
"I know," you murmur, working open the front of the flight suit, easing the laces loose with deliberate slowness. "I know, patience. I'm going to give you everything."
When you finally free him you have to take a breath. He’s heavy in your hand – hot and flushed dark already at the head, a bead of slick beading at the slit, the whole thick length of him twitching faintly against your palm as you wrap your fingers around the base. You've had him before. You know the shape, the weight and the way he fits in your mouth. But every time feels like the first time. Every time he pulls this particular reaction out of you – this nearly worshipful pause, this want that buzzes in your teeth.
You look up, holding the visor's gaze, and then, slowly, you lean in and press a kiss – soft, almost chaste – to the very tip.
His whole body jerks in a tiny movement that’s almost nothing. Just a flinch of his hips, the smallest involuntary buck, and then the iron clamp of his own self-control snaps it back down. But you feel it and grin against him, lips still pressed to the head of his cock, letting your tongue slip out and drag a slow stripe through the slick beading at the tip.
"Haar'chak." The curse hisses through the vocoder, half static, half breath.
"Mm." You lick your lips, tasting salt and skin and the faint metallic tang of whatever he's been wiping his hands on earlier. "Say it again in Basic, Din. I want to hear you in Basic."
A long, ragged breath comes through the modulator, and his hand leaves the armrest and settles into your hair, the rough leather catching at the strands. He doesn’t pull but rather just rests his palm against the back of your head like he needs to anchor himself there.
"Please," he says, and the way the vocoder bends the word, scratching it raw, making it almost a whisper nearly undoes you right there on the cold metal floor.
You reward him by opening your mouth and taking him in – just the head at first, sealing your lips around the flushed crown and sucking, slow and soft, the flat of your tongue working in small circles against the underside. The taste of him fills your mouth, salt and musk and something faintly metallic that you've long ago decided is particular to him, to the man under the beskar, and you let your eyes flutter closed for half a second just to savour it.
He makes a low, strangled, half-mechanical sound that the vocoder can’t quite categorise and his hand in your hair tightens, just barely.
You sink lower, agonisingly slowly, working him into your mouth inch by inch, your tongue pressing flat to the underside, your lips stretching tight around his girth. You feel the head bump the back of your throat and you pull back, breath catching, eyes watering already because he’s thick and you’re out of practice at this kind of patience. Then you go down again a little further, working saliva down the length of him with each pass until he’s slick and shining and your jaw is beginning to ache pleasantly.
His thighs tremble – tiny tremors, barely perceptible, but you can feel them under your palms where you've braced yourself against him. The Mandalorian – the man who can stand motionless in a firefight, who can track a quarry across three-star systems without losing his composure – is trembling under your mouth.
You want to weep with how good it feels to do this to him.
You pull off with a wet, obscene pop and look up at him through your lashes, watching as his chest rises and falls in shallow, controlled drags. The vocoder catches each breath and gives it back to you as a soft electronic rasp.
"Are you watching me?" you ask. Your lips feel swollen and you lick them deliberately, watching the visor track the movement. "Tell me you're watching me, Din."
"I'm watching."
"Good." You lean in and press your cheek against the inside of his thigh, letting his cock rest heavy and wet against your face, the slick head smearing against your temple and your hair. You turn and mouth at the side of his shaft, dragging your tongue in long, lazy stripes. "Don't look away, not for a second."
"I won't."
The promise scrapes out of the vocoder like a vow.
You take him again, deeper this time. You've warmed up to him now, your throat relaxing, your breathing falling into the rhythm you need. You let him slide back, back, back, past the soft resistance at the back of your tongue, into the tighter clasp of your throat, and you swallow around him and feel him judder. His hips lift off the chair an inch and slam back down. The gloved hand in your hair fists, finally, finally pulls, not hard, just hard enough to tell you he’s losing some thin filament of control.
"Slow…slow…"
You don’t slow. You set a rhythm, bobbing your head, hollowing your cheeks, taking him deep on every third or fourth stroke and feeling your nose press against the dark fabric of his flight suit at the base. Your hand wraps around what your mouth can’t reach, twisting gently, thumb dragging beneath the head on every upstroke. Your other hand creeps up under the cuisse plate, scrabbling at the edge of the flight suit, until you find the soft pouch beneath and cup him there too, rolling him gently, playing with the weight of him, and feel him moan through the vocoder as a long staticky exhale.
The Razor Crest hums around you. The star lines streaked. The dim blue light catches on the curves of his armour, and you kneel at his feet with his cock in your throat and you think, dizzily, that you’ll never want anything else. That you’ll do this for the rest of your life. That if he asks you to live on your knees on this ship you'll do it without a second thought.
"Mesh'la." His voice is breaking up now, ragged through the filter. "Mesh'la, mesh'la, mesh'la... "
You don’t know the word, but you know the tone and you pull off, gasping, drool stringing from your lips to the tip of him, your eyes streaming. You take three quick breaths, then you go down again in one long swallow, your nose pressing flush to his stomach, your throat working around him, and you hold it.
You hold it until your lungs burn, until his hand is shaking against your skull, until you hear the vocoder spit out a long, broken sound that might be your name and might be a curse and might, in fact, be both.
When you come up for air, your mouth is numb, your eyes were streaming, your chin slick and you’ve never, ever felt so beautiful.
"Din," you rasp, your voice wrecked from the effort. "Tell me how it feels."
He can’t speak at first, the vocoder hissing static, breath after ragged breath.
"Like I'm going to die."
You laugh – a hoarse, delighted little laugh – and press a kiss to the slick head of his cock, tasting him afresh.
"Not yet you're not," you whisper. "I've got you, just hold on."
You start again, slower this time, but deeper, more deliberate, your tongue working tricks against the underside, against the sensitive spot just beneath the head that you know drives him to pieces. Both of his hands have now abandoned the armrests, one gripping your hair, the other fisted tight against his own thigh, the leather creaking and creaking. You watch the rise and fall of his chest as the visor stays locked on you, unwavering.
You feel him swell against your tongue, feel the tell-tale tightening, the way his thighs go rock-hard under your palms, the way his hand in your hair starts to push you down instead of just resting there. You let him guide you, let him take what he needs, let your jaw go slack and your throat go loose and your eyes close because you want to feel everything, you want to drown in this.
"I’m going to…I'm…"
You hum around him, long and low, a vibration that runs the length of his cock, and his entire body goes taut as a bowstring.
"Off…" he manages, urgent now, his hand trying to push you back, "you have to… "
You look up at him, his cock buried deep in your mouth, your eyes locked on the visor and shake your head minutely.
The sound he makes is a low broken groan, almost a sob, and then his hand is clamping down at the back of your skull, and he holds you there as he comes in long, hot pulses against the back of your tongue.
You swallow around him, your throat working, the salty bitter heat of him filling your mouth faster than you can take it down. You feel him shudder, feel the way his thighs lock up and his whole body strains forward, feel the helmet tip back as his head falls against the headrest of the pilot's seat. The vocoder rasps out a single long breath that stretches into something unrecognisable.
You stay on him as he softens. You stay until the last twitch, the last little pulse, until his hand loosens in your hair and his thighs unclench beneath your palms. Only then do you pull off – slow and careful, your lips dragging the whole length of him on the way up – and you sit back on your heels, breathing hard, your chin and lips slick and shiny in the dim blue light.
You look up at him, his helmet tilted back, chest rising and falling like he's just sprinted across a desert. The gloved hand that had been in your hair hangs loose at his side, twitching faintly with the aftershocks, the other unclenched at last from the meat of his own thigh.
You smile because you know exactly what you look like – flushed and wrecked and triumphant – and you let him have a long moment to take it in.
"You," he rasps finally, through the vocoder, "are going to be the death of me."
You laugh, lean forward and press a final kiss to the soft, spent length of him before you tuck him gently back into his flight suit, lacing it up with the same careful slowness you used to undo it. You retrieve the codpiece from the deck and refit it, clicking each clasp back into place. You smooth your palms up the front of his thighs, over the plates of his cuisses, up the dark quilted fabric to settle finally, feeling the slow steady pound of his heart through the layers of armour and underclothes.
"Mm." You rest your cheek against the cold metal of his chest plate. "Not yet, I hope."
His hand comes up slow, almost shy, the way it always is when he isn’t in the heat of it. He cups the back of your head, gentle now, fingers carding through your hair where he's just had it fisted, his other hand settling at the nape of your neck, his gloved thumb stroking lightly along the line of your jaw.
"Mesh'la," he says again, quieter now.
"What does it mean?"
He strokes your jaw again as the streaking blue starlight slides across the curve of his helmet.
"Beautiful."
You smile against the beskar and close your eyes, allowing yourself to stay there a long moment, kneeling at his feet in the dim cockpit, the Crest humming around you, his hand gentle at the back of your neck, the taste of him still warm on your tongue.
"Din?"
"Yes?"
The words form in your mouth, but you hesitate and push them back down again because you’re not sure if this is the right moment. Or if in fact there will ever be a right moment to tell him exactly how you feel.
The silence stretches, then his thumb presses, very gently, against the soft hinge of your jaw, tilting your face up.
You turn your face into his palm and press a kiss to the worn leather of his glove.
"Take me to bed."
And that’s how it goes for another three weeks.
Six weeks of sexual satisfaction which, you tell yourself, is all you need.
Then he takes the Tarvix job.
****
Tarvix is a jungle world out past the Mid Rim, hot and wet and full of things that want to eat you. The bounty is a Twi'lek arms dealer who’s taken his operation off-grid and underground and very specifically into a network of root caves that no sensible bounty hunter would follow him into, which is, of course, exactly why this particular bounty hunter takes the job.
"It's a stupid job," you say on approach.
"It pays."
"It pays because nobody else is dumb enough to take it."
"Which is why it pays."
"Din…"
"It's a clean grab, in and out. We've done worse."
"We have done exactly worse and the exactly worse is why I'm telling you it's a stupid job."
He turns his head, the visor settling on you, and you see – even through the beskar, even with no eyes to read – the small relenting tilt of the helmet that means he’s heard you. Reaching out, he puts his gloved hand on your thigh.
"Stay close to me."
"I always do."
"Closer."
It goes wrong the way these things always go wrong, which is to say slowly at first and then all at once. You find the Twi'lek, secure it and are on your way back out of the cave system with the Twi'lek cuffed and grumbling between you when the root caves turn out, surprise, to have a second tenant – a colony of something the Twi'lek has been paying off in ration packs to keep them docile, and whose docility runs out roughly thirty seconds after the ration-packer gets cuffed.
They come out of the walls, long pale segmented things, the size of small speeders, with too many legs and a mouth-part arrangement that doesn’t bear thinking about. Din shoots the first one in half. The second one takes a flame to the face and screams in a register that makes your back teeth ache. The third one comes up behind you while you’re dealing with the fourth, and you get your blaster around in time to put a bolt through its eye-cluster.
But you don’t see the fifth one, the one in the ceiling, the one that drops.
It hits you across the side like a falling girder.
You go down hard, sideways, off the lip of a root ledge that you haven't realised is a ledge, and fall a long way, a longer way than you should have survived falling, into the wet dark of a lower chamber. You land on your back on something that gives under you and the world goes white.
You come back to it in pieces, pain shooting across your whole left side, the sharp wrong kind, the kind that means ribs and you mouth fills with blood. You feel a long burning line down your flank where the thing's claw, or whatever it is, has opened you up through your shirt. You smell smoke from somewhere overhead and hear the high mechanical whine of a flame projector going and going and going.
Then you hear his voice through the helmet comm in your ear. It’s very close to you, somehow, even from up above.
"Talk to me."
"Din…"
"Talk to me. Where are you hit?"
"Side. Ribs. I…I can't…there's a lot of blood…"
"I'm coming. Don't move. Don't move. Don't move."
"I wasn't…"
"Just keep talking."
You do as asked, but you don’t remember what you talk about. You remember that your voice sounds thin and far away and that you can’t seem to take a full breath because each one turns into a wet stabbing thing in your chest, and that somewhere above you the flame projector keeps going, and the roaring stops one by one.
Then there’s the soft hiss of jetpack thrust, and his boots hit the chamber floor in front of you with a thud that you feel in your teeth.
He’s on his knees beside you before the dust has settled, gloves off, his bare hands on you, one on your jaw and the other under your shirt, finding the wound and pressing. You cry out, and his head snaps to your face, the visor so close to you that you can see your own reflection in it, wet and grey and not looking very alive.
"Stay with me."
"I'm here."
"Stay with me."
"I'm here, Din, I'm…"
"Look at me."
You look and suddenly see that his hand on your jaw is shaking.
You’ve never seen his hand shake in all the time you’ve flown together. Not under fire, not in the middle of a job going sideways, not when he’s setting a broken bone in his own forearm with his other hand and a length of pipe.
The hand of Din Djarin does not shake.
The hand of Din Djarin has been engineered specifically to not shake, and now it’s shaking against your face, his bare thumb skating across your cheekbone, smearing the blood there, and his voice through the modulator comes out a half-tone too high.
"Okay," he says. "Okay. Okay, I've got you. I'm picking you up. This is going to hurt, I'm sorry. I'm sorry, cyar'ika, I'm…"
He stops and you know he hasn’t meant to say that. You hear the small, choked silence where the word has landed and where he’s decided not to chase it, and you want to ask him what it means, but you can’t, because he’s sliding one arm under your knees and the other under your shoulders and lifting. You scream, and he makes a sound through the modulator that sounds very close to a sob.
"I know. I know, I'm sorry. Just…just hold on. Just hold on to me."
You get one arm up around his neck and fist your hand in the cape at his shoulder, pressing your face into the side of his helmet.
He carries you up through the cave system at a run. You have no idea how the jetpack works with the weight of you in his arms, and you have no idea how he’s navigating or how he’s fighting – because somewhere in the middle of it you remember the muzzle-flash of his blaster going off one-handed past your shoulder, and him swearing once, very quietly, when something rakes the back of his cape – but he gets you out.
He gets you out into the green wet light of the jungle, across half a kilometre of root and mud and up the ramp of the Crest, through the hold, and into the small alcove that served as a medbay. Then he sets you down on the cot so carefully, so impossibly carefully, that you barely feel the transition and starts hurriedly removing his beskar.
And then his hands start moving on you.
You’ve seen him field-dress wounds before. He’s good at it, efficient at it. He moves through a medical situation the way he moves through a firefight, which is to say with the calibrated economy of a man who’s been doing this for a long time and has learned, somewhere along the way, that panic is a luxury for people with other people to panic for them.
He’s not efficient now.
He’s fast, but there’s a roughness to his movements that you’ve never seen in his hands before. He cuts your shirt off you with a vibroblade and the cuts go in wrong directions, doubling back, his free hand pressing at your side to hold the wound closed while the other does the work. Twice you see him stop, just for half a second, just long enough to take a breath that the modulator turns into a stutter, before he keeps going.
"Din."
"Don't talk."
"Din, I'm…"
"Don't talk."
"I'm okay."
"You are not okay. You are not okay. You're…" His voice cracks mid-sentence, the modulator catching and amplifying the crack, and you hear the sound of his control failing. "There is a lot of blood. There is a lot of blood, and I need you to not talk so I can…so I can…"
"Din."
"Please."
You stop talking.
He gets the shirt off you and cleans the wound with bacta wash, the cold sting of it making you hiss through your teeth. Then he reaches for the cauteriser, his hand still shaking, and he stops. He sets the cauteriser down on the tray, pushes up the sleeves of the flight suit and presses both his bare palms flat to the cot on either side of your hips, bowing his helmeted head, breathing in and out.
You watch the whole bare expanse of his arms, the corded muscle, the scars, the little mythosaur on the inside of his bicep that you’ve now traced with your tongue more times than you can count, all of it locked into a posture of such absolute, white-knuckled control that you understand, finally, what it’s costing him to do this at all.
You reach up, arm aching, and put your hand on the side of his helmet – on the beskar, on the cheek of it. "Hey."
He doesn’t move.
"Din, look at me."
The visor comes up.
"I'm okay," you say. "I'm here. I'm okay. You're doing fine. Pick up the cauteriser."
The helmet bows lower, the brow of it coming down to rest against yours, beskar against skin, cool and hard and so familiar by now that it’s almost a kiss.
"You scared me," he says.
The modulator is barely there. The voice underneath it is barely there. It’s a thing he says directly into your skin, almost.
"I know."
"I thought you were…"
"I know."
"I can't…"
He stops himself from saying the thing he can’t let himself finish, and you want, with a fierceness that surprises you even now, to grab the back of his helmet, pull it off and look at the face he’s making under there, because you’re sure that whatever his mouth is doing right now you would die to see.
But you don’t. You put your hand around the back of his neck instead, against the small bare strip of skin between the helmet's edge and the collar of his flight suit, and you hold him there.
"Cauteriser."
He picks it up and works, the skin on your side sizzling. You bite down on the heel of your hand, hard, and you don’t scream, because he’s already as close to broken as you’ve ever seen him and you won’t give him a sound he can carry into his next sleep.
He works the long burning line of the gash closed, packs it with bacta gel, and then he puts a patch over it, and sets his palm flat against the patch, holding it there as if he can press his own steadiness into you through the bandage.
His hand isn’t shaking anymore. Somewhere in the last sixty seconds he’s taken all of it – the shake, the crack, the whatever-it-is – and has folded it down small and tucked it back inside himself. You’ve watched him do it, and know, watching him, that this is the price of him. That this is what it costs him, this discipline, this not-saying, this absolute refusal to let anything spill that he hasn’t first measured into a cup.
"Other ribs," he says. "Let me feel."
You let his fingers walk your ribs one by one, slow, professional now, the shake gone. Two of them are cracked, one might be broken. He wraps you, slow and careful, lifting you against his shoulder so he can pass the wrap around your back, his bare arm strong under you, his other hand passing the bandage from one side of you to the other across his own body.
You lean your forehead into his neck, close your eyes and breathe him in.
"Almost done," he says.
"Take your time."
"I am taking my time."
"Take more."
He finishes the wrap and lays you back down. Then he sits on the edge of the cot beside you, one hip against your hip, and looks down at you for a long moment, before reaching up and brushing a piece of hair off your forehead with the back of his bare knuckles.
"You're going to live."
"Optimistic."
"I'm the one with the medical training. Trust me."
"Mm. Lie down with me."
"I'm sweaty."
"I don't care. Lie down with me."
He hesitates, glances at the cot and at himself then makes a small sound of acceptance and eases himself down on his side, propped on his elbow, his hip pressed to yours. His free hand comes to rest, lightly, on the unbandaged side of your stomach, his bare palm warm and anchoring.
You watch the visor for a long time, he lets you, and somewhere in there your throat goes tight in a way that isn’t related to any injury.
"Din."
"Yes?"
"What does cyar'ika mean?"
He goes very still and doesn’t answer for a long moment. The hand on your stomach doesn’t move and the visor stays where it is, tilted down to your face. You watch the way his shoulders rise and fall once, twice as he decides.
"It means…”
The proximity alarm goes off, shrieking out of the ship's speakers in the high two-tone wail that means a ship has just entered scan range. His head snaps up toward the cockpit, his hand leaving your stomach, and the whole moment shatters.
He’s on his feet before the alarm finishes its second cycle. "Stay,” he says over his shoulder, back to his working voice. “Don't move, I mean it. Don't get off this cot."
"Din…"
"Stay."
Then he’s gone, up the ladder to the cockpit, three rungs at a time, and you hear him drop into the pilot's seat, and punch the alarm off. Then you hear him bring up the scanners, and swear, quietly, once, with feeling.
You put your bare feet on the cold deck, grab his cape from where he left it, pull it free from the vest, and walk, very slowly, out into the hold. You know you’re not supposed to be moving and that he’s going to have words for you when he comes back down, but you don’t care. You sit on a crate and listen to him work.
You can read him by sound, by now, the cadence of his hands on a console as familiar to you as his breathing. You hear him bring up the long-range scope, toggle through the bands and hear the small grunt through the modulator that means he’s found what he’s looking for and doesn’t like it.
You hear him flick the comm to passive, hear the navicomp wake up and hear him punch in coordinates without consulting the charts, which means he already knows where he’s going, which means he’s been thinking about this contingency since long before you took the job. Which means that you were right about it being a stupid job, and he’s known it was a stupid job, and has taken it anyway, and made a back door.
You hear the hyperdrive spool and the soft whump of the stars turning into blue.
Then you hear him push back from the console, slowly, before he comes back down the ladder.
He sees you on the crate, stopping on the third rung from the bottom, and looks at you – visor down, the whole long judgment of the T-shape directed at the place where you very obviously are not.
"What did I tell you?”
"You told me to stay."
"And?"
"I didn't."
He comes down the rest of the ladder and crosses the hold to stand in front of you. He doesn’t say anything for a long moment, and you watch his bare hand flex once, at his side, and then unflex.
"Why?" he asks.
"I thought I heard something."
It’s a lie and he knows it. He looks at you for a beat longer and then sighs, a real, tired one, the modulator turning it into a long mechanical exhale. Then he crouches down in front of you and puts his hand, very lightly, on your good thigh.
"You're going to make me grey," he says
"You're already grey."
"You can't see my hair."
"I'm extrapolating."
"From what?"
"From the way you sigh."
He huffs then tips his head down and presses the brow of the helmet to your collarbone – gently, mindful of the ribs and the bandage – and stays there a moment.
"Who was it in the scope?”
"A Guild ship, looking for us. We're clear now."
"Where are we going?"
"Somewhere quiet."
“Like where?”
“You ask too many questions. Somewhere you can heal. Somewhere I can…take care of you.”
"What are we going to say about the bounty?"
"Screw the bounty. Someone else can pick him up, if he's still breathing."
You smile, in spite of yourself. He lifts his head off your collarbone and looks at you, and you can feel him cataloguing – the colour of your face, the set of your mouth, the way you’re favouring your left side, the way you’ve wrapped his cape around yourself without thinking – and you watch him add it all up and make whatever decision he’s making. Then he stands up, bends and slides one arm behind your knees and the other behind your back.
"Din…"
"You walked, now I carry."
"I can…"
"You walked. On the ribs I just set. You do not get to negotiate with me right now. Put your arm around my neck."
You put your arm around his neck and he lifts you, carrying you back into the medbay alcove and setting you down on the cot with you in his lap, your legs across his thighs, your bandaged side cradled in against the bare skin of his arm. Then he sits there with his helmet bowed against your temple and doesn’t move for a long time.
"You scared me," he says again, as if he needs to say it twice. As if the first time hasn’t been enough to set it down.
"I know."
"Don't do it again."
"I'll try."
"Try harder."
"I'll try harder."
His bare hand comes up and cups the side of your face, his thumb moving across your cheekbone, stops at the corner of your mouth and stays there.
"Cyar'ika," he says.
You hold very still.
"You asked me what it meant."
"Yes."
The thumb at the corner of your mouth doesn’t move.
"It's old Mando'a," he says, finally. "It means…it doesn't translate cleanly. It's what you call someone you…"
He stops.
"Someone you what?"
He doesn’t answer, so you wait. You can be patient. You’ve learned how to be patient with the long shape of his silences, how to let him build them and stand inside them and decide, in his own time, whether he’s going to come out the other side of them with a word in his mouth or without one.
The hyperdrive hums under the deck and his thumb stays at the corner of your mouth, his chest rising and falling against your good shoulder, steady now, the breathing of a man who’s brought himself all the way back from the edge he's been on in the cave.
"Someone you keep," he says.
It isn’t the word, you know it isn’t. He’s walked himself right up to the word and turned, at the last second, and offered you a different one – a smaller one, a safer one, a truer one in some ways. Because love is a word that everyone uses for everything and keep is a word that he, specifically, has probably never said out loud in his life.
You feel your eyes go hot, but you don’t cry because you know, if you do, he’ll think it’s the ribs, and will feel responsible, and he’ll close up around the not-saying again and the next time you try to drag the word out of him it’ll be even harder. So, you don’t cry. You take his bare hand off your face, turn it and press your mouth to the palm of it, hard, holding it there with both your hands, breathing against his skin until your throat lets go.
"Okay," you say, into his palm.
"Okay."
"Keep me, then."
"I will."
"Promise?"
"I promise."
He says it the way he says everything, and you understand that you’re very probably, never going to hear the other one out of his mouth, but that you’re going to hear this one, in its place, for as long as he has a mouth to say it with.
You can live with that. You can live with that for a very long time.
He shifts carefully under you and lies back on the cot, slow, drawing you down with him, settling you against his chest with your bandaged side up and your head tucked under the chin of the helmet. His arm comes across your hips, the other one under your neck and he pulls the thin medbay blanket up over the two of you with one hand. Then he presses the brow of the helmet to the top of your head and exhales, long, the modulator turning the breath into a sigh that you feel all the way down your spine.
"Sleep," he says.
"You first."
"Together."
"Mm."
His hand spreads flat against your back under the blanket, the pad of his thumb tracing the line of one of your vertebrae. Up. Down. Up. The bacta is already doing its work, the throb in your side dulling, going far away, the way pain does when somebody you trust is holding you through it.
You close your eyes and you think, in the last clear moment before sleep takes you – He almost said it and he didn't have to.
And in the dark behind your eyelids, very quietly, in the secret place where you can say it because nobody can hear you, not even him - you say it back.
Then you sleep, whilst his thumb keeps moving on your spine. Up. Down. Up. For a long time.
➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰🚀➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰
PART THREE
PTaglist: @copperhalfcent @missladym1981 @whattheflipsiesss @brittmb115 @elizabeth4th @peepawmiller @angelwithablade @cassieorz @somedayheaven @silversvu12 @madpanda75 @johnssherlock221 @madnessofadaydreamer @kirsteng42 @ifall4dilfs @pedro-pascal-3nthusiast @cuteanimalmama @inept-the-magnificent @mystickittytaco @arood98 @sunnytuliptime @katw474 @pascalgold @dotyoureyez @victoriaholland @loveday1219 @awkwardpaws @misstokyo7love @vinyl-and-coffee @spock1988 @readingiskeepingmegoing @kakiki3 @kayidlewild @miserysinferno @tupelomiss
Through The Wall - Part One
Pairing: Din x Reader.
Summary: Sat in a cell, your only comfort is the Mandalorian imprisoned next door.
Warnings: 18+only. Smut ahoy including masturbation and penetration 🍆
A/N: Little extra Friday treat for you! I’ve been working on this one since I started binging the series in anticipation of the movie. I know NOTHING about Star Wars, I’m a complete fairweather fan on the basis of Pedro. So anything that doesn’t make sense in the universe is on me 🥰
Let me know if you think I should write more…
WC: 8k
Din Masterlist
➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰🚀➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰
The cell smells like rust and recycled air, and the lights went down hours ago – not off, never off, just dimmed to that bruised red that means the facility's day cycle is over and its prisoners are supposed to sleep. You haven’t slept. You’re not sure you remember how to anymore.
Three days. That’s how long you've been in here, counting by the rhythm of the ration slot and the heavy clank of boots that come once per shift change. Three days since the bounty hunter who calls himself Vane dragged you off your transport with a vibroblade at your throat, smiling like he'd won a sabacc pot. He hasn't told you what he wants yet, clearly being the kind of man that likes to make a woman stew.
You shift on the metal bench that passes for a bunk, drawing your knees up to your chest. The durasteel wall behind you is cold even through your shirt, but you press your shoulder blades into it anyway, because the cold is a real thing, and real things are rare in here.
That’s when you hear him move.
The cell next to yours was empty when they put you in. You'd stared at the dividing wall for the better part of a day, watching the seams, listening for breathing, and there had been nothing. But somewhere in the long stretch between the last meal and the dimming of the lights, they must have brought someone in, because now you can hear the unmistakable scrape of something heavy against metal, the dull clink of what can only be armour settling.
You hold your breath and hear a long exhale on the other side – mechanical, filtered. Like it’s passed through a vocoder before it reaches air. You know that sound. Every spacer this side of the Rim knows that sound.
A Mandalorian.
You don't know what possesses you to speak. Loneliness, maybe, stupidity, definitely and you turn your face to the wall.
"Hey."
There’s nothing for a long moment, just that mechanical breathing, even and slow, like a man who’s been in worse places than this and is conserving himself for whatever comes next.
"You're awake."
His voice lands in your chest like a stone dropped down a well. Low, rough at the edges, made stranger by the helmet's modulator, carrying that slight metallic burr that turns every consonant into something with teeth. It should have been off-putting, but it isn’t. It’s the first voice you've heard in three days that isn’t Vane's oily purr, and your whole body leans toward it before you've even decided to.
"Can't sleep," you reply. "How long have you been in there?"
"Couple hours."
"I didn't hear them bring you in."
"They didn't want you to."
You press your palm flat against the wall, as if you can feel him through it. You can’t, of course, the durasteel thick enough to stop a blaster bolt. But you imagine him on the other side, sitting the way you’re sitting, his helmet tilted toward the sound of your voice.
"Are you hurt?" you ask.
He pauses. "Nothing that matters."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the one you're getting."
You smile, in spite of everything. "Fine. Don't tell me your name either, then."
"I wasn't going to."
"Of course not." You let your head tip back against the wall. "So, what do I call you for the purposes of this limited conversation?"
"Mando works."
"Very original."
"It’s functional and descriptive."
You laugh, a tiny breath of one, surprised out of you because it’s been a long time since anything has made you laugh. You hear him shift on the other side of the wall, a slow grinding of beskar against metal that you feel more than hear, the vibration humming through your spine.
"What did you do to end up in here?” he asks.
"Wrong cargo on the wrong ship. You?"
"Wrong face on the wrong wanted poster."
"Yours or his?"
"Mine, apparently."
"Hm." You trace a finger along a seam in the wall, following its line down to where it meets the bench. "Are you going to kill him when you get out?"
"Yes."
He says it the way another person might say I'm going to get water. No inflection, no heat, just the flat statement of a future fact. You should be frightened of him, but you’re not. There’s something steadying about that voice, that certainty. As if the universe is a problem he’s already solved, and you’ve only stumbled into the middle of his working.
"Take me with you," you say, before you can think better of it.
"You don't know me," he replies, with the shape of a laugh through the modulator.
"I know you're not him."
"That’s a pretty low bar."
"It's the one I've got."
He goes quiet for a while after that. Not an uncomfortable quiet, rather the kind that feels like company. You listen to him breathe, slow and even, and try to match your own to it, and find after a few minutes that you have. You inhale when he inhales and exhale when he exhales, as if you’re sharing a single set of lungs through the wall.
"What's your name?" he asks.
You tell him without thinking, the syllables just leaving you, soft, into the dim red dark.
"That's a good name.”
"It's just a name."
"There’s no such thing as just a name."
You turn your face to the wall and press your cheek to it. The metal’s less cold now, or you’re warmer – one of the two.
"Say it again," you whisper.
There’s a pause long enough to make you think he might refuse. Then his voice comes, lower, slower, and he says your name the way you've never heard it said before, like it has weight, like it’s a thing he’s setting down carefully on a table between you, where you can both look at it.
Something flutters low in your belly, and you tell yourself it’s hunger. Three days of nutrient paste can do things to a person.
You know it isn’t the hunger.
"Tell me something," you say, mostly to fill the silence. "Anything, I don't care."
"Like what?"
"Like…what's the last good meal you had and on what planet. I don’t know, anything."
You can hear him thinking about an answer before he speaks. "Tiingilar. On Nevarro. But there was too much spice, and it burned my tongue for an hour."
"You eat through that helmet?"
"Not in front of you, I wouldn't."
The phrasing is so specific, so oddly intimate, that it makes your face hot. In front of you. As if he's thought about it. As if you’re a person whose presence would change what he does with his mouth.
"Why not?" you ask, voice careful and quiet.
"It's the Way. No one sees my face."
"No one?"
"No one living."
You let that sit and take in the whole shape of it — the loneliness baked into it, the discipline, the strange tender violence of a vow that old. You think about a man who hasn't shown his face to anyone in years, who eats alone, who sleeps alone and who would die before he breaks that code.
You think about what it would mean if he ever did break it for someone.
"What about touch?" you ask, and you can hear your own pulse in your ears now. "Does the Way say anything about that?"
He pauses for a single beat. "No."
"No, it doesn't say anything? Or no, you don't…?"
"It doesn't forbid it."
"Oh."
The silence after that has a different quality, the silence of two people who’ve both noticed the same thing at the same time and are waiting to see who’s going to acknowledge it first. You feel your fingers curl against the wall and the wall against the line of your thigh through your trousers, the cold of it sinking through and meeting the heat of you.
"Mando," you say finally.
"Yeah."
"When's the last time someone touched you?"
The modulator catches his exhale and turns it into something like static. He doesn’t answer right away and so you wait. You can be patient when you need to be, and right now, with your cheek to the wall and your blood loud in your throat, you need to be.
"It’s been a long time," he admits finally.
"How long?"
"Longer than I'm going to tell a stranger."
"I'm not a stranger, you know my name."
"That doesn't make you not a stranger."
"Doesn't it?"
You imagine him in the cell next to yours, that helmeted head bowed, his gloved hands resting on his thighs. You imagine his shoulders pressed back against the same wall you’re pressed against, the only thing between his skin and yours a few centimetres of durasteel and a lifetime of bad decisions.
"What about you?" he says.
"What about me?"
"When's the last time anyone touched you?"
The directness of his question startles you. You've been the one playing this game and somehow, he’s taken the cards out of your hand without you noticing.
"A while," you admit.
"How long is a while?"
"Long enough that I think about it when I shouldn't."
"When shouldn't you?"
"Now," you say, "for instance."
You hear the soft sound through the modulator that you decide, immediately and with some certainty, is a laugh, or the closest thing he allows himself to one. It’s a warm sound and it goes straight down your spine and pools at the base of it.
"You're thinking about it now?" he asks.
"You asked."
"I did."
"Are you going to ask what I'm thinking about?"
"I think I'd rather you tell me."
Your face is suddenly on fire and you’re grateful for the wall, grateful for the dark, grateful for every centimetre of durasteel that keeps him from seeing the colour you must be. You press your forehead against the metal, close your eyes and feel the steady, mechanical sound of his breathing on the other side.
Fuck it, you think. You’re never going to see him and he’s never going to see you. If you both die in this place tomorrow, the only thing left of this night will be the air it’s moved through.
"I'm thinking about your voice," you say.
"My voice?"
"That's where I'd start."
"Where would you start with it?"
You wet your lips. "I'd want you to keep talking. I'd want you closer to the wall. I'd want…I'd want to put my ear right up against it, and I'd want you to put your mouth right up against it on your side, and just…talk. About anything. I just want it in my head."
You hear him move, hear the scrape of beskar against the wall, and you know, even though you can’t see him, that he’s shifted closer, that the helmet is nearer to you now than it had been a minute ago. That if there were no wall, he would be a hand's breadth away.
"Like this," he says, and his voice is lower than it had been, the vocoder rasp gone soft, almost a whisper, and impossibly intimate for that. "This close enough for you?"
"Yeah," you breathe. "Yeah, that's…that's good."
"Tell me what else."
"I'd…" You swallow. "I'd want you to tell me what you'd do."
"What I'd do?"
"If there wasn't a wall."
He takes his time with the answer. You can hear him thinking, hear him deciding, hear the moment he gives himself permission to say what he wants to say. It comes through the helmet as a small exhale, almost a sigh.
"I'd put my hand on your throat," he says.
Your breath catches.
"Not to hurt you," he adds. "Just to feel it, your pulse. You've got it going pretty fast right now, I bet."
"How can you tell? It's…it's not the only thing it's doing."
"No?"
"No."
"Tell me."
You press your thighs together, the friction of the rough fabric almost too much. You haven’t realised how wound you've been, how three days of fear and adrenaline has sat in you with nowhere to go, and now his voice is a key turning in a lock you haven't known was there.
"I'm wet," you say, quiet, into the wall. "I've been wet since you said my name."
The sound he makes then isn’t modulated. It is – for just a fraction of a second – something raw that slips through underneath the vocoder, a breath that turns into something else, and you want to live in that sound, want to wear it.
"Show me," he says. "Tell me. Whatever you're doing…tell me."
"You first."
"I'm hard."
The directness of it punches the air out of you. He says it the way he said yes, I'm going to kill him, flat and true, a simple fact of the universe.
"Are you touching yourself?" you whisper.
"I want to wait."
"For what?"
"For you."
Oh. Oh. You bite down on the inside of your cheek to keep from making a noise that will carry. Some part of you is still aware that there are guards somewhere in this facility, that Vane is somewhere in this facility, and that anything either of you does or says too loudly could be heard. But the bigger part of you, the part that’s been starving for three days and probably longer than that, is already past caring.
"Together, then," you say.
"Together."
You work your hand under the waistband of your trousers. The fabric’s stiff and unfriendly, but underneath it, you’re soft and slick and so ready that the first brush of your own fingertips makes you gasp into the metal.
"Talk to me," you say. "Mando…keep talking."
"I'm undoing the belt," he says. "Just the cod, the rest stays on. You can't be careless in a place like this."
"Yeah."
"I’ve got my hand on it."
"Tell me…tell me what it looks like."
"It's hard. It's been hard since you asked me about touch. And it’s leaking a little at the tip. I'm wiping it with my thumb."
"Are you…are your hands gloved?"
"I took the right one off – for you.”
You whimper softly, and don’t even try to hide it. You have two fingers circling your clit now, slow, the way he’s talking – slow and deliberate, with that mechanical control that you suspect is the only thing keeping him from coming apart already.
"What about you?" he says. "Tell me what you're doing."
"I've got my hand down my pants. My fingers…” you exhale. “I'm so wet, Mando, I can't…I'm circling, just circling, slow."
"Slow's good."
"I want it to be your hand."
"What would my hand do?"
"It would be slower than mine and heavier. You'd make me wait. You'd make me…you'd make me ask."
"Would you ask?"
"Yes."
"Ask now."
You can’t think because you can barely breathe. The wall against your forehead is wet from your breath, the metal smelling faintly of iron. “Please."
"Please what?"
"Please touch me. Please…please don't stop talking, please put your fingers in me, please…"
"How many?"
"Two, start with two."
"Tell me when."
"Now. Mando, now…"
You push two fingers into yourself and the sound you makes is hot and high and you press your other hand over your own mouth to muffle it. On the other side of the wall you hear a sound through the modulator that’s almost a groan, but not quite. He’s holding it back, but you hear the shape of it, hear the way it cracks the calm in his voice.
"That's it," he says. "Tell me how it feels."
"Tight. Hot. I…Mando, I haven't…I haven't done this in so long, I…"
"I've got you."
"What are you doing?"
"Stroking, slow. Long strokes. My grip's tight, I…fuck…"
That word through the modulator, low and almost involuntary, is the most vulgar thing you’ve ever heard. It makes you clench around your own fingers, and whine into your hand.
"Say it again," you beg.
"Fuck."
"Again."
"You feel that good?"
"Yes."
"What if it was me? What if it was my hand inside you?"
"It is. Right now, it is. Tell me you're thinking about it."
"I am. I'm thinking about…about pushing you up against this wall where you can't move. Where I can hold you there with one hand and use the other…"
"How many?"
"Three. You'd take three."
"I would."
"You would. You'd take everything I gave you, wouldn't you?"
"Yes."
"Say it."
"I'd take everything you gave me."
You add the third finger. It’s a stretch, just on the edge of too much, and that edge is exactly where you want to be. Your thumb works your clit in tight circles and you pant against the wall, against your own palm, and on the other side of the durasteel a Mandalorian is stroking his cock to the sound of your voice and you’ve never, in your entire life, been so undone by a man you’ve not seen.
"Mando."
"I'm here."
"I'm close."
"How close?"
"Close. Close, I…keep talking to me, please, please, just…"
"Listen to me," he says, and his voice has dropped to something so quiet it’s almost a breath, almost prayer. "Listen. You feel like silk. You feel like the best thing I've put my hand in in years. If I were there, I'd have my mouth on your throat right now. I'd have my teeth on the place where your pulse is. I wouldn't bite hard, just enough that you'd feel it for days. I'd have my fingers in you all the way to the knuckle, and I'd be working you open, slow, until you were begging me, until you were saying my name…"
"I don't know your name."
There’s a pause. A long one, during which you almost stop breathing.
"Din," he says. "It's Din."
Something cracks open in your chest. He’s given you something he’s not supposed to give, given you something that, by his own laws, no one should have. And he’s given it to you with his hand on his cock and your name in his throat and a wall between you. And you understood, in that moment, that you will never, not as long as you live, hear that name said in that voice again without falling apart.
"Din," you say.
"Yeah."
"Din…Din…"
"Say it again."
"Din, I'm…"
"Come."
You come around your own fingers with his name in your mouth and the metal of the wall against your forehead, and you bite down hard on the heel of your hand to keep from screaming. On the other side of the wall, you hear the shape of his climax through the modulator, the cracked-open sound of a man who hasn’t let anyone hear him in a very long time. It goes on, and on, and on, and when you finally collapse back against the bench, you’re trembling all over, slick with sweat, your fingers still inside yourself, your breath coming in pieces.
For a long time, neither of you speak, but you can hear him breathing. You lie back on the bench with your trousers half-undone and your hand against your chest and your heart hammering up into your palm and listen to him do the same on the other side of the wall.
The dimmed red lights buzz faintly overhead and somewhere far down the corridor, a door cycles. The world is still in here, the way it always was – but underneath the stillness, something new is sitting between you that hadn’t been there an hour ago. You can feel the weight of it and suspect he can too.
"Din," you say, just to see if you’re allowed to say it again.
"Yeah." His voice is rougher than it has been, the modulator doing its best to flatten it out and failing. "I'm here."
"Are you alright?"
"That's my question."
"I asked first."
"I'm alright."
You smile at the ceiling. There’s something so absurdly him about it – a man who has just come apart with a stranger's name in his throat and is now answering you in two-syllable monosyllables, the way he probably answers everyone about everything.
Your fingers are still tacky, your face still hot and you feel, somehow, like you’ve just survived something rather than enjoyed it.
"I'm alright too," you say, in case he’s waiting for it.
"Good."
"Din?"
"Yeah."
"You shouldn't have given me that, should you?"
He’s quiet for a long time and you let him have the quiet. You've learned, over the course of the night, that his silences are a kind of speech, that he’s a man who turns things over thoroughly before he sets them down.
"No," he says finally. "I shouldn't have."
"Are you sorry?"
"No."
"Good."
You roll onto your side, facing the wall, draw your knees up and tuck your hand under your cheek. The metal is warm now where you’ve been pressed against it, warm with the warmth of you, and you imagine that on the other side of it some matching patch of beskar is warm too, warmed by a helmet that’s been resting against the same plane of durasteel for the better part of an hour.
"Are you really going to kill him?" you ask.
"Yes."
"Tomorrow?"
"As soon as I get the chance."
"Will I get to see it?"
"You'll be out of the cell before it happens, I'll see to that."
You close your eyes. The certainty in his voice is a strange thing to lean against, but you lean anyway. It’s the most solid thing you've had to lean against in three days, maybe longer.
"Din?"
"Yeah."
"Tell me something else. Anything, just…keep talking, until I fall asleep."
"What do you want to hear about?"
"Anything that isn't this place."
You hear him shift, heard the soft sigh of the helmet against the metal as he thinks about it and settles him in.
"There's a marsh moon," he says, "out past Trask. There’s nothing on it, no settlements, just water and reeds as far as you can see. The water glows at night. Some kind of bioluminescent thing in it. You walk through it and your boots light up the whole pool, blue, like you're walking on stars."
"Have you been there?"
"Once."
"What did you do there?"
"I refuelled, sat on the ramp of my ship for a while and watched the water."
"Alone?"
"Yeah."
"I'd like to see that."
"I'll show you."
Your chest does a thing it has no business doing, given the circumstances. You press your cheek harder into the wall, not rusting yourself to answer, because if you answer, your voice is going to do something embarrassing.
"Keep going," you say when you can. "Tell me more."
So, he does.
He tells you about a desert at dawn on a planet whose name you don’t catch, where the sand turns the colour of beaten copper in the first light. He tells you about a forest where the trees grow so close together that you have to turn sideways to walk between them, and about a kind of bread they baked on Sorgan that you eat with your hands.
You don't know when you fall asleep. You only know that somewhere in the middle of a sentence about a city built into a cliff face, your eyelids give up, and the last thing you remember is the steady metal-edged sound of his voice telling you about the way the wind moves through the canyon at night and, for the first time in three days, you’re not afraid.
****
You wake to white.
Not red, not the bruised dim red of the night cycle, but the cold flat white of the day lights, full and unflattering and merciless on your gummed-shut eyes. You squint and sit up, your body protesting in a hundred small ways and you put your hand to the wall before you've even fully remembered why.
"Din?"
Nothing.
You frown, sleep still thick in your throat.
"Din,” you cough. “Are you awake?"
Nothing.
The breathing’s gone, that’s the first thing you notice, the absence of the slow, even, modulated breath that has become, over the course of the night, as familiar to you as your own pulse. The cell on the other side of the wall is quiet. Not the quiet of a man sleeping, but the quiet of a room with nothing in it.
Your stomach drops.
You scramble off the bench and go to the front of the cell, pressing your face to the narrow slit in the door, trying to angle your eye to see down the corridor. You can’t see much, but you notice the edge of the next cell's door…
…which is open.
Not forced or blown, rather open the way a door’s open when someone’s unlocked it and walked out. The interior, what little of it you could see, is empty. No figure on the bench, no silhouette by the wall, no beskar.
"Din?"
Your voice comes out smaller than you mean it to.
You stand there for a long time with your forehead against the cool metal of your own door, and you try to talk yourself into the reasonable explanations. He’s escaped and he’s going to kill the man who put him here, and a man who says a thing like that the way he said it isn’t a man who stays in a cell longer than he has to.
He said he would see to it that you got out before it happened.
He said I'll show you.
You believe him. You had believed him at the time, and you believed him now, in the cold white morning, with your hair stuck to your face and your hands trembling slightly from cold or hunger or the aftershock of a night you’re still half-convinced you dreamed.
You go back to the bench and sit down. You put your hand against the wall, except it isn’t warm anymore. It’s cold all the way through. He’s been gone for hours, probably, since not long after you fell asleep, because that’s the kind of man he is – the kind who waits until you’re safe in sleep before he does what he has to do, so that you won’t have to lie awake listening to him do it.
You wonder if he said goodbye. If somewhere in the dark, between one of his sentences about canyons and the next, he said something soft to the wall, and you hadn't heard it because you were already gone. You hope so. You hoped he'd put his gloved hand against the metal one last time and said your name the way he'd said it the night before.
You draw your knees up and wrap your arms around them. Then you press your forehead to them and you breathe, slow, in and out, the way you’d breathed with him in the dark, except now you’re doing it alone, and the rhythm doesn’t match anything but the memory of him.
It’s then that you notice it.
A small thing, set on the floor at the base of the dividing wall, on your side, where it must have been pushed under through the narrow gap between the wall and the floor – a gap you haven’t noticed before, a gap barely wide enough for a finger but wide enough, evidently, for this.
You pick it up.
It’s a sliver of beskar, no bigger than your thumb, cut clean, the edges smoothed. A scrap, probably, from some repair he's done to his own armour a long time ago and kept in a pouch for reasons that are his and not yours. The metal’s warm in your hand, even though it shouldn't have been.
Wrapped around it, twice, is a thin strip of leather. And on the leather, scratched in with the point of something sharp, in letters small and precise and careful, he’s written you a message.
Wait for me.
That’s all. No name, no instructions. no promise more elaborate than those three words, in a hand that has pressed hard enough into the leather to scar it.
You close your fingers around the beskar and shut your eyes. You press your closed fist to your mouth and sit there in the cold white morning of the cell that has held you for three days, and you don’t cry, because you’ve not cried in years and you’re not going to start now. But something in your chest does a thing that’s very close to it – a hot, full, aching thing that wants out and can’t get out and so just sits there, glowing, like the water on his marsh moon.
Down the corridor, very faint, you hear footsteps, heavy ones, coming closer.
You open your hand and look at the sliver of beskar once more, and then you close your fist around it again and tuck it into the inner pocket of your shirt, against your skin, where no search would find it without finding you first. You straighten your spine, wipe your face with the heel of your hand and set your jaw.
You wait.
Because he's asked you to. Because he’s coming back. Because a man like that, a man who said yes the way he said it and I'll show you the way he said it and Din – Din, it's Din – into the dark, to a stranger, through a wall, breaking a vow he has kept his whole life – that man doesn’t say wait for me unless he means it.
The footsteps get closer then stop outside your door.
You hear the soft electronic chirp of a lockpad being overridden – not the heavy clang of guards cycling a door open in the normal way, but the cleaner, quieter click of someone who knows exactly which wires to cross and which ones to leave alone.
The door slides back and there he is. Beskar from helm to boot, the morning light off the corridor lamps making a hard silver line down the curve of his pauldron. Blaster holstered at his thigh, vibroblade still wet at the tip. He fills the doorway like he’s been built to fill it, and the visor turns toward you. You stood up so fast you nearly crack your head on the underside of the bunk.
"Took your time," you say.
The modulator catches the tired amusement before he's even spoken. "There were six of them."
"And Vane?"
"Five."
You snort because you can’t help it. He steps into the cell, glances at you, glances at the wall, glances – pointedly – at the floor where the sliver of beskar had been. He doesn’t say anything about it because he doesn’t have to. The angle of his helmet says, good, you found it, and the small tilt that follows says come on, and you’re moving before he's finished the gesture, ducking under his arm into the corridor.
"This way," he says.
"I know which way."
"Then go."
You know the layout of this facility because you’ve spent three days memorising the sliver of it you could see through the door slit, and because, it turns out, you also saw the schematics two weeks ago in a briefing on the Crest – a briefing you had pretended to listen to while throwing ration wrappers at the back of his helmet.
You take the left at the junction and he covers your back. Then you take the service stairs down two levels, through the maintenance hatch and out into the cold dawn air of a landing platform where a familiar gunship sits waiting with its ramp already down, because he landed it himself before he came for you and he isn’t the kind of man who leaves a door closed when he might need to run through it.
The ramp clangs shut behind you, the engines spool and you brace yourself against the bulkhead as he takes the pilot's seat and throws the Crest up off the platform with the kind of brutal efficiency he uses for everything. The planet falls away under you, the stars come up, and you’re free.
You stand in the cockpit doorway, breathing.
"Don't say it," he says, without turning around.
"Don't say what?"
"Whatever you're about to say."
"I wasn't going to…"
"You were going to."
"I was going to say thanks."
"No, you weren't."
You laugh, finally. It comes out shaky, the adrenaline leaving you in a slow drain. You let yourself slide down the bulkhead until you’re sitting on the deck with your back against the metal, and you put your hands over your face and laugh until your ribs hurt.
He punches the coordinates in, sets the autopilot, then stands up, slowly, the way he stands up when his back hurts and he doesn’t want you to know. But you know, because you've been flying with him for nine months and you know every small tell his body makes through the armour.
He crouches in front of you and puts his gloved hand on your knee.
"You alright?"
"Yeah."
"Look at me."
You take your hands off your face and look up at the visor. The T-shape of it is the same as it’s always been. The same as it’s been across a hundred campfires and a thousand cantina tables and the dozen times he’s sat across from you in this same hold and cleaned his weapons while you cleaned yours.
The same, and not the same.
"We really need to stop doing this," you say finally.
"Doing what?"
"The wall thing. The talking through the wall every time a job goes sideways, and they put us in adjoining cells thing. This is…Din, this is the third time."
"Fourth."
"What?"
"Fourth. You're forgetting Ord Mantell."
"Ord Mantell was a closet, not a cell."
"Still a wall."
"Still a wall," you allow.
He huffs, his hand still on your knee. The leather of the glove is warm from the inside of his fist, and you can feel each individual finger, and that he’s not lifting it away.
"It's because we don't talk like this anywhere else," you say. "You know that, right?"
"I know."
"You only get like that when there's a wall."
"I know."
"It's ridiculous."
"I know."
"Din..." you hesitate. "That's the first time you've told me your real name."
"Yeah."
You lick your lips. "Fuck me."
The hand on your knee tightens, just a fraction, just enough that you know he heard you.
"Don't," he says
"Fuck me. Let’s get it out of our systems. Once, properly, with nothing between us and…and I swear to you, I swear, the next time some Hutt-licking bounty hunter shoves us into a holding block, neither of us is going to need to do the wall thing ever again, because we'll have done it, and the tension will be gone, and we can go back to being…"
"Being what?"
"Whatever we are."
"You think that's how it works?"
"I think it's worth finding out."
You watch the visor, watch the way his shoulders move when he breathes, watch the long, calibrated stillness of a man who’s already decided what he’s going to do and is making himself take an extra second to be sure of it.
"You don't know what you're asking for," he says.
"I do."
"You don't."
"Din, I had three fingers in myself last night while you talked to me through a wall. I think I have some idea."
The sound that comes out of him isn’t a laugh, it’s something rougher, something he doesn’t quite catch in time, and his hand leaves your knee and goes to your jaw, gloved thumb against the corner of your mouth.
You stop breathing.
"Stand up," he says.
You stand he stands with you, and you have to tip your head to keep looking at the visor. He looks down at you for a long moment, and then his other hand comes up and he hooks one gloved finger under the collar of your shirt and tugs, gently, until you take a step toward him, and another, and then his back is against the bulkhead and yours is against him and his arm is around your waist.
"Once," he says.
"Once."
"And it doesn't fix anything."
"Probably not."
"And you're going to have to be quiet, because the autopilot doesn't know what to do if you scream and trip the proximity alarms."
"Din, I am going to scream."
"Then I'll cover your mouth."
You go hot all the way through and feel your own pulse in places that have no business having a pulse. You press your forehead against the cold beskar of his chest plate breathe in the smell of him – leather and weapon oil and metal warmed by the body underneath.
"Bed. Bunk. Somewhere. Now."
He picks you up, one arm under your thighs and the other across your back, like you weigh nothing, like he's been waiting a long time for the excuse to find out exactly how much you weigh. He carries you down the short ladder into the hold and through to the narrow alcove where his bunk is set into the wall and sets you down on the edge of it. Then he stands between your knees and starts, with great deliberation, to undress.
The pauldrons came off first, heavy clunks against the deck. Then the vambraces, the chest plate, the cuirass, the thigh plates. He sets them all aside in the order he always sets them, the order you’ve watched him set them in a hundred times, and the familiarity of the ritual mixes with the unfamiliarity of what’s happening making your head spin a little.
The flight suit comes off next. Black, snug, all the seams you’ve stared at across many a hold while pretending to read. He peels it down to his waist and you see the long lean torso of him, scarred in a dozen places, a constellation of old hurt, a body that has been keeping itself alive for a long time and has the receipts.
There’s scant hair across his chest, dark and soft-looking, narrowing down toward his waistband and a long pale scar that wraps around his ribs like a vine. There’s a tattoo, small, on the inside of his left bicep – a mythosaur skull, no bigger than your thumb – that you have absolutely never known exists.
He keeps going. Flight suit all the way off, boots, trousers and the under-layer beneath. Everything. Every stitch.
Except the helmet.
He stands there in the low light of the bunk alcove, completely naked from the neck down, hard already, his cock heavy against his thigh, and the beskar catches in the dim light off the bulkhead in a way that makes the helmet seem almost a separate creature from the body that’s offering itself to you.
"Din...”
"No."
"I didn't…"
"You were going to."
"I wasn't…"
"You were."
"...I was."
"No."
"Just the eyes. Just…just let me see your eyes."
"No."
"Please."
"No."
He says it gently with no heat in it, as a feature of the universe, not a refusal of you. And then he steps closer and takes the hem of your shirt in both bare hands and pulls it off you, slow, then drops it on the floor on top of his own.
"You have me," he says. "All of me. Just not that."
"Din…"
"All of me," he says again, and he puts his bare hand flat over your sternum, between your breasts, hot palm and rough fingertips against your skin, and you forget what you had been going to say. "Everything else. You can have everything else. Do you understand?"
"Yes."
"Say it."
"I understand."
"Then take it."
He kisses you.
Or…the helmet does. He presses the cool flat front of the beskar to your forehead first, the way he had once or twice before in moments you’ve not allowed yourself to think too hard about. Then he tilts his head and brings it lower, pressing the brow of the helm to your mouth, just for a moment, just enough that you feel the cold kiss of the metal on your lips, and then his hand is sliding up to cradle the back of your neck and he tips you back onto the bunk.
He kisses everything else with his hands.
The pads of his fingers move down the line of your throat. His thumb skates across your collarbone. His palm cups the underside of your breast and his mouth – the front of the helmet, the smooth lower edge – drags slow against your nipple, cool and unyielding, and you arch up off the bunk with a noise that you try, and fail, to keep quiet.
"Shh," he says.
"I can't…"
"You can."
"I can't…"
His hand comes up and his fingers slip into your mouth. Two of them, the same two, and you bite down and moan around them and he makes a low sound through the modulator.
"Good. Like that. Quiet."
He keeps going down, the helmet tracking down the line of your sternum, the soft place under your ribs and the flat of your stomach. His other hand works your trousers open and shoves them down. You kick them off, and your underthings with them, and then you’re naked under him, and the cold metal of the helmet presses against the hot skin of your inner thigh and the contrast makes you whimper around his fingers.
"Din…"
He doesn’t answer with words. He answers by taking his fingers out of your mouth and replacing them, slowly, between your legs. Two fingers, the way you’d asked for last night. He finds you slick and ready and he hisses, audibly, through the modulator.
"All night," he says. "Like this?"
"Most of it."
"Greedy."
"For you, just for you."
The fingers push in slowly, deeper than yours had gone, longer, more deliberate, and you make a sound that starts high and would go higher but for him pressing the front of the helmet to your sternum.
“Quiet, I told you."
"I'm trying."
"Try harder."
He fucks you on his fingers for what feels like a small eternity. Long, slow, brutal strokes, his thumb finding your clit with the precision of a man who knows where every nerve in a body lives and where to put pressure on each of them. You’re drenched, shaking, biting the back of your own wrist to stay quiet and he’s watching you do it, the visor angled down at your face the whole time, and you know – you know – that behind that visor his eyes are on your mouth.
"Din…Din, please, I want…"
"Tell me."
"You inside me, properly. Now."
He takes his hand away and shifts upwards, bracing one hand on the bunk beside your head and the other on his cock. You feel the blunt heat of him drag through your slickness and your hips buck up of their own accord and he makes a low strangled sound.
"Wait. Wait, look at me."
You look at the visor.
"Are you sure?" he asks.
"Din."
"Say it."
"I'm sure. Fuck me, please."
He pushes in slow, so slow you think you’re going to die of it. He pushes in to the hilt and then holds there, his forehead – the brow of the helmet – against yours, his bare chest against your bare chest, his hand on your jaw and the metallic rasp of his breathing the loudest thing in the world. You can feel him trembling, just slightly, with the effort of not moving.
"Alright?" he asks.
"Move."
"Alright?"
"Move, Din…"
He moves the way he does everything – efficiently, without waste, with the calibrated intensity of a man who’s decided what he’s going to do and is now doing exactly that, and nothing else, and nothing less. He sets a rhythm that’s deep and steady and merciless, and you wrap your legs around his hips and your arms around his shoulders and press your face to the side of the helmet, to the place where his ear would be, and you say his name into the beskar over and over again because you can’t say it into his mouth.
"Din…"
"I'm here."
"Din, harder…"
"You'll bruise."
"I want to bruise. Please, Din, please…"
He fucks you harder. He braces both hands on the bunk now, one on either side of your head, and drives into you with the long, full strokes of a man who’s been holding himself in check for nine months and has finally been given permission to stop. The headboard of the bunk knocks, softly, against the bulkhead in time with each thrust, and your hands roam his back as you map him by feel.
The helmet stays on.
You beg, somewhere in the middle of it. When the pleasure has stripped your inhibitions down to nothing, you put your hands on the sides of the helmet and say, "Please, Din, please, just…just let me see…" and he catches your wrists in one hand and pins them above your head.
"No. Not that. Anything else. Anything else but that."
"Anything?"
"Anything."
So, you take the anything. You take his hand off your wrists and put it around your throat, light, the way he said he would in the dark. You feel his fingers settle there, careful, finding the pulse, and he makes a sound that’s almost a groan, almost the sound you heard through the wall last night, and his thrusts falters for one stroke and then comes back harder.
"Like that?" he asks.
"Like that. Like that. Din…"
"You're close."
"Yes."
"Stay quiet."
"I can't…"
"You can."
He puts his other hand over your mouth. Bare, hot, dry and rough and you moan into it. He fucks you through it, hips snapping against yours in a rhythm that’s losing its precision, finally, after how long you can’t say, and you feel him start to come undone above you – felt the small involuntary movements he’s no longer controlling, feel the way his head bows and the helmet presses to your temple, feel the choked sound through the modulator that you’ve now heard five times in your life and will, you suspect, hear a great many more times before you’re done with each other.
"Come for me," he says, against your ear, against the metal between your ear and his mouth. "Now. Now, sweetheart, now…"
You come around him with his hand over your mouth, his other hand at your throat, his cock buried to the hilt and his forehead against yours, and you scream into his palm. He feels you go – feels every pulse of you around him – and he makes a sound you’ve never heard him make before, a real one, a whole one, unmodulated and choked and human, as he comes inside you, hard, in long pulses that you feel all the way up into your stomach.
Then he collapses – not all the way, catching himself on one elbow carefully – but his full weight comes down on you in a way it hasn’t, and the beskar of the helmet rests cool against the side of your face. You wrap your arms around his shoulders and hold him, his bare back slick under your palms, his breathing wreckage.
"Din," you say when you can.
"Yeah."
"You called me sweetheart."
He freezes fractionally. "I did."
"And...I lied."
"About what?"
"The tension. It's not gone."
His forehead – the brow of the helmet – presses harder against yours.
"No," he agrees. "It's not."
"What are we going to do about that?"
"Try again."
"Now?"
"Give me five minutes."
You laugh into the side of his helmet and feel his shoulders shake, just a little. You run your hand up the back of his neck to the very edge of the helmet – the place where the beskar meets the skin – and let your fingertips rest there.
He doesn’t stop you or pull away. He lets your fingers stay at the line where his hidden self begins, and he lets you keep them there, and that, you understand, is a different kind of yes.
You take it, close your eyes and keep your hand where it is.
Five minutes, he said.
You can wait five minutes.
You have, you reflect, gotten very good at waiting for him.
➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰🚀➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰
PART TWO
PTaglist: @copperhalfcent @missladym1981 @whattheflipsiesss @brittmb115 @elizabeth4th @peepawmiller @angelwithablade @cassieorz @somedayheaven @silversvu12 @madpanda75 @johnssherlock221 @madnessofadaydreamer @kirsteng42 @ifall4dilfs @pedro-pascal-3nthusiast @cuteanimalmama @inept-the-magnificent @mystickittytaco @arood98 @sunnytuliptime @katw474 @pascalgold @dotyoureyez @victoriaholland @loveday1219 @awkwardpaws
The Winner Takes It All | 12: Fix You
Pairing: Harry Castillo x reader
Chapter summary: Harry books you a trip to Bahamas, hoping to move on from the loss and focus on your future together. During the holiday you both realize something.
Rating: 18+ MDNI
Chapter warnings: EXPLICIT CONTENT (18+) smut, unprotected piv, cowgirl, oral (m receiving), praise, semi public sex, reader is on a pill, angst, mentions of past infertility and miscarriages, Harry being the perfect husband, alcohol consumption, language, mentions of adoption
Words: 6.6k
Notes: Welcome to another chapter! I can’t believe we’re slowly getting to an end. I hope you’ll enjoy this one. English is not my first language, so I apologize for any mistakes. Please, do not copy my work. Thanks!
series masterlist | next chapter
„Hi.” You peek through the open door to Harry’s study.
He looks up at you from his laptop screen and smiles fondly. „Hey, baby. How was it?”
You make your way to him, rounding the oakwood desk. Harry turns his chair to face you, instantly grasping your hand to lay a gentle kiss on the back of it.
„It was okay. Dr. Jones says that it’s a good sign my nightmares aren’t frequent anymore. Means I’m healing.” You say and without invitation, you settle in his lap. Harry smiles, holding you there, enjoying the feeling of you like that. You both slowly learn intimacy without the pressure of trying for a baby. And it is going actually good.
It’s been few months since your second miscarriage.
It still hurts like hell. Well, it’ll always will, there’s no way to escape that. But your therapy helps. You and your husband learn how to live with the loss. How to cope with what your marriage experienced.
It’s difficult, but with every day your hearts feel lighter.
„I’m glad to hear that.” He kisses your cheek. „Next session is shared, right?”
„Yeah.”
He nods. You rest against him more comfortably. You always like the hugs after seeing your therapist. And Harry is always there to hold you. No matter if you’re shaken and need a good cry, or if you’re thoughtful and need to sit in silence.
And you are the same for him, too. It’s beautiful how you both found solace in each other. How you choose it every day.
„What’s this?” You ask curiously as you glance at his laptop screen. There’s some trip offer? A big yellow title Bahamas flashing in your face. „Ugh… I was just looking.” Harry shrugs. „I thought maybe… We could use some holiday. After everything… Just relax and spend time together… But it was just a stupid idea, we don’t have to go anywhere.” He leans over just to close the laptop lid, worried maybe it’s too early for you.
„Wait.” You cup his cheek, making him look at you. You see he’s trying to do everything to help you and go at your pace. „Honestly… It doesn’t sound bad.”
„No?”
„No. I think… Maybe we really would use some change. Get out of New York.” You say and can feel his grip on you tightening lovingly.
„Then I’ll book us a trip. Bahamas okay? Or do you want to go somewhere else?”
„Bahamas are perfect. It’s been a while since we’ve been there.”
„Yeah, I agree.” He smiles and pecks your lips sweetly. „I’ll make sure it’ll be the best holiday you went to.”
„I have no doubt in that.” You respond to his smile with even a brighter one. That’s how you try to bury the fear that you might destroy what he is so desperately trying to build. You feel good, you moved on, but… What if the grief checks in unexpectedly? What if you won’t be able to just settle into the holiday mood and sip drinks all day? You’re somehow managing in the city, life just goes on… But you’re scared what might happen if you slow down.
***************************
The days before the flight to Bahamas you’re a bundle of nerves. You really try to hide it, not wanting Harry to worry even more about you. He’s trying so hard to move on, so you want to keep up with him. You believe that if you push through, it’ll all turn out fine.
Now, you’re staring at your suitcase that lays open on your bed. You tap your foot against the carpet, going through the list of things you have in your mind. Sunscreen, dresses, shorts… You’re missing something.
„You forgot about something?” Harry emerges from the wardrobe, your bikini top dangling from his finger. You huff under your breath amused. You can’t help, but feel lighter when you see his little smirk as he approaches you.
„I’m really looking forward to seeing you in this.” He says and hands you the top. „Well, that’s good you reminded me, then.” You give him a faint smile and put the bikini in your suitcase. You intend to go to the bathroom for your cosmetics, but Harry tugs you by the waist, so you fall right into his chest.
„You okay?” He asks.
„Yeah. Yeah, I’m great. Happy that we’re going.” You sneak your arms up to rest on his shoulders.
„You sure? We can still cancel.”
„No, absolutely not. We need this.” You say more certain now. You really don’t wanna destroy the trip with your overthinking. „Baby, it’s okay if you don’t feel like going…” he attempts, but you cut him off with a kiss. His concern malting as your lips move against his, his arms tighten around your waist.
„I feel like going. Stop worrying.” You try to reassure him with your smile.
„Okay, love. Sorry.” He pecks your nose sweetly.
***************************
The flight is comfortable, Harry made sure of that. He booked the first class seats on the plane. Yours by the window just how you like it. You watched together Bridgerton. You convinced your husband to do it and he actually got more involved in the plot than you. It’s always like this. This man is a sucker for a good romance drama and you’re the only one he shows his dark side around. You tease him about it a lot.
When you land, you have to get to another, smaller plane offered by the resort Harry booked. It fortunately doesn’t take long to fly there. And soon you’re transfered to the bungalow.
Your husband wanted you two to have privacy and a beautiful view. And that’s what you have. A resort offering separate, luxurious villas just by the ocean. One is yours and it’s completely breathtaking.
When you enter, you can’t help but twirl around, admiring the specious house. It has a very beachy vibe. It’s light in here, thanks to huge windows. The sheer, cotton curtains flowing with the ocean breeze.
Oh, yeah. The ocean.
It’s right there, like you could reach for it with just your hand. It’s so blue, calling your name. You take a deeper breath and for the first time actually feel that it was worth it, coming here.
Harry follows you to the terrace and wraps his arms around you from behind. Both of you are admiring the view.
„I already love it here.” You whisper and he squeezes you.
„Me too.”
„Can we go for a swim?” You glance at him hopeful. You always loved water. „Now?” He raises an eyebrow with a smirk.
„Now.”
Without waiting, you pull away from him. You step forward to the dock, getting rid of your clothing piece by piece. For a moment Harry can’t do anything, but stand there and watch. There’s a sharp intake of his breath when he sees your bare back. You didn’t have a chance to put on a swimsuit. Of course, you’re going to swim naked.
When your clothes are completely gone and your husband admires how your skin glows in the sun, you look over your shoulder at him.
„Come on!” You call. You don’t remember the last time you felt so carefree, but this place just did something to you and you want it to last. Just for now… You can just forget about any concerns.
The moment you jump into the water, Harry rushes to strip off from his clothes. With a big grin on his face he runs on the dock and dives in as well with a splash.
Your laugh carries through the waves and when he surfaces he just joins you. The water is refreshing, the sun is high, blessing you with its golden rays. There’s no correct word to describe what you’re feeling now. After so much time in suffering… This feels…
Just fucking amazing.
„You’re so gorgeous.” Your husband swims closer to you and embraces you in water. He can’t stop admiring you. You’re floating together, breeze making his hair curl beautifully. Bahamas Harry is your favourite Harry.
„You too.” You smirk.
He kisses you right there, with waves keeping you on the surface. It’s passionate and deep, the way he hasn’t kissed you I a while, because he was afraid you’ll break. But now? It’s his wife who gained her spark back. It’s perfect. Body against body. Lips against lips. Your form melting in his strong arms, trusting he’ll never let you drown.
Because he never did.
So you just keep making out, using the fact that you have your own, private piece of a beach here and no one will interrupt you.
You’re naked and happy, and nothing else matters to you right now.
***************************
Later, after a swim and unpacking, you decided to head to the private beach that is owned by the resort. Harry finds two free sunbeds, near the shore.
„It’s perfect.” You say as you set your tote bag down. You grab your towel and lay down on the sunbed, your eyes hidden behind big Dior sunglasses. Harry can’t help, but steal glances at you. You’re wearing that sexy white bikini he loves. How is he supposed to keep his hands to himself?
„So now we’re just gonna lay and fry here?” He asks dropping onto the subbed next to yours.
„Exactly.” You sigh content and he shakes his head amused.
But he’ll do anything for you. Even if he’s not a type to just lay and relax for few hours straight. His workaholic side is still sometimes lurking, whispering that he’s not being productive enough. He tries to kill it. It’s about you. You and your wellbeing.
„Okay. Sounds good to me.” He says and puts on his own sunglasses. „Yeah, sure.” You snort.
For next thirty minutes you just lay, listening to the ocean waves. You’re pretty sure Harry dozed off for a few minutes, but you don’t comment on that. Just lift a corner of your lips. He needs rest more than he admits.
You, though, try to enjoy the sun. You feel it kissing your skin, gently sinking in. You like this feeling, bathing in the golden streaks. It’s so peaceful here, so quiet…
It makes your thoughts seem loud.
You’re on holiday, why can’t they shut up? Why something still doesn’t feel alright? You didn’t feel it earlier in the bungalow with Harry, but now that you have a moment to think… They won’t go away. Despite everything you try… The void in your heart is still present. Still painfully evident.
A child.
Shut up.
You take a deeper breath and glance at Harry. Through his glasses you see he has his eyes closed. So you quietly stand up and head to the water. You need to wash off the lingering tension in your body.
The moment your feet touch the water, you feel kind of better. You swim far enough so you could still feel the sand beneath you. You let yourself float together with your thoughts.
„Just leave me alone.” You whisper into the space. „Just let me heal.”
You take few slow inhales. The breeze hitting your nostrils clears your mind a bit.
„Baby?!” You hear a voice calling you from the shore. You turn to see Harry standing there. „I’m fine!” You wave. You didn’t even think, he might be worried if he wakes up and sees you gone. Great.
You swim back onto the beach. He’s watching you carefully, noticing the unusual behaviour. „You okay?”
„Yes. I’m sorry, you were just sleeping so soundly there… I didn’t have a heart to wake you.” You approach him for a hug with a smile. You wrap yourself around him, all wet, making him wet as well. The crease between his brows softens.
„The waiter been here. I ordered us two Piña Coladas.”
„I was hoping for some Sex on the Beach.” You smirk and he chuckles, but it sounds a bit breathlessly.
„Well, that… Can be arranged later.” He holds you closer, swaying your bodies gently.
Soon, you have your cocktails and sit comfortably on the sunbeds. You believe Harry didn’t sense your inner turmoil. You surely hope so, not wanting to destroy the holiday. Especially, that you’re not exactly sure what you feel.
„I love it here.” Harry sighs content. „Look who suddenly enjoys just lying and frying.” You chuckle, looking at him from above your sunglasses.
„Come on, we’re on holidays, can’t you go easy on me?”
You just huff amused under your breath and finish your drink. You set en empty glass on a small table beside you and glance at Harry.
„Darling? Would you?” You grab the bottle of the sunscreen to hand him. His gaze instantly brightens.
„Of course, baby.”
He stands up to sit on the edge of your sunbed as you lay down on your stomach. He can’t help but bite his lower lip. Applying a sunscreen on you is his favourite beach activity.
„You can undo the string.” You say.
Harry does his duty very meticulously. His warm fingers brushing against your bare back as he unties. A pleasurable hum leaves your mouth at the sensation.
Soon he massages the cold sunscreen into your skin and, God, nothing feels better than his hands on you. Every stroke, every delicate brush makes you relax into it more. Yeah… Maybe you just needed your husband to touch you.
„Good?” He whispers.
„Very good.”
Harry smirks to himself. The sight of you like this… He regrets you’re on a resort beach, not the one adjoined to your bungalow. He would do things to you there… But that doesn’t mean he can’t tease here.
„Are you wet?” His velvet voice carries through the breeze and makes you shiver. „You know I am.”
You shift under his touch, feeling the ache forming between your thighs. He exactly knows what he’s doing to you and he’s enjoying every second. His hands slide lower, to your ass and thighs. That’s when a moan escapes your lips.
That’s a fucking torture.
„Mmm, baby, you’re so turned on, aren’t you? Just by my touch.”
„Harry… enough…” you breathe, literally writhing beneath his hands, seeking friction against the sunbed. „Take me to the villa.”
„Oh, that turned on?” He teases.
You glance over his shoulder with a warning, but it’s softened with a needy glint in your eyes.
That’s when he knows to give in.
It takes three minutes tops to get all your stuff and rush back to the bungalow. That wasn’t the plan, you were supposed to stay on the beach for another hour, have another drink.
But his hands were enough for you to change your mind.
Now, you’re dropping your bag and instantly falling into his arms, connecting in a bruising kiss. He picks you up effortlessly, intending to go to the bedroom.
„Wait.” You break the kiss. He frowns, asking silently what is it. You can already see his chest heaving. The rhythm is matching yours.
„We were on a beach. We’re all in sand.” You say and he chuckles.
You hate the sand in bed. It gets everywhere.
„Shower?” He smirks.
„Shower.”
He changes his direction and carries you to the specious bathroom. It also has the ocean view. Windows opened into the nature, the hum of waves sounding inside. A dream sex location actually.
He tears your bikini off of you. You tug down his trunks.
And then, still with your mouth on each other you stumble into the shower. Harry turns the water on, but his teeth are nipping your neck, he’s completely focused on you.
You let the water wash off the sand from your bodies and then… There’s nothing that can stop you.
Harry pins you to the tile wall. The look in his eyes is wild, wanting in the best way. You can already feel his hard cock against your thigh.
„What do you want, baby?” He whispers, tucking a wet strand of your hair behind your ear. It’s a tender moment in the middle of the heat. You make this typical for you frustrated sound, like always when you have a hard time focusing. He just has you already too far gone.
Your mind wandering. The memory of your short moment alone in the ocean is still humming somewhere in the back of your mind. You want to get rid of it. You want…
„You.” A quiet confession leaves your mouth and his eyes widen slightly when you start sinking to your knees. „Wait, love, you don’t have to…”
„Shh… Let me.” The smirk you give him is enough to make him melt. He takes a sharp inhale when he sees you like that. All wanting and hungry for him. It’s like this old spark, your marriage had, is now back.
„Fine. Do what you do best.” He says.
You balance yourself, grasping his thighs. The water is cascading next to you both, the sound of it making the atmosphere more intimate.
You have his hard, leaking with precum dick right before your face. Without breaking the eye contact you take a first lick. Just around the tip. Harry grits his teeth. He always liked when you teased him like that.
„Come on, baby. Take it into that sweet mouth.”
You wrap your lips around him, gently at first. A sharp intake of his breath tells you he is already close to an outburst. It seems the massage didn’t work just on you. You take him deeper, your tongue flattening against his manhood. „Shit, baby.” He almost moans.
You bob your head as he keeps your pace by gripping your hair. Not tightly, but enough to make your pussy clench around nothing. It takes all his willpower not to thrust into this delicious mouth of yours.
„Just… Fucking hell. G-good girl.”
Hearing the praise you take him even deeper, pulling him by the back of his thighs. He cups your cheek, because he wants you to look into his eyes as you take him. He wants you to see how his gaze darkens in pleasure, and that it’s just because of you.
„Baby, need to fuck this mouth. Will you let me?” He grits through his teeth, trying to restrain his desire. You hum in eager agreement, because that’s exactly what you want.
You want him to take you hard enough to make your worries disappear. You want to gag with him in your mouth. You want to be the one to give him the pleasure.
He doesn’t stop himself, just thrusts deeper into the heat of your lips and you take him perfectly. He’s chasing the pleasure now, but is still mindful of your comfort. The water ringing in his head, as well as the blood pumping in his veins. It’s too fucking much. The sight of you, all covered in droplets, on your knees, with that begging gaze of yours… And those maddening strokes of your tongue…
It’s too fucking much for him.
„Gonna come. And you’re gonna swallow.” A ragged moan escapes him. His eyelids flutter as he feels the heat coiling in his lower abdomen. You always undo him in minutes.
„Come on, baby.” He rasps, moving his hips few more times. The way his tip hits the back of your throat… It actually makes you moan against him and it’s driving him insane. The way you enjoy it… it makes him lose it completely.
He comes with a curse on his tongue. You swallow his cum eagerly, until he is too overwhelmed by the sensation. He pulls you away by the hair with a sharp breath. „Fuck, baby— Shit, you were amazing.”
You bite your lip, admiring how wrecked he is by your mouth. You always enjoyed it.
Harry brings you up to your feet. He’s embracing you now, stepping, so you both are under the hot stream of the shower. „Such a good, good girl...” He rests his forehead against yours with a smirk. You chuckle, but he cuts you off with a deep kiss. He tastes himself on your tongue, which draws a low groan out of him. It’s filthy and it’s everything you ever needed.
Just him. Like this. Crazy about you.
***************************
The next days are… incredible.
There’s lots of sex. There’s amazing food. Amazing views…
Everything a person could ask for.
Most of the time you succeed in keeping your mind in line. No unwanted thoughts about something missing.
You focus on your husband instead.
You focus on admiring him as he walks out the ocean. All wet, his hair curling from water, his chest glistening in the sun… Yes, that’s what you’re focusing on.
You’re focusing on the quiet, affectionate moments with him.
Like this one.
You just had a long walk along the coast. Holding hands, watching the sunset. It feels perfect.
The way his lips found your temple from time to time. Or the way he pulled you closer into his side.
You’re happy to see him like this. Relaxed and smiling. He also went through a lot last two years. He had to watch you suffer, cry in his arms, unable to do anything about your pain. He just held you. That’s all he could do, at the same time carrying his own sorrow in silence. Just so you could get better.
So now, you just don’t want to ruin this for him.
He deserves a moment of peace with you.
That’s why you’re doing your best to be positive. To smile and laugh.
It’s not like you’re forcing yourself either. It’s just… this constant feeling that lingers with all the happiness you experience.
The lack.
Now, you’re walking back to your bungalow. It’s slowly getting dark, so you’ll stay in here for the evening. Share a bath and maybe watch some movie later. Fall asleep in each other’s arms.
You smile to yourself at the picture in your head.
„You hungry? I could call the room service.” Harry says as you enter the bungalow.
„Yeah. Empanadas?”
„You read my mind.” He grins.
You still hold his hand as you walk further into the living room. And then… You stop.
There’s a huge bouquet of pink roses on the dining table.
„Harry.” You look at him with awe and then back at the flowers. He smiles warmly as you approach them.
The flowers are gorgeous. Delicate and pink. There must be around hundred of them…
„There’s a note.” He stands by your side, gently nodding at the card tucked between the petals. You raise your eyebrow playfully, because you didn’t expect such a gift. Well, you should’ve known by now Harry likes to spoil you.
You grab the card and unfold it, expecting some affectionate confession, or some spicy text.
But what you see goes somewhere further.
Happy Mother’s Day
You stare at the neatly written words. Three words that take your breath away. You look up confused at your husband.
„Today is a second Sunday of May.” He says deliberately.
„But…”
You can’t find anything to say. You’re speechless. What the hell does that mean? You’re not… Why did he buy you the bouquet…?
„I hope you’re not mad at me for this… I just wanted to say you deserve those. To me, you are a mom. You carried both our kids as long as you could…” he falls silent for a moment, collecting his thoughts. You keep staring at the card, the flowers… But your vision gets blurry. „You endured so much for our family… And I just wanted to tell you I see you. I see you’re still trying, still smiling despite everything… And, God, how I admire your strength, darling.” He takes a step closer. „I love you. And our babies also do, wherever they are now. They have the best mommy in the world.”
You don’t even feel the tears running down your cheeks. You just listen to his words, listen to the way his gentle voice carries the important message. You don’t miss the way he wavers for a moment, like he’s moments from crying, too.
He sees you.
All this time you tried to push through and act fine… He saw the real you. The struggling you.
The mom you.
He gave you flowers, because he believes you deserve them. Like any other mother.
For every sleepless night, every painful test at the clinic, every tearful diagnosis.
Every baby names debate, every onesie shopping, every single joy you felt during pregnancy.
For the first time… You believe it as well.
You are a mom.
„Thank you.” You say, but it trails off into a quiet sob and you instantly rush into his arms. He hugs you like he did million times before, but it feels… loaded. With all the emotions you tried to bury, with all the admiration he has for you.
„You’re my hero.” He whispers against your head. He holds you close, your ear pressed against his chest, you can feel his heartbeat very clearly. Beating just for you.
„It’s the best gift I ever got.” You weep into his linen shirt. „Thank you…”
„No need to thank me, baby. Just giving you what you always deserved.”
***************************
After this memorable night… The weight from your chest lifted.
Not entirely. But you got some clearance.
Those roses… that card... And Harry’s words…
They were your key to a fresh start.
Without guilt. Without self-loath.
You can move on and still hold the beautiful memory of your unborn children.
You needed that a lot. And somehow your husband always knows what you need.
You can enjoy your holiday. You absolutely do.
And Harry makes sure you do.
He rented a yacht for a whole day just for the two of you.
You spend it on the water, admiring the views, snorkeling, sunbathing and eating.
Your laugh carries through the endless horizon and he just watches you in awe. Right now, the yacht is anchored far from the shore. You can still see shape of the island and some lights flickering, but… It’s just you and Harry. Well, and the crew inside. But who cares.
The weather is amazing and right now you’re eating together on a deck. The table is full with seafood and other delicious meals. Everything prepared by the private chef your resort provides. The wine tastes amazing on your tongue. You feel light and happy.
„You’re so beautiful, you know?” Harry says eyeing you up. The short, halter dress you’re wearing is driving him insane. And the way your hair move with the breeze…
You laugh quietly and clink glasses with him. „You’re just too in love with me.” You say.
„Nah, there’s no ’too’ in loving you. It’ll never be enough. But yeah, I’m obsessed with you, love.”
He leans over to you. You bite your lip seeing the hungry, adoring edge in his gaze.
Without thinking too much, you set your wine glass and shift closer to him on the couch. Soon, you just straddle his lap.
„Weren’t we supposed to eat?” He smirks.
„Then you shouldn’t have said all those things.”
You pull him into a kiss ad he instantly groans into it. He moves his hands to settle on your hips, sliding beneath the sinful hem of your dress. You love making out with Harry. Love the way his tongue finds yours, the way he nips at your lower lip, drawing moans out of you.
Your hips start moving, you rub yourself against the growing tent in his shorts. He takes a sharp breath in. „Baby…”
But despite his warning, you just keep going. The friction is just perfect and you can already feel your desire flood your underwear.
His lips find your jaw, gently sucking on it, making your head spin.
„Harry… need you. Now.” You breathe and he looks at you.
„Then go on. Take what you need.”
That’s all you really had to hear. You tug at his shorts, he helps you to free his hardened, ready cock. It’s glistening with precum and for a moment you just watch your husband stroke himself. Fortunately, you don’t need to think about the condom anymore. After you ended your infertility treatment, you deiced to start taking birth control pills. You just feel… safer. Without the dread of another pregnancy.
„You ready for me? Or need a little more?” He asks.
„Check it yourself.”
He accepts the invitation and slides one of his hands higher, until his fingers brush against the damp fabric between your thighs. Harry grins. „Damn, darling. You’ve been sitting here like this?”
You nod, unable to wait any longer. He sees the anticipation in you and decides not to tease you today. „Alright, baby. Get what you want. Use me.” He leans back against the cushion and watches you lining yourself up with his cock.
The view is better than the ocean around him.
You pull the fabric of your underwear aside, just enough to slowly sink onto Harry. You moan quietly, mindful of the crew that’s inside the yacht.
„Fuck, darling.” He throws his head back at the feeling of your pussy squeezing him.
You steady yourself, grasping his shoulders. Your dress rides up, exposing more of your sun-kissed skin. Harry can’t hold back and his lips attack your neck and your chest. The exposed valley between your breasts makes him drive up into you once, drawing a gasp out of you.
„Sorry, baby, you’re just so sexy right now.” He rasps.
Then, you start slowly rolling your hips, sinking further onto his length until you take him completely. You always feel so full in that position. He’s always hitting that sweet spot deep inside you.
„Harry… ugh, so good.” You whimper, trying to keep the pace steady.
„Yeah, I feel how you’re squeezing me. Come on, take what you want. Don’t hold back.”
His words and how he still focuses on your exposed skin, gracing it with kisses and sucking marks… It makes you fall into that race, seeking your pleasure.
You already feel it coiling. You speed up, the rolls of your hips deeper. That feels so good, you tilt your head back. Harry can’t help but admire how your lips went slightly open in pleasure. How every sensation you experience is vivid on your face.
He also feels it’s getting harder not to just spill already. The grip on your hips tightens, guiding your movements, letting your legs rest a bit.
„Just like that… Ride me, baby.”
The moans that ring in his ear are like some siren song. Making him tug you closer. Your foreheads against each other, your breaths mix. The way your eyes are locked, sharing the same pleasure… It’s everything.
„Harry, I need… More.”
„I got you, darling.” He rasps and brings his fingers between you to start rubbing that swollen clit that’s begging for attention. You immediately whine as the rolls of your hips falter. The pleasure becoming too much. You’re chasing the orgasm, dreaming of a release.
„Good girl, needing me to take over.” Harry groans and thrusts up into you. You fall against him, wrapping your arms around his neck and let him take the lead. He’s pounding into you now, you hear his ragged breathes against your ear as he does.
That sweet spot deep inside is now attacked with his tip, again and again until the pressure reaches its peak.
The orgasm shatters you, tearing you apart with spasms of release. Harry nearly loses his mind at all the moans you let out straight into his ear.
„Fuck— Fuck!” He comes with a low groan, spilling inside your pussy that keeps clenching around him.
You take a moment to catch your breaths, coming down from the high of doing it right here on the yacht. Harry looks in awe at you. At your flushed cheeks, glowing in the sun. At your hair messy from the breeze. And the marks he left on your skin.
„I love you so fucking much.” He says.
„Love you, too. So much.” You lean in for another kiss. Less wild than the lovemaking you just had, but still holding the meaning. The trust and devotion. The adoration for one another.
***************************
The last night of your holiday, you spend in a resort restaurant that is just by the water. The view is breathtaking. Water, sunset, palm trees. It’s a perfect way to end your paradise getaway.
You watch your husband sitting in front of you in his linen, olive green shirt. The buttons by the collar are undone, so you can have a peek at his tanned chest. So handsome.
„You’re staring, baby.” He raises an eyebrow.
„What can I say? You know I love this shirt on you.”
„Damn right, I know. That’s why I wore it.”
You’re waiting for the food you ordered. The waiter pours cold white wine into your glasses and the first sip of it feels heavenly.
It’s perfect.
It’s so perfect, that the ache in your heart makes itself felt again.
Despite everything, you and Harry are blessed. You have each other, you are in this beautiful place, you experience all those amazing things… The life you lead is idyllic.
And yet… you fell this emptiness. Something is missing. And you know what it is, but you’re too terrified to say it out loud.
You snap out of your thoughts when the food arrives to the table. You gasp lightly, amazed by the skills of the chef.
Harry smiles, watching you. He knows you always appreciate a good cuisine.
„I’m really glad we came here. The whole trip, I mean.” He says as you eat your dinner. He watches you carefully, the way your eyes drift to the ocean from time to time. Thoughtful.
„Yes, me too. That was a good idea.” You lift the corner of your lips. „And the oysters are delicious.”
„Agree.”
For a moment you just eat in silence. The atmosphere is charged with both your and his distracted states. Harry feels something weird about you and he can’t say it doesn’t worry him. Despite all your happiness he saw through last few days… He’s aware you have something on your mind.
The intimacy of the restaurant is interrupted by the loud squeals at the table across the terrace. Both of you glance there.
There’s a family. A couple and their two kids. A girl, about four years old, babbling happily about something. Her older brother drawing something on the placemat.
They seem so happy.
The parents are laughing together with their children. You see how the mom takes the little girl to sit on her lap. How she peppers her chubby cheeks with kisses.
The lack.
You feel it so strongly now, it’s unbearable.
This is what you are missing.
This is why your dream vacation isn’t perfect.
Because you were supposed to have a family of your own.
Harry feels it now, too. Something, he tried to push down deep into his soul. Something, he thought he could fix with expensive trips and kisses.
He sees the expression on your face. He reaches his hand, placing it on top of yours on the table.
But his touch burns you. You pull away, in seconds standing up from your chair. You can’t bear it. It’s not how it’s supposed to be.
„Baby, wait!” He calls after you, but you already step down the stairs that lead onto the beach. „Goddamnit.”
He follows you seconds later, unable to leave you alone right now. He wants to now what did you think about. And if it’s matching his own thoughts that appeared when he saw that family.
You’re walking fast, just ahead, without any particular destination. You hear his footsteps on the sand behind you.
„Christ, wait a moment.” He pants and grasps your elbow to stop you and turn you to face him. „Love...”
„I thought I could do it.” You whisper, glancing over his shoulder at the restaurant. „Ignore the hole that grew in my heart.”
„What hole? Darling… Just talk to me.” He takes a hopeful step closer.
„I can’t get pregnant and I don’t want to try anymore. I don’t want to ever again feel like I did after the miscarriages. I won’t take it…” You say something he was already aware of. Something, he made peace with, loving you more than anything in the world. „But I still feel this… emptiness. It was supposed to be us!” You throw your hand out toward the restaurant, where the family probably eats together their dinner.
And Harry… He understands.
Oh, he understands you so well.
„Now, I know why I couldn’t fully enjoy our holiday. It was always about what we’re missing. What we were supposed to be.” You continue.
„Parents.” He whispers, sharing the similar ache in his own heart.
„Parents.”
The realization is painful. Of course, you love each other, of course, it should be enough. And most of the time it is.
But you can’t just throw away the dream that’s been in your heads for so long. You wanted to be a mom since you were a teenager. Harry never felt the rush until he met you. With you… He felt like he could have even ten kids.
„I won’t ever get pregnant. But I can’t act like I don’t dream about the family.” You whisper.
Harry cups your cheek with his hand, his thumb gently brushing your skin there. He sees the resilience in you. The quiet strength that grew after the loss you endured.
„So what do we do?” He asks.
You hesitate for a moment. There is an idea you’ve been secretly thinking about. Something, that you would reject in the past, wanting your own biological child. But now… You’re aware you don’t have many options.
„What if we… adopt a child?”
Harry’s eyes soften, hearing your question and the waver in your voice.
Adopt a child.
„I’ve been thinking about it a lot, actually.” He confesses. „But I wasn’t sure how you’d react… I didn’t want to pressure you.”
„Really? You… You wouldn’t mind that? That it wouldn’t be our own…”
„As far as I’m concerned, adoptive parents are just as real as the biological ones.” He pulls a strand of your hair behind your ear, leaning in closer to your face. „After everything we went through… All I really want is us to be happy. And… And maybe that is a way to achieve that. Giving someone a loving home.”
The relief you feel at his words is undescribable. Oh, how you love this man. You love how every day you are shown, you made the right decision forgiving him all those years ago. How you made the right decision marrying him. You see it in moments like this. When he’s the reason and your rock. When he understands your fears.
„I want to give someone a home.” You nod. „I want it very much.”
He smiles dearly at you. He’s looking at you like you hung the moon. He can’t believe this is how you end your trip to Bahamas. With a new goal. A beautiful goal.
„Then we will. We’ll get to that as soon as we come back to New York.” He presses a sweet kiss to your forehead.
It finally feels right.
The hope raises in your hearts. A missing piece.
A kid doesn’t need to be biological to be yours. And you finally don’t have to act like living without a child is enough. You wanted it to be, but dreams don’t choose.
You deep down feel, that you and Harry were made to be parents.
And now… Now it feels like it could happen.
Your missing piece. Your child.
God, you can’t wait until you get home.
***************************
next chapter
A/N: Thank you for reading! I really hope you enjoyed it. Of course, I’m looking forward to your comments. I really liked the Mother’s Day scene, especially that today it is Mother’s Day in my country🥰 Cheers!
Taglist: @palomavs @negrita2345 @jothenurse91 @chewie-bars @ivoryandflame @perpetualharpyresonance @alyloops @mamustreads @misstokyo7love @picketniffler @inept-the-magnificent @jasminedragoon @callmebyyournick-name @victoriaholland @oh-thats-cute @sophx58 @lilacs97 @mrsjosephmazzello @orcasoul @vickie5446 @callittrueblue @maryfanson @dendulinka6 @sunnytuliptime @pascalgf @cuteanimalmama @yourfavouritecrime
Tears
Summary: Joel is respectful and responsible. He’s also incredibly good in bed.
Pairing: neighbor!Joel Miller x reader
Word Count: 3560
Warnings/tags: smut, fwb, miscommunication, no!apocalypse au
A/N: we all know Joel is responsible so...yeah. Comment if you wanna be added to da tag listtt
Find the rest of the Man’s Best Friend series here!
Why you chose to read outside in the middle of June, under the blazing Texas sun, is a mystery to you now. With one hand clutching your book, you use the other to fan yourself lazily, the heat clinging to your skin. Even the spot where your ankles meet feels sticky, the sweat making it nearly impossible to stay comfortable.
The hum of an engine breaks the monotony of the afternoon, and you glance up to see your neighbor’s pickup truck idling down the street, easing into the driveway with a soft hiss before coming to a stop. When he gets out, you offer a friendly wave, your lips pulling into a smile that he returns easily. His daughter jumps from the truck almost immediately, a jumprope in hand, her small feet skipping across the sun-drenched grass as she starts to play. You can’t help but groan inwardly.
Joel’s been your neighbor for nearly three years now. He moved in with little more than his truck and his daughter, and you had taken to them both right away. He’s warm, with a thick Texas drawl and a grin that’s easy to return. Over the years, you’ve gotten to know him well, sharing casual chats over fences and backyard barbecues.
What you hadn’t anticipated, though, was the way your feelings had shifted as summer settled in, bringing with it more than just heat. The attraction had crept up slowly, unexpected and undeniable, igniting under the relentless sun.
You can’t help but giggle as Sarah struggles to find a rhythm with the jumprope, her attempts falling short with each swing. Joel laughs softly beside her, dropping to one knee in front of his daughter, offering a few words of advice as her small face scrunches in frustration. Adjusting your glasses, you peer over the edge of your book, the plot forgotten as your attention drifts entirely to them. You watch as Joel stands, giving Sarah a gentle pat on the head before walking back to his truck. He opens the trunk, pulling out heavy plastic bags of fertilizer with ease, tossing them over his shoulder as if they were weightless.
Joel's back and shoulders ache from the repetitive motion as he moves, beads of sweat trickling down his face. He glances toward you, noticing your gaze, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. Ignoring the discomfort, he continues, his muscles flexing beneath his shirt with the effort.
“You know, darlin. It's kind of rude to stare.” He calls out with a playful tone, his drawl thick as usual.
“H-hi Joel,” You call back, swearing under your breath at the stutter. “Hot out aint it?”
Yeah, real smooth, mention the very obvious hot weather.
Joel smiles, nodding as he lifts another bag to his shoulder. His arms contract in a way that makes you sit up just a bit straighter. “Sure is. Thank god the pool was open otherwise Sarah woulda melted.”
“Hey!” Sarah snaps, her small arms crossing. “I would not!”
“No, but I surely might,” You joke. “This heat is enough to keep me inside after this.”
Joel chuckles, shaking his head as he adjusts the fertilizer bag on his shoulder. His eyes flicker over to you with a teasing glint. “Ain't that a shame.” he says, voice low and rough like gravel under boots.
Sarah rolls her eyes dramatically at both of you before stomping toward the house—”I’m gettin’ juice!”—leaving Joel alone in your line of sight.
He takes one slow step closer to your fence, resting an elbow against it as sweat drips down his temple. “You sure ya don't wanna come cool off? My hose is workin' just fine." A smirk plays at the corner of his mouth when he adds. “Plenty of room for two.”
You look him up and down, your glasses perched on the bridge of your nose before you smile. “Room for two?”
Joel's smirk deepens at your question, his dark eyes flickering with something mischievous. He leans in just a little closer over the fence, the wood creaking under his weight.
“Y’know,” he says slow and deliberate, dragging out that Texas drawl like honey on hot pavement, “I ain't ever think that you would back down from a challenge.” Another bead of sweat rolls down his neck as he watches you for reaction—waiting to see if you’ll bite.
Sarah’s distant yell from inside cuts through: “Daaad!”
He doesn’t even flinch. Just raises an eyebrow at you like well?
“Challenge?” You ask, tilting your face. He nods, standing back up straight as he shrugs a shoulder.
“Mhm,” he hums. “For example. If I were to slip my hand beneath the hem of those shorts, what would I find?”
Your mouth goes dry as your eyes widen, more than just the sun rays warming your skin. Joel laughs, almost to himself before his eyes find your face again. “I’d be willing to bet just about anythin’ it’s slick as silk right about now.”
He turns, walking back to his porch like his words hadn’t just wrecked you. When he tugs on the front door, he glances over at you over his shoulder and gives a little wave before stepping inside.
You scramble to your feet, ducking into your own home and pressing your back against the cool panel of the door frame. Breathing hard, you inhale through your nose, trying to ignore the ache between your legs, and you take the stairs two at a time.
It’s cooler in your bathroom, and you flick on the shower, tugging at your clothing, the material feeling suffocating. Embarrassment floods your veins when you find the material of your underwear sticky to your skin, your slick dampening the fabric. You toss them away, leaning against the sink as the shower begins to run, and you need something. Anything to squish the throbbing between your legs.
With shaking hands, you close your eyes, running your fingers just above the swell of your breast. Not enough, you yank at your shirt and tug it off, your palm brushing over the peaks of your nipples and you inhale slowly.
The bathroom door swings open with a quiet creak, no knock, no warning. Just the heavy weight of Joel’s presence filling the room as steam curls around him.
He leans against the doorframe, shirtless now and still glistening from his earlier work in the heat. His gaze drags slowly over your half-undressed form, your bare chest rising fast under shaky breaths, fingers ghosting over sensitive skin like you’re desperate for relief.
“Fuckin’ hell,” he mutters low in his throat before pushing off to step closer. One calloused hand wraps around your wrist while another brushes damp hair off your shoulder so he can murmur right against your ear. “Shoulda known you'd be this worked up just from my words.” A rough chuckle vibrates through him as his thumb presses into that throbbing spot between your legs without warning, testing. “Ain't even touched ya proper yet.”
You whimper, and he wraps the other arm around your middle to press your back to his chest as his fingers slowly work you.
“You’re so warm sweetheart,” he murmurs, and presses a kiss to your ear. “Let’s cool you off yeah?”
“J-Joel,” you whisper. “Please.”
“Please what?”
You sigh, and his fingers still, testing you, baiting you. Brows pinching you squirm but he holds you fast, the sweat of his chest sticking to your back. Turning your head, you look at him through a hazy glaze. “Please take care of me.”
Joel takes your chin in one hand, tilting your face just so as he bends to catch your mouth in a rough kiss. His lips move against yours, hot and hungry, tasting sweat and the summer air clinging to both of you as he backs you up into the bathroom counter. The cool surface hits your ass and you gasp into his mouth—teeth tugging against your bottom lip briefly before he pulls back to look at you, all dark eyes and flushed cheeks and sweat-slick skin.
“Don't have to ask me twice.”
He bends, gripping below your knees to pick you up and sets you at the edge of the sink counter. You’re panting as he tugs down his jeans, his hands moving quickly.
“Thought bout you all day,” he mutters, stroking his length once, thumb brushing over the head and he hisses. “Tried being present, doing the chores ‘n shit, but all I could think of was my sweet neighbor.”
When he presses in, you both let out a low moan, your head tipping back as your eyes flutter. He pulls back before sinking in again, one hand gripping your thigh while the other holds your hip.
“Trying to be responsible,” he mutters, nipping at your jaw. “Respectful. Then I see you sitting outside all sun-kissed and smilin’ and I forget it all.”
“You're supposed to be my friendly neighbor.” You tease, voice already breathless and rough, fingers gripping at his shoulders. Joel chuckles, a laugh that rumbles like thunder across the summer sky, and captures your lips in a messy kiss, nipping and sucking and licking as his tongue pushes into your mouth.
“Just bein' neighborly,” he murmurs, lips brushing against yours as he keeps up his steady pace. “Makin' sure you stay well taken care of, darlin.”
It all started as a casual fling, a spark ignited with the arrival of spring. The air was fresh, the days stretching longer, and it felt like the perfect time for something light, something temporary. Secret meetings in hidden corners, stolen kisses that were never meant to lead to anything more—at least, that’s what you thought at first. But somewhere along the way, something shifted. You caught yourself lingering in his smile, the sound of his laugh pulling you in deeper than you’d ever intended. Each touch, each glance, felt heavier than before, and despite trying to keep things casual, you realized you were starting to care. You’d fallen for him—yet he had no clue. You kept it buried beneath the surface, letting it simmer quietly as you watched him, knowing full well that what you had was never supposed to become anything more than a fleeting spring fling.
As he kisses you now, his length sinking inside you, you feel your legs lock on his waist, and sigh against his mouth. Nothing felt as good as being within his arms, under his touch.
He groans, head lolling forward to press his face into the crook of your neck, breath hot on your skin.
“God, you feel so damn good, darlin'. Better than I could deserve,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against your collarbone as one big hand runs up the outside of your thigh. “Been havin' a hell of a time not thinkin' about this all damn day. You think you could keep it a little quieter for me, baby girl? Think you can keep all those pretty sounds locked up in that sweet mouth?” He presses a kiss to the underside of your jaw. “Can you be a good girl for me?”
You whimper, nodding as he thrusts again and again. His mouth brushes your collarbones as his hand reaches back, unhooking your ankles before he pulls out, his cock slapping your inner thigh. You whine at the loss but then he’s picking you up, carrying you to the shower. The water splashes your hair and face, and you blink as he presses your back against the tiles, one leg sliding down before he drags the other leg higher up.
The water flows over both of you, running down your chests in rivulets and dripping from his chin. He’s panting, eyes locked on you like a man who's never had anything so sweet. When he kisses you again, it's a hungry thing, hot and heavy and desperate with a need that surprises you.
“You think you can take me like this, darlin’? Think you can keep quiet, like I know you can?” He mutters against your mouth, nipping at your lip with every other word. “I wanna hear you say it. I wanna hear you say you can.”
“I can,” you whisper, and his knuckles tighten underneath the bend in your knee. “I can be quiet.”
He presses in again and you hum softly before he begins a deep and daring pace. You adore when he takes the initiative, when he bends and pulls you the way he wants.
Joel's breath hitches as he feels you clench around him, his grip tightening on your thigh.
“Fuckin’ hell,” he growls, voice rough with need. His hips snap forward hard enough to make the shower wall rattle behind you—thump thump thump—as water sluices between your bodies in hot streaks.
“You lie so damn pretty.” he mutters against your neck when another broken sound slips from your lips despite all promises of silence. One hand drags up to cover yours where it's braced against the tile, fingers lacing tight like an anchor point while his thrusts turn punishingly deep.
It’s grounding and so affectionate your heart nearly leaps from your chest.
Releasing your fingers, his hand slips from yours and in between your bodies, finding the nub between your legs, rubbing gently.
“That good baby?” He hums, and your lashes flutter as you nod, lips parted. Your stomach jumps, clenching and you’re tumbling, racing so fast you nearly lose your breath.
Joel fucks you through your high, his nose bumping your cheek and water slips past your lips. His hips stutter, and he groans before pulling out quickly, warmth spreading in your lower abdomen as he pants.
You're still breathing hard, trembling faintly, when his forehead drops onto your shoulder, breath hot on your neck. “God, darlin’...” he whispers, voice hoarse, his hand still holding your leg hiked up by his hip.
He doesn't pull back right away, just stays there, pressed against you with water spilling down your bodies in rivulets that cool your skin. Joel's fingers stroke in gentle circles around the inside of your thigh, his thumb tracing slow, idle patterns into the skin.
The water begins washing away his spend but he takes his fingers, making sure your skin is clean.
“Sorry,” he hums, blinking at you through the water. “I gotta be a responsible guy.”
“No no I know,” you hum, and he lets go of your knee. “That’s good, that’s- perfect.”
He grins, running a hand through his wet hair as he glances you up and down. “Perfect, huh? I think my ego likes hearin’ that,” he teases, stepping back just long enough to shut off the water.
When he turns back to you, he's still grinning, reaching around to snag a towel from the rack behind you. “Lemme help you dry off,” Joel murmurs, rubbing it over your arms before slowly moving up to your neck and hair, all the while leaning in to press kisses against your jaw, your cheek, the corner of your mouth.
You smile, a delish ache vibrating between your legs as he dries you. He bends at the knees, and scoops you up, eliciting a shriek from you before bringing you to the bedroom.
Laying you down, Joel crawls up your naked form, nuzzling his face into his neck.
“We can tell her soon,” he murmurs, and you pause, sitting up to look at him.
“What…what do you mean?”
He pulls back, one hand still resting on your hip, his thumb rubbing back and forth over your skin.
“About us,” he says simply, his gaze searching your eyes while his fingers trail higher, brushing just beneath the curve of your breast. Joel doesn't move any closer; he's watching your expression closely for a reaction, a hint, something that will tell him whether he was right or not.
“You wanna…tell Sarah.” You say slowly, making sure you understand. He nods, and you look away, brushing your wet hair away from your neck. “I thought this was casual.”
When you turn your gaze away, Joel's hand moves to your chin, fingers gently tugging until you're looking at him again.
“Is that what you want it to be? Casual? Temporary, just for fun and nothin' more?” he asks, his voice soft. There's a quiet hope in his eyes that makes your chest ache a little—like he's bracing for a blow he isn't entirely ready to take.
“I-“ you swallow, trying to remind yourself to breathe. “I thought that’s what you wanted.”
Joel shakes his head, smiling a little and the corner of his eyes crinkle.
“Darlin’,” he murmurs, leaning in to press a kiss against your forehead. “I ain't never been casual about you.” His hand brushes over your cheekbone, slow and tender, before his thumb traces the curve of your bottom lip. “Was just waitin' for ya to realize I meant it when I eventually said you belonged with me.” He grins then, that rough but warm smirk that always makes something flutter low in your stomach. “All of ya.”
“Oh,” you whisper, a blush creeping along your face as you realize want is gnawing in your gut, his words and soft admission turning you on. “I didn’t…realize that.”
Joel chuckles, low and rough against your ear. “Didn’t realize?” he repeats, his voice a rumble of amusement as he drags the back of his knuckles down your neck. “Guess I ain't been clear enough then.”
He dips his head, nipping at the shell of your ear with teeth that make you shiver—hard. His hand slides lower now, calloused fingers pressing into soft flesh just to feel how much he affects you even when you’re talkin' serious.
“You got anythin’ else ya ‘didn’t realize,’ sweetheart? Or do we need to have this conversation slower?”
Your thighs clench as his fingers hover over your mound, and he makes a tsking sound, his thumb pressing into your skin and urging your thighs apart. He hums, his fingers dipping into your slick.
“Christ, already?” He murmurs, and you groan as he rubs you slowly, his eyes never leaving your face.
“You- I-“ you gasp, lips parting. “I get wet at ridiculous thoughts of you.”
Joel's grin turns downright wicked as he circles that swollen nub with his thumb, watching the way your hips jerk up into his touch. “Ridiculous thoughts, huh?” he repeats, voice dipping low and rough like gravel under boots.
“Tell me one,” Joel demands—fingers stilling just to watch you squirm—“Right now.” His other hand drags up your stomach slow enough for you to feel every callus on his palm before stopping right beneath the swell of your breast. “One damn thought that got ya this wet.”
If you weren’t so ridiculously turned on you’d protest in mortification, cover your face and shove at him.
“Um, w-when you helped me with the groceries last week?” You mutter, and he begins touching you again, torturously slow. “When I went inside the house after, my panties practically stuck to me.”
Joel's eyes darken. “All that just from me carryin' your bags? Darlin’ , I'm startin’ to get worried about ya.” His fingers pick up speed again, a little rougher with his movements now to see you arch against his hand helplessly. “What about when I mow the lawn? When I’m all sweaty in the sun an’ you’re sittin’ on the deck right in my line of sight? Does that get you all worked up too?”
“Yes,” you moan, back bowing, and Joel hums, bending to kiss you before he sits up again, pressing two fingers inside. “Absolutely.”
“What else?” He asks innocently, like he isn’t stuffing you full.
“W-when you offer to do anything, I-“ you gasp, chest heaving as he touches that spongy part at the back of your walls. “Oh my god.”
You come hard, clenching around his digits as he whispers to you softly, kissing your neck and your jaw, licking at the salt of your skin.
He hums again, working you through it, his eyes still dark when he looks at you with an expression that could only be called smug.
“I think I'm startin’ to understand just how much you like me helpin’ ya around the house, darlin’,” he murmurs. “Guess I'll just have to keep doin’ it. Maybe I'll even wear that tight white undershirt of mine...the one that always gets soaked when it's hot out. Just to make sure you notice, y’know?”
You clutch to his arm, your cheeks pink with exertion and you nod weakly, watching Joel with draw his fingers slowly from your weeping hole, and bringing them to his mouth.
Joel's eyes never leave yours as he sucks each one clean. “I think you need a little break, darlin…” he murmurs in that rough voice that never fails to go straight to your core. “But you can bet I'll be wearin' that shirt next time it's hot out.”
He grins then, all cocky-like and a little too proud of himself for how much he affects you, leaning in to kiss you soft and slow with warm lips that still taste like you.
You nearly melt against his lips, yours eyes fluttering and he cups your face before pulling back, running his nose against your cheek.
“Come on,” he says with a little smile. “Let’s get dressed and introduce Sarah to the woman I’m seein’.”
x
Taglist: @mystickittytaco
divider @squirrelstone
blurred lines (pt. 1)
summary: harry asks you a question that catches you by surprise.
pairing: harry castillo x fem!reader content warning(s): MATURE CONTENT (18+ MDNI), friends with benefits, established situation-/friendship, fake relationship trope, slight age gap (not specified, but implied), both are bad at love/communication, mentions of lucy, minimal physical description, no use of y/n. word count: 3.7k a/n: here we go y'all!!! missed writing for my man, harry, and i'm so excited to explore a different side of him in this story. we're gonna go through a rollercoaster of emotions in this one, so buckle in and hope y'all enjoy <3 pt 2. || series masterlist. || read on AO3.
You had been hired by the Castillo family almost five years ago. As a commercial photographer, your goal was to help promote their business and brand. Your relationship with the family extended to them permanently hiring you for your services, which also meant you had to photograph corporate events.
You had gotten used to their extravagant parties and the family had always been so very nice to you.
But it was their oldest son that you had more of a personal relationship with. It started off as a one night stand, a drunken night where you both spent the entire night just pouring your hearts out to one another.
You wanted marriage.
So did he.
You felt like you couldn’t find the right guy.
He felt like no woman could meet his standards.
You wanted someone simple, someone that could challenge you but ground you at the same time.
He wanted a partner, someone equal to him.
And by the end of that night after realizing that you both would likely end up dying alone, you ended up sleeping with each other.
You both agreed it had been a mistake, that you both just had too much to drink and were just in your feelings.
But then, it occurred again later that month.
After a failed first date. You had stepped into his penthouse and just… used him, and he didn’t care either. You were helping him as much as he was helping you.
And so, your relationship with Harry shifted. He’d use you just as much as you used him, but never did it pass that threshold into something more.
Because he wasn’t what you wanted.
And you weren’t what he wanted either.
For now, both of you were just a warm body to each other.
Someone to pass the time with.
Someone to help him get his mind off a particularly rough date.
Or someone to help you move on when you’ve been broken up with.
That was just the type of relationship you had with Harry and you didn’t mind.
He didn’t either.
When he met Lucy, you knew to keep your distance. Just like he would when you were exclusively seeing someone too.
But it was different with her, you knew that already.
The last conversation you had with him was after Peter’s wedding. He told you all about Lucy, how interested he was in her, how such a good match she was. He wanted more with her right away and you knew better than to get involved in his personal relationships.
Because you knew that was just how Harry was. He had told you once before that love was always the most challenging thing in the world. It wasn’t his job, it wasn’t the endless meetings he had to attend, it was love.
He couldn’t understand how difficult that seemed to be—how someone like him couldn’t find anyone worth settling down with.
But Peter’s wedding had gotten him to start reflecting on the type of life he was living and the kind of life he wanted.
And he wanted someone to love, someone to come home to. He wanted what his parents had, what Peter was able to experience with Charlotte.
So, when he met Lucy, Harry thought he found the one. He knew that he could add value to her life, just how she could add value to his. Everything had been going smoothly too. He bought a ring, bought two plane tickets to Iceland, and was planning to propose to her just after a few months of seeing her.
But when she found out about his scars late one night, Harry knew something wasn’t right. His relationship with her didn’t feel right. He would be lying if he said he wasn’t hurt when she had broken up with him, but there was a bit of relief that he felt too.
When she left, he went to your apartment. Didn’t say anything when you opened the door, he knew you weren’t seeing anyone. And before you could even ask what he was doing there, he had just leaned in to kiss you.
It was urgent, messy, almost like he was trying to forget everything with Lucy.
Because the conversation she had with him in his kitchen did made him feel like a child.
Love is supposed to be easy. She said it so casually, so matter-of-factly too.
So, he went to someone familiar. Someone that knew all parts of him. Someone without any strings attached.
He went to you.
And he knew you wouldn’t argue, wouldn’t push him to ask him what was going on. That wasn’t the type of relationship you had with him anyway.
You welcomed him almost immediately and he spent the rest of that night fucking you into your mattress. It wasn’t a great relationship—you both knew that, but it worked for the two of you.
When you both finally had enough of each other that night, Harry was already pulling on his sweatpants while you laid there in bed, naked with a sheet covering you.
“I’m going to Iceland,” he blurted out. His tone was cold, hurt.
“Okay,” you said.
“Without Lucy,” he clarified.
“I figured.”
He sighed.
And for a moment, your eyes softened. “Do you want to talk about it?”
Harry’s jaw tightened. “She said love is supposed to be easy… what the fuck does that even mean?”
You sat up and reached for your shirt on the floor to cover at least your upper half. You knew Harry, knew the surgery he and his brother went through, knew how difficult it was for him to feel something that normally other people wouldn’t have trouble feeling.
“Sounds like she was in love with someone else,” you answered honestly.
Harry sighed. “I know.”
“And yet, you still wanted to marry her.”
He looked at you. “We could’ve been great together.”
“In what sense, Harry? Because if love is what you’re really looking for, you weren’t going to find it with her.”
“Oh, and you just know that, do you?”
You sighed. “Don’t get all snippy with me, okay? I’m just—I’m telling you what I saw.”
He sat down at the edge of your bed. His eyes softened too. You both knew how to regulate each other’s emotions in a way that no one else could.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbled.
“I know,” you said, reaching out to run a hand through his hair. “And you’re hurting, I get it, but she wasn’t for you… and I think you knew that too.”
“But we were compatible,” he reasoned.
“On paper, maybe,” you whispered.
“Exactly.”
“Harry,” you sighed. “Did you love her?”
He bit his lower lip and pulled away from you. “I don’t know.”
“If you can’t answer yes right away, then the answer is already a no.”
Harry looked at you and nodded once. You always had a soft spot for his deep brown eyes, but right now, he looked like a kicked puppy. So, you leaned in and gently pecked his lips.
“You’re not old,” you reassured him. “You’ll find the perfect woman.”
“I’m not getting any younger,” he said. “And maybe there just isn’t a perfect woman out there.”
“Of course there isn’t.”
His brows shot up slowly.
“You just need to find the perfect one for you,” you finished.
Harry looked into your eyes and moved a hand to your hip. The air felt charged now like something unspoken was now lingering in the air. You knew how to calm him down, how to get himself out of his head. He leaned in again.
“Will you wait for me?” He asked.
You let a small smile line your lips. “You know I won’t.”
Harry chuckled, pulling away from you as he stood from your bed. “That’s fair.”
“You wouldn’t wait for me,” you argued.
“I know,” he said quietly. “Will I see you when I get back?”
You nodded. “You know where I live and you know where I work, Harry.”
He nodded and bent down to kiss the crown of your head once more. “Thanks,” he whispered. “For tonight.”
“I know you’d do the same if I was in your position.”
“Yeah,” he said. “I would.”
You laid back in bed and turned on your side face him, arm tucking underneath your arm. “Have a fun trip to Iceland.”
Harry scoffed. “I’ll try.”
“Who knows? Maybe you’ll find someone while you’re there.”
“Doubt it.” He walked towards the door and turned back to look over you at his shoulder. “Good night.”
“Night, Harry,” you smiled. “Turn the light off on your way out.”
He chuckled to himself and nodded. He left your apartment that night feeling a bit more relieved, but the pain of rejection still lingered. Harry ended up boarding his plane that following morning, sending you a quick text that he was leaving.
He stared at his phone and couldn’t help the smile on his lips. It was a simple text, nothing that showed you were interested in something more, which was the kind of relationship you both already established.
You forgot to turn the light off, he read your message repeatedly before shutting his phone off.
Maybe leaving to Iceland would be for the best.
Harry had come back to Iceland two months ago. Nothing changed. He went back to work like he didn’t just get his heart broken and he still visited you almost every night to get his mind off of it.
You didn’t mind though. Sex with Harry had always been different than with other men. You weren’t sure if it was because he knew what you liked or if it was because he knew every spot on your body that would bring you closer to the edge, but it was easy with him.
He never stayed the night too.
That had been one of the rules you both established and even if there had been some nights where you had no choice but to stay, you always slept in different rooms.
Never together.
Because that meant also crossing a boundary that neither of you wanted to cross.
But tonight, Harry was nervous. He planned to show up at your apartment, just like he did last night, but for a different reason to see you.
All day, his parents had been hounding him about Lucy, about how he wasn’t getting any younger and that their hope to see him married likely wasn’t ever going to happen.
It started distracting him from his work too because they got in his head. Late to meetings all day, staring out the window of his office when he should be looking over reports.
His mother even came into his office and said she had some friends whose daughters could be good for him. He shook his head and just blurted it out. He didn’t mean to, truthfully, he didn’t, but he was tired. It was already bad enough that he had his own standards that having his parents go on about it just made it worse.
“I’m already seeing someone,” Harry told her. “And I’m bringing her to the Maldives.”
His mother’s eyes lit up. “What?”
“Yeah, I—I didn’t want to make a big deal about it.”
“You’re taking a woman to our family trip for an entire week to celebrate me and your dad’s anniversary?”
Harry nodded. “Yes.”
“Must be serious then,” she grinned. “It isn’t Lucy, is it?”
“No,” he sighed.
Then, Harry said your name.
“The photographer?”
“Yes,” he answered.
His mother’s grin grew. “Perfect.”
“Perfect?”
“I always knew there was something between the two of you,” she winked.
Harry cleared his throat. He wasn’t sure what she was referring to because even when you did come to work at certain events, you both tried to keep your distance. Sure, you’d have conversations with him, but never to the extent that anyone could see there was something more.
“Did you?”
She nodded. “I see the way you look at her sometimes. It lingers.”
His brow furrowed. Harry didn’t know what his mother was saying and it wasn’t something that he could tell you either. “Anyway, can we just stop with the trying to set me up and everything?”
“Well, if we’d have known that you were already with someone, we wouldn’t have hounded you all day,” she chuckled, leaning down to kiss the crown of his head. “We just want you happy, Harry.”
“I know, ma,” he mumbled. “And I am,” he lied.”
“Good. Your dad’s gonna be so excited to hear that you’re dating her.” She smiled, pulling away. “I’ll let you get back to work.”
When his mother left his office, Harry sighed and grabbed his phone. Sent you a quick text, asking to see you tonight, before he continued working. He thought by lying to his mother about his relationship status would help him focus, but instead it just distracted him even further.
Harry stepped into your apartment so casually once the door opened. He kicked off his shoes and shrugged off his blazer before moving to your living room to sit on your sofa. He moved around your place so effortlessly, like this had become his second home.
“Your text was… ominous,” you pointed out first, moving to sit next to him with your legs tucked underneath you and your body facing his.
“Don’t be mad,” he said.
“Uh oh,” you replied. “That usually means I’m going to get mad if you start with that.”
Harry sighed.
You noticed the tension in his shoulders, the concern and exhaustion written across his features. “What is it, Harry?”
“You’re coming with me to the Maldives,” he answered.
“Okay…” you said, brows furrowed in confusion. “For what?”
“For my parents’ 50th anniversary trip.”
“Oh, did they want me to work while I’m there?” You asked.
“No.”
“Right, so then…”
“You’re going to pretend to be my girlfriend,” he blurted out.
“What?”
“I panicked. I was just tired of hearing my parents go on and on about Lucy and how I should be like my brother, settling down already, and it just came out.”
“Harry—”
“I’ll pay you,” he interrupted.
“Well, that’s a fucking insult.”
He sighed. “I’m sorry. I don’t—” Harry shook his head and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he looked down at his feet.
“Listen, I know we don’t really talk much… I mean, we don’t do much talking when we’re together anyway, but,” you sighed. “I know you’d do this for me if I was in your position.”
He turned his head to look at you. Hope filled his dark brown eyes. You could see him relax now. “I would,” he whispered.
“How long’s the trip?”
“One week.”
You nodded, contemplating on what that trip would look like. One week with Harry and his family, pretending to be someone special to him. You knew there was a part of you that knew it’d be easy to slip into that role, but you kept thinking about how it’d change after that one week was over.
“Okay,” you nodded. “I’ll pretend to be your girlfriend. When do we leave?”
“This weekend.”
“I don’t know if I have any appropriate clothing for the Maldives.”
“I’ll give you my card.”
“Wow, already being the best boyfriend I’ve ever had,” you teased.
The corner of his lips lifted. He felt himself relax.
“Are you sure this is okay?” He asked.
You nodded and reached out to rest a hand over his. “It’s one week at the Maldives. I think it’s perfectly okay.”
“And being my girlfriend?”
“We’re already sleeping together, so it’s not like we have to tiptoe around that.”
He nodded.
“But we do need to establish some kind of rules and get our story straight too. They’ll probably ask us how we got together, what our favorite things are about each other… all of that couple stuff.”
“Right,” Harry said. “That makes sense.”
“And we also need to talk about what happens after.”
“After?”
“Yes,” you said. “After.”
“Okay,” he nodded.
“Let me get us some drinks. I don’t think this night is gonna end with you on top of me,” you teased, standing from the couch.
Harry looked up at you and grabbed your wrist, standing too, and gently tugging you to him. With his free hand, he reached up to cup your cheek as he leaned in to lightly peck your lips.
“Thank you for doing this,” he whispered.
“I’m getting a free trip and a new wardrobe,” you teased, smiling against his lips. “But anything for you, Harry.”
Then, you walked away to go into your kitchen. Harry watched you slowly and bit his lower lip. He did feel a bit more at ease, but now he couldn’t help but ponder on your words and the words his mother said too.
Anything for you, Harry.
I see the way you look at her sometimes. It lingers.
It was late and both of you already three drinks in by the time you both decided it was time to lay out the ground rules for the trip. You were laying on your side on the couch and Harry was seated on the floor, tie loosened around his neck and sleeves folded to his elbows.
“Sex,” you said first. “We can definitely have sex.”
Harry chuckled. “It’s always sex with you, isn’t it?”
“You’re good at it,” you winked. “Are you really going to say sex isn’t allowed for the entire week that we’re there? I’m guessing we’re also sharing a room?”
“Yeah,” he answered.
“Exactly.”
He smiled. “Well, sex was a given anyway.”
“Right, right,” you teased. “What’s the story for how we got together?”
Harry bit his lower lip. He looked over at you and let his eyes take in every inch of your frame before settling back onto your face. “Maybe we can go with it happened after one of your shoots for company. I was helping you clean up and it just… it happened.”
“Hmm,” you pondered. “Not good enough.”
“What?”
“It’s not good enough. You’ve never stayed back to help me before. I don’t think it’d seem realistic.”
“Fine,” he said. “What about…” Harry leaned over to get closer to you, one arm resting on the couch as he reached up to cup your cheek. “What about we bumped into each other on the way to pick up coffee? It was after Lucy and we just… started talking.”
“Ooh, I like that,” you smiled, leaning against his touch. “Then, I asked you out for dinner that same night.”
“You did?”
“Yes,” you answered. “Shows I like to take initiative. Besides, the men don’t always have to be the one to make the first move.”
He grinned. “Okay, that’s good. So, we bumped into each other getting coffee, started talking, and you asked me out.”
“Mhm, and then dinner was a disaster.”
“You’re making this more complicated than it needs to be,” he laughed.
“We can’t make it seem all perfect,” you reasoned.
“Sure, right,” he said, thumb brushing along your cheek. “Dinner was a disaster… we waited so long for our food, they gave us the wrong dishes—”
“And it started raining while we were waiting for the valet!” You chimed in.
Harry chuckled and dropped his hand. “You know, that actually sounds like something that would happen if we were to go out on an official date.”
You sighed dramatically. “Exactly.”
He sat up from the floor and moved to sit on the couch, placing your head on his lap. “So, how do we go from a disastrous first date to officially dating?”
“I kissed you,” you answered simply. “Because despite everything working against us, we still had fun.”
Harry smiled. “Romantic.”
You turned on your back and looked at him, feeling his hand move back down to your cheek again. “That’s something you don’t know about me,” you teased. “I’m a hopeless romantic.”
“Oh, I knew that about you,” he laughed. “But it’s cute. I like it.”
“Yeah, that’s because you’re a romantic too.”
“Good point.”
“Okay, we have that established. How about during the trip?”
“What about during the trip?” He asked.
“Are we affectionate?”
“Naturally, yes.”
“Okay, fine with me.”
“And after?” You asked.
“Nothing should change,” he answered. “We make it through the week and then we come back and just… slip back into our normal routine.”
You nodded. “Okay, good.”
His eyes narrowed as he watched you move to sit up and face him. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“It’s not nothing. I know that look on your face. What is it?”
You sighed. “What happens if one of us… develops something for the other person?”
Harry cleared his throat. “I don’t think that’s going to happen.”
“Me too, but we need to have some kind of plan in case it does.”
“Fine,” he said. “If that happens, we talk to each other about it.”
“And you’ll listen?”
“Me?” He scoffed.
“Fine, okay. We’ll both listen.”
Harry nodded and then gently pulled you onto his lap, watching you place both legs at either side of him as he sat firmly on you. He moved his hands to your hips as he looked up at you, tilting his head.
“One week,” he said quietly.
“One week of pretending,” you nodded.
“And if at anytime you feel uncomfortable, you tell me, okay?” Harry said, reaching up to cup your cheek.
“You know I will.” You replied, leaning down as your hands ran through his dark curls.
“Thank you,” he whispered. “Again.”
You nodded and leaned in to brush your lips with his. “Guess you’ll just have to owe me.”
He chuckled and gripped your hips before moving to lay you on your back on the couch, settling himself between your legs. “I can think of a few things to start with.”
You squeaked out in surprise when his fingers moved along your sides, digging into them teasingly as you erupted in a fit of laughter. You tried to squirm away from him, but he was stronger than you.
“Harry!”
He laughed to himself and grabbed your hands, pinning them above your head as he stared down at you. “You tired?”
You shook your head. Both your gazes darkened. “You know I’m not.”
“Good,” he grinned, leaning down and pressing his lips firmly against your own.
taglist: @kellyxo1 @natdouble8 @maryfanson @pascalgold @jaxmom66 @chewie-bars @gothcsz @pascal-mynightlyobsession @sunnytuliptime @ultimatewolverine @notyourlovemonkey @myotakureprieve @nutbutterjellie @burninglovedreamsdepp @isabellaboo2025 @johnssherlock221 @missadangel @longlivekingminnn @vickie5446 @joelmillerpascal
The Winner Takes It All | 11: Mystery of Love
Pairing: Harry Castillo x reader
Chapter summary: As your journey through infertility treatment gets more and more difficult, you and Harry have to learn how to lean on each other.
Rating: 18+ MDNI
Chapter warnings: A LOT OF ANGST, struggles conceiving, unexplained infertility, fertility treatment, miscarriages, barely mentioned sex, reader is in a very bad state of mind, Harry being supportive, language, some time skips
Words: 8.5k
Notes: Hi, welcome to another chapter. It’s the toughest one, so if you don’t feel like reading it, don’t. I know it contains a very difficult topics. If you struggle with any of those, please seek for help and remember you’re not alone🩷 English is not my first language, so I apologize for any mistakes. Please, do not copy my work. Thanks!
series masterlist | next chapter
„And?” Harry looks at you as you leave the bathroom.
„It’s negative.” You say quietly, approaching him. You hand him yet another negative pregnancy test. At this point, you’re trying for almost a year and still nothing. Every test is negative and with every that you take your hopes fade.
Your husband stares at the tiny stick in his hands, at the Not Pregnant showing on it. He tries to be strong for your sake, but it gets harder with every time. Both of you feel helpless and wonder if there’s something wrong. It shouldn’t take this long, right?
„Come here.” He says and gently pulls you into his arms. He sees how it starts to take its toll on you and he hates it. You were supposed to be already pregnant, to get ready for the birth. Instead? He holds your crying form against his chest and tries not to cry himself.
„I don’t understand.” The crack in your voice makes him want to throw this goddamn pregnancy test over your balcony railing. He strokes your hair, trying to soothe you, but he knows it’s no help. „We do everything right. We eat healthy, we’re non-smokers. I track my ovulation…” you huff sadly. „I even practice this stupid fertility yoga.”
That’s right. Lately, you’ve been trying everything you could, or what internet suggested you. Both you and Harry are active, you even convinced him to try meditation with you. All your attempts go to hell anyway with every time you get your period. It’s like this cruel fate does everything so you don’t get pregnant.
Harry’s quiet, he holds you until you calm down. At moments like this words feel harder for him than ever. He wishes he could do anything, but nothing he does would replace a baby you both crave so much.
„Darling…” he rests his hands on your shoulders, making you look at him. „I think it’s time we schedule an appointment at a fertility clinic.” He says softly, trying to be as gentle as possible, giving this is a sensitive topic for you.
You stare at him for a moment, because it’s painful to hear. Why can’t you be normal? Why, after everything you went through, you have to even think about all that? Why can’t you just conceive?
But he looks at you with that sad determination… You know he is right. You know all he tries to do is help. He’s the rock when you’re falling apart and through that year he proved it over and over. He’s the voice of reason when your mind starts wandering to dangerous places. Just like now.
„Okay.” You whisper with a nod. „Yeah… that sounds…” a shaky breath escapes your mouth. You attempt to collect yourself, but it still feels so fucking unfair. You can’t wrap your head around the fact that you’d need help like this. „I’m scared, Harry.”
His eyes soften as his palms come to your cheeks. „Me too.” He whispers. „But we’re not giving up. I bet everything is fine with us… But let’s just check. To be certain.”
That night both of you can’t seem to fall asleep. Your husband holds you close, your back pressed to his chest. The scent of your vanilla shampoo soothes his nerves, but still… There’s so much on his mind. He’d suspected it before, but chose to ignore the gut-wrenching feeling he has.
What if it’s his fault?
He’s older. Forty eight. What if because of his age you have a problem to get pregnant? It could be the reason…
What if it’s some punishment for the way he treated you before?
Those thoughts are circling in his head and he can’t get rid of them.
Right next to him you go through a similar fight.
What if you waited too long? Well… you’re in the age which is considered fertile, but… maybe in your case Mother Nature decided to play a joke on you?
What if you’re sick? What if Harry’s sick?
What if you’ll never become a mom?
Your husband feels the way your body starts to tremble. You do that whenever you’re really anxious. He tightens his hold on you. Presses a loving kiss to your shoulder.
He’s here. He’s right here.
„Everything is going to be alright.” He says into the dark. It sounds in the quiet bedroom, lingering like a warm cover. Hopeful. Too hopeful.
***************************
Few days later you have a book signing event in one of the biggest book stores in New York. The novel you wrote about your marriage when it was in crisis became a worldwide sensation. Your fans fell in love with the story and the characters. Now, you’re busy with doing a tour around different book stores, meeting the readers and talking to them.
These crowded, lifeful events are what keeps your mind in line. You really find solace in them, for few hours you can smile and act like you’re completely fine.
Today, also Harry is at your side. You have your first doctor appointment after the book signing. He took a day off especially because of that. He wanted to be with you all day, because he felt you might need support. Or just a quiet presence that would provide some comfort. Also, he isn’t in the good state of mind to take care of business today.
„Here you are.” You smile widely at some girl as you sign and hand her the book. Harry remains behind you, standing next to your assistant. He’s dressed more casual today, just a dark sweater and jeans. He’s absolutely not in the mood to be around so many people, but he does it for you. He watches as you interact with your fans. He sees how warm and open you are with them, despite the inner windstorm of doubts and fears you must feel right now. It’s admirable.
It’s scary.
„The story seemed so authentic, I really love how they managed through their crisis.” The girl beams, excited about meeting you.
„Thank you, it’s really kind.”
„Where did you get the inspiration from? It felt so real, it must have had a deeper meaning!”
Her question makes you pause. That’s the thing about publishing this book. People are curious, they always ask how did the author come up with the plot. Respecting yours and Harry’s privacy you always say little of it. You’re grateful that he supports your work and didn’t stop you from publishing, so you want to be fair.
„It’s just… stories of many people I met combined together. I felt like this topic isn’t spoken enough of.” You say, the smile glued to your face. Your assistant approaches saying it’s turn for another reader, the girl says goodbye and soon you greet another fan. She gives you a handmade bookmark.
„Oh, thank you! This is gorgeous.”
It’s so sweet how those people adore your work that they decide to make something for you. You have a separate table for all the gifts, which are waiting until you take them home. There are mugs, bookmarks, paintings, even some crocheted goods. All make you realize how lucky you are to have a fanbase like this.
„Harry? Will you put it with the rest, please?” You turn to your husband, reaching out your hand with the bookmark. „Sure, baby.” He approaches without any sign of displeasure. Today you are working and he’s just a very devoted fan himself. Both you and the woman before you watch him carefully set the bookmark next to other things. Your gaze softens admiring him and the way he meticulously completes his task.
„A husband like this is a real treasure.” Your reader notices, but your eyes are still on Harry.
„Yeah… Yeah, he is.”
Later, after the event, you stand by the car as Harry sets carton with gifts in your trunk. Your fidget with your wedding ring as you watch him. Both of you were silent through these few days, the situation weighing on you like a curse. He’s trapped in his head and you’re trapped in yours.
„All ready.” He straightens up with a soft grunt and closes the trunk. Only then he looks at you, something shifts in his gaze… He has relaxed, realizing now it’s only you and him. No loud fans, no one begging for a picture or an autograph. „You had fun?” He asks softly.
„Yeah… These people were great, just… Now it doesn’t really matter, does it?”
„Baby…” he approaches and gently pulls you closer by the waist. „It’s going to be fine.”
„You don’t know it.” You whisper and he sighs, because you’re right. But he doesn’t know what else to say when you’re like that. He has tried everything to keep your thoughts positive. „Fair enough. But that doesn’t change the fact that it most likely will be alright. I did some research about it at work… Usually couples who struggle eventually conceive.”
„You did research?” You unconsciously lean in closer, seeking his warmth. You see the way he tries his best for you to stay positive. Usually he’s the grumpy sceptic in your relationship. But this topic… it’s too hard for you. And you feel bad Harry has to watch you lose your spark over it. So for once, you let some hope into your heart. Let it settle and make itself at home.
„I did. And us going there isn’t some death sentence, or a failure. It’s more common than you think.” He kisses your forehead. „Besides, I found us the best clinic in the state.”
„Thank you… For being so present and taking care of all that.” You whisper.
„Always, darling. And now let’s go. Don’t want us to be late.”
With a final peck on your lips he guides you to the passenger seat. After you both get in the car and Harry joins the traffic, you turn on the radio. You can’t bear silence now. The drive to the clinic is comfortable, Harry’s hand doesn’t leave your thigh in a silent support. It seems you both need some closeness now, the unknown is too scary to face it alone.
It takes you about twenty minutes to get to the clinic. The first moment you look at it, a wave of dread and anticipation washes over you. But a gentle squeeze on your thigh brings you back to reality. You take a calming breath in as your husband pulls over to the parking lot.
You leave the car in silence and head inside holding hands.
Harry’s nervous, too. But he hides it better, learnt to deal with stress after many boardroom meetings and stock crashes. But despite it, this feels absolutely worse. It’s your future they’re talking about. It’s your baby. Remaining calm is almost impossible. But it takes for him one look at you to try. You need him and that’s the priority.
„Good Afternoon.” A receptionist smiles warmly at you.
„Afternoon. Ugh… We’re the Castillo’s. To Dr. Kelce.” Harry says after you greet.
You’re guided through a long hallway and a staircase. Through that journey you notice many people, couples and doctors. The decorative bamboos are supposed to soothe the nerves, as well as the informative posters on the walls. You try to hold on to the hopeful words Harry spoke to you before the drive here. Unconsciously, you drift closer to him as you walk, holding his arm with both of your hands.
Finally, you take seats in the waiting area and you are told to wait for the doctor to come out.
„I love you, Harry.” You say and his eyes immediately soften. Without a thought he grasps your hand and brings it to his lips. „I love you, too. So goddamn much, darling.”
***************************
The next weeks are… difficult. To say the least.
You are going through many tests. Blood, hormones, semen and other medical stuff you don’t fully understand.
And it all turns out fine.
You have ovulation, your tubes are open and your hormones panel appears normal. Harry’s tests also look acceptable. Maybe just his motility is slightly below ideal, because of his age. But still… Your doctors can’t surely tell what’s wrong.
Actually, there is just nothing wrong.
And that’s what kills you both.
Because you should be able to conceive and it isn’t happening. With every day, you lose your mind just a bit more. Dr. Kelce prescribed you medication to induce your ovulation, hoping that this and the timed intercourse will conclude with a baby.
All this uncertainty slowly creates a tension between you and your husband. Harry hates watching you struggling — most of the fertility treatment is on you. He feels hopeless when you experience all the mood swings, nausea or other symptoms caused by the medications. He sees your light dimming with every period you get, or every time you see a pregnant woman passing you on the sidewalk.
The situation takes a huge toll on him, too. Besides watching you suffer, he feels a pang in the chest whenever he sees a dad with his kid at the park. Your husband always lingers, seeing the joy in the kid’s eyes, the loving expression on father’s face as he teaches them how to play soccer, or whatever they’re doing. It feels unfair. Harry knows he would be a good dad. And you… you’d be even better mom. An excellent mom, he’s sure of it.
He also misses the normal intimacy. The soft touches whenever you pass each other. A simple kiss on the lips that doesn’t lead to another forced intercourse. Or just cuddling on a couch, watching Star Wars.
Facing infertility means all this fades into the background.
You love each other, but it’s harder when you deal with such delicate, heartbreaking topic.
One day he comes home earlier, finding you lying on a couch. You seem so… tired. Miserable.
„Hey.” You say, not even getting up to greet him. He watches you for a longer moment and takes off his jacket. He feels like he has to do something. Try to get you out of this hollow you’re stuck in.
After a few seconds of hesitation, he moves. Pats your leg so you would scoot a bit on a couch. Confused, you observe him lying down with a quiet, tired grunt, right next to you on the limited space of the couch. His big frame hiding you from the world as he watches your face with his soft eyes. He’s so close, your noses almost brush. „Hey, baby.” He finally whispers, pulling a strand of your hair behind your ear.
„What are you doing?” The vulnerability in your voice kills him.
„Resting with my wife.”
Then, he wraps an arm around you, pulling you closer. A shaky breath that leaves your mouth doesn’t escape his attention. He would give anything to see your smile right now, but he knows it’s not that easy. It hasn’t been in a while.
„How was your day?” He asks, gently stroking your back. You look at him and you realize how much you actually missed him today. The moment he stepped into the room, his presence soothed your nerves, even if just a bit.
„Fine, I guess…” you bite your lip, hesitating. „My breasts feel tender… and I’m so bloated… I think we should buy a test.” You say and with every word, that hopeful glint in your eye brightens. Harry can’t count how many times you said something like that. How much you spent for pregnancy tests and they all turned out negative, just because you had a feeling that was actually just a side effect of your medication.
„Honey…” he sighs. „I mean it this time.” Your voice sharpens, because you don’t like the way he looks at you like you’re crazy. You sit up, not wanting to be touched anymore. He watches you and really tries not to get frustrated.
„Okay, but… you had the same feeling just three weeks ago, baby.” At your huff, he continues. „What I mean is… Let’s just give it more time. Don’t get so worked up whenever you feel some change…” he sits up.
„Worked up? I’m so sorry I want us to have a baby, that — I remind you — we both want. It seems so easy for you to say to give it more time.”
„It’s not fucking easy for me, you know it.” Harry clenches his jaw. „I’m hurting just like you are, but we don’t have a real influence on the nature. I just hoped for one evening with you, without worrying about tests and pregnancy…”
You stare at him, seeing the bags under his eyes and the pleading expression he faces you with. It hurts to hear him say all those things. But you also know you shouldn’t have implied that he doesn’t care. You see he does. Every day he shows up and is there for you. It was unfair to say otherwise.
„I feel like I’m losing you.” He whispers.
That one hits hard.
A tear slips from his eye as he reaches out his hand for yours. After a second of hesitation you grasp it. He rarely shows vulnerability like this… Even after the therapy. Seeing him like this… you realize he might not be holding up as well as you thought.
Without thinking you crawl onto his lap, straddling it. You pull him into a hug, desperate to bridge the gap that formed between you. „I’m… I’m here.”
„I just want to take care of you. I want us to actually be together.” He says.
You’re aware you pulled away lately. So focused on getting pregnant and tracking your ovulation. Chasing the dream and Mother Nature. You forgot there’s still some present life you have to be a part of.
„I want it, too.” You look at him, cupping his cheek. „I’m sorry I acted like this… I just…”
„I know. I know how much is weighing on you.” He presses a tender kiss to your lips. „I see you. That’s why I need you to relax.”
With that, he stands up holding you in his arms. He puts you down only when you’re in the middle of the living room. You give him a moment to grab his phone and soon you hear I’ll Be There For You by Bon Jovi playing from the sound system in your penthouse. You chuckle faintly, trying to flow with the song.
Well, Harry makes it easier when he makes his way to you, feeling the groove, rolling his shoulders slowly. His lips curve into a soft, a bit cheeky smile. That makes you finally laugh at the absurdity of his behaviour.
He seems so relieved when he hears it. It’s not a big laugh. But at least you’re finally something else than depression.
He grasps your hands and you both sway to the rhythm. As the song progresses he twirls you around, cherishing every joyful squeal or laugh. There she is.
You end up again in his arms, looking at him with the same love that held you through your worst times. It’ll survive this nightmare too.
His gaze softens as well, catching the unmistakable adoration on your face. He looks like he’s debating on something in his head and then speaks.
„I’ll buy you a test tomorrow, okay? First thing in the morning.”
His words make you pause. Despite what he said before, he doesn’t want you to live in the uncertainty. He knows it’s important to you. And if you want another pregnancy test… he’ll shut up and buy you one.
„Thank you.” Once again you stand on your toes and wrap your arms around his neck. The hug is warm and filled with relief. On both sides.
The relief doesn’t last long, though.
Because later, when you’re both getting ready for bed… you receive an email from your assistant.
Harry walks out the bathroom, sees you in your silk pajamas by the window. But instead on the view, your gaze is focused on your phone. He makes his way towards you, pulling you into a loving embrace from behind. He peppers your neck with kisses, but you’re suddenly so tensed and silent. „What got you so occupied?” Your husband peeks over your shoulder and notices you’re reading some article. „Darling?”
You finally turn in his arms and a crease between his brows deepens when he notices your wide, broken gaze. Without a word he whips your phone off your hands and starts reading the article.
Harry Castillo (48) lately was seen with his wife, leaving a fertility clinic in New York. It only increased the speculations about their problem in this field. Everyone knows how important for Castillo Holdings is to have a heir that would take over after the CEO retires. Mr. Castillo is married for almost four years and there are no signs of a baby coming. Our source reports that the latest book by Harry’s wife may provide some new insight into the situation.
„Goddamn vultures.” Your husband growls as he squeezes the phone in his hand almost like he’s about to break it. He can’t read the article further because he thinks he’d commit a crime if he does. He carelessly throws the phone onto the bed and looks at you.
His anger only fuels when he notices how shaken you seem. You’re not used to tabloids tracking your every move, because Harry was very specific about protecting you from it. But of course, these press motherfuckers found a way to dig into your private life and turn your struggles into some juicy gossip for Manhattan’s society.
„You saw? They even had photos! They stalked us…” you breathe devastated, the tears already forming in your eyes.
„Hey, hey, it’s okay…” he instantly collects you into his arms as a first sob leaves your mouth.
It was already impossible for you without the tabloids dilating about your fertility issues. This is a blow below the belt. A complete violation of your privacy. You feel awful. Like they scraped you from the last shed of decency you tried to hold on to.
„Why are they doing this?” You cry into his shirt, Harry holds your shaking form as you breakdown. „Why are they so cruel…?
„I don’t know, baby… But I swear, these fuckers who wrote this won’t have their jobs by eight in the morning.” He grumbles lowly, unconsciously pulling you closer. He will protect you from this no matter what it’ll take. He won’t tolerate such invasions on your privacy. „I got you. It’s just some nonsense. They know shit about us.”
***************************
The miracle happens few weeks later.
You didn’t have any bigger symptoms or anything. It was just a routine pregnancy test you took, you didn’t expect anything. And yet…
Two lines.
Two faint pink lines.
Pregnant.
The moment you saw it, you bursted into tears. Happy, relieved and so damn scared.
Harry wasn’t home, but on some quick work trip to Philadelphia. He’s supposed to come back in few hours. You made it your mission to prepare a surprise for him. God, he’s gonna be so excited.
So few hours later, there’s you, dressed casually in your cardigan and jeans. Waiting in the kitchen very stiffly, trying to restrain your joy for now. You hear the moment he enters the penthouse and you’re almost jumping around with anticipation.
„Hey, baby.” He smiles relieved when he sees you at the counter. He doesn’t notice anything different yet, just leans in for a kiss. „Hey. How was the trip?”
„Good. Think we’re gonna sign that deal with Grey. It’s mostly just final touches, I’m relieved.” He pecks your lips once again. He missed you, even if he was gone for just two days. He hates leaving you these days, thinking you both need the proximity more than ever. At least he sees some improvement in your mood, thanks to the therapy sessions you renewed. „And how was your day? Missed me?” He asks, resting his hands on your hips.
„So much.” You grin. „The day was good… And I have something for you.”
„You do?” He raises an eyebrow.
With a nod you reach for a small box on the counter. Small, white box with a yellow ribbon. Harry looks at you and the way you’re shifting excitedly in a place. He’s confused, but he takes the box from you and opens it.
At first he’s not sure what he’s looking at.
And then it dawns on him.
„Oh God…” He gasps quietly and picks a small piece of clothing up. A teeny-tiny onesie that says I Love My Daddy. He can’t draw his gaze away from it. It fits into his one palm… He reads the writing over and over in absolute awe. „You’re…”
„I’m pregnant, Harry.” You laugh tearfully and the moment he looks at you, you see tears in his eyes as well.
Still gripping the onesie, he rushes to embrace you. „I can’t believe it.” A half-laugh, half-sob leaves his throat. He picks you up ecstatically, twirling you around until you can’t help but squeal. Holding onto him tightly, you feel his heart hammering in his chest. The same way yours does.
„We’re having a baby…” he says, tasting these words on his tongue. They’re so sweet, it’s beyond belief. He sets you down on your feet, cupping your cheek with his hand. „God, I’m so happy. You did it, love. You’re amazing…” he kisses you deeply, it’s like neither you or him can breathe without each other right now. You keep grinning during that kiss, feeling like the happiest woman on Earth.
„I’m pregnant.” You whisper against his mouth again.
You still can’t quite comprehend that it’’s true. You’ve waited for so long, it feels surreal to finally carry your baby in your belly. It’s there, it’s growing… Suddenly all the medication you took, all the tests and breakdowns you went through… It’s all worth it. Worth this exact moment.
„You are.” He nods, brushing away your tears as you brush away his. „I love you so much. So much, honey.”
„I love you, too…” you beam, feeling like nothing can stop you now. „We’re going to be parents.”
„We are… Thank you. Thank you, baby.” He rests his forehead against yours.
***************************
The next days after the big news, everything feels perfect. You and Harry haven’t been happier since a long time. Since the moment he found out about pregnancy, he’s not able to be far from you. You and your baby.
He called in sick just to be with you at home. Every morning you are greeted with a breakfast in bed and a loving kiss on the lips. Every night, your husband makes sure you’re comfortable and spends a lot of time just talking to your belly. It makes you laugh at him, but he doesn’t give a damn. He wants the baby to know his voice and believes it already does.
The tests and ultrasound confirmed your pregnancy and that for now everything seems just fine. It’s still very early, but it doesn’t stop you from already planning your future.
The nursery, the birth plan, the names… All of it.
You already love this baby so much. You know you’re gonna make it feel seen and adored in every way possible. You’re going to cherish every day with them. Make sure you’ll be a better mom than your own was to you. There is no other way.
One day, you’re coming back from a date. You forced Harry to go to the movies and then for these fancy waffles with ice-cream, cotton-candy and other unhealthy toppings. Well, you didn’t actually have to force him. Since you got pregnant, he makes your every wish his command and even more.
That’s why right now you’re gasping in excitement when he gives you a big orange box. You’re in a car, about to head home, but he said he has a gift for you.
He watches carefully with that glint in his eyes as you unpack the contents of the box. „No way!” You grin as you gently hold a brand new Birkin bag in your hands. You can’t help the soft, delighted sighs that leave your mouth once in a while as you admire it.
Harry has a flair for giving extravagant gifts.
But he always loved spoiling you. And now that you’re carrying his baby… He just couldn’t stop himself. He wants you to feel happy and taken care of all the time. And he wanted to give you a Birkin.
„Thank you! It’s gorgeous!” You beam at him and throw yourself into his arms. „You’re welcome, love. You deserve only the best.”
Later, at home, you leave to bedroom to rest a bit. This date got you tired. Meanwhile Harry cleans around the house a bit. Kitchen and the dishes in the sink. Folds some clothes you left on the couch, because you were having a hard time picking what to wear. He doesn’t want to interrupt your sleep, even if everything inside of him screams to be at your side.
He feels good with a thought he’s going to be a dad in few months. He actually can’t wait. He prepares a very detailed plan in his head. He wants everything to be perfect for you and the baby. He’s sure he’ll be a better father than he was a husband. Despite it… he’s still anxious. Afraid he’ll screw up the way he did with you in the past. But you keep him grounded, keep saying he’s gonna be great. So he believes it.
He’s in the middle of doing the laundry when he hears your voice.
„Harry?” You call from the bedroom. He immediately drops what he was doing and heads to you.
But the bedroom is empty. He sees the sheets twisted on the bed where you were sleeping. The light gets through ajar bathroom door, so that’s where he guesses you are. „Baby?” He enters cautiously.
You stand frozen in the middle of the bathroom. Your hand pressed to your lower belly. His eyes narrow.
„S-something is wrong…” your voice trembles and he’s instantly at your side.
„What? What do you mean?”
„I’m bleeding.” You whisper, trying really hard not to panic. Your husband’s gaze lowers to your stomach for a moment. The weight of what you said slowly getting to him. He gently grips your arms, forcing you to focus your eyes at him. „It’s okay, darling. You’re okay… I’m gonna drive you to the hospital. I’m sure… I’m sure it’s nothing.” He internally curses himself for letting his tone waver.
***************************
That night you had a miscarriage.
Since then you’re a shadow of a person.
You don’t eat. You don’t sleep. You don’t talk.
That baby was your little miracle. After so much time of trying, you were finally blessed with it. You were so happy when you saw two pink lines on the test… Now, you think you were too happy.
You became too sure, too excited about growing a family with Harry. It didn’t even occur to you that something so cruel could happen.
That’s why the fate punished you.
Your baby was taken away from you.
And now every breath feels like a fight. A draining fight you wish you could stop.
You spend most of the every day in bed, curled up under the covers, staring off into the space. Your heart physically hurts when you think about the life that you lost. It’s like this huge guilt is weighing on you, pressing you into the mattress, keeping you there. Away from the world.
You failed it. A vicious voice in your head keeps talking. It’s your fault.
And Harry? He’s also grieving in silence. But he tries to be strong for you. He tries to hold on, to be the support you need right now. He feels this huge hole in his heart whenever he holds the tiny onesie you gave him. He tucked it away in his study, he didn’t want you to see it anymore. The evidence of the life you lost, causing even more pain. But he, like a masochist, sits every night in the chair and just stares at the I Love My Daddy.
It laughs into his face.
It points at him, tells him he failed you and the baby.
Then he goes back to the bedroom, hoping to talk to you, to help you somehow. But there are moments you won’t even look at him.
Just like now.
„Sweetheart…” he says gently as he sits on the edge of the bed. „Are you hungry? I could make something.”
You only shake your head against the pillow. You can’t bear giving him even a glance. Not when you are sure, your baby would inherit his beautiful dark eyes. It hurts too much.
And then there’s this massive guilt.
You not only failed your child, you failed your husband, too.
„Love, please… Look at me.” He whispers in pain, it tears your soul apart.
With great effort you force yourself to do so. You see the way he breathes out in relief. You feel Harry’s hand hesitantly reaching to brush your arm.
„You need to eat. I’ll even feed you, but you need nutrition.” He says, a bit more firmly now, he really wants to get to you through that haze of pain. He sighs when all you give him is a weak shrug.
„I know eating feels like a lot now…” He loses his words, unsure how to talk to you. He inhales trying to focus his thoughts, but it does nothing. He only has one sentence on the tip of his tongue. „I love you.” Your husband whispers. „Just… remember that. I’m right here.”
The next day, Harry decided to do one last thing he could think of to help you.
„Hi, mom.” He greets Lynette as she steps into your penthouse. „Oh, honey… Hi.” She pulls him into a hug and for a moment he lets his guard off. He takes in her soothing scent and the warmth of the embrace.
„How are you holding up?” She asks.
„Not… Not well.” He looks down as they pull away. „I mean, I try to be brave for her, but…” Harry falls silent. His mom just nods sympathetically. He invited her so she could talk to you, he thought maybe you would use a conversation with another mother. With someone who could understand.
„It’s okay… I’m here now, son.”
„Could you stay with her? I feel like I’m suffocating her with my presence… I think we both would use some time separate…” he sighs. „But she can’t be left alone. You can’t leave her, mom…” Harry shakes his head.
„I won’t leave her, I promise. You can go, they haven’t seen you in the office for quite a while.”
„The office… yeah… I’ll go there. But she… She had these thoughts before… and now after the…” he trails off. God, speaking about it is so hard for him, but he knows Lynette listens. „I’m afraid she might try something… hurt herself. She’s so broken, I don’t know how to act around her…”
„Harry, don’t worry. I’ll keep an eye on her.” His mom assures, giving his arm a gentle squeeze. When she first heard you had a miscarriage she was devastated. She knows how much you wanted to become a mom. And now that she has a chance to help you and her son… She’ll do anything.
So after Harry leaves you and Lynette alone, the woman just sits in the armchair near your bed. She prepared breakfast for you, it rests on a tray on your nightstand. Waiting until you wake up.
The moment you stir, rubbing your eyes, she straightens up in her seat. It takes you a few seconds until you realize you’re not alone. First, there’s breakfast. Fresh scrambled eggs, toasts and steaming coffee. Then, after you sit up, you see Lynette. You didn’t expect her to be here, you’re confused. „What are you doing here?” You ask, looking around for… „Where’s Harry?”
„He thought you might need some space… He left to the office for two hours.”
„Then why are you… Oh.” You slowly realize why he asked his mom to replace him. She’s your nanny now. „Yeah. Oh.” Lynette nods and there’s not even a hint of judgment in her eyes. You look away, suddenly the weight on your heart even heavier. He must be so worried and you’re so closed off…
„Nuh uh, don’t blame yourself.” She stands up to set the tray before you on the mattress. „Yes, he worries about you. It’s a normal thing for husbands… But you’re doing the best you can right now. And no one is expecting more.”
You don’t say anything as you let her words settle. Some part of you knows she’s right. But it doesn’t make it any easier.
Staring at the breakfast before you, your stomach twists with hunger. And at the same time the thought of eating makes you nauseous. You’re thinking that just a week ago you were eating for two. You were very careful with meals, eating four every day to provide the baby everything it might need to grow. Now… Now eating feels like a punishment.
„No rush, honey.” Lynette says softly as she sits on the edge of the bed. You glance at her and take a deep breath. No rush…
The first bite on the toast you take is small and hesitant. It’s a first meal since Harry forced a bagel into you yesterday afternoon.
Lynette lets you be silent, which you’re thankful for. You don’t feel like talking. Actually, all you want now is go back to sleep. But she doesn’t let you.
After you somehow ate a half of the scrambled eggs and a toast, she set the tray aside, but didn’t let you lay down. Instead, she sat next to you without any word and handed you your coffee.
„Lynette…” you whisper hoping she’ll leave you alone.
„No, honey. You can’t run away forever.” Her voice is stern, but still so loving and patient. You have no idea how she manages that. And you don’t know how are you supposed to stay here and talk about…
„But it’s…” you exhale shakily, your grip on the mug tightens. „Harry asked me to talk to you. And that’s what I’m going to do, you know me.” Your mother-in-law says. „He believes maybe a talk with another mom could help you.”
„Another mom? I am not a… mom.” You shake your head like saying this word physically hurts.
„You are, honey. Of course, you are.” She rests her hand on your knee. She’s determined to talk some sense into you, at the same time aware how fragile and hurt you feel right now. „You had a child. Right there in your tummy. It felt safe there, you were its home… You’re a mom who lost a baby. But it was there. It was real. Real enough that now you’re in so much pain… Understandable pain.”
Every word makes your walls crumble. You want to shout at her to stop saying all this, you want to run away, you want to scream… But you can’t move. You just stare at her completely frozen, with tears welling up in your eyes.
„Please…”
„What happened was unfair. It was cruel. Especially that you and Harry love each other so much and wanted this baby so much… And I see you, sweetheart.” Lynette really looks at you like she could read your soul, your misery. For the first time since the miscarriage you feel… understood.
„I just… I don’t get it… What did I do wrong? Why we can’t…” your voice cracks. „You did nothing wrong. Nothing wrong, you hear me?” She squeezes your knee to emphasize her certainty. „Miscarriages are more common than you think. And they can happen without any particular reason. Just like yours.”
„Everyone around us have families. Everyone. And we’re stuck for two fucking years. Two years, where they couldn’t even give us a reason! And when I finally got pregnant… I lost it. It’s my fault. It’s my body that fails over and over again… I can’t even look into Harry’s eyes… It hurts too much… knowing that I failed him… I don’t want to see his sorrow. I can’t bear it…” you sob. Finally. Finally you let it all out. Lynette notices your hands start to shake so she takes the mug from you, setting it on the nightstand. After that… she pulls you into a tight embrace, letting you feel all the emotions. Letting you survive in the only way you know. Even if she doesn’t agree with your thinking, even if she knows it’s your pain talking… She lets you.
It takes you a while to calm down, but when you stop trembling in her arms and the only thing that’s left are the soothing rubs on your back… She looks at you.
„There’s one thing I am sure of. My son doesn’t blame you.”
„How can you…”
„I know it, honey. I just do. He loves you and wishes he could support you more. I know it’s hard, but the only way to get through this is together. You pulled away, because the loss felt like too much. Then why not share that weight?” She brushes your hair away from your forehead. „He’s right there. He always was.”
You think about Harry. You think of how he has barely left your side since that awful night. Or how he pleaded you to eat at least a bite of dinner he prepared. Or how he held you in your sleep, thinking you’re not aware of it.
„Is he… I didn’t even ask him if he’s okay.” A quiet sob leaves your mouth. „It’s not too late for that.” She says.
The silence falls over you once again. You just sit next to each other, her hand still gently stroking your back. You really needed that conversation. You needed someone to open your eyes and you’re thankful Lynette cares enough to do so.
You would never have a similar conversation with your mother.
„What if… I won’t ever get pregnant again?” You whisper.
„You will. I’m sure you will.”
„But… I don’t want to forget about… about this baby. I don’t want it to feel forgotten…” you sniffle. „The fact that you’d get pregnant doesn’t mean that you have to forget about that one. It’ll always be in your heart. Your first baby.” Lynette soothes your nerves. „And we can always throw some kind of funeral or a memorial. I could take care of that.”
„You… would do that?” You look at her hopefully. „Of course, sweetheart. I believe it’ll help you and Harry. And the baby deserves it.”
You lean in for another hug. The thought of some formal farewell for your child feels soothing. Feels necessary. „Thank you.”
Tonight, it’s you who scoots closer in bed, seeking your husband’s warmth. His mom’s words still ring in your head. He loves you and wishes he could support you more.
It’s also the first night that you relatively fall asleep quite fast.
Harry is surprised, but he relaxes when you curl up against him. He sneaks an arm around your waist. It’s a fragile moment between two grieving people.
Why not share this weight?
That’s what love is supposed to be. A sanctuary. Holding each other through the storm. It’s the first time you believe you could actually make it to the surface.
You sleep so peacefully that at first you don’t sense Harry’s absence.
You only do when reaching your arm, you feel coldness on his side of the mattress. Lifting your head, you squint your eyes as the dimmed light gets through the bathroom door.
You stand up and shuffle there quietly. As you’re getting closer you hear… faint sniffles.
„Harry?” You push the door and see him sitting on the edge of the bath tub in his pajamas. He realizes too late that you’re here. He quickly brings his hands to his face, trying to brush away the evidence of his emotions.
„You’re… crying?” You approach him quickly, worried when you see how he tries to hide it.
„What? No.” He shakes his head, putting on a mask. „Why you’re up? You okay?”
„Yeah, but… Harry.” You gently grasp his hand. „I see the tears.” He sighs defeated at your words. Tries to smile, but it’s more like a sad grimace. His thumb brushes the back of your hand, thankful for the feeling of your skin. „Guess I got caught.” He says.
„Is it… Because of the baby?”
His lips press into a thin line. He nods, looking down, feeling the emotions again filling his heart. And his eyes.
„I didn’t want you to see me like this.” He whispers brokenly.
The way he says it… The way it lets you know that all this time he just wanted you to grieve without having to worry about him… It breaks your heart. That’s not how it’s supposed to be. He needs you and you need him, too. You were just too preoccupied with your own suffering.
„Come here.” You whisper and pull him into your arms. The hug is tight and somehow healing. You hear a quiet sob that leaves his throat. He’s going through it just like you are. But the warmth of your skin, the way your breathing matches… It really does heal a little. Even if the loss is enormous. Even if it’ll take a long time before you get over it.
You have each other.
***************************
It took you a while before you were ready to renew the infertility treatment.
You and Harry still attend therapy to deal with all the pressure and loss.
But you’re willing to continue. Your dream about a family hadn’t vanished.
So the next step is an IUI method.
You are nervous as well as your husband. The fight for a baby is draining, but you keep repeating it’s worth it.
You believe this time it’ll go better.
The insemination goes as planned and two weeks later the doctors confirm you are pregnant.
This time, though, you restrain your excitement. You are happy, deep in your soul you’re ecstatic. But it feels too scary to be hopeful so early.
Harry is by your side all the time. Looking after you, always making sure you’re comfortable and happy.
And slowly, with every day… you gain confidence. You watch small changes in your body.
Your breasts are fuller, you experience morning sickness…
The first pregnancy you didn’t even get a chance to feel the symptoms.
So now, it feels scary and also amazing. Harry catches you looking at your naked reflection in the bathroom mirror every evening before a shower. You’re admiring everything you see. Every change, every curve.
And nothing heralds that something might be wrong.
And yet.
When on the next ultrasound your doctor’s expression gets serious, you feel a shiver run down your spine. You grasp Harry’s hand tightly. Dr. Kelce is too quiet for your liking. Too damn still.
„I’m so sorry, but there is no heartbeat.” She says after a moment.
Your whole world collapses around you. You feel like you’re underwater. Doctor’s words are muffled, as well as your husband’s confused, angry questions. You just stare ahead.
No heartbeat.
No. Heartbeat.
This feels like some cruel joke. Like fate just decided that you’re not destined to be a mother. Like it’s something you won’t ever experience.
It makes you silent. You close off, cage yourself in the dangerous space of your head.
No heartbeat.
No motherhood.
No baby.
Again.
It feels like your own heart stopped beating.
You don’t feel it beat as Harry drives you home. You don’t feel it beat when you go to sleep.
You don’t feel it beat through all these days you try to get through another loss. With every day you gain your words, but you still can’t comprehend why all this is happening to you. You don’t understand how one person can hold so much pain, so much grief for someone they didn’t even meet.
And yet, here you are.
And it’s destroying you. It’s destroying your marriage. It took away your light.
You’re not sure you could get it back if you lost another one.
So when one day you’re on a couch with Harry, trying to have a conversation about what’s next… You finally say it.
„Maybe we should...”
„No.”
„No?” He frowns lightly and you finally look at him. He notices your lip trembling, like you’re about to say something very difficult.
„I can’t do this again… Please, don’t make me do this again.” You shake your head. „I can’t handle it. I don’t want it anymore… Every loss hurts more and more… I can’t take it. Please, I can’t…” a first tear leaves your eye and your husband moves closer to you. You brush it away before he can. „Darling…”
„Please, don’t make me do it again.” You sob.
„I… I won’t.” He looks at you, scared, but also understanding. „Hey…” he collects your shaking form into his arms, wanting to shield you from everything. He can’t say he’s surprised with your decision. It gets harder and harder for him, too. Losing your children, living in this uncertainty and watching you suffer… That’s the worst part. „It’s okay. You don’t want to try anymore? We don’t. The end of story. It can be just us. I love you just the same, baby... I love you so much.”
„I feel like I failed you…”
„You didn’t.” He leans back to say it more firmly. „Hey.” He tilts your chin towards him. „You didn’t. It’s not your fault.”
„But… Doesn’t it make me weak? Other couples keep trying despite miscarriage…” You hold onto him like a lifeline. „We are not other couples. We’re us. And if you don’t feel like trying again, if it feels like too much? Then I’m with you. It doesn’t make you weak. I’m perfectly content with having just you.” He pulls a strand of your hair behind your ear. „Baby or not. You are my wife.”
You nod rapidly and throw yourself into his arms once again. Baby or not. You are my wife.
And he really means it. He will love you for the rest of his days. No matter what decisions you make, he will support you.
These past two years were really difficult.
They gave both of you some experiences you never want to relive again.
They gave you also some good memories, even if now they feel bittersweet.
They made your love stronger.
And even if deep down you still dream of a family… For now you need to focus on yourselves. Let your broken hearts regenerate. Try to find yourselves again in the new reality. Heal.
And maybe then… you’ll think of a family again.
But for now? It’s you and Harry.
***************************
next chapter
Ending chapter notes: I know it was a hard one. I did a research on the infertility, but if I wrote something wrong, please let me know, I didn’t mean to offend anyone. And reader and Harry… it was tough two years for them, but I promise from now on it’ll only be better. Thank you for reading and for all your comments. See you next chapter🩷
Taglist: @palomavs @negrita2345 @jothenurse91 @chewie-bars @ivoryandflame @perpetualharpyresonance @alyloops @mamustreads @misstokyo7love @picketniffler @inept-the-magnificent @jasminedragoon @callmebyyournick-name @victoriaholland @oh-thats-cute @sophx58 @lilacs97 @mrsjosephmazzello @orcasoul @vickie5446 @callittrueblue @maryfanson @dendulinka6 @sunnytuliptime @pascalgf @cuteanimalmama @yourfavouritecrime
Pairing: Jackson!Joel Miller x f!reader
Word Count: 2.0k
Warnings/Content: MDNI, 18+. Dirty talk, oral (f recieving), multiple orgasms, overstimulation, use of a toy (vibrator), unprotected piv (wrap it before you use it), fingering, doggy style, Joel the pussy muncher, p without much plot, aftercare. Let me know if I miss any.
Summary: After a few days of Joel working late with patrols, watch duty or contacting duties for Jackson's safety, comes with the price of not being able to spend as much time with you as he'd like. Since today is his day off, the two of you spent it being lazy, staying at home, ending with the perfect nighttime routine you had missed.
A/N: Thank you @finnthecat for your lovely request here. Apologies for this taking so long. I had major writer's block and took a small break from writing. I hope you enjoy. Special thank you to @cozymochaa for beta-reading this, love you 🥰💕
AO3 | Main Masterlist | Join my taglist
Give Me Another
"Joel... c'mon," you whined, fingers tugging the strands of his hair where his head was between your legs.
He hummed against you, the vibrations sending jolts of pleasure through your body. His hands gripped your thighs, holding you open for him as he began to work his tongue against your clit in slow, deliberate circles.
Today was the first day in weeks that you and Joel were able to just relax and spend time together. The community had been busier than normal with the new improvements Tommy and Maria wanted put into the community, so because of being Tommy’s brother, Joel had been pulled in every direction.
"You taste so good," he murmured against you. "Like damn heaven between these legs." Your hips began to rock against his face, seeking more friction, more pressure, more of everything.
One of his hands released your thigh, and you felt his fingers probing at your entrance while his other hand slid up to your lower stomach, pressing down firmly to hold you still. “Easy, darlin’,” he muttered, voice low and rough.
“You’re gonna take what I give you. No more, no less.” Two of his thick fingers pushed inside you without warning, stretching you open. Joel’s mouth never left your clit — sucking, licking, flicking — while his fingers curled deep inside you, stroking that spongy spot that made your vision spark white and your back arch. He ate you like a man starved for his favorite meal, and to Joel, having you like this was one of his favorite things.
His beard scratched deliciously against your inner thighs, his tongue broad and flat one moment before turning pointed and relentlessly dragging through your folds.He groaned into you, hips grinding slowly against the mattress. “Fuck… Joel,” you whined, thighs starting to shake around his head.
Your hips tried to grind closer to his mouth, but the hand on your stomach kept you pinned in place. “That’s it, darlin’,” he rasped against your core, his breath warm against your heated skin. “Squeezin’ my fingers so good. Greedy lil’ pussy. Give it to me, baby.”
Your orgasm crashed through you, thighs clamping around his head and fingers curling tight in his hair, pulling a deep groan from Joel. His tongue continued its relentless pace on your clit, drawing out your pleasure until you were twitching and whimpering from the overstimulation.
When you finally sagged back into the mattress, breaths heavy, Joel pulled back. His mouth and beard glistened with your slick. “Good girl,” he praised, kissing a wet trail from your core, up your stomach, before settling between your breasts. He slid a hand up your side and cupped the underside of one breast as his mouth covered the nipple.
He sucked gently at first, then harder, tongue flicking over the sensitive peak while his fingers teased the other. You were still trembling from the aftershocks when he finally lifted his head. “Turn over, baby. On your hands and knees for me. Ass up.”
His voice was low and rough with desire he couldn’t hide. You obeyed on shaky limbs, settling into position as he knelt behind you. Joel ran his large hands over the curve of your ass, squeezing the soft flesh appreciatively before spreading you open. “Fuck, look at you,” he groaned. “Just drippin’ for me.”
He leaned over to the bedside table, opening the drawer and pulling out the familiar vibrator. The low hum filled the room as he turned it on. “Been thinkin’ ‘bout this since that night,” he said, voice dark. “You fuckin’ yourself with it, moanin’ my name, wishin’ it was me.”
You hummed softly in response as he slid the vibrating head from your folds up to your clit, applying light pressure that drew a needy whine from your lips. “Joel—” you started, but he cut you off.“Shhh, I got you, darlin’.” He leaned over your back, his broad, warm chest pressing against you, and kissed your shoulder.
“Gonna make you come so many times you forget your own name.” The fat, swollen head of his cock nudged at your entrance. Joel was big — thick, heavy, veined, with that slight upward curve that always hit everything just right. He rubbed it up and down your slit, coating every inch in your slick until it glistened. “Gorgeous,” he muttered, then slowly pushed inside.
The wide head popped past your entrance with a wet sound, followed by the heavy, veined shaft that stretched you open. You moaned loudly into the mattress as he sank deeper, filling you completely until his hips were flush against your ass and his heavy balls rested against your clit.
“Fuuuck,” Joel groaned, dropping his head to your shoulder. “So tight. This greedy little cunt is suckin’ me right in.” He stayed buried deep for a moment before he began thrusting — long, deep strokes that dragged his thick cock along every sensitive spot inside you.
The vibrator stayed pressed firmly to your clit on the lowest setting, the constant buzzing mixing with the wet slap of his hips against your ass.“That’s it… take my cock,” he muttered, one hand gripping your hip hard while the other held the vibrator steady.
“Oh my god,” you moaned, burying your face into the pillow, fingers gripping the sheets tightly. “Come on, baby. Come on my cock,” he coaxed, voice rough but sweet. “Let me feel this pussy squeeze me. That’s a good girl… give it to me.”
Your second orgasm hit hard. Your walls clamped down around his thick shaft, pulsing and fluttering as pleasure tore through your overstimulated body. Joel fucked you through it without slowing, groaning at the way your cunt milked him. “Good girl… such a good fuckin’ girl. Keep comin’. Don’t you stop.” He clicked the vibrator higher. The sudden increase in intensity made you cry out, your hips instinctively trying to pull away, but Joel’s strong hands held you firmly in place.
“No runnin’, darlin’. You’re gonna take it all.”
He starts thrusting into you harder, deep, punishing strokes that make your ass ripple with every impact. His heavy balls slap rhythmically against your clit, adding to the overwhelming sensations of his thick cock stretching you and the vibrator buzzing relentlessly against your swollen nub.
“Joel… fuck—” you moan brokenly, cheek pressed into the pillow, fingers clawing at the sheets. The pleasure is bordering on too much, your body still twitching from the previous orgasms, but he doesn’t let up.
“I know, baby,” he groans, voice low and rough against your ear as he leans over you, his broad chest covering your back. One of his big hands slides under you to press down on your lower stomach, making you feel every thick inch of him even more. “I know it’s a lot. But you’re doin’ so good for me. This pretty pussy is takin’ me so well.”
He clicks the vibrator up another setting. The stronger vibrations rip a sharp cry from your throat as your hips jerk. Joel’s other hand grips your hip tighter, holding you exactly where he wants you while he fucks you with long, powerful strokes. “C’mon darlin’, I know you got it in you.”
“Fuck… ‘s too much,” you protest weakly, even as your walls flutter and clench greedily around his cock.
“You can take it,” he growls against your neck, hips snapping harder. His thick, veined cock drags along your walls with every thrust, the slight upward curve hitting that perfect spot over and over. “Give me another, baby. Let me feel you come again.”
The overstimulation is intense now — every nerve in your body feels like it’s on fire. Tears prick at the corners of your eyes as another orgasm builds fast and merciless. Your thighs shake violently, and your pussy keeps fluttering around his girth. “That’s it,” Joel praises, voice rough but sweet.
“Feel my cock stretchin’ you open? Feel how full you are? This greedy little cunt is suckin’ me so deep, darlin’. You were made for this.” He keeps talking you through it, his breath hot against your skin. “Let go for me. Come on my cock while this vibrator’s buzzin’ on your swollen clit. I wanna feel you soak me again.”
The combination is too much. You come hard with a broken scream, your entire body seizing as your walls clamp down around his thick cock like a vice. Joel groans loudly, fucking you through every wave, never slowing his pace. “Good girl… fuck, that’s my good girl,” he rasps, voice strained with pleasure.
“Keep squeezin’ me just like that. So fuckin’ tight.”He doesn’t pull the vibrator away. Instead, he presses it harder against your pulsing clit, forcing you to ride out the overstimulation as he keeps pounding into you. Your moans turn into desperate whimpers, body trembling uncontrollably beneath him.
“One more, baby,” he coaxes, kissing your shoulder, then biting down gently. Joel holds you up with strong hands, fucking you through it with deep, steady thrusts until your release gushes around his cock.
Only then does he finally pull the vibrator away and toss it aside. He wraps both arms around you, pulling your back flush against his chest as he chases his own release with shorter, harder thrusts. “Gonna fill you up, darlin’,” he groans into your neck, voice wrecked. “Gonna pump this sweet pussy full. You ready?”
You manage a weak, broken “yes” - all you can muster before he buries himself to the hilt with a deep, guttural moan. His thick cock pulses hard inside you as he comes, flooding your pussy with thick, hot spurts of cum. He grinds deep, making sure every drop stays inside you, his cock twitching as he empties himself completely.
For a long moment, the only sounds in the room are your ragged breathing and his low groans. Joel stays buried inside you, pressing soft, lazy kisses along your shoulder and the back of your neck while his hands gently stroke your trembling body.
“You okay, darlin’?” He finally asks, breaths uneven as he remains draped over your back.
You slowly nod and after he presses a few more kisses along your neck and shoulder before slowly pulling out. He helps you shift onto your back, brushing stray strands of hair back before making his way to the bathroom. A moment passes where the room settles in quiet before Joel walks back to the bedroom, a small clean towel in his hand.
He returns to your side, bringing the towel between your thighs. You wince slightly - sensitive at the contact. “You did so good for me, baby,” he murmurs the praise, pressing a kiss against your temple, before pressing one to your lips. “My perfect girl. Took everything I gave you like you were made for it.”
You smile against his lips before letting out a soft, relaxed breath as he gently wipes your inner thighs before setting the towel aside. He wraps his arm around your shoulders, pulling you against his chest.
You wrap an arm around his waist, head resting on his chest just under his chin. The two of you are silent for a while, his hand gently rubbing along your arm before moving to your hair. “I hate when I’m too busy for nights like this with you.”
“I know,” you mumble, tilting your head up in his direction. “But it makes it worth it.”
He turns his head in your direction, nodding his head once he presses his lips against the top of your head, “Sure does,” he mutters, pulling the blanket up to cover the two of you, tucking it around you to make sure you’re warm.
General Taglist (let me know if you'd like to be added or removed): @kokoluwie, @cozymochaa, @picketniffler, @christinamadsen, @harriedandharassed, @rosharanfiction, @xfanficluvrx, @isabellaboo2025, @kirsteng42, @missadangel, @bishtrouille, @death-in-a-tar0t-card, @mystickittytaco, @missladym1981, @armandispunk, @whattheflipsiesss, @isimpforfictionalmen, @haileycopter17, @needz1nk, @anoverwhelmingdin, @stellar3em, @javiismyhsbnd, @taniamiller, @petalsinblood
Interested from last WIP Wednesday I did: @time-for-my-weekly-spanking, @milla-frenchy
I know this is not one of the prompts but will you ever write a love scene of reader and harry once they have Adella or baby #2? Whether it’s reader feeling self conscious about her body, or them just having sexy time after an exhausting day. I’m a softie and love reading fics of married people still having sex even after kids. Anyhoo, love the world you have created here. I love them!
dad! harry castillo
prompt: (sent in)
prompt list
⸻
You don’t plan it.
That’s the first thing.
There’s no buildup, no deliberate anticipation. It doesn’t live in the part of your life that gets scheduled between school pickups and pediatrician visits and whatever version of dinner you can manage before someone starts crying. It lives in the margins. In the quiet that comes after.
It’s late.
The house is finally still in that rare, almost sacred way. Not just quiet, but settled. Adella is asleep down the hall, one arm flung out over her pillow, hair tangled from refusing to let you brush it properly. The baby is in the bassinet beside your bed, soft breaths coming in uneven little sighs, her tiny chest rising and falling like she’s learning how to exist in real time.
You’re standing in the bathroom, staring at yourself.
Not critically, at first. Just… looking.
The light is too honest. It always is at night. It doesn’t soften anything the way daylight does. It shows the stretch marks low on your stomach, faint but there. The softness in your hips that wasn’t there before. The way your breasts feel heavier, fuller, not quite yours in the same way anymore.
You touch your stomach lightly.
It still feels unfamiliar, even after all this time. Even after carrying two lives inside it.
You hear the door creak softly behind you.
You don’t turn right away.
Harry pauses in the doorway, leaning one shoulder against the frame. He’s in a worn t-shirt and sweats, hair a little messy, the silver at his temples catching the low light. His face is softer at night. Less guarded. Like the world has finally loosened its grip on him.
“You hiding from me?” he asks quietly.
You shake your head. “Just… standing here.”
He steps in, slow, like he’s approaching something delicate. “That’s a dangerous activity at this hour.”
You huff a small laugh. “Is it?”
“Yeah. That’s when the thoughts get loud.”
You glance at him through the mirror. “You sound like you’ve done this before.”
“I’ve known you a while.”
He comes up behind you, not touching you yet. Just standing there, his presence warm, steady. You can feel the heat of him before his hands ever find you.
“You should be in bed,” he says softly.
“So should you.”
“I was,” he says. “You left.”
You swallow, eyes flicking back to your reflection. “I needed a minute.”
“For what?”
You hesitate.
And that hesitation is enough.
His gaze shifts, sharpens just slightly. Not in a way that’s harsh. In a way that pays attention. That reads between the lines you haven’t spoken out loud.
“You’re doing that thing,” he says.
“What thing?”
“Where you pretend you’re fine while staring at yourself like you’re trying to solve a problem.”
You exhale slowly. “I’m not trying to solve anything.”
“Then what are you doing?”
You don’t answer right away.
Your fingers drift again, this time lower, tracing the soft curve of your stomach. Not with disgust. Not even with sadness. Just… awareness.
“I don’t look like I used to,” you say finally.
It’s quiet. Not dramatic. Not self pitying. Just a fact, spoken into the space between you.
Harry doesn’t respond immediately.
And for a second, that silence makes something in your chest tighten.
But then his hands come to your hips. Warm. Solid. Certain.
He doesn’t grab you or pull. He just rests them there, thumbs pressing lightly into your skin like he’s grounding you.
“You’re right,” he says.
You blink, a little surprised.
“I don’t,” you repeat, softer now.
“No,” he agrees. “You don’t.”
His voice isn’t hesitant. It isn’t trying to fix it or soften it or twist it into something else.
He’s just… meeting you there.
And then, gently, he turns you.
Not fast. Not forceful. Just enough so you’re facing him instead of the mirror.
His hands slide up, one settling at your waist, the other coming up to your face. His thumb brushes just under your eye, slow and thoughtful.
“You look better,” he says.
You let out a small breath. “Harry—”
“No,” he cuts in, not sharply. Just firm. “You do.”
You shake your head a little. “That’s not—”
“It is.”
His voice drops, quieter now. Closer.
“You look like the woman who carried my children,” he says. “You look like the person I come home to. You look like the reason I stopped needing anything else.”
Your throat tightens.
“That’s not the same as—”
“It is to me.”
His hand slides from your face down your neck, over your shoulder, slow enough that you feel every inch of it. Not rushed. Not distracted. Intentional.
Like he’s reminding both of you that your body isn’t something to analyze.
It’s something to know.
To love.
To recognize.
“You think I don’t see this?” he murmurs, his fingers tracing lightly along your side. “You think I don’t notice every change?”
You swallow. “I just—”
“You made two people,” he continues, softer now. “You gave me a family. You think I’m standing here wishing you looked like you did before that?”
Your eyes flicker. “I don’t know what you’re thinking half the time.”
He huffs a quiet laugh. “That’s because you don’t listen when I tell you.”
You almost smile.
His forehead presses to yours, the contact grounding, familiar.
“I’ve never wanted you more,” he says, so quietly it almost disappears into the room.
And that does something to you.
Not sudden. Not explosive. Just a slow, steady shift. Like something uncoiling in your chest that’s been tight for too long.
Your hands come up, almost without thinking, resting against his chest. His heartbeat is steady under your palms.
“You’re tired,” you murmur.
“So are you.”
“We should go to bed.”
“We should.”
Neither of you move.
His hands are still on you. Yours are still on him. The space between you is gone now, replaced by something heavier. Warmer.
Alive.
He tilts his head slightly, his nose brushing yours. “You sure you just needed a minute?”
You let out a breath that feels like it’s been sitting in your lungs all day. “I don’t know what I need.”
“I do,” he says.
You raise an eyebrow, a small flicker of your usual self. “Oh, do you?”
“Yeah.”
“And what’s that?”
His mouth curves just slightly. Not cocky. Not smug. Just certain.
“You need to stop thinking,” he says. “And let me take care of you for a minute.”
Your stomach flips.
There’s something about the way he says it. Not like a demand. Not like an assumption.
Like a promise.
Your fingers curl slightly into his shirt. “Harry…”
His lips find yours in a kiss that's soft and unhurried, like he's savoring the taste of you after a long day apart.
You melt into it, your hands sliding up to tangle in his hair, pulling him closer.
Harry's arms wrap around your waist, lifting you just enough to guide you backward toward the bedroom, his steps steady and sure.
The door clicks shut behind you, and he doesn't break the kiss as he eases you down onto the bed.
The mattress dips under your weight, and he follows, hovering over you with that gentle weight that makes you feel safe, cherished.
His mouth trails from your lips to your jaw, then down your neck, each press of his lips warm and deliberate.
"Let me take care of you," he whispers against your skin, his voice rough with emotion but soft in intent.
His fingers work at the buttons of your shirt, undoing them one by one, exposing your skin inch by inch. He pushes the fabric aside, his hands gliding over your shoulders to slip it off, then traces the curve of your breasts through your bra, thumbs brushing lightly over the peaks until they harden under his touch.
You arch into him, a quiet sigh escaping as he unhooks the clasp and lets the lace fall away.
His eyes meet yours, full of that unwavering love, before he lowers his head to kiss the swell of one breast, then the other, his tongue flicking out to circle your nipple.
He sucks gently, drawing a soft moan from you, his hand cupping the other side, kneading with just enough pressure to send warmth pooling low in your belly.
He moves lower, kissing along your stomach, pausing to nuzzle the faint lines there—marks from carrying his children, reminders he treasures.
"Every part of you," he murmurs, his breath hot against your skin. "I love every part." His hands undo your shorts, sliding them down your hips along with your underwear, leaving you bare before him.
Harry settles between your legs, his broad shoulders nudging your thighs apart. He presses a kiss to your inner thigh, then higher, his mouth finding your core.
His tongue laps slowly at your folds, tasting you with reverence, circling your clit with feather-light strokes that build the ache inside you gradually.
You thread your fingers through his hair, hips lifting slightly as he slides one finger inside you, curling it just right to brush that spot that makes your breath hitch.
He adds a second finger, pumping them in a lazy rhythm while his mouth continues its worship, sucking softly on your clit until you're trembling, the tension coiling tighter.
"That's it," he breathes, looking up at you with eyes dark and devoted. "Let go for me, darlin'. I've got you."
The release comes like a warm wave, washing over you in shudders, your body clenching around his fingers as you cry out his name. Harry doesn't stop until you're spent, kissing his way back up your body, his lips glistening with you.
He strips off his own clothes then, efficient but not rushed, his cock hard and ready but he makes no move to rush. Instead, he pulls you into his arms, skin to skin, holding you close as your heartbeats sync.
"You feel so good," he says, nuzzling your temple. His hand strokes down your back, soothing circles that ease any lingering tension.
When you're ready, he rolls you onto your side, spooning behind you, his chest to your back. He lifts your leg gently, guiding himself to your entrance, sliding in slow and deep with a groan that vibrates through you.
It's intimate like this, his arm banded around your waist, hand splayed over your belly as he rocks into you with measured thrusts, each one hitting deep and tender.
"God, I love you," he whispers, lips at your ear, his free hand finding yours to lace fingers together.
The pace stays gentle, building that sweet friction until you're both gasping, bodies moving as one.
He reaches around to circle your clit again, matching his thrusts, drawing out your pleasure until it peaks once more, pulling him over the edge with you.
He spills inside you with a low moan, holding you tight as he comes down, peppering kisses along your shoulder.
Neither of you move for a long while, wrapped in each other, the world outside forgotten. Harry pulls the covers over you both, his touch lingering, reassuring.
"Sleep now," he says softly, his voice already heavy with contentment. "I'm right here. Always."
I'm loving these new Harry Castillo stories so so much, and I was wondering if requests for the Harry Castillo prompt list are still open... in case they are, could you possibly write prompt 7, please? Thank you!
dad!harry castillo
prompt 7: harry tries to make heart-shaped pancakes on valentine’s day. adella insists hers looks like a rain boot. he agrees.
prompt list
⸻
The morning starts earlier than it needs to.
It always does when Harry decides he’s going to do something “special.”
You know it before you even open your eyes. There’s a shift in the air. A quiet kind of determination that settles into the house like something has already begun without you. You hear it first… soft movement in the kitchen, cabinets opening slower than usual, like he’s trying not to wake you. The faint clink of a bowl. A drawer sliding shut with care.
You stay where you are for a moment.
Curled under the blanket, one hand tucked beneath your cheek, listening.
There’s a murmur of a voice. Low. Warm. Trying to whisper, failing slightly.
Adella.
Of course.
You smile into the pillow.
“Daddy,” she whispers loudly, which defeats the purpose entirely. “You said don’t wake her.”
“I know,” he murmurs back. “You’re the one announcing it to the entire house.”
“I’m whispering.”
“You’re whispering like a megaphone.”
There’s a pause. Then a small giggle.
You don’t move yet. You let yourself listen.
Because there’s something about this—about them, about mornings like this—that feels too fragile to interrupt. Like stepping into it too quickly might break the spell.
“Okay,” Harry says after a second, quieter now. “We need to do this carefully.”
“What are we doing again?” Adella asks.
He exhales, soft, amused. “We’re making breakfast for your mom.”
“Oh yeah,” she says, like she forgot the entire plan. “Because it’s…Valen-times.”
“Valentine’s,” he corrects gently.
“Valen-tines,” she repeats, proud.
“Close enough.”
There’s a rustle of movement.
You imagine him there, sleeves pushed up, hair still slightly disheveled from sleep, standing at the counter with that look he gets when he’s focused. Not on numbers or contracts or anything the rest of the world associates with him, but on something small. Something domestic. Something that matters in a completely different way.
“Okay,” he says again. “Step one. Pancakes.”
Adella gasps like this is revolutionary.
“We’re making pancakes?”
“Yes.”
“Heart pancakes?”
There’s a beat.
You can hear it in the silence.
That moment where he realizes he’s committed to something slightly more complicated than he intended.
“…Yes,” he says anyway.
Adella squeals.
You bite back a laugh.
There’s the sound of something being dragged across the counter. Probably the mixing bowl. Then a soft thud as it’s set down.
“Can I pour?” she asks immediately.
“No,” he says just as quickly.
“That’s not fair.”
“You can help. Just not with the pouring.”
“Why not?”
“Because last time you helped with pouring, we had flour in places flour should never be.”
“That was one time.”
“That was three times.”
You hear her huff.
“I’m older now,” she says, like that settles it.
He hums, unconvinced. “You’re five.”
“That’s older than four.”
“That’s technically correct.”
“See?”
You shift slightly in bed, turning onto your back now, eyes still closed but fully awake.
There’s something so steady about the way he speaks to her. No impatience. No sharpness. Just quiet correction, quiet humor, like he has all the time in the world to meet her exactly where she is.
“Alright,” he says after a moment. “You can pour the milk.”
“Yes!” she whispers loudly again.
“But slowly,” he adds.
“I will.”
“Carefully.”
“I said I will.”
“Adella—”
“I know!”
There’s a pause. Then…
A splash.
Followed by silence.
Then…
“…I think I poured too fast.”
You press your lips together.
Harry exhales slowly. Not angry. Just…processing.
“How much did you pour?” he asks.
“I don’t know.”
“Is it…overflowing?”
“…Maybe.”
Another pause.
You imagine him looking at the bowl, then at her, then back at the bowl.
“It’s fine,” he says finally, calm. “We’ll fix it.”
“I’m sorry,” she says, quieter now.
“I didn’t say you weren’t allowed to make mistakes.”
“I made a big one.”
“It’s just milk.”
“It was a lot of milk.”
He huffs out a quiet laugh.
“Alright,” he says. “We’ll add more mix.”
“Okay.”
“And we’ll try again.”
“Okay.”
There’s a small shuffle of feet.
Then her voice again, softer now. “You’re not mad?”
“No,” he says simply.
“You sure?”
“I’m sure.”
A pause.
Then, very quietly—
“I love you.”
Your chest tightens.
There’s a beat.
Then Harry, softer still, like he doesn’t want the words to carry too far….
“I love you too, babygirl.”
You open your eyes.
The ceiling above you is pale in the morning light, soft gold filtering through the curtains. The house smells faintly like batter now. Warm. Familiar.
You sit up slowly, pulling the blanket around your shoulders, and make your way toward the kitchen.
You don’t announce yourself.
You just stand in the doorway for a moment.
And watch.
Harry is at the counter, exactly how you pictured him. Barefoot, wearing an old t-shirt and sweats, sleeves pushed up, a light dusting of flour already on his hands. His hair is slightly out of place, curls falling forward just enough to soften the sharpness of his features.
Adella stands on a stool beside him.
Too small for the counter, but determined anyway. Her hair is messy, still half-sleepy, one side flattened from the pillow. There’s a smudge of something on her cheek. Flour, maybe. Or batter.
The bowl in front of them looks…questionable.
Too thin. Too uneven. But neither of them seems concerned.
“Okay,” Harry says, picking up the whisk. “We’ll mix it like this.”
He moves slowly, deliberately, letting her watch every motion.
She leans closer, eyes wide, completely focused.
“Can I try?”
“Yeah,” he says, handing it to her. “Just like that.”
She grips it with both hands, tongue peeking out slightly in concentration as she stirs.
It’s uneven. Messy. Perfect.
You lean against the doorframe.
He glances up then. Sees you. And everything about him softens instantly.
“Hey,” he says, voice quieter now.
“Hi.”
Adella turns at the sound of your voice, gasping.
“Mommy! Don’t look!”
You blink. “What?”
“It’s a surprise!”
Harry huffs a quiet laugh. “Bit late for that, sweetheart.”
“No, she didn’t see anything,” Adella insists, scrambling slightly on the stool. “She just saw…us standing here.”
You raise your hands in surrender. “I saw nothing.”
“Good,” she says, satisfied.
Harry meets your eyes again. There’s something in his expression. Something warm. Soft. A little proud.
“Go sit,” he says gently. “We’ve got this.”
You nod. You do as you’re told. Because you know better than to interfere when he’s like this. When he’s decided something matters.
From the table, you watch them.
He heats the pan. Lets Adella hold the bottle of oil, guiding her hand so she doesn’t pour too much.
“Okay,” he says. “Now comes the hard part.”
“The hearts,” she says, serious.
“The hearts,” he agrees.
He takes the ladle. Pauses.
You can see it already. The doubt. The realization that shaping pancake batter into a heart is not as simple as it sounded.
“Do you know how to do it?” Adella asks.
“Of course I do,” he says immediately.
You almost laugh.
He pours. Carefully. One curve. Then the other. A point at the bottom.
It…almost works. Almost.
But the batter spreads. Edges softening. Losing shape. Becoming something else entirely.
Adella leans in. Squints.
“…That doesn’t look like a heart.”
Harry looks at it. Considers.
“It’s abstract,” he says.
“What’s abstract?”
“It means…not exactly what it’s supposed to be.”
She frowns.
“It looks like a blob.”
He exhales through his nose. “Alright. Fair.”
They wait. The pancake bubbles slightly. He flips it. It lands with a soft thud. Still not a heart.
He tries again. This time slower. More careful.
Adella watches like it’s the most important thing in the world.
“Is that one better?” she asks.
He glances at it.
“…Yes.”
It isn’t. But he says it anyway.
She nods, satisfied. Then he pours a smaller one.
“Your turn,” he says.
“Really?”
“Really.”
She takes the ladle. Too much batter. Of course.
It spills slightly as she tries to shape it. One side too big. The other too thin. The bottom stretching out awkwardly.
They both stare at it. There’s a long pause.
Then Adella says, very seriously—
“…It looks like a rain boot.”
You press your lips together.
Harry looks at it again. Then nods.
“It does look like a rain boot.”
She brightens immediately. “It’s a rain boot pancake!”
“It is,” he agrees.
“For Valentine’s Day.”
“Of course.”
She beams.Proud. Thrilled. Like this is exactly what it was supposed to be all along.
He slides it onto a plate. Sets it carefully beside the others. Protective even now, like it matters that it stays intact.
Like it matters because she made it.
You watch him.
The way he adjusts the heat.
The way he keeps one hand lightly at her back when she leans too far forward.
The way his voice never sharpens, never hardens, even when things go wrong.
This man.
The one the world thinks is cold. Untouchable.
You see him here. Flour on his hands. Standing in a kitchen at sunrise. Making misshapen pancakes with his five year old daughter. Agreeing that a heart looks like a rain boot because she said so. And meaning it.
He glances at you again. Catches you watching. His mouth lifts slightly at the corner. Soft. Almost shy.
Like this matters more than anything else he’s ever done. And maybe it does.
taglist: @heytherebabycakes @okiegal68 @jo1818 @sesdeuxyeux @indiegirlunited @jothenurse91
