Summary: Nathan Bateman acquires a sugar baby. Yes, you want the money, but you also want him. (18+, fem reader, sugar daddy negotiation, blowjob, p in v, ~4k)
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“I figured it out,” Nathan says, a smoothie in one hand and a slip of paper in the other. It's a check, but you can't make out much more than that.
You don’t even stop typing. You’re transcribing a corporate meeting for Nathan. It’s 100% a job AI could do, but Nathan refuses to use it because he says the AI (and himself) would miss social cues you pick up on in the video.
Nathan sets down his glass and taps your headphones rudely.
You pause the playback and take them off.
You’ve been here almost a month, in his mysterious, isolated, beautiful house, with this mysterious, isolated, beautiful man.
You’re naturally a little quiet, but the way Nathan watches you makes you extra tongue tied.
Plus, a few nights ago, you think he’d been flirting with you. Not in an obvious way. He acted weird, though. Sat a little closer at the table during lunch. Suggested you watch a movie together. Asked about your personal life. That’s not something he’s ever cared about before.
Maybe he hadn’t liked your answers.
Oh no, maybe he was going to fire you.
“Are you going to fire me?” you ask without thinking.
His face scrunches up. “What? No.”
You relax again.
He takes a sip of his smoothie and sets the check down between you and your keyboard. “This's for you.”
You look down and your eyes get so big, it's kind of a miracle they don't fall out of your head.
“That’s half a million dollars,” you say, grabbing the check to look closer.
“Thank you for once again demonstrating that you can read,” he says sarcastically, scratching his fingers over his shaved head.
“I’ve only worked here a month. This is like, ten times my entire pay for being out here.”
Nathan sighs and waves his hand like he’s swatting away a fly. “It’s not some corporate accounting bullshit thing. It’s for you.”
The way he says ‘you’ tells you all you need to know.
“You’re listening to my phone calls.” You push back from the desk and stand, walking away from him, toward the window in your office.
“You knew I was doing that,” he counters. “You need the money.”
You close your eyes to the beautiful view outside. The snow on the mountains has been creeping downward with every passing day. This morning there’d been a dusting of snow over the ground, a reminder that soon, you’d be snowed in with Nathan for the winter.
The bitch of it is, he’s right. You do need the money.
You still owe two months back rent from before you came here, plus the utilities, plus your credit card.
“Stop thinking so hard and just accept it,” Nathan says. “The check’s just for show anyway. The money’s already in your bank account.”
You immediately go back to your computer. You log into your bank’s website and there it is. You’re significantly richer than you were last night.
You catch Nathan’s eyes skimming down your body as you bend over.
“I’m not fucking you for money,” you blurt out.
He raises an eyebrow. “I think you would.”
You stand straight, folding your arms.
“But,” he shrugs, “I also think you’d do it for free.”
Your mouth drops open. It isn’t that you’re offended. It’s that he’d say it out loud, the big jerk.
“So, if you’d do it for no money, you might as well get something out of it other than an orgasm.” Frustrated, he pushes his glasses up. “Look, it’s not a big deal. I have money. You need money. I have a dick. You need that too.”
“Huh?” You squint at him.
He sighs out of his nose. “We both know we’re going to end up sleeping together. I’m just tired of waiting. I can pay for things, and in return, we don’t waste two weeks of will-you-take-off-your-pants-or-won’t-you. I don’t have a lot of patience for that kind of thing.”
“Hmm,” you think it over.
He’s right, you do want to sleep with him. You hadn’t thought he’d be interested, though. He makes the most beautiful women in the world in his basement laboratory.
As far as the money goes, he has enough of it. He wouldn’t miss a million or two.
“I guess,” you say hesitantly.
Nathan’s dark eyes light up as he smells victory.
“Could I have a car?” you ask tentatively.
He laughs. “I’ll buy you a Porsche factory if you want.”
You tap your fingertips on your desk. “I still want to work for you. Even if it can’t be separated into business and personal. I can’t lay around all day and just…”
“Get fucked?” he asks with a smile. “You don’t have to stop working. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. You can spend my money all day if you want, just as long as we’re both getting what we agreed on.”
You nod, still thinking it over.
It’s pretty ideal. The money, obviously, but also the sex. It’s been awhile for you and your last boyfriend hadn’t really been that stellar in bed. He’d cared way more about his orgasm than yours, and was a very “roll over and go to sleep without a word afterward” kind of guy.
“Do you want me to buy you a ring or something?” Nathan asks with a frown.
“I’m not going to marry you,” you say, surprised.
“I wasn’t asking,” he says, as if you’re an idiot for even thinking it. “Some guys, you know, get jewelry for their,” he pauses, “let’s not call it anything. All the words for it are stupid. Do you want jewelry or not?”
“I’d rather have the money,” you say honestly.
Nathan’s not offended. In fact, he looks relieved. His arms uncross. “That’s a lot easier than trying to figure out the point of earrings.”
You tilt your head at him. “The point? The point is to express yourself, and look nice.”
He half shrugs. “I don’t know why it looks ‘nice’ to have shiny rocks hanging from holes in your ear lobes.”
You squint at him. “You’re so weird.”
“I am. I’m also filthy rich, so the weird thing doesn’t matter as much.”
He’s got you there.
“Can I have a horse farm? I’ve always liked horses,” you say.
“Don’t get carried away,” Nathan says on his way out.
*****
You’d agreed to meet Nathan in his room after dinner. You’d eaten separately. He’d had a protein shake in his lab, working on some semi-synthetic creepy compound. You’d had sushi with your feet up in the living room, wondering if his house was yours now. You’d decided it was, kind of.
So, you’d taken a purple blanket from your room and thrown it over the couch. A single spot of color in a sea of cold neutral.
You knock on Nathan’s door and he answers it with an irritated look on his face.
“Am I late?” you ask as he pulls you inside.
“No, but why did you knock like you were delivering food or something?”
“Um. I don’t know.”
You’d have an answer, but Nathan is taking his sleeveless tank off with one hand and it’s making you very horny.
He lets you eyeball his body for a few seconds before he says, “your turn. Off. All of it. Then get on the bed.”
You slide your hands into your back pockets. You’d known it would go this way. You’d decided that you had to draw your boundaries right away. If you didn’t, there was no telling what Nathan would get away with.
“Listen,” you say calmly, rationally, “I’m into the money and sex, but you’re not bossing me around like we’re on the clock. I don’t want to be sleeping with a version of yourself that you think you should be. If you want to have more control over this than I do, I’m okay with that, but none of that macho dom stuff. I want you to be you.”
He crosses his arms and you just know he does it to puff up his biceps.
You expect him to argue, or even call off the whole thing. Instead, he thinks it over. The fact that he spends more than a millisecond tells you this means more to him than he lets on. Surprisingly, it already means a lot to you too.
“Fine,” he says, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “I can’t promise sugar and roses, but I won’t put you in a cage unless you ask for it.”
“Okay. Thank you.” You smile, undressing. “For the record, though, I think you should be in a cage like, 50% of the time.”
“Smart-ass,” he mutters.
He clears his throat, taking off his pants unceremoniously. Not that there’s a lot to take off. He isn’t wearing underwear until his sweatpants.
You can see where Nathan gets his confidence from. You’d seen the outline once or twice (or every day because you’d been looking for it), but you had no idea. His dick is a respectable length, but the man is thick. Like, you can already taste the orgasm you’re going to have on that monster and it’s going to be amazing.
“You should’ve taken off your pants before you negotiated that dom thing,” you tell him. “I might’ve done whatever you wanted.”
“Yeah?” He looks at you from over his glasses. “You like?”
You nod.
He beckons you to join him on the bed.
“It’s probably better this way. Dominating a partner is exhausting,” he says, “and I guess having normal sex won’t kill me.”
You push on his chest so he lies back and you swing your leg over his hips to straddle him.
“Suck me off first,” Nathan says. Not an order this time. Not exactly a polite request either.
There’s something hot about the in-between of it. Like you could say no, but you don’t want to find out what would happen if you do.
You lean over him, kissing his chest. You brush you lips over his nipples and down his rib cage. His skin twitches under you. Your tongue circles his belly button and you kiss the trail of hair below.
As many times as you’ve seen him workout shirtless, as many times as you’d fantasized licking the sweat off of his skin, you hadn’t thought it would really happen. You drag your lips along the shaft of his cock.
“Stop. Something’s not right,” he says.
You look at him, startled. “I haven’t even started yet.”
He sits up on his elbows to get a better angle at surveying you.
“Hang on.” He twists his muscled torso to his bedside table and opens the drawer.
You sit on your knees, impatiently waiting. You cover your boobs with your folded arms, irritated.
“If this is what being with you is like, I don’t know if you gave me enough money,” you huff.
“Fucking relax, okay?” He holds his closed hand out. “You don’t look nice enough to suck my cock.”
“Excuse you?” you ask, insulted.
He opens his hand. Lying in his palm is a pair of beautiful diamond and sapphire earrings. They’re not huge, but the way they’re cut throws light that rainbows out across the entire bed. Shimmers of pale color dance on your skin and his, onto the canvas of his dark beard and onto his glasses. It should be impossible for light to move like this, but Nathan specializes in the impossible.
“How did you do that?” you ask in an awed whisper.
“They’re lab grown stones and I was planning on doing something else with them, but after we talked earlier, I had one of the machines make them into these. If you’re going to be my sugar baby, I think you have to look the part.”
You take the earrings and examine them. Even lab made, they’re probably the most expensive jewelry you’ve ever owned. You put them on carefully, jangling them with your fingertips and watching the rainbow of light move across Nathan’s face.
“What do you think?” you ask him.
The hint of a smile that shows on his lips is real. His heavy, dark eyes examine you, from head to knees. “Very nice,” he says.
You’re not used to Nathan looking at you like this. Like he wants you. Like he feels something for you. Like he sees you. You have to swallow around the emotion of it.
His hand cradles the side of your face. He knows how you feel.
You blink hard, not knowing why you suddenly want to cry and curl up in his arms.
“It’s okay. If you want to take a break,” he says.
“No, I’ll be fine,” you reassure him. “I just, um,” you shake your head to clear it, “thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” His hand drops and he waits a beat. “If you really want to thank me, you’ll get back to work. This cock’s not going to suck itself.”
You roll your eyes and smile, grateful he broke the tension. “I’ve never heard you use your superhuman being-an-asshole powers for good.”
“Well, I don’t want to see you cry. Even for a good reason. It would freak me out,” he says.
You look at him with fake shock. “Nathan Bateman, afraid of human emotion? Color me surprised.”
“I’m not paying you to put me in therapy,” he grumbles.
“Even you don’t have enough money to afford the therapy you need.”
“I thought after I gave you all that money, you’d be a little grateful.”
You sit back between his legs, your hands stroking his thighs and hips. “If you wanted a slave to bow at your feet, you’d program a robot to do it. You probably tried it already, you’re kind of a sick fuck.”
Nathan lies back with his arms under his head, so he can still see you as you bend over to breathe warm air on his cock. A quiet sound escapes his throat as you do.
His hips lift a bit, but you don’t do more than kiss the head of his cock with soft lips.
“I did try it,” he says, his dark eyes glittering at you from behind his glasses. “It was the worst sex I’ve ever had.”
You take him in your hand, the weight of him heavy and hot. You lick your lips, letting your tongue touch him just a little. He sucks in air through his mouth like cold water was just poured over him.
You wonder how long it’s been since an actual human being touched him.
Your eyes on his, you open your mouth and suck the head of his cock inside. It pops in and Nathan groans. You’ve never minded giving head, but you’d never liked doing it really. This time, with Nathan, it feels good. Like foreplay.
There’s something about having Nathan Bateman vulnerable in your mouth, something about pulling the pleasure out of him. All he does is work and think. Now, you’re sure that all he’s thinking about is you.
You take as much of him in your mouth as you can, which is less than you’d like, but with practice you’ll get better. You lick up and down his cock with the flat of your tongue, around the head and over the sensitive slit at the top.
You let spit pool in your mouth before you suck him again and his eyes roll back in his head. You cradle his balls with one hand, the other wrapped around the base of him, sucking on him faster and harder. He gets little lines in his forehead from concentrating so hard.
You need him inside of you so badly. You move up his body to straddle him, Nathan maneuvering you just right so you can sink down onto him.
“Oh shit,” you say, his cock practically splitting you open. As wet as you are, the way he stretches you is almost too much.
“Slow,” Nathan pants, “go slow. We have time.”
His hand comes up, sliding up your chest and neck, his fingers holding your jaw, cradling around your ear.
You try to calm down and breathe, working up and down, taking more and more of him. You’ve never felt so impatient before. All you want is to be stuffed so full of him you can’t even move. Your thighs tremble as you finally sit down onto him completely. You moan, cunt clenching over and over. You’ve never been so full. Eyes closed, you just enjoy how he feels inside of you.
His chest is already sweaty under your hands. Even how your thighs feel around his generous hips makes you want to come right away.
Your eyes fly open when Nathan’s thumb starts circling your clit. Your hips move involuntarily as electric heat floods your body.
“Nathan,” you pant as he pushes his hips up, filling you to the limit.
“Yeah, I’m right here. Want you to come for me. Come on it.”
He teases you with more pressure and your head falls back as you ride him faster.
“Feel that,” Nathan says, sounding as wrecked as you do. “I’m going to fuck you like this every day. You’re going to come so hard you’ll never want to leave this bed.”
You start to tighten, your body straining to get where you need to go. Your hands land on his chest as you lean forward, needing leverage to move faster, the stretch and burn of his thick cock pushing you just far enough that when you come, you feel it in every nerve, every inch of skin. You feel a gush of liquid as you come around him, but if it’s him or you, you can’t tell. Not that you care. It feels amazing. Perfect. So good you almost whimper like you’re in pain.
Nathan’s hands flex around you, holding you tightly as you feel him punch hard and deep, coming in thick waves as he holds you down against him, shuddering as he finishes. Your body holds onto him tightly, like you can’t stand to let a drop of him get away.
You fall down onto his chest, but he catches you, making the landing softer.
Your body moves up and down as Nathan breathes hard, your lungs syncing with his, both of you catching your breath, wordless and exhausted.
You press a kiss to his sternum. Nathan holds you tighter.
You roll off of him, but he doesn’t really let you go. He keeps you tucked close to him.
“Lights, off,” he says and the room goes dark.
“Kitchen, sandwich,” you say loudly.
Nathan laughs. “I didn’t install that feature yet.”
It feels good to make him laugh. He doesn’t make a lot of time for it usually.
You use the little bit of energy you have left to scoot up so you’re face to face. Nathan pulls you to lie half on his chest again.
“You didn’t even take off your glasses when we did it,” you say.
“I wanted to enjoy the view.” He slides the gold frames off his face and onto the shelf near the bed. “You feel okay? Not too sore?”
“It’s a good kind of sore,” you say, touched he asked. You rub your nose against his. “So, we’re really doing this?”
“Yeah,” he shrugs, “why not? I’m not saying I’ll be any good at this sugar daddy thing, but I know a few guys with some pointers and it’s mainly about money and sex, which I have covered.”
It seems too simple.
You’ve never known Nathan to be straight-forward. It isn’t that he’s playing you; it’s deeper than that. He functions on so many levels, nothing’s ever what it seems.
Nose-to-nose with him, thighs sticky, with your body raw and satisfied, you realize what it might mean, if this doesn’t work out. You’d walk away richer, but completely heartbroken. If this is only sex and money to him, is it worth it?
You’ve always struggled financially. Up until you’d started working at Blue Book, you’d had two or even three jobs at a time. Hand me down furniture, shopping at thrift stores. You don’t want to go back to that.
Nathan’s mean, but it’s all teasing. He’s never actually cruel to you. If he were, you know it would break you. He must know it too because there’s always been a line he won’t cross.
He actually hasn’t gotten black out drunk and terrifying since the first week you’d gotten here. Maybe that’s to do with you, but he’s never said. You’d never asked.
He doesn’t speak, just lets you think. When he’s not yapping about his own nonsense, Nathan’s comfortable with silence. It’s something you appreciate.
“Is there like, a contract you want me to sign?” you ask, trying to dig around for traps or pitfalls.
You see the flash of hurt before he manages to hide it again. It makes your heart skip a beat. Nathan Bateman, who you’d thought was kind of like the robots he builds, has feelings after all. For you.
“I already signed an NDA to work out here for you,” you say quickly. “I didn’t mean to sound like a jerk. I guess I don’t really know how to do this either.”
One of Nathan’s hands rubs up and down your back.
“You’re right to be suspicious. It just caught me off guard.” He sighs, but not like he’s tired, like he’s deciding how much to say. “I don’t think I’ve ever been in a real… you know…”
“Relationship?” you volunteer.
“Yeah, that.” His eyes are dark and serious on yours. “I don’t know if a promise from me means anything to you, but I’m not going to treat you like an android or a convenience. It doesn’t have to be forever, unless you want it to be. You could take my half a mil and walk right now and honestly, I’d respect you for it because I’m not exactly any woman’s idea of-“
“Nathan, stop,” you say gently, heart squeezing in your chest for him. “You’re exactly the man I’ve always wanted. Smart. Rich. Hung. Hot. I can love your money and you at the same time.”
He seems satisfied with that. A little smug even. Which, for Nathan, is his default attitude so you take it as a good sign that he's back to normal.
His fingers trace your face, then to the earrings in your ears. He gives one a push and you feel it swing back and forth.
“I see the point of the earrings now,” Nathan says.
“I look pretty for you,” you say.
“Not just that,” he says firmly. “They have a geolocator and take biometric readings.”
You snort a laugh.
… and then realize Nathan’s not joking.
It only makes you laugh harder.
“I know, I know,” he says, a smile on his own face. “I’m weird.”
“So weird,” you say loudly, laying your hands on either side of his bushy, thick beard so you can kiss his dumb face.
“This is gonna work,” he says against your lips.
You wrap your arms around him and hug him hard.
“Hey,” he says, kissing the side of your head, “what do I have to buy you for you to let me stick it, like, anywhere I want.”
“Oh my god, Nathan, you’re such a bad negotiator. I would’ve let you do that anyway, but now that you suggested it, you have to buy me something.”
“Well, I was going to buy you something regardless,” he argues.
“Good,” you say stubbornly.
“Fine,” he shoots back. “What do you want?”
“I don’t know, an apartment in Paris?”
“Great. Consider it done, mon chéri, and when we get there, I’m going to bend you over the side of the bed and-“
“-stick a baguette up my ass?”
“Yeah,” he says with deep sarcasm, “that’s exactly what I’ve always wanted to do to you. I can’t believe you called me weird. You’re incredibly strange.”
“Thank you,” you smile.
“You’re welcome.” He kisses you. “Now, go to sleep, sugar baby. Dream about whatever it is you want me to buy you in the morning.”
“I already know. I want you to give me this house.” You snuggle against his neck, breathing in the scent of his beard and the sweat he’d worked up earlier.
“You can have the land, but I keep the house and everything in it,” Nathan says. “See? I’m getting better at negotiating already.”
“The smartest man alive,” you mumble, falling asleep already.
“I am the smartest man alive,” he whispers, “and the luckiest.”
Nathan Bateman Masterlist :: main masterlist :: Join My Fic Taglist
Summary: An arranged marriage with the Duke of House Atreides, a gruff man who’s brought peace and prosperity to the universe. But is your innocence too much for the stoic Duke? (18+, innocent fem reader, arranged marriage, 15-ish year age gap, loss of virginity, Leto calls reader ‘little’, mention of spanking, soft dom vibes, ~5.3k)
note: first fic in like 2 months so forgive me if I've forgotten how to write/format/smut
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You’re kneeling on the floor at the end of the bed when Leto enters. Hands in your lap, head bent, still in your wedding gown and veil.
Your eyes are cast down so you don’t see his reaction. The door closes, but you don’t hear footsteps.
“What are you doing down there?” Leto asks, his tone neutral. Or as neutral as it can be, with the natural gravitas of command laced through it. His voice is still far, as if he hasn’t moved into the room at all.
“I’m greeting my husband,” you say, heart in your throat.
“Not like that you aren’t. Get up.”
Blinking, you rise.
Leto exhales impatiently. “I knew House Deray was isolated, but I had no idea they raised you to be so… never mind. Women speak and act freely in House Atreides. Any deference or respect you show will be to me as Duke, and not because of age or gender.”
Head still bowed, you raise your eyes tentatively. Leto’s dark, brown eyes meet yours almost encouragingly.
“So, I’m still subservient to you, just for different reasons?” you ask.
Something in his eyes sparkles at you. “So you do have opinions.”
You look at him questioningly. You hadn’t meant for it to have a double-meaning, but you see now it could’ve been taken as an insult.
Leto’s smile fills his handsome face. “I suppose you didn’t mean your question as a barb. You’re guileless. That will take time to get used to. Take off your veil, make yourself more comfortable.”
You watch as Leto pours two glasses of wine, walks them over, and hands one to you. You don’t drink much, but you don’t want to refuse.
The lace slips easily from your head and you set it aside, feeling naked, even though you still have on your white wedding dress.
What he said is true, your family’s House has been isolated for generations. Traders and diplomats visit, but aren’t allowed to stay more than a night. Spouses move to the planet, and are carefully vetted. Not only because of the delicate balance of personalities such isolation requires, but because House Deray’s tenets are loyalty and honesty.
Two qualities that, your father says, there aren’t enough of in the Imperium, no matter how much everyone goes on and on about them.
Leto, as far as you know, is as honest as the leader of a Great House can be, and is loyal almost to a fault.
He’s one of the few men your father admires. Even so, the two men had negotiated hard. Leto’s better at it than he lets on, but you’d noticed the masterful way he’d handled our father without condescending or insulting. It had made you admire him all the more.
“You should sip it,” Leto says, touching his glass to yours. “It may help you relax.”
You look down at the deep, red liquid.
“Unless you’re not nervous,” Leto says, a hint of teasing in his voice that surprises you.
“I am,” you reluctantly reply. “Of course I am.”
You sip the wine. Acidic and tart, you almost wince. You take another sip and though you taste the depth and richness more, it does nothing to calm your nerves.
You’re anxious, but not fearful. Maybe if you knew more about men and sex, you’d be afraid. As it is, you only have what you’ve read or heard from friends to go on. Mostly, it’s being so bare in front of a strange man that makes it difficult for you to look Leto in the eyes.
This man you don’t even know will see you naked. Put his hands on you, his mouth, his…
You feel a heat, almost a pulse, between your legs at the thought of your new, handsome husband doing those things.
No, you’re not afraid. You just don’t want to do anything wrong, including wanting him too much. Is that even allowed?
Leto sets his glass aside and starts to undo his uniform. It looks heavy, with its braided cords and thick fabric.
“Should I help you?” you ask.
“If you like,” Leto says.
You move closer to him, taking his jacket when he slides it off. You drape it over your arm carefully, running your hand over it. The golden hawk emblem is as beautiful as the man who wears it.
“Without the ritual, I don’t really know what to do,” you confess.
“Ah, yes,” Leto says in acknowledgment. “The kneeling and ceremonial undressing and then the list of acts leading up to the consummation. Your father’s administrator sent the information.”
You’d studied it carefully, not wanting to put a foot wrong. It wasn’t that you were fond of the idea of your first time with Leto being so rigidly dictated. It would’ve been easier, though. On your own, you don’t know how to be with a man of Leto’s presence.
His power doesn’t intimidate you, but his natural sensuality does. The way he moves, how deeply his eyes penetrate yours, everything about him draws you in.
He undoes his shirt and you keep your eyes on his face. It isn’t difficult. It's the most handsome one you've ever seen. His fingers pause before his shirt is all the way off.
Instead of getting naked, he rests his hands on your arms. Big and warm, just like you’d always dreamed your husband’s hands would be.
You concentrate on his beard. Infinite shades of gray and white thread through the black in a dense, beautiful knit. He must know you’re avoiding his eyes because his fingers touch your chin to raise your face.
“There will be no formality between us. We’ll do what comes naturally,” he says gently. “I would delay consummating our union, if I thought it would help. I’ll never force you, but being together is inevitable for us. The sooner we accept that, the easier this will all be.”
His eyes track down your body. He wants you. You have no idea how you know, but you do.
“You speak truth. That’s what we say in my father’s House when someone’s honesty overrules opinions and worries. You’re right. You speak truth,” you say again.
“It’s a gesture of trust,” Leto says respectfully. His palms glide up and down your arms gently. “I appreciate it. In that spirit, perhaps it’s better if I take the situation in hand, so to speak.”
“By the situation, you mean me?” Your eyes lift to look at his again.
A look of amusement crosses his features. “Yes. You. My hands are good ones. I promise.”
You have little doubt. Yet, every time Leto reassures you about one thing, you get nervous about another. It’s clear to you he’s respectful. He wouldn’t do anything you didn’t want. Is it possible that it would feel too good?
The question sounds insane, but your thoughts fly a mile a minute.
You hadn’t planned to marry this early in life. No one does before they’re 25 on your home world. You’ve been out of school for a few years, but hadn’t let anyone court you or even been on any real dates. Partly because your parents rule the planet, partly because the men your age… they’re nice, but needed more time to mature.
You’d certainly never expected to leave your planet. You haven’t met many men from the Imperium at all, and certainly never one like Leto. One who’s gaze alone gives you an ache you’re not used to.
“I’m sure this isn’t the wedding night you dreamed of,” Leto says, as if he can read your thoughts. “I’m an old leader, a retired soldier, your father’s age.”
"You’re not like my father.”
His eyebrows draw together.
“I just meant, my father’s a scholar. A wise man people seek for counsel and history. I don’t think of you like that,” you explain. “You’re very… um… alive. Active. I don’t care about your age. Do you care so much about mine?”
Leto exhales quietly. The tips of his fingers trace your jaw and down your neck. His eyes don’t leave yours.
“No, I don’t,” he says, “but you’re younger than me by more than 15 years. I don’t want you to look back on this night with regret.”
“You’re a good man. I’ll have no regrets.”
A small smile touches his lips. His beard moves a fraction as he thinks. “You say that while we’re still here on Caladan. When I take you back to Arrakis, you may change your mind.”
“But the planet is safer now,” you say.
“And people will think it safer still when I bring my young Duchess to live there.”
It’s all part of the politics. You know that already. Arrakeen has come leaps and bounds since Leto defeated the Harkonnens and brought the Fremen into House Atreides. People are still wary of it, though, and of Leto’s reputation. The things he had to do to secure Arrakis are well known whispers throughout the universe.
Marrying you, a sheltered woman from a famously sheltered planet, will make Arrakis seem more hospitable. Civilized even.
Leto’s hands toy with your dress at the shoulders. “You’re not a symbol to me. Not someone I only married for politics. Granted, we don’t know each other well, but I have instincts about people. I think you and I are a very good match.”
“What makes you think that?” You try to keep your shoulders relax, but you feel the fabric slipping. More surprising than his boldness is the fact that you don’t want to stop him.
“Hmm,” he says, taking in every inch of newly revealed skin, “you remind me that I have a gentler side, and perhaps I’ll bring out a wilder one in you.”
Naively, you thought you knew what it would feel like, to want a man to touch you. You’d known nothing. You’re desperately confused, aroused, not just afraid to ask for what you want, but unable to even name it.
His eyes squint just a fraction. You’re an open book to him, but you can’t stop it.
Leto holds firmly onto your hands as he speaks. His fingers caress yours. “You’re sensitive, and unable to hide how you feel. I like that very much. I don’t want you to ever lose it, but it’s a unique thing for a man like me to have so close. You’re like a fawn in the woods who’s never heard a branch break beneath a hunter’s foot. I would hold out a sugar candy and you’d walk up to the danger with big eyes and a light step.”
You feel like an unsteady fawn in many ways. Living in a big, virgin forest preserve for your whole life. Playing and learning and exploring, not knowing there was so much more out there than your little forest.
Leto doesn’t seem like a dangerous hunter, though. In these foreign circumstances, he feels like your waypoint. A steady, trustworthy presence you want to be near.
You look down at your intertwined hands. “You’re not hunting me. You’re my husband. It means more to me than you know. I don’t take vows halfway. I gave myself to you, and you to me. Maybe I’m an idiot deer, but you won’t hurt me. You’ll protect me.”
Leto’s chest rises and falls with a few deep breaths. “I am protecting you, little fawn. From myself.”
“But you said you wanted to, and we’ll have to eventually.” It sounds almost like you’re asking for it, which is mortifying but true. “I was prepared for the ritual, for you.”
“I want you to be with me for yourself, not only because it’s expected of you,” he says stiffly. “Maybe we should wait.”
You blink for a few seconds. “I’m nervous, yes, but that doesn’t mean I- I mean- I- I wanted-“ you cut yourself off. You’ve always struggled with having too many feelings at once. It’s embarrassing.
His hands pull away from yours and feather-light, he slides them over your shoulders, up to your neck, then back down again. You shiver under his touch, leaning into it.
“Take a deep breath and tell me plainly. Anything you want is yours,” he says solemnly.
You lick your lips. “I want you to kiss me.”
You hear him inhale through his nose and watch conflict twitch over his face.
“Don’t look at me with those big, fawn eyes,” he says, one of his hands cupping your cheek. “I can’t be trusted around such sweet innocence. It’s more of a gift than you know. After what I’ve done, I don’t deserve it.”
“You’ve freed millions of Fremen. Broken the Emperor and Guild holds on the spice trade. Chosen to not marry a kept woman from the Sisterhood. Not that I think myself any sort of prize.“
“Do not speak like that,” Leto says, a tinge of anger in his voice. “My wife is beautiful and smart. Brave beyond even my understanding. So attractive I can’t think at all. All of my blood has descended to below my waist.”
The slight frustration in his words makes you smile. He does want you. You’d been reluctant to believe it.
“Maybe my analogy was poor,” Leto says thoughtfully, looking down at your lips. “Hunters don’t kill fawns. They don’t keep them either, but here we are.”
“Well, you have to keep me. We’re married,” you point out.
“So we are.” Leto smiles softly, his thumb brushing your cheekbone. “How about our first kiss, then?”
Your heart beats so fast in your chest you’re afraid he can hear it.
“It’s my first kiss at all actually,” you say.
“Your first-“ he rubs his fingers over his eyes. “A year of war against the most brutal animals in the universe and one night with my new wife is going to be the thing that kills me.”
“Why do you say it like that?” You ask, curious about his quiet, raspy statement.
With a short sigh, he puts his hands back on your arms. They track down from your wrists to your waist, his eyes following. The light of the fire warms the silver running through his dark hair. You can’t help but touch his beard, your fingers pushing in, getting a feel for the soft and bristly texture.
“I’ve never held something so delicate in all my life,” Leto says.
He looks at you again, with an intensity that rivals the heat of Arrakis itself. Slowly, he leans in. You mirror him.
“Part your lips softly,” he says.
His mouth descends on yours, a low hum escapes his throat and rumbles across your skin. His mustache and beard are thick and textured. His lips are plush but firm enough to guide.
He moves you both closer to the bed and your hands rest on his bare chest, moving up and down so you can feel his skin.
Then, his tongue pushes between your lips. It feels better than anything you’d ever dreamed of. So good you don’t even notice he’d been undoing the back of your dress until his hands are pulling it off of you.
He breaks the kiss and your lips chase after his for a moment.
“Easy,” he says with a soft smile, “let’s get this off of you first. Well. That’s- you’re-.”
His last words come out strangled. Frozen. You let your wedding gown fall to the floor, revealing the lingerie you’d worn for him.
Leto stands motionless, his hands frozen mid-air. It’s as awkward as you’ve ever seen him. Like he literally doesn’t know what to do.
“It’s all… white,” he says, his eyes moving over you in a way that makes you want his hands to do the same.
“It’s our wedding night. Of course it is.”
To your complete shock, Leto’s hands tremble as he touches the lace that stretches over your hips. He slides them up over your bra, his thumbs catching your nipples, coaxing them to hard points for him to play with.
Already, your breath is hard and fast.
“Fuck,” he whispers. “I’m drooling over you already.”
Leto bends his head and pulls at your nipple with his lips, wetting the lace and sucking on it along with your skin. You gasp, holding onto his hair as he runs his tongue around the point. He pulls off reluctantly.
“I should’ve asked first. I’m sorry.” He stands straight again.
You press your body close to his. “Don’t ask about every little thing. I don’t know what I’m doing here. I want you to show me everything.”
His hands are still soft on your body, but he touches you more now. He cups your ass, his fingertips sliding under the lace to feel your skin.
“Everything?” he asks. “I’d have to be wearing much less to do that.”
You nod, finding the button of his pants and working it open with your fingers. Leto’s eyes grow so big you can only smile.
“You didn’t want me to?” You pause, fingers on the tab of his zipper.
He makes an almost helpless, growly sound from his chest. “If you’re teasing me, I swear the first thing I teach you will be the feeling of being put over my knee for a spanking.”
Your smile fades. “Oh. Are you really upset?”
“No,” Leto half laughs, “it isn’t something done in anger. It’s pleasurable. Trust me.”
You look at him doubtfully.
“Not tonight,” Leto says reassuringly. “I couldn’t bear to put a single mark on your beautiful skin right now. Someday, we’ll trying ‘everything.’”
He kisses you again before helping you lie down. Not that you need the help, but Leto can’t keep his hands off of you. You kiss his face and lips, tugging at his beard to bring him closer.
“Demanding little thing,” he says with a grin.
He nudges your thighs apart and you take his cue, widening so he can lie between your legs. You feel him hot and hard against your thigh. It sends an electric thrill through you. Then, another when his fingers touch between your legs for the first time. You feel your own wetness, how he dips his fingers in it before teasing that raw, aching button you’ve only ever touched at night when you’re alone in bed.
Your back arches, hips pushing toward him for more friction. Leto’s pupils are blown wide, his mouth open as he watches you. Your body starts to tremble, vibrate.
Leto’s forehead rests against yours, his breath hot on your mouth as he expertly works you toward an ecstasy you can’t even imagine.
You hold onto his arms, thighs rubbing together around his hand until finally, you explode under his touch. You can’t breath or move. Nothing but Leto. Nothing but this feeling like floating in a sea of hot, wet sex. His fingers inside of you, tongue in your mouth.
Shaking, you feel the pressure of his length moving back and forth on the soft skin of your inner thigh.
You shudder. “Leto,” you say weakly as he kisses your chin, then neck.
He lets you catch your breath, watching you as he pulls his fingers away, then tastes them with his tongue.
Slowly, like he’s enjoying every second, he peels off your bra and underwear. His nostrils flare when you’re bare and laid out.
When his body covers yours this time, you know what’s coming. He nudges your cheek with his nose.
“Are you ready?” he asks huskily.
“Wait. Can I,” you hesitate. Even through the haze of sex, you remember to ask. “Can I touch it?”
“It?” His lips twitch under his mustache as he leans back to look at you.
“Your hunter’s weapon,” you say jokingly. “Maybe I shouldn’t have asked.”
Leto gives a huff of laughter. “I love that you did. Do as you like, little fawn. My body is yours.”
“I wouldn’t have been able to, if we’d done the ritual,” you say, snaking your hand down between your bodies.
“No, I would’ve prepared you with my mouth. Maybe we should’ve done it your way after all.”
Leto gasps when you wrap your fingers around him. You try not to do anything, not knowing how sensitive a man is down there. How can something so hard be so soft at the same time? And how will it all fit inside of you?
“You can move your hand up and down,” he says, his brow knits and tenses when you do.
Almost immediately he pulls back, out of your grasp. You can tell he liked it too much. It’s a heady thing, affecting him like this.
“You can’t make me come before I even get inside of you,” he says, almost scolding you.
“If you did, it wouldn’t be my fault. It would be yours,” you say.
“That honesty again,” Leto shakes his head slightly. “Maddening and seductive at the same time.”
He positions himself, rubbing against your wetness. He pushes in just a touch, enough that you feel the strength in his hips, and how right it feels for him to be there.
“Try to relax yourself. You’ll adjust to my size faster,” he says.
Leto’s heavy on top of you, even half-braced on one of his elbows. It’s an amazing feeling, sandwiched between the soft bed and his hard muscles. Your body opens like it knows to welcome him.
The friction of a man being inside of you for the first time feels almost natural. Like you’ve been waiting for exactly him. The extra friction of his whole body against yours is an indescribable sensation. The hair of his legs where yours wrap around them. How his chest presses against your breasts. His beard scraping against your neck.
Your hands explore the muscles of his back and shoulders. You brush over his ass, the feeling of his muscles flexing and moving as he takes you makes you even wetter, and all the time, the relentless, delicious feeling of him going deeper and deeper.
Everything.
You’d asked him to show you everything and he already is. You don’t want it to ever end.
You can’t help but squeeze him. Every time you do, Leto reacts with a moan.
His hands grasp your hips, angling them upward so he can make one small, final thrust.
“Ah,” you eyes go wide as he seats himself inside completely.
“Are you alright?” He goes still. His dark eyes search yours.
“Yes, you’re just so deep.”
Leto pulls back out slightly. “It’s too much.”
“No,” you grab his ass and encourage him to move again, “I want you there.”
He moves slowly. You can see the concentration it takes in every bead of sweat on his forehead. You lift your hips a little faster.
One of his dark eyebrows raises. “You’re not helping.”
“I’m not trying to help you. I’m trying to help myself,” you smile up at him.
His chest vibrates with a laugh. “Don’t worry. You’ll come again tonight, as many times as you want.”
You brush the hair away from his forehead. “You don’t have to be so controlled.”
“It’s your first time. Yes, I do,” he says firmly. “I’ve never wanted to care for a woman like this. With you, I can’t explain it, but I have to.”
Behind his words, you sense his power. One day, you want to feel it unleashed on you. Tonight, though, you’re sure that Leto knows best; especially when his fingers reach down and to play with your clit again. He cants his hips, the head of him rubbing something inside of you that makes you lose any rational thought.
“There. Just like that. Does it feel good?” Leto says, his hips punching faster against you. “Show me. Come for me.”
He kisses you deeply. The second his tongue tangles with yours you fall apart. You’re loud. Not just your voice, but every muscle in your body screams and sings for him. Leto stutters and you feel him shove deep again as he releases, flooding you, filling you. Your legs hold onto him tightly. You want every drop, every movement of his body.
He moans your name. You can almost feel his fingerprints in your skin.
Then, he cradles your trembling body as you come back down, as your body struggles to think and breathe and do anything but lie under him and be his.
Leto recovers faster than you do, his head lifting. His lips kiss a tear you hadn’t even known you’d shed.
Your bodies feel so warm together. Like you’ve melted into one.
He starts to lift off of you.
“Stay. I like you right here,” you whisper.
Wordlessly, he settles back down on you. He presses kisses to your face and neck. You feel him start to soften inside of you.
You open your eyes to see him looking down at you with a sexy smile. His curly hair falls down at the sides of his face a little.
You wrap your arms around him even tighter. “It feels like we’re the only two people in the universe right now, and we’ll never need anyone else but each other.”
He gives you a kiss. Not a heated promise of pleasure this time, but an almost sweet press of his lips on yours.
“You have no idea how special you are,” Leto says seriously. “Thank you for trusting me, for giving me your body… and your heart.”
You swallow around the emotion that wells up in your throat.
It’s much too early to love him. Despite tonight, you don’t know Leto well. Love is on the horizon, though. You know all you need to know about him.
The stories of his ruthless cunning and war without mercy are the past. This is the future of your marriage, and of House Atreides.
You trace his face with your fingertips and Leto follows the feeling with a tip of his head, a look of pure enjoyment on his face.
He kisses your palm before he speaks again. “As much as I hate to bring an end to this moment, I’d like to get you cleaned up. We should eat something. Maybe out on the balcony, so I can see my wife in the moonlight of Caladan.”
“Fresh air would be nice,” you agree.
“Then let me arrange it, and we’ll take a bath together. I’ll wash you,” he says, gingerly rolling off of you.
You grasp the sheet to your breasts, but when Leto’s eyes flick down, you let it drop again. You don’t want anything between you, not ever. You don’t feel ashamed to let Leto see whatever he wants.
“I’m not that sore. I can do it on my own,” you tell him.
“I insist,” he says firmly. “Where you go, I go. I’ll watch my little fawn like the hawk that I am. Here in bed, in the bathtub, on Caladan or Arrakis, or anywhere else.”
You walk your fingers up his bare chest. “Maybe in the tub, you could show me more of ‘everything.’”
His dark eyebrows frown in concentration. “Only if you promise to put on more of that pretty underwear for me afterward. I’d like to see you out there, the ocean at your back, looking like that.”
You nod.
“Good. Then we have a deal,” Leto says. He helps you out of bed, his hand rubbing your back as you walk across the room together. “You get in the tub and wait for me. Don’t touch yourself, though. That’s my privilege now.”
You almost laugh. “Even to wash myself?”
He stops at the edge of the big, sunken tub, using the panel on the wall to start filling it with steamy, hot water.
“My. Privilege.” He repeats slowly. He gestures to the water. “This will help with the soreness, I hope. I’m going to instruct the staff about dinner.”
Leto holds your hand as you get in the water. You sit on the bench, lowering down until the water is above your shoulders. You sigh. It feels wonderful.
Leto’s dark eyes look you over as he stands back, taking in the view. Although the water is somewhat obscured by the steam, it’s still clear enough he can see. You part your legs for him and he scratches a hand through his hair, like a man torn between two choices.
“By every power in the universe, I swear you’re making me hard again already,” he says, frustrated. “Stay just like that. I won’t be a minute.”
You let your head rest back on the edge of the tub. Alone, you can only smile to yourself.
Being with Leto is nothing like the books and stories. It’s better. So much better.
It isn’t just the ecstasy, although you can’t wait to feel that again. It’s that it’s all so fun, and that you can make him feel as good as he makes you feel.
You think, for a moment, about all the new things you’ll get to do with him. He’s so experienced. You can’t wait to learn more.
Your hand trails down your body, fingertips catching on that little button Leto had wrung so much pleasure from earlier.
He’d said not to. Then again, he’d also promised to show you how a punishment can also bring pleasure. That’s what you want to try next, you decide.
You have a lot to make up for, not being intimate with a man up until now. Leto was worth waiting for, though. You’re happy to give him all of your firsts.
Eyes closed, you don’t even hear him come back into the bathroom.
You jump when he clears his throat. You risk opening an eye. He’s still gloriously naked, arms crossed, a very disapproving look on his face.
“Not even a day into our marriage and you refuse a simple request.” He shakes his head slowly. “What am I doing to do with you?”
You withdraw your hand from between your legs, but it’s torture not to keep touching yourself when Leto’s hard and proud again already. It makes your mouth water.
He picks up a towel and snaps it open, holding it wide for you.
“Out,” he says, obviously onto your plan. “Back into bed. I think a lesson might be in order. I’m not sure there’s any other way.”
“Whatever you think is best,” you agree, dripping as you get out of the tub.
Leto’s arms encircle you with the towel. He kisses the side of your head.
“Are you sure you want to do this tonight?” he asks seriously.
“I told you, I want everything.” You hold yourself tighter against him. “I want you to show me. Teach me. You said I could come as many times as I wanted.”
“Yes, but not without consequences.” He gives your ass a squeeze. “Once I have you over my lap, you’ll understand.”
You look forward to it. Almost giddy, you walk back into the bedroom, Leto close behind you.
As far as you’re concerned, the only consequences you’ll ever get from him will be good ones.
“Wait,” you turn back around, “I want to put something else on. Maybe another lace set, or a see through dress? It’s meant for sleeping, but I could wear it now.”
Leto licks his bottom lip.
“If it’s see through, no one expected you to sleep in it. Trust me.” He grins. “Put it on. I’ll enjoy lifting it up to spank you.”
You hope it never stops thrilling you, the look in his dark eyes when he wants you like this. The anticipation of it all.
It’s going to take many years to find out all of the ways to please Leto, and you’re determined to work at it every single day.
Leto Atreides Masterlist :: main masterlist :: Join My Fic Taglist
Din Djarin x f!reader | 12.2k | 18+ | main masterlist | ao3 | sequel to long gone
summary: It's been years, but you'd know those shoulders anywhere.
a/n: well well well, look who's back (it's me). This is the secret sequel I've been talking about for a million years -- it's finally done and it's twice as long as the first part (long gone). I very much recommend that you read that part first if you haven't, I'm not sure how much sense this makes without it. and thank you to @katareyoudrilling as always for being the best beta! I was going to wait and post this tomorrow but you know what, fuck it. happy 2026.
tags/warnings: a bit of angst (WAY less than the first part), a lot of flirting, touching, banter, Mandalorian kisses, feelings, a lot of feelings, talking about feelings, smut (kissing, fondling, grinding, oral (f! receiving), p-in-v sex, a bit of manhandling), pet names/praise (cyar'ika, mesh'la), reader has no description but wears clothes, has a vagina, works/worked in a cantina, and has traveled around the galaxy; no y/n
...
You’ve been on Nevarro for about a week now, and you’re pretty sure this was a bad idea.
You’d avoided the planet for years. Not that it was hard – you weren’t exactly planet hopping, after you left Takodana. You’d ended up on Birren, and you knew why. It was Inner Rim and it was about as far away from Takodana as you could get at the time.
And Birren had been fine. You’d found another cantina job and some friends and distracted yourself pretty well. Distracted yourself from what you had refused to call heartbreak.
Because he had broken your heart. This many years later you knew it to be true. He’d walked out and you’d felt a hole open up inside your chest that you hadn’t even realized he’d filled. He snuck inside of your heart and took up residence without you even noticing.
You’d known, immediately, that he wasn’t coming back.
So you left. Grabbed a transport out, headed coreward, where you knew he rarely went. Eventually you’d made a friend on another transport and followed them home to Birren. You liked it there well enough.
It wasn’t until years later, when you’d started to think maybe you should think about moving on again, that you realized what you’d done.
You finally got a good look at a chart – something you’d studiously avoided – and realized that when you ran, you ran closer to the planet you’d never forget the name of, even though you’d never been there yourself.
Nevarro.
It wasn’t exactly next door, but you were far closer to it than you had been on Takodana. You could only laugh. You’d run from him and everything that could possibly remind you of him, and now here you were, light years closer.
What were the odds?
You very carefully did not notice just how far he’d had to go out of his way to get to Takodana. Nothing good would come from letting yourself think about that.
Anyway, you hadn’t hopped the next ship to Nevarro. You’d traveled a bit after saving money for years and deciding to actually use it. Your old friend, the same one you’d followed to Birren, was heading to Coruscant, and you figured you might as well see it once. From there you actually planet-hopped a bit until one day you found yourself on a transport headed down the Hydian Way.
And you knew what planet was on the Hydian Way.
Should I bother? You worried over it constantly during the trip, as the planet itself got closer and closer. He’s probably not there anymore, if he ever was. He never actually said. You sighed to yourself. And we never made each other any promises.
In the end, you couldn’t help yourself. You had to see it just once. But when you stepped off the ship and onto Nevarro’s ashy soil, you grimaced. Black and grey soil, lava, no greenery in sight – it wasn’t exactly what you’d pictured.
As you’d walked towards the town, you’d wondered what you were even doing there. What if you did see him? He didn’t want to see you, that much was clear. He had made that more than clear.
What am I doing here?
It was a question you’d asked yourself more than a few times since you arrived on Nevarro, and you ask it again now as you stand in the market.
You turn towards your temporary dwelling and bite your lip. It’s been a week, and the town is not that big. He’s clearly not here. Why did I even come?
You reach inside your pocket for your comm, wondering if you’ve received any messages that might distract you. But you realize when you do, that it’s not in your pocket.
Groaning, you let your head fall back for a moment and look up at Nevarro’s sky. You sigh and you turn to retrace your steps.
And that’s when you see him.
It has to be him. His armor is different now, but the helmet alone is so familiar it freezes you in place. The light glints off of it, catching your eye, and you can’t help but trace the outline of his body.
Those are his shoulders, alright.
You stare for much longer than you’d care to admit before you realize he’s staring right back at you.
That he was already looking at you when you turned around.
He’s already seen you.
I can’t…
You gasp, comm forgotten, and spin, speed walking out of the market.
How long was he looking?
The shape of his helmet burns in your mind and you feel tears well up, tears that you haven’t cried for this man in years.
You’re almost there, only feet from the doorway, when a voice rings out that stops you in your tracks.
“Cyar’ika.”
…
Din turns into the market, on his way to see Karga, and is brought up short when a glint of light catches his attention. He looks closer and realizes it’s the bright light of Nevarro’s sun reflecting off of a bronze clasp on a bag strapped around a very familiar shape.
Before he can stop himself, he’s staring.
Distantly he knows he’s in the middle of the path, blocking everyone and everything, but he can’t do anything about it. He can’t do anything but stare. He’s frozen, rooted to the spot, incapable of turning away.
Din hasn’t seen her in years.
Years.
And all it takes is a glimpse of her profile, the corner of her smile, the curve of her hips, and he’s thrown years into the past.
He’d know her anywhere, anytime. Any place. He drinks her in now like a man who spent every second of every day since he last saw her stranded in the desert, dying of thirst.
He doesn’t often let himself remember that moment, that pain. He knows now that he’d panicked. He’d heard her ask about where he was from, heard her say there were bounty hunters on Takodana. And then the word “Nevarro” had crossed her lips and from that moment his mind was nothing but static. He was all adrenalin, all flight response, nothing but his training driving him.
He had to leave, he had to run, what if they knew he was here? What if they connected him to her?
What if she was in danger because of him?
The covert. He remembers now how he’d kicked himself, at the time. How that had made it worse – his first thought hadn’t been his duty, his responsibility. No, the thought that drove him to jump off the bed and reach for his armor was her. It was only after she stood to follow that he thought of the people he was supposed to protect.
It had to stay secret. What is he doing here? “This was a bad idea,” he remembers saying, and won’t let himself remember the way her face had looked when he’d said it. No, he sees it enough in his dreams. “I shouldn’t be here” – he knows he’d said something like that, but all he remembers of that moment is the way his entire body had been alert with panic, the way his mind was racing. How could he have put the covert in danger like this? What was he thinking?
When he’d looked at her again, the emotion on her face had struck him like a knife to the chest. But he had to go back home – had to stop letting himself get lost in useless dreams. You have a duty, he remembers telling himself. This is the way.
All he could do to protect her was make her promise to never tell anyone she knew him. Even as he said it, even as he ruined whatever it was he’d found, he’d known. He’d known then that he would never stop thinking about her for the rest of his days.
He stands there, now, in the middle of the market, looking at her smile, and remembers how her face had crumpled, then, when he said he should never have done it.
All he’d wanted was to touch her. But that was impossible, and all he could do was apologize.
Din remembers cursing himself and his carelessness when he realized he couldn’t even explain it to her. Couldn’t even tell her why. All he could do to keep her safe was to leave.
He didn’t want to leave.
But it didn’t matter what he wanted. It didn’t matter that he only realized how much he cared the moment he turned away, that he knew he’d somehow fallen in love the moment the door shut behind him. He wonders sometimes if it had been selfish, to let himself admit it aloud – if only to himself – in the moment he left her forever. He figured he’d never know. Even when he couldn’t stand it any longer and went back to Takodana, months later, only to find her gone; he supposes he couldn’t regret it. Even if he’d only gotten to say it once, he’d still gotten to say it. To tell her what she meant to him in the only way he could allow himself.
Cyar’ika.
He closed himself off after that. Why bother looking, when he’d already found her and couldn’t have her? When he’d never see her again?
But watching her now in the market on Nevarro, Din feels something in that corner of his heart that even Grogu can't touch – he feels it shake off years of dust and crack open in his chest.
…
You can’t breathe. Your entire body is frozen, chest and lungs unmoving, as his voice washes over you. That word.
You don’t turn around, but you feel him step closer. You look down when a hand appears in your peripheral. It’s wearing a familiar glove and it’s holding your comm.
“You dropped this,” he says, and suddenly, you’re furious.
Spinning around, you barely notice you’ve dropped your bag of purchases on the ground as you snatch your comm from his hand. He leans away and almost takes a step back at your glare, clearly startled.
“That’s it?” you demand, hands finding your hips. You stand tall in front of him and watch as he tilts his head at you.
“... what?” he sounds genuinely confused, and that pisses you off more.
“Nothing for years and all you’ve got for me is my comm?” It’s pulsing through you now, this indignation that took root the last time he walked out your door but hasn’t had reason to flower until now.
Mando’s shoulders hunch up around his ears, and you watch as his hand makes a fist and then releases. “I–”
You shake your head. “No, actually. I don’t want to hear it.” You spin again in place, head shaking, hand trembling, and reach for your fob to your apartment.
A large, warm hand gently catches your elbow.
“Wait,” he says, and you shiver despite yourself. That voice. “Wait, please. That’s not… that’s not all.”
He’s almost pleading, and you feel the anger start to leach out of you. “It’s not?” you ask, and you can’t help the hope that bleeds into your voice. Even after all this time, you can’t help but hope there’s a reason to hear him out.
You look over your shoulder and realize he’s standing right behind you. You look up and meet his visor. His hand is still cupping your arm.
“Can we… can we talk?” He asks, voice low. You can’t tell for certain, but it feels like he’s watching your face.
You let your eyes dance over his helmet, the only face of his you’ve ever known, and then look down to his shoulders. They’re tense, and you can tell he’s nervous. Maybe not, you think. Maybe I can’t read him anymore. You frown at the thought.
“If we talk,” you say, slowly turning to face him, “is it going to end with you walking out the door…" he lets go of your arm but doesn’t lift his hand – his fingertips slide softly along your upper back as you turn, making you shiver, before finding a grip on your opposite arm as you face him, “never to be heard from again?” His hand tightens on your arm, not painfully, but you can feel the tremor behind it. You swallow roughly. “Because I can’t do that again, Mando. I won’t do that again.”
He’s shaking his head before you’ve finished speaking. “I– I won’t. I pr–” he’s tripping over his words, and you blink, startled. You’ve never heard him this unraveled, but then, it’s been years since you’ve heard from him at all. He takes a deep, slow breath, and then lifts his visor to look in your eyes again. “My name is Din.”
Your mouth drops open. You stare at him, mind blank, nothing but the word Din echoing inside of you. His name?
“What?” you breathe, shocked.
“Din Djarin,” he says again, and you suck in a sharp breath. “I should have told you that before.”
You stare at him for a moment. He shifts his weight, clearly uncomfortable under your silent gaze. You nod and spin on your heel, breaking his grip on your arm.
“Well, Din,” you say, and you hear him trip over the step in front of your door. “Let’s talk.”
…
Din follows you inside, and you move to put the table between the two of you without consciously thinking about it. Your mind spins into the past when he touches you and you need some space to think.
Looking at him now, in what has been your home of just a couple of weeks, you find yourself speechless. What do I say? you wonder, at a loss.
Din might still be able to read you, too, because he steps into the gap. “Where did you go after Takodana?”
You blink. “How do you know I left?” You regret the question instantly, because obviously you’d left, you were here, on Nevarro. But he speaks before you can take it back.
“I went back.”
His words slam into you like blows and you gape at him. “You… what?”
Din seems to shrink a bit before sighing and squaring his shoulders. “I went back. About…” he trails off, maybe doing some mental calculations. “Three seasons later.”
Your mouth drops open, and then you close it. You shake your head. “That’s not long after I Ieft.”
Din seems to take that truth like a blow, too, taking a step back and shaking his head. “Not long?” he says, repeating your words back to you, voice strained.
You shake your head again. “No. And from there, I wandered. Birren, Coruscant… some other places.” You swallow and straighten your shoulders. “I… couldn’t stay.”
He’s silent for a moment, and you wonder what he’s thinking about. The silence stretches, long enough that you shift your weight. You’re about to open your mouth, wondering if you should fill it, when he speaks again.
“I’m sorry.” His voice is stilted but you’re certain it’s sincere, you remember enough to know that. You blink in surprise. Despite everything, you hadn’t expected an apology. Not after this long.
You search for something to say in response – too late? Why now? Are you, really? – but the truth is something you’ve fought long and hard to come to terms with over many sleepless nights, and it’s what you settle on now. “You don’t have to apologize, Mando. We didn’t make each other any promises. Remember?”
He lifts his hand towards you but clenches it into a fist, and lets it drop back by his side. He takes a careful step towards the end of the table and says, “maybe not out loud. I know what we said. But I made you promises in other ways. I’m sorry I didn’t realize that until after I left.”
You tilt your head, confused, thinking over his words. “In other ways?”
He nods and takes another step around the table. “With my body. And my actions.” A shiver runs up your spine, lightning quick, and you inhale sharply. “And please. Call me Din.”
You’re starting to feel like you’re not really present in your body. It’s all so much. Mando – Din – is here, real, in front of you, and he’s apologizing. You blink, dazed.
“Mando–” you say it without thinking, barely able to form thoughts in the face of his sincerity.
“Din. Please, cyar’ika.”
“D– Din.” You pause, considering the way his name feels on your tongue as you watch him. He steps closer and you realize that you’re suddenly standing on the same side of the table. You reach out to one of your chairs to steady yourself. “I… ok. Thank you for apologizing.” You swallow with difficulty. He’s standing so close now. “It’s nice to–- I thought…” you trail off, looking at him, and admit something you thought for sure you wouldn’t. “I thought I’d never see you again.”
He steps closer until he’s standing within arm’s reach. Your heart is racing, but not out of fear. Never out of fear of this man.
“How long are you here?” he asks, voice low. The air between you feels tense.
“As long as I want, really,” you say, a bit thrown at the change in topic, and you try to smile. “I’m a bit of a wanderer, these days. I’d need a job eventually.” You stop yourself before you can do something wild like promise to stay for a long time. You have no idea where this conversation is going and you’re starting to feel overwhelmed.
He’s still looking at you, and you can’t help but wonder what he’s thinking.
“Can I see you again?” he asks. He sounds tense, but he’s completely focused on you and your answer. You can feel it.
You nod, but then you can’t help but say, “Yes but I… I can’t do that again, M– Din.”
He shakes his head. “What if I..” he reaches out and grasps the back of the chair, hand only a few inches from your own. You stare down at it. “What if I said it wouldn’t be like that again?”
You keep your gaze on your hands that are almost touching. His familiar glove threatens to draw up memories you’ve avoided for years. “What?”
“Cyar’ika, everything… it’s different, now.” He takes a deep breath and tightens his grip on the chair. You still don’t look at him. “I wanted to stay.” The words sound like they’re being pulled from somewhere deep inside of him, somewhere you’d seen before but never touched. “I wanted to stay so badly. I couldn’t… and I thought I had put you in danger. I couldn’t let myself–”
You blink. Wait. You furrow your brow and look up at him, finally, and find his visor still trained on you. “Wait. Din. None of those bounty hunters even glanced at me, they didn’t– they weren’t after me.”
He shakes his head again. “It’s not… I’ll explain. I’ll explain everything. But please, it won’t be like that this time. I promise.”
You’re silent for a long moment. You can’t tell what he’s asking for – for what you had before? The pretense of “just sex”? To talk, to explain? Something else? Something more? As you look at him, taking your time to study him, he shifts his weight again, nervous. It makes you smile. You might still know this man, the man under all of that new, shiny armor, after all.
“We go slow,” you say, voice firm.
He stares at you for a moment and then leans closer. “What?”
“If– if we do this.” You gesture between the two of you with the hand that isn’t holding onto your chair for dear life. “We take it slow. I can’t.. We can’t start where we left off, Din.”
“I know, cyar’ika, I–” he interrupts, but you keep going.
“Not even if I, ah, if…” you trail off and bite your lip. You look down at his hand again and see that it’s almost touching yours.
You feel a sudden touch to your chin and realize it’s his other hand, gloved, oh-so-lightly brushing against your chin to lift your gaze. His touch brings you back to yourself, back to your body, and you’re suddenly more present, more real than you have been for this entire conversation. You let him move you and look at the visor again. “Not even if what, cyar’ika?” he murmurs, and you know you’re caught.
“Not even if I want to, still,” you admit. He freezes in place, and then you gasp when his fingers lightly cover yours on the back of the chair.
“That’s probably smart,” he agrees, voice low. You know that voice, that pitch… and it makes you shiver now, just like it did then. “Slow,” he says, and you realize his finger is still under your chin when he extends it to lightly trace along your jaw. “We can do this however you want, cyar’ika. I’ll do anything you want.”
You blink, dazed again. “Ok. Then I have a question.”
“Anything,” he promises, and you smile.
“What’s that mean? Cyar-ika?”
He freezes, and you can’t help but grin. His finger brushes over your cheek, like he can’t help but touch. “I’ll tell you next time,” he says, a bit strangled, and you laugh.
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
…
Din agreed to meet her the next day, in the afternoon, for a walk.
The idea alone makes him smile behind his helmet, where no one could see it. A walk? When was the last time he’d gone for a walk?
He spent the entire night tossing and turning, unable to believe his luck in finding her again. Finding her here, on Nevarro. Finding her willing to give him some kind of chance.
He’s there on time, right in the spot she pointed out the day before, leaning casually (or so he hoped) against the wall when she appears.
“Ready?” she asks, smiling at him. For a moment Din can’t speak, can’t breathe, can only trace the shape of her smile with his eyes and resist the urge to reach out and touch.
When it starts to fade, he realizes he’s been quiet for too long. “Ready,” he agrees, voice rough. He smiles when he sees her shiver.
“I thought we could walk towards the shipyard,” she suggests, falling into step next to him. “I haven’t really seen the lava flats much. Thought I might get a closer look.”
He nods. He’ll go anywhere she wants. “Alright.”
They start walking, and Din starts to look for something to say. The entire conversation yesterday felt like it had happened to him, like a wave that crashed over him, rather than something he took an active part in. He remembers everything he said – and kriff, had he really said all of that? – and while it had all been true, he can’t believe he actually said it.
Before he can berate himself more for the deepening silence, she speaks. “Do you still have the Crest?”
Din grimaces and shakes his head. “No.”
“Oh no,” she turns towards him, eyes wide, and reaches out to touch his arm. He stops walking, halting at her touch. She starts to pull away but he reaches over and closes his free hand over hers atop his forearm before she can pull back. “Did something happen?”
He stretches his neck from side to side and then nods. “It… got blown up.”
“What?!” she cries, squeezing his arm, and he can’t help but smile, knowing she can’t see it. She looks so torn, so upset, and he knows it’s on his behalf. He hadn’t wanted to see it back then, but she knows him so well.
“It’s a long story,” he says, turning and starting to walk again but with her arm looped through his.
She throws him a wry look and he grins under the helmet where she can’t see. “Well, we have time,” she says.
Din nods. They do, and so he tells her about all of it – finding Grogu, losing the Crest, losing him, getting him back, their new life here on Nevarro. It takes them out to the shipyard, in a wide arc around the parked ships, and the beginning of the walk back, with plenty of questions and reactions that make him smile along the way.
“You have a son?” she exclaims when he tells her about Grogu, and the joy he feels when he nods must be visible to her somehow because she smiles softly. “I can see it,” she murmurs.
“Yeah?” he asks, suddenly needing reassurance. She knew him when he was young and not exactly at his best, so if she thinks so…
She nods. “Yes, definitely. I know we stayed away from… personal topics, but you were the kids’ favorite, you know? The ones who used to hang around the square outside of the cantina. They talked about you for weeks after every visit.”
He blinks, startled. Kids usually like him, that much is true – they don’t know to be afraid. But he had no idea. “Really?”
She laughs. “Really. But wait, Din, I’m so sorry, I can’t believe you lost the Crest! That must have been so horrible. For you and for Grogu.” She reaches over and squeezes his arm again. At some point during his story they unlinked their arms, just for practicality’s sake, and he feels warmed again at her touch.
“It…” he trails off. No one has outright said it to him, not like that. He knew he missed her, but kriff. “It was. Horrible.”
She nods. “I haven’t had a home like that, well.” She laughs, but it doesn’t sound happy. He is realizing that he still remembers everything he learned about how she talked and moved and gestured – everything about her. “Maybe not ever. Losing it must have been so hard.”
Somehow her sincere sympathy makes him feel able to talk about something he normally avoids even thinking about. “I have to apologize for something. Again.”
“Oh?” she says, looking at him expectantly.
“I, um,” he shakes his head. “I might have taken one of your bracelets… before. But I don’t have it – it was on the Crest, when…”
“Oh!” she says, and her hand flies to her wrist where he can see a few new bracelets, still colorful, clearly recently made. They’re lovely, as always. “I forgot! I remember, after you left, I noticed one was missing.” She gasps and reaches over to shove him lightly. He lets himself stumble and she laughs. “You thief!” He laughs, too, smiling as she does. “I can’t believe you.”
“I, um,” he says, reaching for whatever courage he had the day before that allowed him to talk so much about all of this. “I didn’t admit it to myself, not for a bit, but I didn’t want to leave. I wanted…” he sighs. “I went back with no plan, no idea what I was going to say, just knowing I wanted… you. But–”
“But I was gone,” she says, furrowing her brow. He doesn’t like the crestfallen look on her face and reaches out to take her hand.
“You were, but I’m the one who left first.” She still looks upset, and he suddenly wishes he hadn’t brought it up. “And we’re here now.”
The corner of her mouth quirks upwards, just a bit, and Din feels his shoulders relax in response.
“What brought you to Nevarro, anyway?” He realizes she never said, and he can’t help but ask. To his delight, she drops her eyes and bites her lip. He knows that tell. Whatever it is, now he has to know.
“Well,” she starts, and peeks up at him without raising her chin. He grins and squeezes her hand. “I’ve been traveling, like I said.”
“Mm,” Din agrees, leaning closer.
“And for a long time I maybe avoided this… corner of the galaxy. But last year I found myself on a ship that traded along the Hydian Way.”
He tilts his head. “On purpose?”
She shrugs. “Sort of. I wasn’t admitting it to myself yet, but I never stopped wondering.”
Din steps just a bit closer. He’s close enough now that he could lean forward and touch his forehead to hers. Slow, he reminds himself. He doesn’t. “Wondering? Did you come here to find me, cyar’ika?”
She tilts her head back and forth and he smiles at the familiar gesture. He’d seen her do that so many times when she was telling him stories about her coworkers, lounging around in her apartment. “Not completely? I had no idea if you’d still be here. It was more that…” she trails off and he brings his free hand up to trace his fingertips over her cheek. He wishes he wasn’t wearing gloves. The memory of her skin under his hands is so distant, so worn at the edges in his mind. “More that I was maybe ok with the possibility of seeing you again. And I really never stopped being curious about this place.”
When she speaks, her lips brush against his glove, and he has to bite back the sound that threatens to leap from his mouth. “I’m glad. I might have been able to find you, if I’d tried. But I didn’t think you’d want me to.”
She studies him. He could always tell when she was doing this, looking at him like she was looking for something. Whatever it is this time, it seems like she finds it, because she smiles. “I might have yelled at you if you did.”
“More than you did here?”
She laughs and he can’t tear his eyes away. “Much more. You can only tell me your name once, you know. And I was way angrier back then.”
He smiles sheepishly and ducks his head. “I missed you, cyar’ika. I would have let you yell at me as much as you wanted.”
She’s silent for a moment, long enough that he looks up. Her eyes are narrowed. “It’s next time, Din.”
“What?”
“You said you’d tell me next time. What that word means.”
He feels himself flush under the helmet, glad as always no one can see it. “Oh. Well. I know we said slow.”
Her eyebrows fly upwards. “Oh, well now you have to tell me.”
Din sighs and leans forward, so close their foreheads almost touch. “Cyar’ika…” he murmurs, and watches a shiver travel across her shoulders. “Means sweetheart. Or something close to it. But… more.”
Her jaw drops, and she stares. “Sweetheart?”
He nods.
Suddenly her hand tugs free of his, but before he can protest she grabs him by both shoulders. “Din. Djarin.”
“Yes?” He loves the way his name sounds on her tongue.
“Are you telling me,” she asks, squeezing his arms, “that right when you walked out of my life,” he winces at the look on her face, “when I was standing naked in my apartment,” he tries to shrink, but she won’t let him, “you called me something more than sweetheart?”
He clears his throat. “Yes.”
She gapes at him, clearly incredulous, before laughing. She lets her head fall forward lightly until it rests against his own. He sucks in a sharp breath at the gesture. She doesn’t— she can’t know—
“Din,” she says, interrupting his panicked thoughts, and her voice is warm again. He takes a deep breath.
“Cyar’ika,” he says, and he means it. He means it every time.
She laughs weakly. “You are very bad at this.”
It’s his turn to laugh. “I know. I’m sorry.”
She shakes her head, still touching his, and he feels something like a tremble in his knees. He shifts his weight without breaking contact with her.
“Back then… I couldn’t. I wasn’t allowed to choose things. For myself.”
She draws back and he misses her instantly. “What?”
“I had… responsibilities. I’ll tell you about it. But I wasn’t free to choose. And I wasn’t a good man.”
She frowns at him. “No.”
“No?” He realizes that at some point in the last few minutes his hands have come to rest on her hips, and it felt so natural he didn’t notice. He resists the urge to squeeze.
“The good man I know was always in there, Din. You’ve always been good.”
He’s speechless, split open by her words. She knew him. She knew him better than anyone, really, even without all the details he still owed her.
And she thought he was good.
“Will you come to dinner? I want you to meet Grogu.”
She smiles, so wide he can’t help but squeeze her hips lightly after all. He never wants to let go. “I’d like that.”
…
Two days later you follow Din’s directions, walking through the town and then into the outskirts where most of the new houses have been built. You’re taking deep breaths, trying not to be too nervous, but you’ve been thinking about it all day – meeting Grogu. Seeing where Din lives.
You’d dreamed about that sometimes, before. Couldn’t stop yourself from imagining him in a home, some kind of home, on some other planet you’d never seen.
This house is new, of course, so it’s not where he lived back then. But something about going to Din, instead of him coming to you… it’s making you feel excited and anxious and overwhelmed. You’ve barely known what to do with yourself.
And there it is.
You take a moment to study it. It’s charming, with little touches that show a family lives inside. You look over the windchimes hanging from the roof, the little frog figurine by the bench on the porch, the curtains you can see through the window. All of it makes you smile.
You take a deep breath before walking up to the door, blue cookies in hand. You knock.
When the door flies open, Din isn’t standing behind it.
Confused, you look around and then down. When you see who opened the door, you grin.
“You must be Grogu!” you say, kneeling down. The small, green, adorable child smiles back at you and makes a cooing noise. “It’s so nice to meet you!” You reach out tentatively with your hand, unsure of how to say hello. Grogu squeals and touches his claw lightly to your fingertip.
“I see you’ve already met,” a deep voice says from above you, sounding very amused. You look up to find Din standing over both of you in the doorway.
“Hi,” you say, smiling. Grogu chirps a greeting and you look back down at him. He’s stepped closer to you, still smiling, and reaches out to poke the box of cookies with his claws. “I see you’ve found dessert.”
Din laughs and reaches down to scoop up his son. “He loves those things. Of course that’s the first thing he sees.” He looks down at Grogu, who looks back at him and giggles.
You stand slowly, absolutely charmed by seeing Din with his son. “I’m glad I brought them.”
“Come in,” Din says, and steps back to invite you inside.
As you step into their home, you can’t help but look around. There’s a living area to your left with a low couch – you smile at the very fluffy green blanket thrown over the back. The kitchen area appears to be straight ahead, and then a short hallway to your right must lead to the sleeping quarters. You can see little personal touches everywhere, and your smile only grows as you notice them. Some drawings that must be Grogu’s tacked to the wall by the back door, some of his toys on the floor by the couch and on the windowsill. A large silver cabinet you presume must be full of Din’s things, probably weapons, as you can tell even from far away how well secured it is. There’s a rack by the door for shoes and you quickly toe yours off.
As you turn to look around again you realize Din is standing by the couch, where he placed Grogu, and looking at you. Your face turns hot as you realize you’ve been quiet for… you don’t know how long, gawking around his home.
“I’m sorry–”
“Do you–”
You start to speak at the same time, and then both of you pause.
“Sorry? Cyar’ika–”
“Sorry I was just gawking at all your stuff, Din–”
He cuts you off. “No, it’s fine. I want you to look.”
You step forward, not taking your eyes off of him. “It’s really nice, Din.” You smile and reach out to squeeze his hand. “It’s very you.”
“Me?” he asks, and starts looking around his own home. “What do you mean?”
“Well,” you say, and gesture downwards, “I can tell you set this area up to be as accessible for Grogu as possible. He’s pretty short,” you tease, looking down at the child. He grins back at you and makes a little noise that sounds like blub. “See, he agrees! And of course you locked up all of your stuff in that intense looking cabinet over there, out of the way.” You look back at Din. He’s feeling self conscious, you can tell by his shoulders. “It’s just obvious how much you care.”
He ducks his head. “You can see all of that? Just looking around?”
It’s your turn to feel self conscious. You shrug. “Guess so. And, um…” you trail off, not sure if you should say it.
He steps towards you and reaches out to lightly grip your upper arm. “Well, don’t stop now. And what?” He’s clearly teasing you and it helps you relax.
“And…” you look up at his visor and he squeezes your arm lightly. “And I guess I’m used to reading in between the lines, with you.”
Din tilts his head to the side, considering. “Because of the helmet?” he asks, sounding a bit resigned.
You tilt your head from side to side. “Only sort of. It’s really because you hate talking about yourself.” You grin at him. “And you know it.”
He shakes his head and sighs. “I don’t… hate it. As much. Now.”
You raise your eyebrows at him. “Oh yeah?”
He laughs, and you lean towards him, smiling. “I’ve… had to do a lot of new things, since I found Grogu.”
“I bet,” you say, still smiling.
Before either of you can say anything else, Grogu squeals, loudly. You both look down to find him tugging at Din’s pants with one hand and pointing towards the kitchen with the other. .
“Seems like Grogu’s telling us it’s dinner time,” you say, charmed.
Din nods. “If there’s one thing you can count on, it’s this kid being ready for dinner.” He scoops him up again, and again you feel a little squeeze around your heart, watching Din with his son.
Get a grip. You squeeze your hands together as you follow them. Not for the first time, you wonder why Din had invited you to dinner, given that he can’t eat with you. You settle around the table and see that there are only two place settings, which doesn’t surprise you, but does make you feel a bit bad.
“Din, what about–”
He sets two steaming bowls down in front of you and Grogu. “I ate just before you got here.” He settles in across from you and seems to realize it might be weird just to stare at you while you eat, because he looks towards Grogu. “I hope it’s good. I’m still, ah, learning.”
“How to cook?” you ask, before starting to eat. It’s some kind of stew, and the smell alone is mouth watering.
“Yes, I–”
“Din,” you can’t help but interrupt. “This is good.” You look up at him and find him frozen, one hand reaching towards Grogu.
“It is?”
You nod, taking another bite. “Really good, Din. Thank you.”
He ducks his head again and you smile. “I’m glad. I’m trying to learn more for Grogu. Didn’t cook much before.”
“Makes sense.” You watch as he helps Grogu manage his spoon. “Did the Crest even have a kitchen?”
Din laughs. “No, nothing like that. Ate a lot of rations.” You make a noise, and he laughs again. “I know. This is better.”
After that, your conversation is easy. Grogu chimes in from time to time, and you marvel at how good he is at making himself understood.
When you’re both done eating, Din produces the blue cookies he’d taken at the door, and Grogu squeals. “Yeah, buddy, you can have two, ok? We’ll save the rest.” He looks over at you. “If that’s alright.”
“Of course. They’re for you.”
As soon as Grogu swallows the second cookie, he starts to droop. It’s adorable.
“Looks like someone’s ready for bed,” Din says, reaching for him. You stand when he does. “Hey, no, let me put him down, I’ll be right back. Stay?”
You nod, glad you don’t have to leave quite yet. “I’ll be here.”
Din turns the corner, and you turn towards the dishes. You smile as you start to clean up. It feels… domestic. Strange, because nothing with him before had ever felt this way.
You like it.
You finish up and turn to look over the table and jump, hand flying to your chest.
Din is leaning up against the doorframe of the kitchen, arms crossed, looking completely at ease.
“Kark!” you say, breath coming fast. “Din! How do you do that?”
He laughs and moves towards you. “Bounty hunter, cyar’ika. You didn’t have to clean up.”
You smile and shrug. “You cooked, right? I clean.”
He shakes his head, but you can tell he’s amused. “I’m glad you came,” he says, stepping closer. He’s only a few inches away from you now, and you’re pinned against the counter. “There’s something I want to talk to you about.”
You nod. “Alright.”
He surprises you by leaning forward and gently resting his helmet against your forehead. “Come sit with me?”
“Of course.”
He takes your hand and leads you to the low couch. When you sit, he sits right next to you and keeps your hand held between his. “It’s… difficult. To talk about this.”
“Take your time,” you say, turning towards him a bit more on the couch. You tangle your fingers with his and squeeze.
“Thank you,” he says. He’s silent for a moment, but you don’t push. You remember his silences and this one is comfortable, just like it was then, even though you know he’s going to tell you something important.
He sighs. “I said before, how I had responsibilities.” You nod. “I was raised by Mandalorians, in a covert. Here on Nevarro, after we left Mandalore. I’ll… tell you about that another time.” You squeeze his hand and he takes a breath. “We lived in secrecy, in hiding. And once I was old enough I was sent out to earn money. For the tribe. As a bounty hunter.”
A picture is starting to grow in your mind, as he speaks, filling in the gaps you always wondered about but never understood before. The details of his life that you had hoped to one day learn. You think about all of the jobs he’d done, when you knew him, and how he was always on a deadline, traveling home. Traveling here.
“We lived in the tunnels here,” he continues, “because our secrecy was our safety. I had… responsibilities. To the tribe. I couldn’t let anyone know about them. About us.” He squeezes your hand again. “I had to be so careful, cyar’ika. None of the other bounty hunters knew anything about me, even though the guild was here. And that… that was how we survived. The whole tribe, the adults, the children, all of them.”
You remember, suddenly, what you’d said to him that day. That the other bounty hunters had mentioned Nevarro. “Oh, Din. And I said–”
He shakes his head. “No, you didn’t do anything wrong, cyar’ika. I overreacted. Because I…” he sighs. “I wasn’t supposed to be doing what I was doing, with you.”
“What, you weren’t allowed to have sex?” You can’t help the words that spill out of you. What?
“No, that wasn’t the problem. It was… well. The feelings. The connection. I knew it wasn’t allowed, that’s why I said–”
“Just sex,” you say, the memories of your first time together echoing in your mind.
He nods. “Pretty good sex,” he says, echoing your words from long ago. His tone is wry, and you laugh. “But I was breaking the rules every time I came back, even if I never admitted it to myself. So when you said Nevarro, I panicked. I suddenly understood what I’d been doing and I ran.” He looks down at your hands. “We weren’t supposed to have… connections. Outside the tribe. And the moment I left, I knew I had broken that rule just about every way I could have. With you.”
Your heart feels like it’s swelling inside your chest. Connected. You had been connected, you weren’t imagining it then, and hearing him say it now… you feel pressure behind your eyes and try to blink it away.
“Cyar’ika? Are you–” He reaches one hand towards you, brushing away a tear from under your eye with his thumb.
You lean into his hand. “I’m fine, Din. It’s just… nice. To hear you say it.”
“Say what?” he sounds concerned, still. And you can’t help but smile, turning your face into his palm.
“That you felt it too.”
He scoots closer on the couch, somehow, one hand cupping your face and the other clutching your hand between you. “I told you. I wanted to go back. I went back, because I wanted you, cyar’ika.”
You close your eyes and breathe in shakily. “I know.” It feels like your heart is trying to burst from your chest.
Din clears his throat. “There’s more. Just… when Grogu, when I went back for him. The other bounty hunters tried to stop me. And my tribe… they saved us.”
You furrow your brow. “Wait, you mean–”
He nods. “They came out of hiding, for us. And for a long time I thought… I thought they’d died. All of them.” His voice wavers, and you squeeze his hand. You bring your free hand up to hold his, to press it to your face.
“Din–”
“Some died, but not all of them. They’re actually here on Nevarro again. They still live a bit apart, but they’re safe.”
“That’s great, Din!” you say, and you mean it, but… They’re here. Something about that isn’t sitting well with you. You’re worried, suddenly, and you know he must be able to see it when he leans closer.
“What’s wrong?”
You can’t help but smile. He can still read you. “Nothing, it’s just… they’re here. And you said, about the rules–”
He shakes his head. “No, it’s not… It’s like I told you, it’s different now. It’s different for me and for them. It’s not like it was.”
You nod, taking that in. You have a feeling there’s more to it, but that’s enough to set you at ease. “Alright.”
Din’s thumb rubs gently across your cheek, and you realize you’re still tangled together. You tug on his hand lightly and pull it down to your lap. He sighs, sounding relieved. “Thank you for… for listening. I know you had no reason to–”
You shake your head. “You said it was different this time, Din, but more than that… so far you’ve shown me that’s true. I…” you trail off. “I mean, I already told you I still want...” You bite your lip. You suddenly feel like you’re out on a limb, all by yourself, even though he’s been pretty clear since you found him again.
But it doesn’t last long, because he nods. “I want you, cyar’ika.”
You feel your face start to heat up. “You said that, um. But what exactly do you want?”
Din gently disentangles his hands from yours and cups your jaw, smoothing his thumbs against your cheeks. “Not just sex. I do want sex,” he says, and you both laugh. “But I want everything with you. We can take our time and figure it out. But that’s what I want.”
You couldn’t stop the smile that takes over your face if you tried. The feeling welling up inside you is unfamiliar but so welcome. “I want that too, Din.” You laugh. “That’s not very slow of us, is it?”
He leans forward and presses his forehead to yours again. “Slow is getting harder by the day, cyar’ika.”
You nudge his head with yours. “What’s this mean? And don’t try to avoid the question, Din, I can tell it means something.”
He sighs. “You know me too well. It’s… it’s how we kiss. With helmets.”
Your jaw drops. “Din Djarin, you kissed me two days ago!”
He laughs. “Couldn’t help it, I’m sorry.”
“You’re so bad at this,” you laugh, “and even worse at going slow.”
He leans back again and you just know he’s grinning at you, unrepentant. “I know.”
“I wish you’d told me, back then – I always wanted to kiss you so bad, you know, and there was a way we could have been kissing the whole time?”
He shakes his head. “That would have meant acknowledging feelings I was pretending not to have.” He lets his hands drop and travel slowly down your arms. You shiver. “I always wanted to kiss you, too.”
You lean forward. “Well, now we can.” You touch your forehead to the helmet and you feel him take a deep breath.
“Cyar’ika…” he cups the back of your neck with his hand. It feels so good. “Thank you. For coming over.”
“Thank you for inviting me.”
…
After that, you see him and Grogu almost every day. Slow, you tell yourself, over and over again, but it’s getting harder by the day. When he brings you lunch, when he introduces you to his friends, when he invites you to dinner, when his hand falls to the small of your back as you walk, when he kisses you goodbye every time, nudging his helmet against yours… you see, in everything he does, that it’s different now.
And you want it to be different so, so badly.
Two weeks after the first night you had dinner at his home, you’re in your own home alone. Your brand new home. Din introduced you to Greef Karga, who introduced you to Marta at the local cantina, who gave you a job, and who told you about this apartment… and here you are.
You look around, smiling. It’s small, with a little kitchenette and a bed that hides away and transforms into a couch during the day, but it’s all yours. You haven’t had something that’s all yours like this since… since Takodana. The idea of staying is daunting, but it also feels right. You move towards the bags you’d dropped on your small table, ready to unpack your purchases from the market, when you’re interrupted by a knock at the door.
When you open it, you’re surprised to find Din on the other side. “Din? Aren’t we meeting for dinner?”
He nods. “We are. But I had to– can I come in?”
“Of course,” you say, moving aside so he can come inside. He walks towards your living area, stops, and turns and walks towards you again, and then he’s pacing. You frown, watching him move back and forth. “Din? Is everything–”
“Karga told me. You… the cantina?”
You grin. “Yes, I got a job, and look at this apartment, it’s so cute–” He turns again and stops right in front of you. He gathers your hands in his and you can feel that he’s shaking. “Din? Are you alright–”
“Cyar’ika,” he says, and squeezes your hands. “Karga told me that you found a job, that you found a place to stay, and I… I ran here. Does this mean, are you–” He paused. “Are you staying?”
You step forwards and lean into him until your forehead nudges against his helmet. “Yes, Din. I’m staying.”
He takes a deep breath. “And you… with me?” he asks, and you can hear how difficult it is for him to ask.
“Yes. With you.”
Something inside of him seems to release, and his shoulders relax. “Cyar’ika,” he breathes, and you smile. “Are we still going slow?”
You shake your head against his helmet without losing contact. “No more slow, Din. Just us.”
For a moment he’s silent. And then he leans back from you, releases your hands, and grasps the bottom of his helmet on both sides.
The panic flashes through you, traveling like lightning from your chest down your spine. “Din? What–”
Without even pausing, he lifts it off his head. Or you assume he must, because your hands fly to cover your eyes even as you squeeze them shut. “Din! What are you doing?”
He laughs. And you can hear it, just him, no modulator. You gasp.
“Are you laughing? Din, what–”
“I’m happy. Cyar’ika,” he says, and you feel his hands – his bare hands, no gloves – wrap gently around your wrists. “It’s ok. You can look.” His voice is so deep and so real.
Your whole body is tingling, you can’t understand the words he’s saying. “I can’t, no, Din, what do you mean I can look? Of course I can’t–”
“Shhh,” he shushes you softly, and you feel him step closer until you’re almost pressed together. “Listen to me. It’s ok. You can look. I want you to. I promise, it’s ok. I’ll explain everything.” You’re breathing fast, and you feel him let go of one of your wrists to wrap an arm around your back. “Please, cyar’ika. Trust me. Just look.”
You take a deep, slow breath. “Ok, Din. I trust you.” You let him tug your hand away from your eyes and you drop both of your arms, resting your hands on his chest. Your eyes are still closed, but he cups your face in his palm. You feel his thumb run gently under your eye.
“Please,” he repeats, and you give in.
You open your eyes, slowly, and for a moment you don’t know where to look. Your eyes dart over his strong jaw, his nose, his brows, his mustache – you start to smile when you see it – until they come to rest on his eyes, warm and brown, and looking right at you.
“Din?” you whisper, and he smiles. You watch the way it changes his face and your breath catches in your throat.
“Hi, cyar’ika,” he says, voice low, and you shiver. His arm tightens around your waist and you wrap your own around his chest.
“Din,” you say, voice full of wonder. “You’re beautiful.”
He ducks his head, and you marvel at the way you can see him blush. “Not as beautiful as you,” he murmurs, and you lean forward to press your forehead against his.
“Din, why? Why now?”
He leans back from you and begins to tug you towards your couch. You follow easily and find yourself in his lap after he guides you down. You can’t take your eyes off of his face.
“I haven’t told you about this, yet,” he says, and tightens his arms around your waist. You reach up to trace his cheek with your fingertips and he leans into it like a cat. “But I’ve taken my helmet off before, for Grogu. And now…” he frowns, and you can’t help but trace the shape of it. It makes him laugh and press a soft kiss to your fingertips. “It doesn’t mean the same thing to me, not anymore. I’ll tell you all about it. But it’s ok. With you, it’s ok. Because you’re… we’re…”
“Are you sure? It hasn’t been that long, I–”
“I’m sure,” he says, interrupting your nervous words, voice firm. “I never thought I’d get another chance. And now, we’re—”
You smile as he speaks and lean forward to press a kiss to his cheek. He falls silent, blinking at you. “We’re figuring it out,” you say, “but I’m yours, Din. If you still want me.”
He grins. It’s beautiful. You’ll never get enough of just looking at him. “I’ll always want you, cyar’ika. I’m so glad I found you again.”
“Hmm,” you hum, wrapping your arms around his neck. “I think I found you, Mr. Bounty Hunter.”
He laughs. He laughs, and you can see it happen. It’s wonderful.
“You did,” he agrees. “And I’ve been yours since the moment I saw you, you know.”
“What, here on Nevarro?”
Din shakes his head. “No. On Takodana.”
You raise your eyebrows. “When you carried that guy out of the cantina like a sack of polystarch?”
He smiles. “You have no idea how beautiful you are. And how fearless.”
You shake your head. “I’m plenty afraid, Din. I was afraid I’d never see you again. That we’d never figure this out.”
“And you tried anyway.” He cups your face with his hand again and you shiver at the feeling of his skin on yours. “Cyar’ika,” he murmurs, pulling you closer. “I’ve never done this before, but… can I kiss you?”
You feel heat crash over you and tingle down your spine at the idea of kissing this man. “Din, you can kiss me whenever you want.” You nudge your nose against his and feel his arms tighten around you.
Softly, so softly it steals your breath away, you feel his lips press against yours.
It’s overwhelming, the feelings that rise up inside you. You used to dream of kissing this man, and then for so long you pretended you forgot those dreams, and now here he is, kissing you.
It’s better than anything you imagined before.
His lips are soft, but firm, and when you tease his bottom lip with your tongue he gasps. He catches on quick and teases you right back, teases you until you’re breathing fast and writhing in his lap.
You break away for air as he presses warm kisses across your jaw and down your neck. “How are you so good at this already?” you gasp, and he chuckles.
“I haven’t kissed anyone before,” he says again, “but I’ve seen plenty of other people kiss.” He looks up at you suddenly and winces. “Um, I mean. I’ve just spent a lot of time sitting in cantinas over the years.”
You laugh and tug him into another kiss. “Sure,” you tease, and he groans. “Din,” you say, playing with the hair at the nape of his neck. He shivers. “We’re not going slow anymore, right?”
“Right,” he breathes, and you can’t help but grin at the effect you’re having on him.
“Like having your hair played with?”
“I guess so,” he says, sounding surprised.
You press another kiss to the corner of his mouth. “You’ve got great hair, you know.”
He smiles, pleased.
“Anyway,” you say, “we’re not going slow… so…”
He freezes and then whips his head up to meet your gaze. “So?”
You grin, knowing exactly how your words are going to affect him. “So take me to bed, Din Djarin. I seem to remember you were pretty good at sex, and that was without using your mouth.”
Din lets his head fall back as he laughs and you lean in to press soft kisses against his throat. He hums. “I can’t promise being good at it, but I’d love to put my mouth on you, cyar’ika.”
You shiver.
He lifts his head back up, smirking at your reaction. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” you breathe, and then laugh when he pushes you up off his lap. He follows and guides you gently towards the bedroom.
Grinning, you strip off your top as you move backwards, watching as Din’s eyes fall to your chest. “Karking hell, cyar’ika, you are so beautiful.” His hands move towards you and then away as he begins tugging at his armor.
He must notice when your attention is caught, because he says, “I’ll teach you all about it later. Lie down.” HIs voice is deep and he nods towards the bed behind you.
You realize you can’t concentrate on his armor right now anyway, can’t take your eyes off his face as you strip off your leggings. When you’re bare in front of him you bite your lip and lean backwards on your forearms. “Like this?”
He’s almost done with his armor, and as he releases his chestplate he hums. “Spread your legs,” he commands softly, and you suck in a sharp breath. You let your knees fall apart and watch, mouth falling open, as he falls to his knees in between them.
Din looks you in the eye for a long moment. “You have no idea how badly I’ve wanted to taste you. Since the first time.”
A wave of heat washes over your body as you remember that day, the first time he made you come. How he’d expertly brought you to the ledge so quickly, and how you’d thought you felt his helmet press against your pussy when you came.
You watch as he leans closer now. “I’m going to make you come on my tongue, cyar’ika,” he says, voice low. “And then I’m going to watch you come on my cock.” He presses a soft kiss to the inside of your thigh, and you feel his tongue dart out between his lips to tease at your skin.
“Din,” you breathe, and you can see the effect it still has on him, when you say his name. His eyes close for just a moment, and when he meets your gaze again, the look in his eyes makes you shiver.
Without any more hesitation, he leans forward and licks a wide stripe, tongue flattened against your pussy. You gasp and fall backwards, arms unable to hold you up. “Kark, Din, oh–”
You feel his hands glide along the inside of your thighs from your knees to your hips, and as he licks again, his thumbs come to rest against the lips of your pussy. He gently pulls them apart as he teases his tongue towards your entrance. You feel the tip of his tongue lightly circle there before he moves upwards, finding your clit easily and pressing against it softly.
Suddenly you realize that your hands are tangled in his hair, though you can’t remember when you moved them. You lift your head and look down, tugging lightly, asking, “is this–”
He nods against you, flicking his gaze up to meet yours, and hums.
You fall back down, head thrown against the bed, as he circles your clit with his tongue. “Din, what, how are you so good at this–” you cut yourself off with another sharp breath as you feel his tongue move back towards your entrance. This time, you feel him tease inside and you resist the urge to lock your thighs around his head.
His finger joins his tongue and gently teases at your entrance before slipping inside. The feeling of him, inside you after so long, sends sparks down your spine. He pulls back slightly and murmurs, “I know what you like, cyar’ika. And I’ve dreamed of learning how you taste.”
Din leans back in as his finger curls inside of you, and from there, you’re lost to his tongue and his fingers and the warmth of his body between your thighs. He hasn’t forgotten anything, you quickly realize, and you can already feel it building inside of you. He fucks you with his fingers and teases you with his tongue, and you feel it coming like a wave rushing from your feet to the tips of your fingers. You rock your hips down against his face, unable to keep yourself from moving, and moan when he only presses closer. He tugs on your hip gently, and you realize he wants you to move. You look down at him again, just to check as you thrust your hips again, and find him looking at you. He nods and you clutch at his hair as you thrust forward again.
“Din, fuck, it’s so fucking good, Din–” you sigh as he twists his fingers inside of you and tense your thighs against his shoulders. His mouth is open against your pussy and you cry out when his teeth brush gently against your clit. “Din, I’m close,” you say, tugging on his hair, but he doesn’t move away, he moves closer, humming.
It’s coming, climbing up your spine, like sparks across metal. You’re warm, so warm, but shivering all over, thrusting your hips forward in time with his fingers. You hear the sounds you’re making but it feels like they’re coming from somewhere else. Your awareness is narrowed to the softness of his hair between your fingers and the warmth of his mouth, everywhere.
On his next thrust he curls his fingers upwards again and presses his tongue flat against your clit, and it pushes you over the edge. You fall, head spinning, as the orgasm lifts you up and slams you against the shore of your bed. You float through it, gasping for air.
When you blink your eyes open after, you realize he’s pressing soft kisses all over your pussy as he slowly slips his fingers free.
“Din,” you breathe, and tug his hair again. This time he follows, and you look down to meet his eye. He looks as wrecked as you feel, face red, mouth wide open and glistening, breathing hard. “What the fuck, Din.”
He smirks. “Told you, cyar’ika. I’ve been dreaming of it.”
You laugh, suddenly overwhelmed with just how happy you feel. Din, your Mando, is smirking up at you from between your legs, where he’s just shown without a doubt that he remembers everything about you. You can see his face. You release his hair and bring your hands up to cover your own.
“Cyar’ika?” he asks, and you feel him move upwards, pressing soft kisses all over your torso. You feel his weight settle over you before he gently grasps your wrists and moves your hands. “Are you ok?”
He’s so close, his lovely face so concerned, and you can’t help but grin widely at him. “I’m great,” you tell him, wrapping your arm around his neck. “And I’ll be even better when you fuck me.”
Din laughs and you watch, entranced, as it plays across his face. He has laugh lines, you realize, around his mouth and near his eyes, and it feels like your heart stutters in your chest.
“Whatever you want,” he murmurs, leaning down to kiss you. You can taste yourself on his lips. “
You feel his cock hard against your thigh and twist your hips under his. He smiles against your lips. “‘S that what you want?” His voice is so deep it rumbles through you. “Tell me.”
Nodding, you tangle your fingers in his hair again. “Yes. Your cock, Din. Want it.” He teases across your bottom lip with his tongue, and then you’re kissing, soft and messy and like you never could have dreamed of before. He moves his body against yours until your legs are wrapped around his waist and his cock is pressed firmly against your pussy.
“You feel so kriffing good, cyar’ika,” he breathes against your mouth. “Missed you so fucking much.” He thrusts, slow, and the head of his cock moves between your folds.
You gasp when it brushes against your entrance. “Yes, Din,” you say, voice strained. “Please.”
He nods and pushes forwards with his hips. His tongue licks inside your mouth at the same time as his cock pushes inside of you and you lose yourself in it, in all the ways he’s touching you. You realize how different it is, without the helmet, but also how familiar it is as his cock fills you again.
“You take me so well,” Din says, pressing soft kisses along your jaw before nipping at your neck with his teeth. “You always have, fuck, you feel so good.” You can hear the tension in his voice as he slowly moves his hips, pulling out before slowly thrusting back in.
You grip his shoulders and move him gently until his face is above yours again, until you can catch his eye. “Din,” you breathe, and let your eyes drink in the look on his face. He wants you, as much as you want him, and you can actually see it. “I want you to fuck me.”
He raises an eyebrow, and you grin. “Is that not what I’m doing?”
You slip your hands down, running along his sides until you can grip his hips. “I’ve missed your cock so much, Din Djarin. Now put your back into it.”
He laughs, and he looks so happy that it takes your breath away. “Whatever you say, mesh’la.” And then he puts his back into it.
You’ve never forgotten what your “pretty good sex” with Din was like, but you realize as he fucks into you again that the memories have faded. They must have, at least somewhat, because the feelings that run through you as he finds a rhythm take your breath away. His cock is thick and he tilts his hips just right, hitting all of the places inside of you that send sparks and shivers running down your spine. You let your head fall back as you thrust your hips up to meet his. When you moan, you almost startle yourself with how loud it is.
“You feel so good,” he says, and he’s breathing just as hard as you are. “You sound so good, fuck.”
You move your hands again, wrapping one around his back and tangling the other in his hair, tugging him back into place so you can kiss him.
“Din,” you breathe, and he shivers. You nip at his lip and grin when he does the same in return.
He must feel it, the way it’s building inside of you, the cliff you’re hurtling towards together, because he slips one of his hands between you to tease at your clit. He pulls away, breaking your kiss, and you whine.
“I want to watch,” he says, and you open your eyes to find him drinking you in with his gaze. “I need to see it, like this. Are you going to come for me, cyar’ika?”
You nod, breathless, as he somehow picks up the pace with his hips. You open your mouth, but no sound comes out.
He smiles at you. “I can feel it,” he says, and his fingers begin circling your clit in time with his thrusts. “Come. Please, come for me.” You feel him drop to his elbow as his palm finds the back of your neck. He squeezes.
It takes you, then, on his next thrust, sends you hurtling forward as your hips meet his and his cock moves inside you just right. It lights you up from the inside and you gasp his name as he holds your gaze.
“Din,” you say again, and squeeze his cock inside of you. “Please.”
He squeezes your neck again as he thrusts forward once, twice, and on the third time, he comes.
You’ve never seen it happen before and you can’t tear your eyes away as it happens now, in front of you. His brow furrows and his mouth falls open and you watch as the wave of pleasure breaks over his face.
Din slumps over on top of you, and for a moment you both just breathe. You squeeze your legs around him and hug him to you where his face is buried in your neck. You take a slow, deep breath, before murmuring, “that was–”
“Pretty good?” he cuts you off, and you can hear the wry smile in his voice. You laugh, overwhelmed again at the happiness coursing through you.
“Pretty fucking good,” you agree, and you grin at the ceiling when he huffs a laugh against your shoulder.
“I missed you so much, cyar’ika,” he says, and presses soft kisses along your neck. “Fuck, I missed you.”
You run your fingers through his hair and across the broad expanse of his naked back, hoping to soothe him. “Me too, Din. So much.” You press a kiss to his temple. “But I found you.”
You feel him smile against your neck. “You did,” he agrees.
“Stay?” you ask, hoping he can but knowing he might need to go home to Grogu.
To your surprise, he nods. “He’s with Karga. I’m all yours.”
“All mine,” you muse, and run your fingers through his hair again. “I like the sound of that.”
…
Din wakes with the sun and feels her wrapped around him, right where she belongs. He smooths his hand along her side and tilts his head towards hers, lips brushing against her forehead.
When he slowly blinks his eyes open, he can’t help but smile at what he sees, as the memories flash through his mind, as that feeling, the one that seems to fill his chest whenever he sees her, spreads through his chest.
Her bracelet – the newest one made of braided white leather, woven with green and black thread – is lying on the bedside table, right next to his gloves.
It feels right.
Din turns and burrows into her, hiding his smile in her neck, happier than he’s been in years.
...
a/n: well. I couldn't leave them like that, you know? I hope you liked it! let me know. lol
Dark fic — please mind the warnings and skip if it’s not your thing!
Warnings and Tags: Explicit, +18, MDNI, heavy-explicit language, fake identity trope, DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT, mixed-dubcon-noncon-ish, canon-typical violence, obsessive!Acacius, possessive!Acacius, Empress!Reader (we can say reader is kinda dark too), pussy slap, thigh slap, lots of slapping (Marcus is hot af when he's angry), creampie, dark themes, overstimulation, unspecified age gap, choking, dirty-dark thoughts, rough sex, forced orgasms (many), squirting, threats, ancient rome, oral sex -m- receiving-, deep-throating, size kink (the general is glorious!), hand job, fingering, rough oral sex -f- receiving, hair-pulling, internal angst, roman-era, power-play, rough breast play, dominance, descriptions and mentions of battle wounds/blood, food and alcohol consumption, forbidden-desire, cheating, breeding kink, cum eating, shameless smut (sorry not sorry), degradation, unprotected piv sex, multiple orgasms, denial of feelings, brothel, sex workers, blood, mention of death, cursing, swearing, angst, mention of gladiators.
W.C: 13,5k (thick plot, worth it) latin terms appear with translations for clarity.
Summary: Your husband couldn’t give you an heir, but the general-the one who’s watched, wanted, and would burn the Empire to put one in you, calls you peccatum dulce, the sweetest sin he’d damn himself for… and tonight, he will taste every drop.
Author's Note: Hey everyone! You probably know my love for the general... I have to admit, even I surprised myself writing this; been working on it for weeks! This is my very first one-shot & dark fic attempt, written for the lovely @tateypots’ Naughty or Nice challenge, I had Marcus Acacius x fake identity (naughty). Hope you enjoy!
Also, huge thanks to @arcane-fox for beta-ing and for all the support and kind feedbacks 💋 If you haven’t checked out her fics yet, you’re missing out, go check them!
ao3 link
some sins are sweeter when they’re stolen
He knew it was a sin long before it ever felt sweet.
Rome had rules for everything; bloodlines, marriages, women like her. Rules Marcus Acacius had enforced with an iron hand. He had watched men die for breaking lesser ones. He had never questioned them.
Until her.
She belonged to Rome.
That was the problem. Rome took what it wanted the same way it always had — without asking, without mercy. Her father had bled for the empire. The empire had answered by claiming his daughter, crowning her, binding her to a throne that did not love her back.
Marcus understood that kind of cruelty. He had lived by it. He had survived it.
He did not begin wanting her the way men were taught to want women.
It began as a fracture.
A quiet disruption in discipline — the kind that lingered long after battles were won and orders obeyed. She would enter the hall draped in gold and restraint, crowned and beyond his reach, and something in him would harden with the unbearable certainty that she was misplaced.
An Empress bound to a man who could not see what stood before him.
Marcus told himself it was loyalty that kept his gaze steady, his expression carved from stone. He told himself it was duty that tightened his jaw when her husband failed to claim her as he should have—failed to give Rome what it demanded. The whispers came anyway.
They crept through the streets, through the barracks, through the mouths of men who bled for a ruler they no longer respected. Fools with wine on their breath and laughter too loud, speaking of a marriage left cold, of an emperor young in years but broken where it mattered most.
Rome was patient with madness.
It was not patient with weakness.
Marcus heard the rumors and felt something dark coil in his chest — not because they spoke of her with vulgar curiosity, but because the truth beneath the words rang too clear. She was left unfulfilled. Unmarked. A womb denied its purpose by a man unfit to claim it.
And of all the places those whispers took root, the barracks were the most dangerous.
Men who lived with blood on their hands and wine on their tongues did not temper their words. They sharpened them. What began as murmurs in the streets turned into laughter among soldiers — crude, fearless, spoken by men who believed steel and loyalty placed them beyond consequence.
It was there, among armor and stone and the stink of sweat, that Rome’s ugliest truths were spoken aloud.
“They say she sleeps alone,” one of the legionaries snorted, leaning back against the stone wall.
“What kind of emperor leaves his own bed cold?”
“They say he doesn’t share his chamber with her at all.”
“Then who does?” another snorted.
A pause. A look exchanged.
“Not women,” someone muttered.
Laughter followed; uneasy, sharp-edged.
“Funny how his concubines see more of him than his own wife.”
“Gods above. Imagine that. An Empress untouched.”
Another scoffed.
“Untouched by her husband, you mean.”
A third voice chimed in, uglier, louder.
“If she were mine,” he said with a grin, “I’d never leave the space between her legs.”
The laughter came first — then the sighs, slow and hungry.
“Maybe he cannot,” someone else scoffed. “All that power, all that gold… and still not man enough.”
“Seems like our Empress deserves a true man’s cock,” he said, grabbing his own balls in a joking gesture.
They laughed harder at that.
Another legionary chimed in, mockingly thoughtful. “You ever see a fruit kept too long out of reach?” He chuckled. “Makes you wonder how sweet she must taste.”
More laughter — low, ugly, unchecked.
That was when the air changed.
Marcus had not spoken.
The men noticed too late — the sudden silence, the way the sound seemed to die in their throats.
“General—” one of them started.
Marcus crossed the space between them in two strides.
His fist struck without warning.
The legionary hit the ground hard, teeth clattering against stone. Someone shouted. Someone tried to pull Marcus back.
It did not help.
He hit him again. And again. And again.
Not in rage.
In correction.
The laughter was gone now. Replaced by screams, by pleading, by the sickening sound of flesh meeting stone.
When Marcus finally stood, his knuckles were red. His breath was steady.
The man on the ground did not move.
Months ago, that same legionary had bled on a battlefield at his general’s command — for Rome, for glory, for discipline.
Now he bled again, not for war, but for forgetting what should never have been spoken aloud.
No one spoke.
Marcus looked at the rest of them — eyes cold, voice low.
“Speak of her again,” he said, calm as a drawn blade, “and I will bury you beside him.”
No one doubted him.
YOU
The palace was quiet, but the quiet offered no comfort.
It only gave your thoughts room to breathe — and they were merciless.
They called you Empress, but the word felt hollow when you were alone. A title did not warm the bed. It did not silence the questions. It did not stop the way people looked at you when they thought you weren’t paying attention. You had learned how to read those looks. You knew what they meant.
No one ever said it aloud, but you felt it anyway.
No child. No heir.
You had begun counting time differently. Not in days or seasons, but in glances. In how long silence stretched after certain conversations. In how often your name was spoken with careful restraint. You wondered when concern would turn to calculation. When patience would give way to necessity.
You told yourself not to think about it but the thought lived under your skin. It hummed there, constant and low. What if this was enough to make you disposable? What if love, vows, loyalty, none of it mattered without proof?
The shame was the worst part. It crept in quietly, uninvited. It asked questions you didn’t know how to answer. Is it you? Is your body the failure? You hated yourself for thinking it, but you thought it anyway. Because no one else would ask the question for you. Because if they did, the answer would destroy everything.
You sat in silk and gold, surrounded by guards and slaves, and had never felt more alone. You were not afraid of death, not really. You were afraid of being erased. Of being remembered only as a mistake that didn’t produce a future.
That was why the thought came to you at night. The one you tried to push away. The one that made your chest tighten with guilt and relief all at once. A wrong solution. A dangerous one. But a solution nonetheless.
You told yourself it was survival.
You told yourself it was not desire.
You told yourself you had no choice.
And the most terrifying part was this: somewhere deep down, you were no longer sure that was a lie.
They had told you duty first.
Your father had said it without softness, without pause. Rome’s future rested on your shoulders. Becoming Empress was an honor few women were ever given.
Do not forget what you owe the city. Do not shame me. Do not stain our name.
He had been a legatus once — a man who understood command. He gave you to the Emperor the same way he had given soldiers to war. No counsel. No comfort. Only orders.
Stand straight. Obey. Endure.
He never told you how to survive.
Now the one thing he feared most was unfolding.
Your husband could not touch you. Not in any way that mattered. He had taken your virginity on your wedding night with the care of a man fulfilling a task he did not want. Minutes. No tenderness. No heat. Nothing that lingered. Since then, two imperial years had passed — and there was no heir.
The Senate’s concern had become Rome’s favorite whisper. At festivals, eyes lingered too long. Smiles sharpened. Fertility was questioned openly, because in Rome it always was. Men were never at fault.
Women bore the shame.
You bore it in silence.
The concubines came and went from his chambers at night. Quietly. Frequently. Everyone knew. No one called it betrayal. You were expected to accept it as part of the crown.
You felt like something set aside. An object waiting to fail.
And you were done waiting.
You decided to do the thing you had never imagined yourself capable of. Not out of desire — not at first — but necessity. You needed an heir. Immediately. Each passing month tightened the noose. You would not be discarded because of his weakness. You had given everything to this marriage. You had earned that title. And if he could not secure your future, you would.
There was nothing wrong with that. You told yourself so until the words felt solid.
You were not like him. Prostitutes and slaves were not an option. You would have to see them again. Remember them. Risk recognition. You needed someone who would disappear the moment it was done.
Gladiators.
Not merely slaves of war, but men forged in blood and survival. Their names did not matter—where they came from mattered even less. What drew you was their strength, their presence, the hunger that lived beneath scarred skin. It unsettled you in ways your husband never had.
You were tired of indifference.
Tired of being touched like an obligation, a duty performed for appearances alone. Your body wanted proof it was still alive—that it mattered, that it could still answer to something fierce and undeniable.
If it took one, or many, it would not matter. You would continue until life took hold within you. That was the only measure that counted. It was reckless—perhaps even suicidal—but you knew the truth: to remain as you were was a slower kind of death.
You prepared carefully.
Loyal slaves. Silent men and women who owed you more than their lives. You trusted them to guard this secret until the grave, because in Rome, silence was often the most valuable currency of all.
You moved quickly because you had to. Every delay brought you closer to ruin.
You told yourself you deserved this. That there was no sin in protecting what was yours. That Rome had taken enough from you already.
And so, in the darkest hour of the night, you came willingly.
The villa had always been a refuge.
Long before the crown. Before the marriage. Before Rome decided what you were worth. It stood beyond the city’s reach — not abandoned, not forgotten, simply untouched by the noise of power. Stone walls warmed by the sun. Olive trees old enough to remember silence.
It belonged to the only person you had ever trusted without reservation.
Agrippa.
A friend chosen, not assigned. Someone who had never asked anything of you except honesty. Over the years, it had become the one place where you were not watched. Where you could breathe without measuring every word.
The slaves there were not strangers. They had known you since you were younger, softer, unnamed by titles. They did not call you Empress when no one was listening. They called you by your name. They guarded your secrets with the same loyalty they guarded the house itself.
You trusted them with your life.
That trust was not blind. It had been earned. Years of silence. Years of discretion. They had seen you arrive shaken, leave steadier. Had learned when to ask nothing at all.
This was why you chose this place.
No corridors filled with echoes.
No guards who belonged to him.
No eyes trained to report every movement.
Here, nothing was expected of you.
The villa did not judge. It did not whisper. It simply opened its doors the way it always had — like it understood why you were here.
Your most-trusted slave, the one who had dressed you since before the crown, who knew when to ask nothing, watched you in the lamplight and did not flinch. Her voice stayed low. Practical. Loyal.
“This is not recklessness, Your Highness,” she said, fastening the last pin with steady hands. “It is survival.”
You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to. She had seen Rome sharpen its knives around you for months. Heard the whispers grow bold. Watched concubines pass your door at night while you learned to breathe quietly.
“A gladiator is the cleanest choice,” she continued, as if weighing grain or silver. “His body is not his own. It never was.” A pause. “And the arena will take him soon enough. There will be no witness left to trouble you.”
She met your eyes then — unafraid, certain.
“For a man like that, being chosen by a noblewoman is not shame,” she said softly. “It is reward. A memory he will carry like armor.” Her mouth curved, just barely. “If he survives long enough to remember it.”
Your throat tightened.
“He will not refuse,” she added. “Why would he? One night in a woman’s bed is more than most of them are ever given.” She adjusted your tunic, reverent now. “He will not know who you are,” she said quietly, as if this were the simplest thing in the world. “Only that you are a matron of rank. Nothing more.”
A memory he will carry like armor…
For him, perhaps.
But for you? Would it be regret, or the first narrow opening toward something long denied?
You drew a slow breath, the weight of the choice settling not on your shoulders, but deep in your bones. “Very well,” you said at last; the words leaving your lips like an order that would shape the rest of your life. “Bring the gladiator to the chamber at once..”
The slave inclined her head and withdrew in silence.
With that small motion, what had been contemplated became inevitable.
MARCUS
The Lupanaria (the roman brothel) was alive with noise, warm and heavy with incense and oil, the faint echo of harp strings winding through the corridors—music reserved only for the victorious General of Rome and his closest commanders. Torches flickered along the walls, casting gold and shadow over the polished floors, over men laughing too loudly, leaning too close to the women who moved with practiced grace — the best courtesans, the youngest and most beautiful, each one a temptation perfectly honed for eyes that lingered.
Some of Marcus’ legates indulged in these women, entwined in fleeting embraces, hands wandering where they ought not, celebrating victory in the indulgent ways Rome allowed. Soft moans and gasps floated through the hall, punctuated by the sharp slap of skin on skin, the subtle catch of breath, the occasional clink of wine cups forgotten in hands that were busy elsewhere.
Marcus observed it all with detached precision. Every glance, every touch, every sly smile noted and catalogued and yet none of it reached him. A goblet of wine rested in his hand, raised and lowered more out of habit than desire. He drank, felt the burn slide down his throat, welcomed it for a moment — anything to quiet the unrest coiled beneath his ribs. Platters were brought, rich with meat and fruit, and he ate just enough to satisfy appearances, chewing without tasting.
But the hunger remained.
Not the kind that gnawed at the stomach.
This one lived deeper, sharp, insistent, impossible to feed.
He was not here. Not in this chaos. Not in the fleeting pleasures of men too easily satisfied. His body sat among them, armored and whole, but his mind was elsewhere.
Because all around him, bodies writhed and cried out in delight, but his attention — the sharp, relentless edge of it; rested on: one thought. One memory. One obsession.
You.
Victory had brought him back to Rome in white, gold and blood. The city had roared his name as if it belonged to it. The legions had marched. The Senate had watched. Jupiter’s temple had waited.
And the Emperor, drunk, as he so often was, had fumbled.
The laurel crown slipped from his grasp, clattering against marble in a sound far too loud for something so sacred. A careless fracture in ceremony. Murmurs rippled through the senators. Courtiers stilled. Rome itself seemed to hold its breath.
And then you moved.
The Empress.
Disapproval had flickered across your face — quick, restrained, unmistakable — before grace took over. You bent without hesitation, silk and gold folding around you as you retrieved the fallen wreath as if correcting a minor inconvenience rather than saving an Emperor from humiliation.
Marcus remembered how he had dropped to one knee at once, bowing his head toward you. Not in submission—never that—but in recognition.
You stepped closer. Too close.
Your fingers brushed the white of his armor as you lifted the laurel, your breath quickening despite yourself. When you placed the crown upon his head without meeting his eyes, a flicker of irritation crossed his features—brief, instinctive. Without thinking, he reached up and caught your hand, stopping you before you could withdraw.
Behind you, the emperor was stirring, being steadied by slaves but neither of you noticed. In that moment, the world had narrowed. There was no crowd, no court, no throne, no witnesses. There was only you.
He leaned down—just enough. Barely. Deliberately.
His lips met your knuckles in the shadow between ceremony and transgression, the kiss lingering longer than protocol demanded, tracing your skin with intent rather than reverence.
He remembered the way you stiffened.
The almost imperceptible shiver that betrayed you.
The quick swallow of breath.
A soft, startled gasp.
Your reaction was written plainly across your face, and that alone drew a dark, knowing smile from him.
He had let his mouth linger a fraction longer, savoring the heat of your reaction, the way your composure fractured beneath the smallest touch. For one suspended instant — amid cheers, laughter, and the thunder of Rome’s approval — there had been nothing but you.
Only the way your body answered him.
Only the way your eyes flickered up before snapping away.
The memory curved his mouth now, slow and private.
And then something ugly coiled in his chest.
Because in all the years you had stood within arm’s reach of one another — banquets, ceremonies, the Colosseum, victory feasts — there had never been contact. Not once. No accidental brush. No stolen closeness. Nothing that could be claimed.
That moment had been the first.
And after it, nothing else had ever truly left his mind.
The war had lasted three months. Three months of marching, killing, bleeding. He had been wounded more than once — cut, torn, soaked through — but none of it had tested him the way distance from you had.
Pain had never frightened him.
Death had never tempted him to stop.
What had kept him moving was not Rome.
Not glory.
It was you.
The thought of your face.
Of your figure moving through silk and light.
Of your smile — restrained, careful — and the soft sound of your jewelry when you inclined your head.
Of standing close enough to feel your presence.
Of knowing that when the laurel was placed upon his head, it would be you before him — close enough to feel, real, breathing — even if you stood beside the Emperor, even if you were never truly his.
That certainty had carried him through fire and steel. It had sharpened his blade, steadied his hand. He had cut down enemies with your image fixed behind his eyes, every strike a promise to return victorious.
And the truth had been better than anything he had dared to imagine. You had placed the laurel upon his head with your own hands. He had wished it had never happened.
Wished he had bled out on some distant battlefield, lungs filling with blood, vision darkening — anything but that single moment of your touch. Because it had not soothed him. It had not passed.
It had fed the fire.
What already burned inside him had been given breath, and now it raged — uncontrollable, merciless.
He feared himself after that.
Feared the way his thoughts returned to you without permission. Feared how nothing could contain the hunger once it had taken root. Not discipline. Not war. Not distance. Every night since, he had come here, drowning himself in noise and bodies, trying to smother you beneath sensation.
He had taken women — dozens of them. Touched, tasted, indulged. Skin against skin. Heat and sound and need.
And none of it mattered.
Because not one of them felt the way you had.
Not one mouth, one hand, one body had ever carried the same feeling. None of them made his blood tighten the way it had when your fingers brushed his armor, when your breath had stuttered beneath his mouth.
They were distractions. Empty vessels.
He wanted you alone.
There was a dark, unquenchable flame coiled in him now — something ancient and violent, something that could not be reasoned with. No woman in Rome could douse it. No indulgence could blunt its edge.
Only you could.
And that was impossible.
The realization made his jaw tighten.
He was lost in it when a hand brushed against his thigh.
One of the girls leaned closer, eyes bright with practiced hunger, lips curved in a knowing smile. “Allow me to pleasure you, General,” she murmured, fingers teasing at the edge of his tunic, brushing the straps of his armor as if they were an invitation.
His reaction was immediate.
Marcus’s hand shot up, fingers tangling in her hair, yanking her back with brutal efficiency. Not cruel — controlled. Final.
“No,” he growled. “Not tonight.”
His voice cut through the music, sharper than he intended. Movement stilled around them. Some of the dancers froze. Others glanced over, startled, surprised. He did not look at them.
He was already on his feet, rising to his full height, armor still secured to his body. Only then did he realize he had never bothered to remove it. Had come here armored like a man expecting battle.
Instinct had brought him here — not desire. The part of him that sought control. To neutralize the threat.
And it had failed.
Logic had no hold on him now. Only the dark fire dictated his movement.
He crossed the room and pulled aside the curtain, letting the cool night air strike his face. He drew in a breath that did nothing to steady him.
“General, sir.”
He did not turn. “Leave me.”
“Sir — it concerns the Empress.”
He spun so fast the man flinched, stumbling back a step.
Marcus’s gaze was a blade. Cold. Focused. Lethal.
The legionary swallowed hard and leaned in, voice dropping to a whisper. The words reached Marcus’s ear; and the world seemed to stop.
His eyes widened.
His heartbeat slammed against his ribs.
Blood no longer coursed through his veins — it roared.
Rage flooded him, pure and absolute, burning away restraint, drowning reason in its wake.
Not the kind of anger that shouted.
The kind that decided.
Anger did not arrive alone.
It came layered — rage, fury, something older and sharper than either. The kind that did not shout. The kind that moved.
Anger makes men do brutal things.
Most men break under it. They lose control.
Marcus had never been most men.
When he was angry, bodies fell. Hundreds of them. Sometimes for strategy. Sometimes simply to feel the tension leave his hands. He had never feared what anger could turn him into. Anyone who did was a fool.
They had called him many things over the years — a bull of a man, a monster, a butcher, a lion-slayer, a merciless warrior. All of it true. His name alone silenced rooms, made legions hesitate, forced even senators to measure their words.
Even the Emperor.
The one man Marcus had killed a thousand times in fantasy and never once in reality.
The only man he truly wanted dead — and could not touch.
It had not always been this way.
Once, Marcus had been loyal. After victories, he rested. He drank. He took women without attachment and left them without regret. Slaves, courtesans, noble daughters — even his wives. None of them stayed with him, and none were meant to. Desire had been simple then. As easy as breathing. Meaningless.
After becoming a widower for the second time, even pleasure had lost its pull. Women became tools. Distractions. Nothing reached him anymore.
Then the old Emperor died.
Then his son ascended the throne.
And as if that insult were not enough, the young, inexperienced ruler decided to marry.
The day his bride -you- was brought into Rome, carried in ceremony, displayed in the Colosseum like spoils: Marcus felt something unfamiliar bloom in his chest.
He had seen beauty before. Many times. Women of every station, every nation. Had possessed it. Had forgotten it. Some were prettier. Softer. Easier.
None of them mattered.
You did.
And it had nothing to do with beauty.
It was the way you smiled without knowing who was watching. The way silk moved with you, the way your hair caught the light. Your hands. Your expressions. Your lashes. Your eyes. Your voice. The quiet weight of your presence when you stood still.
Gods help him — it was as if you had been shaped to undo him. A siren placed in his path to dull his reason and sharpen his hunger.
From the moment he truly looked at you, everything in him burned. Not gently. Not slowly.
He imagined you stripped of the gold-embroidered imperial stola, the heavy layers of silk and status peeled away. Not out of tenderness — out of need. Out of obsession. He wanted to know what was beneath the crown, beneath the restraint. Wanted to know what you would do if you understood who stood before you.
If you would reject him.
Or obey.
More than once, he had imagined cutting the Emperor down where he stood — spilling him across the marble, taking you while your husband’s blood was still warm on his hands. The thought had almost made him smile.
But it was not the Emperor this time. Not the distant enemy. Not even the wounds of battle that had stirred him like this.
He had not felt this fury when the Emperor touched you with ceremony but no care.
Not when he gripped your arm too tightly.
Not even on your wedding night, when duty had forced Marcus to look away.
Not on the Field of Mars. Not when his sword cut men down.
This was different.
This was tonight.
Because of what had been whispered into his ear.
Because of what you had chosen.
Tonight, you had decided. One night. One stranger man. Not for pleasure — but for an heir.
How dare you.
Not because you wanted someone else.
But because you were willing to turn yourself into a function.
Marcus did not yell.
He did not strike.
He did not shatter anything.
He mounted his horse.
Hooves rang against stone as he tore through the sleeping streets, iron striking marble, the sound echoing through the dark like a warning. The city blurred around him — torches, walls, shadows — as he drove the animal harder, faster, as if speed itself could outrun the fury boiling in his blood.
The night wind cut against his face. It did nothing to cool him. He rode like a man racing fate. Like a man already too late.
The anger did not consume him.
It focused him.
He turned it into opportunity.
The fire that had burned in him for months, years. The hunger no woman, no conquest, no victory had ever quieted…
Tonight, it had purpose.
And that purpose was you.
With that single, reckless choice, you had dared to decide the fate of both yourself and him.
The villa gates burst open to the sound of hooves.
Four riders cut through the dark, cloaks snapping, armor catching torchlight in sharp flashes of bronze and steel. The courtyard froze — breath held, instincts flaring all at once.
Agrippa Varro, the villa’s owner, stepped forward before sense could stop him. His wife’s fingers clenched around his arm, nails biting through fabric. Panic flickered across both their faces.
Then recognition struck.
Marcus dismounted in a single, fluid motion.
He struck the stone like a verdict, his caligae (sandal) ringing against marble, cloak snapping behind him — rage held in check by iron discipline.
“General,” Agrippa said hoarsely.
So did everyone else.
Marcus did not acknowledge the greeting.
His gaze swept the courtyard with open contempt, as if their very presence offended him. Slaves lowered their eyes. Guards stiffened, unsure whether to move or disappear.
“Where is she?” he asked.
Nothing more.
They knew who he meant.
They did not know how he knew — and none of them dared ask.
Marcus turned slightly, his voice cold and precise. “Seal the villa,” he said. “No one leaves. No one enters. If I see a single unfamiliar face after this moment, I will assume it is an enemy.”
That was enough.
Agrippa stiffened. He exchanged a stunned glance with his wife — a silent, frantic question passing between them. This was not what they had expected. They had thought Marcus would demand explanations, invoke the Emperor’s name, perhaps even insist the Empress be escorted away at once. That he would stop this. That he would restore order.
Instead, he had sealed the villa.
At his signal, a slave stepped forward — the one Marcus chose with a glance alone. The man bowed deeply, fear etched into every movement, and turned to lead the way inside. Through the atrium (the central open area of a villa). Past marble columns and flickering shadows. Toward the inner chambers.
Marcus followed, his dark cloak cutting through the space behind him, his stride sharp, restless, violent in its restraint.
He understood the moment he crossed the threshold.
The preparation.
The hush.
And the man being brought toward the inner rooms.
The gladiator was bare-chested beneath his cloak, skin scarred, muscles tight with readiness. A mask already covered his face — bronze and leather shaped into the visage of Mars, god of war. Not waiting. Being delivered.
Marcus moved. Three steps.That was all it took.
He seized the man by the shoulder and drove him backward, shoving him hard enough to send him staggering out of the passage. Marcus’s hand closed around the mask — not ripping it away, but gripping it firmly, deliberately, asserting ownership with the smallest motion.
“Take him,” Marcus said, voice low and absolute. “Return him to his cell.”
The slaves hesitated, caught between their loyalty to their empress and the fear of the man - the general - standing before them.
Marcus lifted his gaze. That was it.
Just as they had brought him, they seized the gladiator and pulled him away in silence. Sandals scraped against the stone, the sound thinning as it vanished into the corridors.
Seconds later, he was gone.
Marcus stayed where he was a moment longer than necessary. The mask still rested in his hand—heavy and cold.
He turned it slowly, then slipped it onto his face with ease. The straps tightened, and the world around him grew narrow. His breath echoed inside the bronze mask, louder than he had anticipated.
Only then did he focus on the slaves lingering at the edges of the room.
“You,” he said calmly, lifting his hand, waving in a gesture. “Come here. Help me take off my armor.”
YOU
The cup tasted like punishment.
Your slave said it was necessary. The medicus nodded beside her, solemn and useless, murmuring about warmth and balance, about coaxing life where Rome insisted it should exist. You drank because they told you it might help. Because for two years now, everyone had been trying to help you conceive.
As if the problem were that simple.
As if herbs and whispered prayers could make up for the truth — that nothing had ever truly been planted there.
You swallowed and winced. Bitter. Sharp. You tipped wine into the cup without hesitation, watching the dark red soften the brew’s sickly color, then drank again. Better. Warmer. Almost convincing.
You set the cup aside and reached for the mask.
Venus.
The choice had made you laugh earlier — quietly, without humor. Love. Fertility. Desire. The goddess Rome pretended ruled women’s bodies. You allowed your slave to tie it carefully, as if silk could hide more than your face. As if you could tuck your unease behind it and borrow courage for one night.
You wore a simple tunic — thin silk that caught the light and gave more than it took. No excess. No titles. No imperial weight. Only a necklace at your throat, earrings brushing your neck when you moved. The back of the tunic lay open, skin exposed down your spine, held together by a delicate chain that traced your waist like a promise.
You looked deliberate. Not innocent. Not ashamed.
Achingly, dangerously compelling — the kind of beauty that demanded attention without begging for it.
With the Venus mask and your bare, unguarded form, you were dizzying. As if the world were witnessing the birth of the goddess all over again. Any man would have gone to his knees.
That was the point.
The mask erased your name. The man who came would not know who you were — only that you were noble, that you had chosen him. To him, you would be no different from the other patrician women who sought a night of secrecy and indulgence. Rome was full of them. Their intentions were usually simple.
Yours were not.
This was not lust. It was necessity. You were the Empress. You commanded armies, bent senators to your will, ruled without question. As long as your husband never learned of this night, what crime was there? What fault?
You could live with that.
You had to.
You drew in a breath — and froze.
Voices. Footsteps.
Too soon.
You hadn’t given the signal.
Your slave’s head snapped toward the door, tension rippling through her body. The room felt suddenly smaller, the air too tight. You hesitated — just long enough to almost stop this. Almost.
Then you lifted your hand and nodded.
It was done.
You turned your back to the door. You did not want to see him enter. Not yet. You wrapped your fingers around the wine cup, grounding yourself in its weight, its cold edge biting into your palm.
The door opened.
Silence followed.
Not the heavy, anticipatory hush you had expected — but something sharper. Wrong. Your slaves shifted behind you. One of them stiffened, breath catching audibly.
That was strange.
You put the cup aside and turned.
The man stood alone.
No escort. No guards. No ceremony. Just him — filling the chamber as if it had been built for his presence. The mask hid his face, but his gaze found you immediately, unflinching, intent.
For a heartbeat, neither of you moved. Silk. Shadow. Breath.
He wore the mask of Mars, fierce and unyielding, its sharp edges hiding his face but not the fire in his gaze. You met him through your Venus mask, delicate and ethereal, yet your eyes betrayed no hesitation.
Then he stepped forward.
Unhurried. Certain.
Your slave moved at once, placing herself between you, chin lifted in practiced authority.
“You will not approach the lady unless she permits it.”
He did not even look at her.
He shoved her aside with one efficient motion — not violent, not gentle. As if she were simply in the way.
Your breath caught, sharp and instinctive.
“Stop,” you commanded, voice firm despite the tremor beneath it.
He didn’t.
His eyes never left you.
Your slave rushed forward again — and this time, he caught her by the throat. Not crushing. Just enough. Enough to make the room lock in place.
Shock hit you. “Enough!” Your voice cut through the room. “Do you even know what you do? Who you presume yourself to be?” you demanded, anger flaring.
He released her with a shove and straightened.
“Leave,” he said.
The voice came from behind the mask — low, controlled.
Something in it struck you like a memory you hadn’t known you were keeping. You had heard that voice before. Across marble halls. Over the roar of crowds. Calm amid blood and ceremony alike.
“All of you. Leave us. Now.”
Your heart stuttered. “That’s not possible,” you whispered.
He reached up and removed the mask. For a heartbeat, your world narrowed to the sharp outline of his face, suddenly revealed by the flickering torchlight. His brown eyes caught the glow — familiar, burning, unmistakable.
Shock slammed through you, and you instinctively stumbled back, heart hammering. “General Acacius,” you breathed, voice trembling.
The room tilted.
Without taking his eyes off you, he barked, “Out! Now!”
No one argued.
They fled as if chased, sandals slapping stone, silk whispering panic. The door shut with a final, echoing thud.
You were alone with him.
Your pulse thundered. Shame crawled up your spine, tangled with fear, fury — and something far worse. You stood frozen, unable to decide what you felt.
He crossed the remaining distance and stopped. Bare-chested. Powerful. Built like the statues that lined the atrium — only warmer. Breathing. Real. You had never seen him without armor before.
The sight stole the air from your lungs.
His gaze followed yours. Lingered.
“H-how? You shouldn’t be here,” you said hoarsely.
“I could say the same of you, your highness,” he replied evenly.
He reached up and removed your mask, fingers deft as the ties came undone. Your hair fell loose, and you dropped your gaze without thinking, embarrassment burning across your cheeks.
His hand didn’t withdraw.
Instead, his thumb slipped beneath your chin and lifted it, slow and insistent, until you had no choice but to look at him.
He paused there, unmoving. Just for a moment.
Not surprise.
Not softness.
His eyes locked onto yours, dark and unblinking, as if he were stripping you bare with nothing but his gaze. As if he were seeing past flesh and silk and title, down to something exposed and dangerous beneath.
Something tighter settled into his expression.
Like a man realizing the blade he’d been circling was sharper than he remembered.
His jaw locked. His eyes darkened further, tracking every breath, every flicker of hesitation on your face with an intensity that made your skin prickle. As if seeing you fully — unmasked, unguarded — had cost him something he hadn’t meant to give.
Instinctively, he leaned closer.
Not enough to touch.
Enough to threaten it.
His attention dipped — briefly, deliberately — to your mouth. The space between you shrank, heavy with intention. Panic flared in your chest, and you tried to turn your face away, the hunger in his eyes suddenly too much, too ruinous to meet.
“This was a mistake,” you said, the words tight, fragile.
His thumb remained beneath your chin, unyielding.
“It would have been,” he replied quietly, eyes never leaving yours, “if I hadn’t come.”
You tried to pull away. He didn’t let you. “What- Let go of me.”
“You’re tired of being treated like an object,” he growled. “And yet… here you are. Playing with fire, little Empress… do you not understand what you risk?”
How dare he.
“You wouldn’t understand,” you snapped. “If you’re here to lecture me on honor—”
“I understand perfectly,” he said. “I didn’t come here to lecture you or protect your husband’s honor. Or your father’s.”
“Then why?” you demanded.
He released you.
“Because what you desire,” he said slowly, eyes fixed on your face, unblinking, “you shall never receive from one unworthy of you.”
Your breath caught. You could scarcely believe your ears — that he would suggest such a thing.
“I am not letting you give yourself to a man who will forget you before dawn.”
The words landed like a blow.
“Acacius—” Your hand rose to your chest as you stepped back. “How— why—no.”
He surged forward, presence overwhelming, breath warm against your skin.
Not kind. Not gentle. Predatory.
“You still don’t see it,” he said, voice dark with fury and something far more dangerous beneath it.
“I have burned for you,” he continued, each word forged tight with restraint. “For years. In my thoughts. In my sleep. In every battle, it was your face that kept me standing.” Your eyes widened, disbelief clawing at your mind, your ears betraying you. “And you dare think,” he went on, quiet but vicious, voice like steel coiled around fire, “that I would stand aside while you reduce yourself to a mere vessel? While you let some nameless body be used to bear an heir? As if that were all you were made for?” Your breath shuddered. “And gods help me,” he added, jaw clenched, “as if I would ever allow that.”
Something twisted low in your body at the words. Heat flared where there should have been only fear. Only shame.
You hated yourself for it.
Because beneath the humiliation, beneath the danger of him standing there, claiming space and certainty alike, your body betrayed you — answering his fury with a treacherous spark of want.
And that frightened you more than anything else.
His hands came to your shoulders — firm, unyielding — halting you where you stood. He forced you to look at him.
“How could you lower yourself so?” he asked quietly. Not shouting. Judgment was colder than fury. “How could you make yourself lesser than what you are?”
“What is this insolence—” you began.
“Insolence?” His mouth twisted, humorless. “And what of your audacity?”
Your heart thundered. “You speak as though—” Your voice wavered. “Do you claim an attachment to me beyond duty?” Your eyes searched his. “Is this love, then… General?”
A sound escaped him, not laughter, but close enough to mock it. “Love?” he echoed softly. “A small word. A thin one.”
His grip shifted. One hand rose, pushing your hair back to bare your throat. His palm settled there — possessive, overwhelming by its sheer weight alone. “Do not profane what I bear by naming it love,” he murmured.
You shivered.
His thumb brushed the pulse at your neck, deliberate. He felt its frantic beat. A faint, dangerous curve touched his mouth.
“I have imagined this,” he confessed quietly. “My hands upon you. Your composure breaking. Your will bending.”
“Stop,” you whispered. “Please."
“You tremble,” he observed calmly. “Good.”
His large hand closed around your throat—not in haste, but with intent. Beneath his palm, the fragile give of your neck was unmistakable, a reminder of how easily you could be broken if he wished. The awareness made his clothed manhood twitch.
“Acacius,” you gasped. “You’re hurting me.”
His head tilted, eyes intent, studying you like a creature caught between fear and the instinct to run.
“This,” he said quietly, tightening just enough to make his meaning clear, “is restraint.”
Then — slowly, deliberately — he released you.
“This ends here.” The instant his hold loosened, you turned and moved for the door — swift, desperate, unthinking.
He caught you with ease from behind. “We haven’t even begun.” He growled, pulling you hard against him, his arms locking around you from the back. You struggled, twisting, trying to break free — but it was impossible.
Gods, this was wrong.
All of it was wrong.
“Y–You…” Your voice faltered. “I… we can’t. my husband trusts you. If this is ever heard—”
He cut you off without raising his voice.
“Curse your husband,” he said. “Abi in infernum. (Let him burn.)"
The vulgarity of his words shocked you — the sheer irreverence of it — and yet, beneath the fear, something else flared, sharp and unwelcome. Through the layers of cloth, you felt his hardness pressing insistently against your arse. Your breath hitched, heart racing, caught between alarm and a thrill you did not want to name.
He buried his face into your hair, pressing his nose along the curve of your ear, nudging the soft lobe aside as he inhaled you like a man tasting something forbidden. His tongue traced your warm, soft skin, slow and deliberate, tasting the faint essence of jasmine that lingered there.
The scrape of his beard brushed your neck — rough, unmistakably male — and the sensation sent an involuntary shiver through you. Your pulse leapt beneath his mouth, traitorous, loud. The heat of him so close made your chest tighten, made your knees feel unsteady, as if your body were responding before your mind could catch up.
A low sound escaped him — not laughter, not quite. Something closer to satisfaction. The kind that lingered beneath the surface, like the hum of a predator savoring its prey.
You struggled again, twisting in his arms, trying to break free.
Again, his arms caught you like iron traps, locking around your waist, pulling you back against him. You struggled, but he didn’t even flinch.
“Let go — Acacius, please—”
His breath grazed your ear, low and steady, but with a sharp edge hidden underneath.
“Resist me once more," he whispered, his voice low and edged with steel,
“and I will drag you into the atrium. I will have you there. Before my men, before Agrippa and his wife, before the slaves.”
You froze completely. “Don’t,” you breathed, the word barely more than air. “Please… do not.”
“Then be still,” he said simply.
Not a plea. Not a warning.
A command.
He pressed closer. You could feel the weight of his threat in every inch of his control.
“This can be something we both enjoy…” he said, voice velvet and venom, “...or it can be just for me. But either way — you’re not getting away. Decide.”
His hand found the back of your tunic, fisting the fabric without hesitation.
The cloth tore from your shoulders in one brutal motion—the gold-chained garment draped across your back giving way all at once. Something snapped—a delicate chain, perhaps—and a rain of jeweled ornaments scattered across the floor, clattering sharply.
“I’ve wanted you for a long time,” he said, his voice thick, deliberate. “You have lived in my thoughts,” he admitted. “In ways the gods would condemn.”
A breath.
“Now... you're mine to cherish.”
Another pause.
“And to ruin, if I choose.”
He pulled the silk from your shivering body slowly — not to savor, but to claim.
The fabric slipped to the floor like a secret undone. He stared.
Not just at your body.
At your skin.
The way it caught the lamplight. The way it rose and fell with every panicked breath. The way it wasn’t meant for anyone else but him.
His hands — calloused from war, scarred from blade and bone — hovered for a moment before finally landing on your waist.
You inhaled sharply.
Not pain.
Not fear.
The sheer weight of his presence.
You still hadn’t turned to face him.
You stood rooted where you were, breath shallow, afraid of what you might see if you did. Afraid of what it would confirm.
His hands moved over your hips, along your sides — slow, deliberate, not wandering but learning, as if committing the shape of you to memory.
“Soft,” he murmured, almost to himself. “As I imagined.”
His touch rose, restrained yet inevitable — tracing your back, your shoulders, his fingers brushing the line of your collarbones with a strange reverence, like a prayer unwrapped rather than spoken.
“He does not deserve this,” he whispered.
He leaned closer, his breath warming your jaw, close enough that you felt it without daring to turn.
“You were never his.”
His fingers went to the knot at his hip.
Unhurried. Deliberate.
The subligaculum (a kind of underwear) loosened with a soft sound, linen slipping free of its tension. The fabric fell, forgotten, at his feet.
Your breath caught You felt it then — the shift.
Not in the room.
In him.
When he straightened, the space he occupied felt suddenly dangerous, as though the air itself bent around his will. He stood with the stillness of a statue before motion — all potential, all threat.
You turned your face away instinctively, shame and something far worse tightening your chest.
He noticed.
The corner of his mouth curved — not in amusement, but in something colder.
“Tell me,” he said, almost idly, “the man you call husband… does he even touch you now? He can’t give you what you need, can he?”
You stiffened, spine straightening despite yourself.
“Do not speak of him with such disrespect,” you said sharply.
He gave a short, incredulous laugh, sharp as a blade.
“How loyal. So dutiful,” he added, voice dark with contempt. “So Roman.”
His eyes flicked toward you, catching your movement — a glance heavy with anger, with disbelief. You looked away instinctively, heat and shame twisting with a dangerous curiosity deep in your chest.
He noticed.
His mouth curled — not a smile, but something sharper, crueler, predatory.
“Yet here you are,” he continued, voice low, dripping with scorn. “Sneaking off to a borrowed villa. Choosing a gladiator to do what your precious… husband cannot.”
Your chest tightened. “That’s not—”
His tone snapped. “You wanted him to put an heir in you.”
Silence slammed between you.
In a single motion, his hand fisted in your hair and yanked you around to face him. Enough to make your breath catch.
You were too close now.
Too exposed.
Your gaze dropped before you could stop yourself — and your throat went dry.
“Like what you see, my Empress?”
He leaned in, forcing your chin up with two fingers.
“I’m willing to bet,” he said, voice rough with satisfaction, “that whatever you endured in that cold bed of yours never came close to this.”
You swallowed. Hard.
He smiled then — slow, predatory.
“That’s what I thought.”
His grip in your hair tightened just enough to sting.
“Turn not your eyes,” he growled. “There is no retreat now — not that you would want one.”
Your eyes dropped again — and this time, you couldn’t stop the sound that escaped.
“Oh gods…”
Marcus stilled. Then, slowly, deliberately, he tilted your chin up.
His mouth was a breath away from yours when he whispered:
“Forget your gods. They can’t hear you now.”
He caught you by the shoulders again, firm, cruel, and pressed you down so that you sank onto your knees before him.
Your breath left you in a sharp gasp, your eyes widened, your entire body stunned from his hot, throbbing manhood resting against your face.
It stole your vision. Your thoughts.
You barely registered the general’s face above you, only the way his mouth curved; slow, knowing as he took in your stunned silence.
Dear gods.
He was a lot bigger than you had expected. And the raw scent, that was out in full force, made your head swim from how much it was overwhelming your nostrils. This wasn’t the first time you’d seen a man’s penis…
But this?
Even believing it was real strained the limits of your mind.
Marcus stood before you without shame, without hesitation — a figure carved for war rather than worship. Solid. Towering. Dangerous.
Both his presence and his scent roused something primordial within you, awakening your womanhood as though answering an unspoken mating call, older than reason, deeper than will.
Your husband had never looked like this, and his manhood had never stirred you the way this did.
Marcus was twice his age, and yet somehow felt carved from something far older — something primal. Thick muscle shaped his frame, not the ornamental strength of noblemen, but the hardened body of a man who had fought, bled, and survived.
Scars traced him like history written into flesh.
This body did not ask.
It took.
The comparison came unbidden; cruel and undeniable. Your husband could not stand beside this. Would not dare.
You hated the way your insides clenched at the thought, nipples drewing tight.
Hated the way your mouth went dry.
Hated how something deep and traitorous inside you whispered, slow and reverent:
This is what a true man looks like.
Marcus watched you with something darker than satisfaction. Amusement, maybe. Possession. Victory.
You hadn’t even touched him yet, but your breath had already gone shallow, your lips parting without permission.
You were an Empress.
And yet here you were, kneeling, breath shaky, mouth parted, stunned by the sight in front of you… and even more so by the fact that you wanted it.
A flicker of shame curled in your stomach.
Then—
Fingers in your hair.
Firm.
Unforgiving.
“You’ve made me wait long enough,” Marcus growled. He tilted your face up, the heat in his eyes enough to scorch you from the inside out. “Don’t pretend you don’t want this now.”
Your heart pounded. You should’ve pulled back. Should’ve spoken. Should’ve run.
Instead, you just stared, breath hitched, mind blank, pride forgotten.
And Marcus, with a dark, crooked smile, leaned in just close enough to whisper: “Be a good girl now, regina mea.(my queen)”
His grip turned unforgiving as he guided you forward, stealing your breath as he forced you to take him — relentless, claiming, leaving no room for hesitation.
Your pupils shrank to the size of mere dots at the abrupt action. Your gag reflex was suddenly suppressed as you found yourself in the middle of deepthroating the man’s cock out of nowhere.
Your entire body trembled, instinctively trying to pull back, desperate to get some air. But the firm grip on your head held you in place. All you could do was focus on steadying your breathing, drawing in air through your nostrils. Hoping that you would be able to satisfy him with your tongue.
Gods, the taste was even stronger than the smell. Yet not once you get the feeling of wanting to gag or wretch from it. As a matter of fact, a small part of you found the thing to be… actually quite pleasant.
A low, guttural sound tore from Marcus’s chest; something feral, raw and you didn’t know why it made your own chest tighten the way it did. But it did.
The sound went straight through you, settling somewhere deep, igniting something you had spent far too long denying. Fervently licking the underside of his shaft to the best of your abilities while he drilled and slammed his massive length to the very back of your throat. Even with all of that, you couldn’t stop yourself from bringing a hand to between your thighs. Slipping two of your fingers into your burning, soaked core, plunging them, knuckles deep, into your wet cunt like a shameless whore.
This was unreal.
You — the illustrious, proud Empress of Rome. A woman raised on silk and ceremony. A woman who had built her entire existence around dignity, status, and control.
And yet here you were.
Kneeling.
Fingering yourself while the general of Rome used your mouth like it was some type of sexual relief toy.
And the gods help you — you didn’t care.
Not about titles.
Not about appearances.
Not even about the husband who hadn’t touched you in months.
All you could feel was the heat curling low in your belly. The ache. The burning awareness of how long you’d gone without being wanted like this.
You were shaking — not from shame, but from need. From the way your body responded despite everything your mind screamed you should remember.
His fingers loosened suddenly.
Not in kindness — in choice.
He let go of your hair with the same calm a beast might show just before pouncing again.
And just like that, he slipped free from your mouth with a wet sound.
You gasped — at the absence, the shock, the unbearable heat still coiled low in your belly.
Saliva clung to your lips — slick, messy, warm with the unmistakable blend of your spit and his precum — trailing down the corner of your mouth in a slow, shameful line. Your chest heaved, rapid and uneven, rising with every shallow breath you couldn’t quite catch.
“This wet,” he murmured, reaching for your hand, observing your soaked fingers. “Just from sucking my cock?” His thumb circled over the mess, slow and cruel. “So eager,” he mused darkly, “and yet so unfulfilled.” He leaned in, voice brushing your ear like a blade.
“Is this how royalty trembles? From the taste of a man made of war?”
A low chuckle rumbled in his chest. “You needy little whore.” You opened your mouth to speak — maybe to deny, maybe to beg — but he brought your fingers to his lips first. And sucked. A low growl rumbled in his chest.
“Sweeter than honey,” he muttered against your skin — but there was no reverence in it. Only hunger.
His hand tightened suddenly around your waist, and before you could speak — even breathe — he hoisted you into his arms like you weighed nothing.
Not gentle. Not loving.
Like you were something stolen. You gasped, instinctively grabbing at his shoulders. He didn’t even glance at you.
His voice, when it came, was lower than before. Rougher.
“I’ll carve my legacy into your womb, seed by seed, until there is no part of you untouched by me.”
Then he leaned in, lips brushing your ear, voice a slow venom.
“But first… I want the source.”
A pause. A breath. A cruel smile.
“You think I’d be satisfied with a little taste?”
Another growl — deeper now.
“I want to drown in it.”
And with that, he threw you onto the bed — hard enough to make the mattress protest, the silks twist beneath you.
You barely had time to blink before he was already on top of you, eyes burning like a man gone feral.
“Let’s see,” he rasped, his hungry eyes trailing down your body. “If the rest of you tastes as good as your shame, regina mea.”
It wasn’t just a word — it was a growl, raw.
Your throat grew dry under his ravenous gaze. Your whole body shivered under the weight of it. Every hair on your arms stood on end, your throat went dry, and your pulse raced.
His large, rough hands gripped your thighs, yanking you closer with a force that made your heart pound. The sheer power behind his pull sent your head spinning, every part of your body instantly alert to his dominance. You struggled instinctively, but the iron‑tight grip left you rooted in place, your legs locking in tension.
He smacked the side of your thigh, hard and sudden. “Would you have me drag you to the atrium?” he thundered, his voice low and commanding, vibrating with fury. You swallowed hard, shaking your head. “Then be still, and resist me not,” he growled, teeth clenched, and you obeyed.
With his strong hands, he spread your knees like splitting a fig in two and buried his head between them. His heated breath reached your wet folds before his mouth did and you bit your lower lip at the sensation. A sound came from his nose, Gods, he was… inhaling the scent of your arousal, a low, satisfied sound escaped him. Looking at him through your spread legs was terrifying, yet strangely intriguing. Your heart was pounding wildly as you thought about what he would do next.
His hands hungrily grabbed at your arse leaving red marks on them while his warm tongue fiddled around inside you. He licked, tasting your juices, nudging your clit with the tip of his tongue. You were wet, but not wet enough to his liking. Marcus wanted you swollen and dripping. Shock and pleasure fused and swept through your entire body, you clawed frantically for something to hold onto, something you could sink your fingers into. But with his grip tight around your hips, his head was just out of reach—far for you to grasp—so you dug your fingers into the sheets instead, your back arching. His hungry mouth found your clitoris and he sucked on it till it grew bigger. You felt your body heating up and your cunt getting even more wet at this forceful stimulation. Relentlessly, his tongue went deeper inside, licking over you with the wide, flat surface of his tongue, exulting in your strangled moan that he felt vibrating against his tongue, lips, and ears.
You hadn’t known that such pleasure-such a sensation-could even be real. You felt as though you were losing your mind from it. You clapped both hands over your mouth, pressing hard, not to stifle a scream, but to keep what remained of your sanity intact. Marcus heard your muffled scream and lifted his head. His tongue, coated with your wetness, traced his lips in a measured, deliberate motion, eyes never leaving you. Then he slapped, struck your hand aside and seized your wrists, yanking your hands away from your mouth.. “Do not dare to silence yourself,” he growled. “Find your voice,” he said. “Let me hear you."
Then he parted you with his thick fingers, swirled his tongue over and over, and you jerked and shook, thighs falling open shamelessly, wantonly, your hips moving instinctively, desperately to urge him closer and deeper. “Ooooohhhh! Please!” You screamed, “Oh gods, oh gods!”
He growled, pulling your hips closer to his mouth so he could go deeper, his mouth devouring you as you felt curls of his hair brushing against your thighs, his lapping and sucking producing slick, sinful sounds that only served to drive you further wild.
"Gods, please," You reached and yanked his head closer sharply, fingers tangled in his partly gray curls, nails scraping against his scalp. Your thighs were shaking, you felt hot and cold all over. He loved the way you scratched at him, how you shivered against him. His hard cock was dripping, straining so painfully.
Marcus’s grip tightened, followed by a sharp blow on your arse that tore a cry from you, digging his thick fingers deep into your core.
His beard prickled your folds so deliciously, his nose rubbed against your clit. He pushed his tongue deep into you again and sucked while fucking you with his fingers. You cried out, sobbing, and he felt more slickness leaking from you, felt your swollen flesh pulse under his tongue. He gripped your thigh with one hand and your arse with the other, holding you fast as he lapped up your juices greedily, groaning and growling in pleasure at the taste of your sweet honey. A broken sound slipped from you, caught somewhere between a sob and a cry, and it only seemed to drive him on. He hummed, sucked ruthlessly, the pleasure wasn’t only yours at the sweet violence of your response, your body bucking and your wetness on his lips and chin. “Rather sweet,” he said against you as he licked and sucked, punctuating his words with the curl of his tongue, with its flicks and flutters. He spoke no more for a long while, dedicating his tongue only to worshiping you and ruining you. It’s enchanting how you squirmed and wriggled, losing all grace and propriety, letting the façade you wore fall away completely in the face of you need for him. Never before had he wanted to ruin a woman the way he wanted you.
No other woman had ever drawn such a response from him, never stirred this depth of feeling or hunger—and the realization unsettled him. It made him wonder how it was possible that you alone could provoke something so fierce, so consuming, that even he had not known it existed.
The wet sounds of his tongue gliding over you filled the chamber now, faintly echoing beyond the door. Anyone outside, if listening carefully, might catch the echoes. Your moans intertwined with his low, throaty grunts and the sharp, wet smacks of his movements, merging into a dark, intoxicating rhythm—a melody of sin, fierce and unbridled, wild and consuming, each sound deliberate, like a man savoring a feast.
You didn't know how many times you came.
After a while, too much pleasure clouded your brain, and you forgot to count. Your heart beat wildly and you gasped for breath as if your whole body were melting in his arms. But all this time, his hands never loosened its grip, his mouth never left your folds. When he said he wanted to drown, he wasn’t jesting, he really seemed like he wanted to drown in your juices. You felt the sweat trailing down your back, it was as if you were slowly coming back to yourself, drifting down from some distant height. The world settled into focus again. Then you lifted your head and looked at him. But he was not yet finished with you.
Twice you peeked, and twice he drank your pleasure from you, dipping his tongue in to lap at you, avoiding your sensitive spots until you were ready for him again.
Once again, you peaked, suddenly this time, heat flaring in your belly and rushing under your skin, your cunt fluttering around his tongue and your thighs trembling against his face, your core is pulsing. Your brain had gone numb, your senses had gone numb, you only later noticed the tears streaming down your cheeks. You did not know whether you were crying from rapture, or because another man had given you this incredible intensity, or because such pleasure existed at all and you had been denied it for so long—deprived of it by your husband. You did not know which of these truths had broken you open. All you knew was that what had just been done to you—forced though it was—had filled you with an overwhelming, undeniable delight.
Marcus sit up on the bed and lifted his hand, crooking two fingers in a silent summons. “Rise,” he said. “Come closer.”
You obeyed, even as your knees trembled beneath you, crawling across the bed toward him. Drawn forward against your own will, compelled by the unspoken certainty of his command, you moved on—each measured inch an unacknowledged surrender, felt not in thought but in bone and blood.
His beard and jaw still bore the trace of your arousal, catching the light in a way that made your throat tighten. His lips were swollen now, darkened with heat and breath—and for the first time in your life, a man’s mouth held you spellbound.
You swallowed hard as your eyes lingered on his lips. The desire to kiss him rose sudden and unbidden, startling in its intensity. How had you never seen it before—how dangerously compelling they were, how they promised not tenderness, but conquest?
“Clean it,” he said, fixing you with a piercing stare. You blinked, meeting his gaze. When you hesitated, his hand reached behind your head, fingers closing in your hair. “Use that pretty tongue of yours,” he murmured darkly. “Taste yourself on me."
With a firm pull, he drew you closer, guiding you toward him.
You leaned closer, drawn by something you could no longer name. Slowly, tentatively, you traced the line of his jaw with your tongue, tasting the salt of him there, and your heady essence, then brushed your lips against his mouth. Your breath caught. You wanted to kiss him—no, you needed to—and the realization unfurled inside you, inescapable, undoing you far more than his touch ever had.
“Acacius,” you murmured, the plea barely a sound.
You wanted to know the taste of him, to feel his breath mingle with yours, to dream of his tongue—eloquent and dangerous, as if it had always known how to take what it desired.
For a heartbeat, he did not move. Then his hand came up, firm, stopping you just short of his lips. His fingers closed around your chin, tilting your face up, not unkindly—but decisively.
“No,” he said quietly, eyes dark and intent. He held you there a moment longer, close enough that you could feel the warmth of his breath, before easing you back—control reasserted without another word.
You fell back against the bed, breath uneven, while he rose to his feet. He crossed the room and poured himself a measure of wine from the decanter. You watched him as he drank, his back to you. The way he had denied you—that single, deliberate refusal—had left a sharp edge of anger beneath your skin. Still, you would not look desperate. You would not look like a supplicant.
“You taste better with wine,” he said, dismissing your situation entirely. "Your husband never gave you this kind of pleasure it seems. I can see it in your pretty face.”
You lowered your gaze at once.
“Damn fool,” he snarled. “Such a crime to leave such ambrosia untasted. Ah, regina mea, I could drink of your cunt forever and never be thirsty,” he said, lifting his cup to you.
He took another slow, deliberate sip, savoring it, while you studied him, trying to pierce the reason behind the refusal of his lips.
You bit your lower lip. “Does the general,” you asked, voice cold, measured, “never kiss the whores he fucks?”
For a single heartbeat, your question struck its mark. The man who had been all hunger and shadow faltered, something unreadable flashing across his face—cornered, exposed. You had reached him where it mattered. But the moment was brief. He mastered himself just as quickly, the mask sliding back into place, control reclaimed as if it had never slipped at all.
“You presume too much.” He laughed—low, unbothered, almost amused. His eyes slid over you slowly before lifting to meet yours, draining the cup in one swallow. “Besides, I haven’t fucked you yet.” As he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes never left you—still sprawled on the bed, exposed to his gaze. There was nothing hidden in the hunger there. He set the cup aside and began to walk back toward you.
Your heart leapt into your throat. Under the weight of his wolfish-stare alone, your pulse betrayed you, every step he took tightening the air between you.
Your eyes betrayed you, lingering where they should not—on his manhood, veins raised like living marble beneath the skin, carrying a promise of strength that needed no name to be understood, mirroring the same restrained power that defined the rest of his body.
There was an ease to him that had nothing to do with innocence—an assurance born of familiarity, of having learned bodies as thoroughly as battlefields. You wondered if it was merely the discipline of a soldier, or something more intimate. Not strength alone, but experience—the kind earned in shadows and silence, in nights that left their mark. The way he held himself suggested a man who had known desire well, and had never been ruled by it.
Your walls clenched around nothing.
By that time, you were blushing deeply as you watched the him positioned himself before you. Spreading your legs as his erection was looking full and firm with lust and arousal, precum leaking from his tip. If you didn’t know any better, you could’ve sworn that the length actually grew in size from a few mere moments ago. As he looked at you darkly, a sharp mix of excitement and unease tightened in your chest. You knew that in mere moments, you would be fucked by the general of Rome.
You had to admit—you had never imagined that the man who would take you, who would claim you like this, would be him. And yet… perhaps this was better than some nameless gladiator you had never known. Wasn’t it?
“So,” Marcus asked, a slow, taunting curve to his mouth, “you wish to be kissed, do you?” His gaze held yours, dark and knowing. “By the very man you were trying to flee from only moments ago?”
You felt the tip start to poke at your entrance. You bit your bottom lip as you watched the fat bulbous tip, followed by his thick inches slowly slide their way inside of you. A moan slipped from your lips as your eyes fluttered shut, your breath betraying you before words could. Marcus’s hand came up, slapped your cunt, drawing a sharp squeak from you before you could stop it. “Answer me,” he growled.
“Yes—” you cried, the word tearing free before you could stop it. “Yes, I wish you to kiss me,” you breathed, your body arching beneath him, caught between need and surrender.
He grinned, a slow, predatory curve to his lips. “Then,” he said, voice low and sharp, “you’ll have to earn it.”
Your mind swirled, trying to grasp the meaning behind his words. Before you could decide, his hands grabbed at your waist, you glanced up at him and was met with him giving you a playful smile— right before slamming the rest of his length in with one vicious thrust.
“Oh GODS!” You cried as your whole world went white. Your mind exploded from intense pain, pleasure and fullness, crashing against your entire body. Your mouth agape in a choked cry, nothing coming out at that very moment.
A sharp, surprised grunt left him, taken aback by just how tight you were. Your grip on him was like a python’s, quivering and quaking all around. Were he a lesser man, he would have likely reached his climax almost immediately, all because of you beneath him. Not even the virgin courtesan from the lupanaria could match the level of tightness you were exuding. It was both impressive and intoxicating—you felt divine. His eyes darkened, pupils dilating, every fiber of him alive with sensation. He had never felt this way with any woman before—not even close.
For a heartbeat, the predator faltered, undone by the inevitability of your hold. Yet almost instantly, he recovered—lips curling into a dangerous, possessive smile, muscles taut with restrained hunger. Even as he regained his composure, the knowledge lingered: you had claimed him, and it thrilled him in ways no other had.
His first thrust was sudden and merciless, sharp as a tearing bandage. You cried out at the shocking fullness, your body jolting into a haze of overwhelming, mind-numbing pleasure. “Ahhhh...oohhh...Gods!"
His big hand wrapped around your throat, slapping your arse with the other, “Not your gods… you’ll scream my name,” He grunted as he began to move inside you, his grip on your throat not lessening for a second. The slaps on your arse and cunt kept coming, over and over, raw and relentless, as he fucked you too hard, too deep, with no intention of slowing down. Your screams weren’t enough to stop him—if anything, they only seemed to please him, driving him to thrust deeper and deeper until you felt his balls slamming against your arse cheeks.
By the time he found a steady rhythm, you were reduced to breathless moans and sharp cries, the kind that belonged to a woman utterly claimed. Your hands clutched at his shoulders, nails digging into his skin, while your legs jerked and bucked helplessly at his sides under the relentless force of him.
The heavy, rhythmic impact of your bodies colliding echoed through the room, mingling with the sounds spilling from your lips—noises you had never imagined yourself capable of making. Each slam, each gasp, carried a wild, almost shameful intensity, and still, you found yourself utterly unable to stop it.
The more he slammed himself into you, the more your mind fried and your insides churned from his glorious length.
Marcus treated you more like a shameless filthy whore than a woman—or, hell, even a human at that. Yet the very idea of being fucked this way didn’t feel as shocking or unappealing as you had first imagined.
For a moment, the pleasure threatened to overwhelm you, and you squeezed your eyes shut—but his hand on your neck shook you insistently.
“Look at me,” he commanded, and you obeyed, meeting his dark, unyielding gaze as your bodies moved together.
“Now… scream my name.”
He thrust again, harder, more brutal this time. You gasped, trying to resist, but the sound escaped anyway, “Marcus!”
Every soul in the atrium—and likely throughout the villa—must have heard you. In that instant, you understood exactly what he had meant when he said “earn it.”
He thrust once more. “Louder. Declare me… in full..”
Slapping your arse with both hands, he kept you in place as he pumped into you with great speed. You screamed, almost sobbing, each name rising higher than the last, “Marcus! Justus! Acacius!”
A dark, satisfied laugh escaped him, thick with possession and hunger.
“Well done… let everyone know who claims you. Let them hear who fucks you,” he growled, eyes blazing, every muscle in his body taut with the knowledge that you were his—claimed, shattered, and entirely under his control.
His large hand moved over your bouncing breasts, squeezing with rough insistence, fingers pinching your nipples sharply. The other slid down your stomach, teasing the cleft between your thighs in perfect rhythm with each thrust.
Before you realized it, you found yourself cumming, your body was overtaken, a shattering wave of pleasure ripping through you. A high, desperate cry escaped your lips as your body shuddered, your juices spilled, slicking both of you, toes curling against his back in the intensity of it all.
Marcus grunted, caught off guard by the tightness of your folds gripping him. Squeezing him down as if you were attempting to wring his cock out for his seed. There was something almost… old in it, a dark thrill he hadn’t known he’d missed.
Yet he did not slow, did not relent. Every movement drove deeper, claiming you fully, and still he drew endless satisfaction from your body, unyielding, relentless, and wholly possessed by the sensation of you.
“Marcus! W-Wait!” you cried, eyes wide at his resumed thrusting. “I-I'm still—have mercy, please!”
You couldn’t even finish the sentence. A cry of pleasure tore from your throat as your body shook through another climax, Marcus deliberately dragging it out with long, deep strokes. His hands found your bouncing breasts once more, taking one into his mouth while teasing the other, his tongue hungry and brutal as he suckled, before letting go of your nipple with a loud, wet pop that echoed briefly through the chamber. You could not tell whether he meant to rouse you further, or if he was simply indulging in the pleasure of it himself.
Somehow, your legs had slid up onto the bed without you even noticing; Marcus’s strong arms lifted them higher, wrapping them around his waist, guiding you instinctively while you clutched his head close to him with what little willpower you could muster.
Your screams grew louder, more urgent, every second feeding his predatory hunger.
It didn’t take long before another wave overtook you, leaving your legs trembling, breath broken, the world narrowing to sensation alone.
Then he paused.
For a fleeting moment, you thought it was mercy.
It wasn’t.
You were still trembling, utterly sated and almost dazed, struggling to open your eyes. You felt him lift you slightly, and beneath your hips he placed something soft—perhaps a pillow—so that your hips were raised, your rear arched. Ah… you realized, even in the haze of pleasure, that this was the method used to increase the chance of conception, a knowledge that sent a shiver through you in spite of yourself.
After adjusting your position, he resumed his relentless thrusting, one arm sliding under you to wrap firmly around your waist. His movements grew harder, faster, each stroke a brutal claim on your body.
You were utterly lost in your storm of delight, unable to notice how deeply trapped you were in his dominating mating press. His chest pressed flush against your voluptuous frame, every motion scorching, possessive, unyielding.
His hips began to snap faster, a clear, primal signal that he was nearing his own climax, and you could feel the heat radiating from him through every curve of your body. The intensity was overwhelming, your senses consumed by him—by the force, the control, and the fierce, inescapable pleasure he was giving you.
By the gods.
Your form was exquisite, a decadence beyond reckoning. He had not foreseen this, not even in himself — the way desire sank its hooks so deep it threatened to consume him whole. You knew nothing of the divinity of your own flesh, nor of how completely it ensnared him, he simply couldn’t get enough of you.
Marcus pressed his lips fiercely against your neck, lingering there with brutal intent. You felt the force of his mouth, the demanding pull, then the sharp pressure of his teeth sinking just enough to make you gasp. A raw moan tore from your throat, unbidden, as his hold on you tightened. You were crushed under the weight of his thick form—yet you did not care in the slightest.
With a sudden, powerful downward thrust, he poured every ounce of force into his hips, movements primal and unrelenting. A seasoned military man, far older than your husband yet giving you pleasures he never could, he grunted low in satisfaction, each sound vibrating against your neck as he reached his climax in one brutal sweep. You felt every guttural murmur, every shiver of release, his essence filling you so well. Your eyes rolled back, and a shameless cry of pure bliss tore from your lips as you were filled with the general’s thick seed. He pressed your body down against the pillow beneath your hips, lifting your rear high, angling you perfectly—as if to ensure every last drop of his breeding was swallowed by your womb.
You both remained still, his lingering warmth and the last aftershocks of ecstasy circulating within you. Your eyes met as Marcus inclined his face toward yours; his features were damp with sweat, dark curls clinging to his brow and catching the lamplight with a faint sheen. His brown eyes glinted like polished bronze in the low glow of the chamber, steady and intent. You were locked there together, wrapped in the haze of post-climax heat, and even now he remained hard, filling you completely—an exquisite fullness.
“I know why you didn’t want to kiss me,” you breathed, chest rising and falling beneath his arms as he held you tightly. His eyes, still misted from climax, sharpened on you. “Because there’s a saying,” you breathed, voice trembling, “that the bond of love is sealed on the lips—osculum vinculum amoris est. You fear realizing you’re in love with me, and prefer to surrender to desire instead… don’t you, General?"
He smirked. “Ah… clever little empress. Speaking of lips and love—daring to have me confess to something that does not exist, testing me, even while you lie beneath me.”
As if to prove his own words true, as if to demonstrate that no such feeling held power over him, his finger traced the line of your jaw. His eyes burned as his lips brushed yours, barely there, a calculated tease rather than a claim. His thumb followed, skimming your lower lip, coaxing it apart in silent invitation, controlled and measured.
For a fleeting moment, hesitation crossed his face. You felt it—knew it instinctively—as though a single kiss would cost him something he was not yet willing to surrender. And gods, how you wanted it. You wanted his mouth on yours, wanted to taste him, craved his lips with a hunger sharper than anything you had ever known.
But he did not give in. His jaw tightened, that familiar hard line returning as his posture straightened, discipline snapping back into place. He withdrew, composure intact, leaving the space between you charged and aching—while your lips still burned with the memory of what he had almost allowed.
You remained pressed together, the heat between you slowly ebbing as he finally softened within you. He held you steady as he withdrew, still warm, leaving behind only the faintest trace of his seed as it slid down your arse and soaked into the sheets below.
His grip stayed firm beneath your hips as he pressed you back against the bed, his palm settling briefly between your breasts, grounding you there. “Do not move,” he said, already rising.
You could not have moved even if you wished to—your legs and pelvis numb, every muscle aching, as though the great columns of the temple of Jupiter had collapsed upon you and left you buried beneath their weight. And yet… you were happy. Grateful. Still, as his body lifted away, a quiet ache settled in your chest. You already missed the crushing warmth of him, the way his solid, muscled body, had held you down.
Marcus adjusted you with practiced ease, one arm steady at your hips while his gaze lingered on the marks already blooming across your skin—faint now, darker by morning. His fingers brushed your lips, slow and deliberate, tracing them as if committing their shape to memory… and then, just as slowly, he withdrew his hand. Your eyes met.
He turned away first. Whatever thought had crossed his mind, he abandoned it.
You gathered yourself on one elbow, breath unsteady. “If you do not kiss me now,” you said quietly, unable to hide the hope in your voice, “you may never have another chance, General.”
He was already reaching for his garment, the distance returning with every movement. The moment he left the chamber, he would be unreachable again—so you pressed on, hopeful and daring all at once.
Despite your exhaustion, you smiled, a quiet challenge in your eyes. “Even if you were to seize the chance,” you said softly, testing him, “do not imagine I would make it easy for you.”
He paused at the door, glancing back with a slow, knowing smile. As if you weren’t already mine,” he drawled. “Tell me, my lady. Where does this confidence come from? Or is it simply defiance you wear so prettily? If I choose to take what I desire, there is no wall in Rome, no name, no vow that could bar my way."
He turned and left the chamber, the door closing behind him and sealing you in silence. Alone at last, you drew a slow, unsteady breath, his seed floating deep within your insides, his scent clinging to your skin—while his final words seemed to echo in the quiet, lingering as insistently as he did.
You knew you would see him again—at every ceremony, every banquet, every festival where Rome displayed its splendor. From across marble halls and torchlit courts, your gazes would meet, a silent acknowledgment, a greeting meant for no one else. At each triumphant return from war, he would stand before the city as its conqueror, and you would stand beside another man as his wife—an ornament of Rome, a symbol, a possession.
Yet your body, your longing, even your heart, belonged elsewhere. They belonged to him—quietly, secretly, like a truth spoken only in whispers. And they would remain so, hidden beneath silk and ceremony, until the seeds he had sown within you took root and blossomed into a son, an heir growing silently in the shadows of empire.
The way some people so eagerly tore down Guillermo Del Toro, a Mexican director, to hype up white horror directors while insisting every other white director was more fit for the job of directing Frankenstein was also very strange to me but I'm sure they'll just say it's 'personal preference', like they do when the excessive exclusion of Oscar Isaac, the lead of the film, is brought up.
Summary: You try to find out Jonathan Levy's kinks. (~2k)
Contents: 18+ nsfw, established relationship, you talk Jonathan into coming in his pants, a tiny bit degrading
-----
Jonathan sets a bottle of bright orange soda in front of you.
You look up from where you’re grading essays on his kitchen table. You push aside your laptop and pick up the bottle.
“Good vintage,” you say.
“Thanks.” He sets down two crystal rocks glasses and unscrews the plastic cap. “Bought it for Ava to have with dinner. Then her mom came to pick her up an hour early. Which is not the custody agreement, but I have to get better at not letting her bait me into extraneous arguments.”
You touch your hand to his forearm, where his sleeve is rolled up. “She probably did it because you routinely send Ava out of here in an uncontrollable sugar high,” you say, looking up at him. “Just an observation.”
He half-shrugs because he knows you’re right.
“If I don’t, then Mira just takes her out for ice cream after dinner and she doesn’t sleep. If she has the sugar now, before dinner, she has time to crash. She already has trouble sleeping,” Jonathan shakes his head, makes a tired face. “And now I’m having the extraneous argument with you.”
He tops off the glasses and gives you one, picking up his own and sitting at the table with you.
“I don’t mind when you vent,” you say.
“You’re too understanding,” he says, sipping his soda. “Wow, this is disgusting.”
You laugh, taking a drink. “I always loved orange soda when I was a kid.”
He adjusts his glasses, a touch of a smile on his lips. He runs his fingers through his messy hair. Then he leans forward, propping his elbow on the table and his chin in his hand.
You can tell he wants to say something. Different things hold him back sometimes. The muscle-memory of being scolded for his honesty. Trying not to be controlling. Trying to figure out how you’ll react because it’s his nature to analyze, and his nature to want you to be happy.
You wait for him to gather his thoughts.
Jonathan takes his hand away from his face, lays it on your wrist. “You know I love you, right?”
You look into his eyes. “Yes. Mutual.”
He holds his hand up, palm out, like he’s trying to calm you down before you can argue, even though you both know that you wouldn’t argue anyway.
“I don’t want what I’m about to say to affect my asking you to move in here. I know you said you needed time to think about it.”
“You’re being very patient,” you say.
He bites his bottom lip and takes a breath through his nose. “My mother,” he says.
“How’s this sentence going to end?” You smirk at him.
He lays his hand over yours. “My mother asked me if you would consider converting.”
You literally gasp, you’re so shocked. “What? I thought your mom hated me.”
Jonathan shakes his head. “She loves you. She only acts the way she does because she loves you. It’s fucked up. I know.”
You put your hands over your face dramatically. “This is a lot to take in.”
You hear Jonathan chuckle. He pulls your hands off of your face and holds them. His eyes crinkle as he smiles at you.
“I don’t want you to convert. You know I don’t give a fuck about that. But, what she was really saying was, well, I told her you might be moving in here with Ava and me.”
“And we’re not married.”
Jonathan shakes his head. “We’re not. It’s a little premature to even talk about it. We just got to the living together part.”
“I’m still enjoying our dirty, sinful, kinky sex.” You stand up and take the two steps over to Jonathan’s chair, straddling his lap.
His hands come up to massage your thighs. “It’s the kinkiest sex I’ve ever had, but I admit, my bar for that is pretty low.”
“It’s true. The first time you put your finger in my ass, you asked if it was okay like, fifteen times,” you smile.
Even now, he looks a little embarrassed for loving it as much as he did. “I just wanted to check-“
“Jonathan, I did the prep for it. I asked you to do it.” You kiss his cheek. “I think you should let me do it to you, though.”
He almost winces. “I’m not there yet. Maybe someday, I could see it.”
You hook your hands around his neck, trying to stop his thought spiral before it starts. “I know you want things. I want you know you can ask for them.”
He looks away, but you run your fingers into his beard and bring his gaze back to yours.
“I’ll make you a deal,” you say. “If you can ask me for something sexual that you’ve always thought you couldn’t say out loud, then I’ll move in here.”
His eyes widen slightly. “Coercion? Blackmail?” He asks jokingly.
You rub your fingers into his neck. “No, I just want honesty. I see myself in this relationship for a long, long time. You said you’re trying to let me past your emotional walls. The physical stuff is part of that too. If you’re not comfortable, I understand and I support that. We can talk about this another time.”
He takes a big breath. To your relief, he’s not pressing his lips together, no stress lines appear between his eyebrows. He’s thinking about it.
“And so we’re playing on an even field here,” you say, scooting closer so you’re right up against him. “Watching you think is the absolute number one thing on my personal list of kinks.”
You feel his cock twitch in his pants. You smile.
Jonathan laughs, a little breathy. “You must be in a constant state of arousal then. All I do is think.”
“You have no idea, Levy.” You lean in and kiss him. “When I see you at work with your ID badge clipped to your blazer. Dad sneakers, sensible khakis. I saw you lick your finger to turn a page once and I kid you not, I masturbated to it that night.”
Jonathan laughs, this time deep and loud.
You’d been drawn to each other from the minute you’d been introduced. Him a tenured professor from the philosophy department, you a new adjunct in the communications school. People whispered a little bit, him being a touch older than you. He’d worried about that too in the beginning.
But you fit together. Intellectually, emotionally, even your idea of the perfect weekend was usually the same thing. You felt like Jonathan had always been part of your life. Would always be.
He did still have his hang-ups though.
You bite his neck gently and he moans. “Keep doing that,” he says.
You let your teeth roam up and down his neck, grazing, nipping. You lick his adam’s apple and his cock gets harder than steel.
“Is this it?” You ask, lifting your teeth to his earlobe and grabbing onto it a little harder than usual.
He hisses a breath in between his teeth, but doesn’t stop you. “It’s good.”
“But not exactly what you want. I hear you.” You let him go, lean back to look at him. “Okay. We can keep brainstorming.”
“You’re going to brainstorm me right into premature ejaculation,” Jonathan grins.
“That’s also hot,” you say.
He makes a confused face. “That can’t be a thing.”
You nod. “It is absolutely a thing. Trust me.”
“Just when I think maybe I have a grasp on humanity, you reveal something new. Mind-blowing. Makes me wonder what my life’s work is even about,” he shakes his head.
You laugh, rolling your hips a little to tease him.
He closes his eyes, bites his bottom lip. You keep going, grinding down a little harder. Jonathan’s nostrils flare. His hands squeeze your hips.
“Right there,” he says thinly, eyes still closed.
“Oh,” you make a tut-tut noise with your tongue, “are you losing it, Jonathan? Is the thought of my hot little cunt going to make you come in your pants?”
“Oh shit,” he whispers. His head drops lightly to your shoulder.
You keep moving your hips slowly, up and down the length of him, feeling the friction of his zipper under you.
You run your fingers into his hair, pushing it back so you can press your mouth closer to his ear.
“You’re not going to make it,” you say. “You can’t hold onto it. You’re going to come just like this. Just from me dry humping you. Do you like how hot I feel? Think about how wet I am.”
Jonathan actually whimpers and you think you might be the one to come first, from that sound alone.
You lick his earlobe and his hips start rising subtly to meet yours.
“You should have a little self control, Jonathan. Making a mess like this. Right here in your dining room. You’re going to have to walk around with it afterward, walk to the laundry room with the front of your pants all wet and sticky because you couldn’t stop yourself from coming.”
Jonathan’s hands start to shake slightly on your hips as he pulls you down, urging you to go faster.
“Keep talking, please” he says.
“You won’t even be able to fuck me, will you? Won’t even be able to get it in me because you came like a fucking teenager.” Your words sound uneven, but neither of you cares at this point.
“Please,” Jonathan whispers. One of his hands comes up to curl around the back of your neck, enough leverage that you can tell he needs the tiniest bit of pressure to send him over the edge. “I can’t, I can’t- oh, shit- I’m coming.”
“Yeah? Come then. Come in your fucking pants before you even have the chance to fuck me.” You ride him faster, holding his head tightly to your shoulder, feeling his body shake as he tenses, breath heaving out of him as he comes hard against you.
You feel a hot wetness between your legs, but whether it’s yours or his you don’t know. His hands relax on you. He sits back in his chair and takes off his glasses, sets them on the table.
You settle your weight on him, as out of breath as he is.
Jonathan looks at you, warm brown eyes still dazed. He shakes his head, mouth slightly open. “Holy shit that was fast.”
“I told you it was hot,” you say.
He rubs his eyes. “I stand very corrected. Wow. Did you?”
You shake your head. “That wasn’t the point this time.”
“The point was to, what did you say? Make me come in my pants like a fucking teenager?” He runs his hands over his hair, grinning.
You shift backward to stand off of his lap.
Jonathan looks down and immediately makes a disappointed, rough sound in his throat. “I know I stopped showering after sex, but you’ll forgive me if, this one time, I feel like I have to.”
You snort a laugh, sneaking a look at the dark, wet patch on the front of his pants.
Jonathan stands and awkwardly starts to undo his belt right there. “I hope this comes out. I mean, it would still have been worth it, but I really like these pants.”
“Me too,” you wiggle your eyebrows and he rolls his eyes playfully at you. “If we keep doing shit like this, we’ll have to keep our laundry separate when I move in.”
He pauses over the button of his pants, his face going still. “You’re moving in?”
You nod. “If you still want me to.”
You barely have the sentence out before Jonathan is reaching out to pull you into a hug. “I’m sorry, I know this is gross, but I have to hug you.” He kisses the side of your head.
“That’s okay. I’ll just put on something of yours and we can order delivery tonight.” You say.
Jonathan takes your hand and walks you both in the direction of the laundry room. He looks so happy, cheeks a little rosy from his orgasm, eyes shining from, you think, the way you make him feel. You feel the same.
“So, is there a female equivalent of what you just did to me?” He asks as you both start undressing in the laundry room, chucking your dirty clothes straight into the washing machine.
“You know, I’ve never thought about it. Maybe thigh riding?” You say.
He almost chastely watches you finish undressing. But his eyes are full of mischief when he looks back up at you.
“What’s thigh riding and can we do it right now?" He licks his lips. "If we're going to shower, might as well try to make ourselves as dirty as possible.”
You frown at his question. You turn from where you’ve scooched to the end of his bed, arching a brow.
“Do what?”
Jonathan pushes himself to sit up, smoothing a hand through his curls and taking his glasses up from the bedside table. He puts them on, adjusting them as he gets a better look at you.
“Talk…Like that," He clarifies.
“Like...? Dirty talk?”
“Yeah.”
Your brow furrows as you think for a moment, then turn away, taking up your pants where they’d been dropped on the floor.
“I dunno,” You shrug, standing and tugging your pants up. “I just talk.”
“You never practiced?”
“Like in the mirror?” You chuckle, grabbing your bra next. “Like, beta-tested what sounded good?”
“You could.”
“I didn’t.”
“So?”
You consider it as you look around for where your shirt had been flung.
“How do you think when you’re having sex?” You bat back.
“What?”
“When you’re having sex, what’s going through your head?”
You finally spot your shirt hanging off of a potted plant. You walk over to it, plucking it off of the plant, shaking it out. You turn back to Jonathan, grinning when you find his face twisted in thought, his brow furrowed.
“Do you think, ah yes, and now I’m going to insert my penis into her vaginal cavity?” You ask, mimicking his voice. He splutters a laugh, ducking his head and adjusting his glasses as his cheeks go pink. “You don’t right? You think, I wanna fuck her pussy.” You tug your shirt down over your head, straightening it. “At least, I hope you do.”
“It’s not that easy.”
“What’s your inner-monologue sound like?” You plant your hands on your hips as you watch Jonathan’s expression shift from curiosity to bashful nerves. You can’t help the softening of his smile, or the way he scrubs his hand across his mouth in thought.
“You don’t have to answer me if you don’t want to,” You add, crawling onto the bed on all fours. “And for the record, you don’t have to talk dirty if you don’t want to.” You reach up, cupping his rough jaw. “Just because you’ve been on the quiet side doesn’t mean that I’ve doubted whether or not you're enjoying yourself.” You lean in, pressing your lips tenderly to his, grinning as you feel his lips turning up in a smile. You peck his lips, draw back, then lean in for another peck as his hand comes up to try and grasp your shirt.
“Okay,” You mumble, scooching back off of the bed. “Okay—I have to go. I’m gonna be late for class.”
“You’re teaching today?”
“Giving an exam.”
“Wait, lemme—”
You watch, amused, as Jonathan pushes the covers back and scooches bare-assed across the sheets, offering, “Your sweater is wrinkled.”
“Of course it is. It took a nap on the ficus.”
“That’s a snake plant.”
“I have a spare shirt hanging up in my office, don’t worry about it. You have Ava tonight?”
“No.”
“Okay.”
“You coming back?”
“You cooking?”
“I could.”
“Don’t worry about it,” You chuckle. “I’ll grab takeout on the way.”
“You sure?”
“Mhm. Text me what you want.”
“Okay.”
You dip your head, pressing another kiss to Jonathan’s lips before you turn, heading to the front hall for your shoes and socks.
–
You frown when your phone buzzes. You slide it off of the desk, peering down at the screen and biting back a smile when you see Jonathan’s text:
I don’t always think that I wanna fuck your pussy
I mean I always want to, but that’s not how it goes through my head
You glance up, gaze sweeping the testing students before hurriedly typing:
What does go through it, then?
It depends on what we’re doing.
You bite your lip for just a moment, thinking. Before you can answer, your phone buzzes with another text:
Eggplant parmesan
You only just manage not to snort a laugh.
Hero or platter?
Hero
You need a hero? You’re holding out for a hero til the end of the night?
??
I thought you were coming back right after class
It’s a song
never mind
I don’t think I know that one
That has become increasingly evident
–
On the surface, it’s a little surprising, but maybe it’s not so strange that Jonathan has asked you about dirty talk, or that he’s thinking about it. The separation isn’t so new, and while Mira is still a raw subject for him, you’ve been more than happy to help Jonathan explore a little.
He doesn’t always come right out with it like he had that morning—he doesn’t always just ask. Sometimes, he has to work up to it, or you have to tease it out of him. You don’t mind. You know that he’s not making it a guessing game on purpose.
You look at Jonathan across his dinner table, smiling as you catch him sucking sauce off of his thumb. His gaze flickers to yours, lips pulling into a wider smile when he catches you looking.
“I looked up that song,” He says.
“Oh yeah? You like it?”
“I didn’t realize it was in Shrek 2.”
“I can’t believe you’ve seen Shrek 2.”
“Ava watched it once or twice.”
“Ah. Makes sense.” You look down at your food, poking at it with your fork for a moment. “Do you wanna talk about it?” You offer after a moment.
“Talk about what?”
“About what I say when we fuck.” You smile wickedly as Jonathan splutters into his glass of wine. He clears his throat, giving a small shake of his head as if that’ll help clear it. You rest your chin on your hand, waiting patiently as Jonathan leans back in his seat, adjusting his glasses.
“Uh…”
“We don’t have to,” You tack on.
“No, I know. I know.” He meets and holds your gaze for a moment. “Is it just like…A stream of consciousness for you?”
“Sometimes,” You nod, “I mean…Well, most of the time. But occasionally I’ll work in a phrase or two because you seem to like it.”
“Like what?”
“Mmm…” You trail off, eyes flicking to the ceiling as you think about it. “Stuff like…You feel so fucking good…Your cock is so thick…I don’t know, sometimes I use this tone that you seem to be into.”
“Can you demonstrate it?”
“I don’t want you to get hard before we’ve done the dishes. Might turn around to find you humping the counter.”
“Okay,” Jonathan chuckles, scrubbing his hand over his flushing cheeks. You grin, pushing your chair back and rounding to the sink to set your empty dishes down.
“Want some more wine?” You ask.
“Uh—Sure, thanks.”
You take up the bottle from the counter, bracing your hand on the back of his chair and murmuring your thanks as he sets his hand on the stem of the glass to hold it steady. You lean over him, purposefully letting your shirt slip down. You bite back a smile as you feel Jonathan glance surreptitiously in your direction. You swipe your tongue along your lips, glancing toward the wine glass to ensure you don’t spill.
“Just like that?” You murmur, using the tone that Jonathan always seems to be melted by. You grin as his hand twitches, a few of the drops sloshing over onto his fingers. You chuckle softly, straightening and setting the bottle of wine aside.
“That’s the tone,” He mutters.
“Yes it is,” You smile smugly, rounding the table and sitting back down.
--
You roll your hips down against Jonathan’s, shivering as his beard rasps against your neck.
You really did settle in with the intention of watching a movie (a book you’ve given your students to read that was recently re-adapted—you want to be able to spot any inconsistencies between the book’s content and the movie’s). You’ve managed to make it about halfway through, but you’ve gotten a little…Distracted.
Jonathan had started it. Well, he’s made a comment a time or two that he’s working on that, that he wants to be the one to make overtures. You don’t mind—hell, you approve. It’s thrilling to feel him smooth his hand up your thigh, for him to dip his head and press a kiss to your jaw. He dips his fingers between your thighs, leaving you with no doubt of his intentions. Now, you part your lips in a moan as Jonathan’s tongue sweeps across yours. You let your eyes slide closed, your fingers slipping up into his hair as he breaks the kiss with a slick suck, drawing his mouth away. He turns his head, beard roughly brushing your cheek.
“I wanna fuck you.”
Your jaw drops as you suck pull in a shocked little breath. Those four little words from that warm, husky voice are a shock to the system. It’s like the firing of a starting pistol, the first punch thrown in the name of the revolution. Your grip tightens on his hair, holding his head prone as you tip your head to meet his gaze. His eyes are dark with want, but you can see the spark of flighty nerves there. You brush your lips against his, murmuring,
“Then fuck me, Levy.”
--
You’re undressed by the time the two of you reach his bedroom. He’s nearly there—shirtless, with his pants and underwear nearly tripping him up as you scooch back onto his bed. You watch him tug the offending garments down, and he drops to his knees so suddenly that you think he’s fallen. Instead, he grasps your hips, yanking you to the edge of the bed before he buries his face between your thighs. You groan at the feeling of his beard raking across your sensitive flesh before his tongue lashes across your clit. You reach down, running your fingers through his mussed curls as you let your thighs splay. You raise your other hand, groping and thumbing your nipples as your hips roll down against his desperate lips.
Jonathan smooths a hand along your inner thigh before teasing his finger over your opening. He eases it inside as he lifts his chin, his tongue sweeping across your clit on the upstroke.
“You taste so fucking good,” He groans, pumping his finger in shallowly before twisting and curling it.
“You make me wet, Jonathan,” You murmur, squeezing down around his finger. “I love how your beard feels—Oh,” You sigh watching Jonathan brush his beard against your thigh as he eases in another finger. “You always know what I need, don’t you…You take such good care of me.”
Jonathan groans against you, sucking a messy kiss to your cunt as he thrusts his fingers into you. You can feel the familiar pressure building, and you reach down, curling your fingers around his wrist to still him.
“I thought you were going to fuck me,” You remind him haughtily. He turns his head, biting your inner thigh harshly, holding your thighs lightly as you jump slightly at the sting. He laps across the skin before he rises, shoving your legs wide. He plunges into you with a single stroke, and your mouth falls open, stunned at the sudden shift.
“So impatient,” He barks as he grinds his hips forward. “I should’ve made you beg.”
You whine, raising your hands and grasping his arms as he braces his hands on the bed.
“I need you to trust me,” He adds, gaze heavy on yours.
“I do—oh, god, I do, Jonathan.”
“Yeah? Trust me to take care of you? To give you—nngh,” He pushes out a snarl, “Give you what you need?”
“Yes!”
“Tell me what you want.”
“I want you to make me cum, Jonathan.”
“Want me to fill you up?”
“Yes—”
“Fuck a baby into you?”
Your jaw drops as his grasp on you tightens, his hips sawing more harshly, the sound of your slapping flesh filling the room. Your cunt clutches at him, your nails sinking into his muscles.
“You want that?” You ask, breath catching in your throat as he bows closer.
“I want it,” He groans against your neck, knees digging into the mattress. “I want you round with my child. I want—Fuck—I want you full of my seed, I want you covered in it.”
“Oh, my god,” You whimper, fisting your hand in his hair as your chest presses up against his.
“Your p-pussy—” He nearly trips over the word, “Feels so—Mm, so fucking good…”
“Yes,” You breathe. “Jonathan, ‘m so close.”
“Yeah?”
“Mm, mhm. I wanna cum.”
“Say please.”
“Please,” You lower your hand, grasping his ass and tugging him closer. “Please let me cum, Joanthan—Oh, fuck, fuckfuckfuck!” You gasp as your press up into his thrusts, chasing your orgasm as it swells and washes over you.
You peer up at Jonathan and find him watching you, his lips parted with a lusty moan as he cums. His hips pump sharply as he fills you, his hands digging into your thighs as if he needs to keep you there. It’s another moment before he pulls out, flopping onto the bed beside you. His arm curls around your middle, his face pressing into your shoulder as he draws in deep, steadying breaths. You raise your hand, combing gently through his greying curls as the two of you come down together.
"...Any notes?" He mumbles bashfully after a few moments. You shake your head, gaze trained on the ceiling.
In which the Moon Knight alter system presents a unique opportunity to settle the nature versus nurture debate, once and for all...
Steven Grant/Marc Spector/Jake Lockley x afab!psychologist!reader
RATING: EXPLICIT (18+, mdni)
WARNINGS: SMUT (specific warnings in each chapter), questionable ethics/scientific practices, discussion of mental health, psychoanalysis, extensive descriptions of DID, fetishization of mental disorders (DID)
NOTES: this fic is really, really morally ambiguous and ireally honestly don't feel great about it. in real life, the contents of this story would be considered extremely unethical, deceptive, manipulative, and there are some serious conflicts of interest. that being said, as someone who is passionate about psychology, i have been wanting to write this for quite some time. if this might be triggering to you, or you feel uncomfortable with the sort of scientific gray area this presents, please don't read it.
DISCLAIMER: although i’m incredibly knowledgeable about psychology, i am NOT a professional. all psychoanalyses made throughout the course of this storyline are entirely my own, based on my own interpretations of the characters. in a similar vein, i am also not an expert on DID specifically (although i am well-read on mental disorders and diagnoses), so i apologize for any incorrect terminology or misrepresentation. don’t hesitate to call me out if i say something wrong!
🌟 My Dear Birdie Series (15 chapters, and lots of extras)
-Always ongoing🔥🌸
One Weekend (part 1) 🔥
One Weekend (part 2) 🔥
One Weekend- Soft Scenes
Anselm Vogelweide x reader (Birdie) x Nathan Bateman
::Other Anselm Writings::
The Meeting (~2.3k)
-You're a budding criminal, meeting Anselm to come to an agreement.
A Gala Event (~2.8k)🔥
-You meet a mysterious stranger at a gala
1- Sympathy for the Devil (~1.5k) 🔥
-not so anonymous sex
2- The Devil You Know (~2.7k) 🔥
-Anselm shows you what he is, and what you are
Natural Authority (~3.6k)🔥
-You start working for Anselm and your weirdness complements each other, in business and personally.
Anselm w/ tall gf
Coming out ftm to Anselm
Anselm x reader who thrifts
Anselm x reader w/ head injury
Anselm w/ trans reader
Strange Hungers (~1.7k) 🔥
-Krampus!Anselm punishes you (CNC)
Anselm w/ shy or awkward reader ♾️
🎃 My Girlfriend is a Ghost (~2k)🔥
Little fic about Anselm getting his nails done
Anselm w/ asexual!reader
HC- Medical Attention
-Anselm w/ a Paramedic s/o (request)
HC- Shooting w/ the Safety Off
-when you tell Anselm you're pregnant
Are You Scared of a Virgin? (~1k)
-You're a virgin. Can Anselm handle it?
Roman Empire (~1.3k)
-Anselm appreciates your baking skills and makes sure others do too.
NSFW Anselm Alphabet 🔥
In the Middle (Anselm x reader x Santiago Garcia, ~3k)
Nothing Less Than This ( Anselm x reader x Santiago Garcia, ~2.2k)
-Two men in competition for you, until you all discover you're better off together
Blurb- Shady Ex
-That one, horrible ex is back in your life. Anselm takes care of it.
One Shot- My Greatest Asset♾️
-Anselm demands you are respected.
One Shot- Romance & Death♾️
-You teach Anselm that he's been goth his entire life
Anselm gets high
Anselm w/ so who has chronic pain
Anselm w/ so feeling his scars
Idea about Anselm & MK w/ Layla Meeting
This is, I think, my very first post about Anselm.
