summary: You’ve been babysitting Clint's daughter for months. You didn’t expect Clint to want you. But when your boyfriend doesn’t show, Clint makes his move and makes sure you’ll never waste your time on little boys again.
word count - ~3.2k
rating - E
content - age gap (mid twenties to early thirties reader, clint is in his 50s), story is set in the 80s like the movie, possessive clint, mild violence, explicit smut, p in v sex, fingering, creampie
author's note - I watched Freaky Tales and got horny. Shocking I know. I wrote this super quick and wasn't beta'd, I just needed to get it out lolllllll
The Goonies plays low on the TV, the hum of the VCR mixing with the chirp of cicadas through the cracked windows of an East Oakland summer. The heat is thick, clinging to your skin like honey, curling around your bare legs where your sundress rides up as you sit cross-legged on the carpet. You shift a little, tugging the fabric down instinctively, but it doesn’t help much. The dress is thin, soft, pale. No bra — it’s too damn hot for that — and you can feel every movement, every sway, every time the fan shifts direction.
Mae hums beside you, tongue poked out as she concentrates on the last few pieces of the puzzle. She’s sweet, bright, easy company and you adore her. Babysitting started as a way to fill your nights, but somewhere along the way, it became something else. Familiar. Steady. Important.
Your fingers move absentmindedly across the puzzle pieces, but your mind isn’t fully there.
You keep glancing at the phone.
Jason said he’d pick you up after Clint got back. Some burger place he liked across town, nothing fancy. You’d worn the dress because he said you looked good in it once. He’s not a bad guy, not really. Just… scattered. Fast car, fast words, slow follow-through.
You never asked for much. You figured that made it easier.
But you’ve been sitting here a while now, and the phone’s still quiet. Your chest tugs. You hate that you feel like this, embarrassed and exposed before the night’s even started.
And then you feel it.
That presence. That warmth behind you.
You turn slightly and see Clint in the doorway.
You didn’t hear him come in.
He’s standing there with a beer in one hand, the other crossed over his chest, watching you in that quiet way he does, eyes dark, unreadable. You offer him a small smile, one that’s more breath than joy, but it’s something.
“Hey,” you say softly.
Clint nods once. “You headin’ out after?”
“Yeah. Kind of a date.”
You brush your palms along your thighs, smoothing down fabric that won’t stay where it’s supposed to. Glance at the phone again like that might make it ring.
“Jason’s picking me up after you get back. Supposed to go get something to eat.”
You try to keep it casual, but it lands like an apology. Even you hear it.
Clint doesn’t respond right away. Just keeps watching you with that same quiet intensity. You always thought he was handsome, in a gruff, unapproachable way. Broad shoulders, strong jaw, hands that always look like they’ve been busy doing something that matters. There’s something about the way he moves, economical, restrained, that makes you feel small and seen all at once.
He intimidates you. And maybe that’s part of why you keep coming back.
Clint leans in the doorway, beer in hand, trying not to let his face show what his chest is doing.
Jason Delaney.
Of all the cocky little pricks to get her attention.
Clint’s jaw ticks as he watches her, all bare legs and glossed lips, in that soft dress that clings every time she shifts. No bra. He knows. He noticed the moment she sat down. And now she’s waiting around for a kid who sells dime bags out of his Camaro and forgets birthdays unless they come with head.
And she’s dressed up for him.
If that dumbass leaves her waitin’...
Clint’s eyes flick to Mae, still humming softly, placing the last piece of the puzzle. She’s happy. Relaxed. Unbothered by the tension quietly humming through the room.
But he sees the way you rub her back, gentle, instinctive, maternal. Like she’s yours. Like this house is yours.
She doesn’t just watch my kid. She cares for her. Like I would. Better than I ever could.
His chest tightens with it, not jealousy, not exactly. Just something close. Something primal.
He sets the beer in the sink. Grabs his keys. Shrugs into his leather jacket, fingers catching briefly on the cuff before he turns back.
“You good with her till 9?”
“Always,” you say with a smile. “We’re gonna finish the puzzle and maybe throw The Little Mermaid back on.”
Your laugh is soft. Clint feels it somewhere low in his stomach.
“She likes what she likes,” he says.
You tilt your head, that glint in your eye returning. “So do I.”
He freezes for a beat too long.
She’s flirting and don’t even realize it. Or maybe she does.
His eyes drag from your mouth down to the hem of your dress, where it’s bunched up around the top of your thigh. And then back to the kitchen phone. Still quiet. Still nothing.
She’s not just sweet. She knows what she’s doin’. Maybe not all the way. But enough. Enough to make me wanna keep her from every punk who thinks she’s just something to waste time on.
She’s not.
She’s made for slow mornings. For a hand resting on her leg while the coffee brews. For nights that end with someone staying.
And he wants that. Wants her.
But tonight, tonight he’s got one job.
His voice is low when it comes. Measured. Rough.
“Don’t wait outside alone. And don’t wait too long if he don’t show.”
He leaves without waiting for a reply.
And when the door shuts, she’s still sitting there, same soft dress, same sweet smile dimmed a little at the edges.
Mae hums. The puzzle’s finished. The movie rolls on.
And Clint drives into the night, already thinking about whether he’ll see that rusted-out Camaro in the driveway when he gets back, and what he’s going to do if he doesn’t.
The truck rumbles to life, but Clint doesn’t turn the radio on.
Doesn’t need the noise.
He drives in silence, the kind that settles low in his chest like smoke, thick and waiting. He turns down 35th to meet a client, tires crunching over loose gravel as the street narrows. The sun’s dipping low now, making the liquor store glow burnt orange at the edges. He pulls into the side lot slow, deliberate, parking just far enough to watch.
But instead of his client, he sees someone else.
Jason Delaney, leaning on the hood of that rust-red Camaro like he’s posing for a fuckin’ magazine. Cigarette in hand, one boot kicked up behind him, laughing like the world owes him something. He’s not alone. That girl from the gas station, tight jeans, big earrings, is all over him. Twirling her hair, giggling, running a hand over his chest.
Clint watches, unmoving. Blank.
His jaw tightens when Jason leans in and says something low in her ear, probably some bullshit pickup line that he thinks sounds cool. Clint’s heard his type too many times. Bragging when he should be grateful.
By the time Jason slips behind the store to light another smoke, Clint’s already out of the truck.
He moves fast. Controlled. Steps crunch over broken glass and cigarette butts as he rounds the corner.
Jason doesn’t hear him coming, not until Clint grabs him by the collar and slams him hard against the wall. Brick to shoulder. His head snaps back, eyes wide, breath caught.
Clint leans in, voice low. Cold.
“That girl you left sittin’ on my couch tonight?” he says, calm as a gun cocking. “She ain’t yours to fuck with.”
Jason chokes on the air. “What the—who the fuck—”
Clint doesn’t give him the chance.
SNAP.
Two fingers. Fast. Clean. The sound echoes like a firecracker in the alley.
Jason howls, folding forward instinctively, clutching his hand like it might fall off.
Clint doesn’t blink.
“Next time,” he murmurs, leaning in just close enough that the kid can smell the Marlboro on his breath, “I won’t leave your hands intact.”
He lets him drop, a crumpled heap against the bricks, bleeding, whimpering, gasping between curses. Clint turns without another word. Doesn’t look back.
Some men think sweetness makes a girl small. Disposable.
Clint knows better.
You don’t leave a girl like her waiting. You don’t make her doubt herself.
Not while he’s breathing.
The side door creaks open at exactly 8:56 PM.
You barely register it at first. Just the sound of boots on cracked tile, steady and familiar. The smell of wood polish, faint cigarette smoke, and something else, maybe shampoo from Mae’s bubble bath or the air freshener Clint keeps meaning to replace. It all blends into the background, the way it always does here. Safe. Familiar.
You keep your eyes on the TV, even though you’re not really watching it anymore.
The Little Mermaid is replaying again. Ariel’s silhouette washes over your bare shoulder in flickers of blue and purple light. Your sundress sticks slightly to your thighs where the heat and the waiting have soaked in. You hadn’t planned on staying this long. You hadn’t planned on crying either.
But here you are.
Mascara smudged. Lipstick faded. Shoes kicked off and tucked under the couch hours ago.
You feel stupid.
Stupid for the dress. For the soft perfume you picked out. For brushing your hair and glossing your lips like any of it mattered. No bra. A little hope. And a lot of waiting. Stupid for believing Jason when he said he’d come. For thinking this time he’d show up when he said he would. That he’d see you sitting here and actually feel something.
Your chest tightens again. Not a fresh wave of sadness, just the quiet ache of realizing you let yourself hope and hope betrayed you.
Again.
You almost don’t notice Clint until you hear the sharp clink of keys on the counter.
He moves through the house like gravity. Controlled. Certain. Heavy in a way that makes your heart stutter.
You look up, startled, like you’d forgotten anyone else existed in the world.
He’s standing by the doorway now, pulling off that worn black leather jacket he always throws on like armor. His jaw is tight, the muscles in his arms flexing subtly beneath the sleeves of his gray tee. His knuckles are scraped. His shoulders look even broader than usual, like something’s still sitting on them.
Clint Flood is not a soft man. He’s not delicate or particularly gentle, but there’s something about the way he moves, the way he sees you, that makes you feel like maybe you’re not completely invisible.
Your voice cracks before it even forms fully.
“Guess I overdressed for disappointment.”
You try to laugh. It comes out thin and watery. You wipe under one eye with your knuckle before he can look too long.
“He didn’t show,” you say, barely above a whisper. “Probably forgot.”
You say it like it doesn’t matter. Like it doesn’t sting. But it does.
Clint walks toward you, slow and deliberate. Each step like a question he’s already answered for himself. He lowers himself onto the couch beside you, not too close, just enough to make the cushion dip beneath his weight.
You glance sideways at him.
He’s too composed. Quiet in a way that makes your pulse pick up. His thighs are wide apart, forearms resting heavy on his knees. His hand is loose, relaxed, but you notice the tension in it anyway.
There’s blood on the edge of one knuckle.
And then he says it, voice low, calm, but firm enough that it still makes your spine straighten.
“He’s not gonna bother you again.”
Your head snaps toward him.
You study his face, that hardened brow, the set of his mouth, the storm in his eyes. Your heart stutters.
“What do you mean?”
He doesn’t look at you right away. Just shrugs, like it’s nothing. Like he didn’t just shake your entire world loose with six words.
“Saw him,” he says. “He was busy.”
A pause. Barely a breath.
“I made sure he got the message.”
You go completely still.
Not because you don’t know what that means, you do, but because of how easy he says it.
“Clint…” Your voice barely makes it past your lips. “What did you do?”
He turns his head now. Meets your eyes without flinching.
“What needed doing.”
You stare at him. There’s heat rising in your chest now, not panic, not fear, but something else entirely.
“Why?” you ask, and your voice shakes. “Why would you… why would you even care?”
He exhales through his nose. His fingers rub slowly over his palm, like he’s grounding himself.
“Because I care.”
The words land heavy between you, heavier than anything Jason ever said. He doesn’t say it like he’s trying to earn anything from you. Doesn’t say it to be sweet.
He says it because it’s true.
Clint leans forward, elbows on his knees, eyes straight ahead.
“Because I see the way you get treated, and it makes me fucking sick.”
You don’t speak. Can’t.
“You walk in here week after week,” he continues, voice lower now but no less steady. “Taking care of my kid like she’s yours. Laughing like you don’t got pain in you. Being good. Good to people who don’t see what they’ve got.”
Your throat tightens. Your chest aches.
“And that bastard, that boy, gets your time like he earned it.”
You blink quickly. Your bottom lip trembles. You want to say something, but your breath is caught in your chest.
Because he’s right.
And somehow, he saw you when the person you were waiting on didn’t even bother to try.
You swallow hard.
Your voice is barely a whisper when you ask:
“You think you could give me more?”
The air in the room shifts. Grows thicker.
Clint turns to look at you, really look.
His gaze drops to your mouth. The curve of your cheek. Your bare shoulders. The soft cotton of your sundress where it’s still bunched high on your thighs. Your feet tucked up beneath you, vulnerable, curled in like you’re trying to disappear.
Something passes behind his eyes. Something quiet and unspoken.
And in that moment, you realize it.
You’ve been wanting him this whole time.
Not in some loud, dramatic way. But in the quiet way your eyes always flicked toward him when he walked through the door. The way you noticed the veins in his hands when he wiped down the counter. The way your heart picked up when he smiled at Mae like she was the only thing that mattered.
You’ve been wanting someone steady. Someone who shows up.
And Clint Flood, scraped knuckles, leather jacket, rough voice, and all, just did.
You don’t know who moves first.
But suddenly, everything’s changed.
The line between you and him, whatever it was, no longer exists.
It starts with the kiss.
Clint leans in slow, like he’s giving you every chance to stop him.
You don’t.
Your lips meet his, and it’s heat right away. His mouth is rough and warm, kissing you deep and steady. One of his hands cups the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair, the other gripping your thigh tight enough that you feel it in your bones. You let him pull you closer, knees to either side of his leg, your sundress bunched high on your hips. The friction makes you gasp.
His tongue licks into your mouth with a low sound in his throat, and you moan, hips shifting, grinding just barely against his thigh.
You’ve never wanted anyone like this. Never felt wanted like this.
Your fingers curl around his wrist and guide his hand beneath your dress.
“Touch me.”
He groans like it physically hurts him not to have done it sooner.
His fingers slide up, finding the edge of your panties, dragging them to the side with practiced ease. His middle finger runs through your folds, slow and slick, and his jaw clenches when he feels how wet you already are.
“Jesus Christ,” he murmurs. “You were sittin’ on my couch like this?”
You gasp when he slides two fingers into you without warning, thick and steady, pushing deep. He curls them just right and your hips jerk forward. The wet sounds fill the room, obscene and desperate.
“Listen to that,” Clint whispers. “You’re soaked.”
He fingers you slowly, deliberately, drawing it out while his thumb circles your clit, coaxing soft gasps from your lips. The stretch of his fingers is intense, thick knuckles dragging in and out, his palm heavy against your cunt. You can feel yourself clench around him, the buildup already tight in your gut.
“You gonna come like this?” he asks, voice hot in your ear. “Just from my fingers?”
You nod, breath caught.
“That's right. Let me feel it.”
You break with a soft cry, thighs trembling around his hand. He doesn’t stop until you’re breathless and twitching, and even then he keeps them inside you for a moment, like he doesn’t want to leave just yet.
When he finally pulls his fingers free, he brings them to his mouth and sucks them clean, eyes locked on yours the whole time.
“Bedroom,” you breathe.
He lifts you up without hesitation, arms strong around your waist, and carries you down the hall. You cling to him, thighs still slick and trembling.
He lays you down gently on the bed. You reach for the hem of your dress, but he stops you with a shake of his head.
“I’m takin’ this off,” Clint says. “I want to see you.”
You sit up slowly as he kneels in front of you, hands dragging up your thighs. He pushes the fabric of your dress up and over your head, tossing it to the side. His eyes move over your body like he’s trying to memorize every inch.
He pulls your panties off slowly, watching the way the wet cotton clings before slipping free. His voice is quiet, but thick with something rougher.
“Been dreamin’ about this.”
He moves closer, mouth brushing your knee, your thigh, your hip. When you reach for him, pulling him in by the collar of his shirt, he finally strips it off. His chest is solid, thick with muscle, hair dusting down to his waistband.
You palm over the bulge in his jeans and he groans into your skin.
You look up at him, flushed and needy.
“Clint. Please.”
He unbuckles his belt with slow, deliberate movements, and when his cock springs free, your breath catches.
He’s big. Thick. Long. Heavy against his hand as he strokes himself once, then twice, just to see the way you look at it.
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “You like that?”
You nod, biting your lip.
“Gonna stretch you real good, sweetheart.”
He kisses you again as he settles between your thighs, not hurried, not fumbling. He lines himself up, dragging the tip through your slick before pressing in slow. Inch by inch. You gasp at the stretch, your walls tightening around him.
“Fuck,” he grits out, eyes fluttering shut. “So tight.”
You wrap your arms around his shoulders as he bottoms out, buried to the hilt.
Clint doesn’t move at first. He holds himself there, letting you feel all of him, letting you catch your breath.
When he does start to thrust, it’s slow at first, deep and measured, each one pressing right against that spot inside that makes you moan into his mouth. He cups your thigh and pushes it higher, opening you wider.
“This is mine now,” he whispers. “You understand me?”
You nod, nails dragging lightly down his back.
“Say it.”
“I’m yours,” you breathe. “All yours.”
That flips something in him.
He groans low, thrusts harder, his hand sliding down to rub your clit as he fucks into you.
You come again with a cry, clenching hard around him, and he doesn’t stop. His hips keep driving into you, deeper, rougher, chasing his own edge now.
“Gonna fill you up,” he pants. “Wanna come so deep you feel it all night.”
You pull him in tighter, wrapping your legs around him.
“Do it,” you whisper. “Please.”
Clint grunts, low and guttural, and pushes deep one last time as he spills into you, thick and hot, hips jerking with each pulse. You feel it flood you, the warmth between your thighs unmistakable.
He collapses against you, chest heaving, one hand cradling your jaw as he presses a soft kiss to your cheek.
Neither of you speak for a moment. Just the sound of your breathing, the creak of the mattress, the fan in the hallway spinning slow.
Eventually, Clint pulls out gently and reaches for the towel on the dresser, wiping between your legs with soft care. He doesn't rush. Doesn’t say a word about it. Just takes care of you like it’s something he’s always meant to do.
He tosses the towel aside, then pulls the blanket up and lifts you against his chest.
You settle there, warm and exhausted, your head on his shoulder, one arm draped across his chest.
His fingers trace slow circles into your hip.
“You stayin’ tonight?” he murmurs.
You nod without opening your eyes.
“Good,” he says. “That’s real good.”
He doesn’t move away.
Doesn’t leave space between you.
And as sleep starts to settle in, you realize it’s the first time in a long time someone followed through.
You feel safe. Seen. Wanted.
And Clint Flood holds you like he’s not letting go.
RATING: Explicit (18+) | PAIRING: Max Phillips x f!Reader
WORD COUNT: 9k
🩸CHAPTER CONTENT WARNINGS UNDER THE CUT, in case you'd like to avoid spoilers!
read from the beginning | series masterlist | masterlist | get notifs
SUMMARY: Something is happening to Max.
CHAPTER PREVIEW:
“Gotta get that air-con fixed, honey,” Max tuts.
For once the accident of a pet name doesn’t phase you; you skip right over it. Rub the heel of your hand into your eye and ask him, “Can you lie down with me?”
In what world would he ever say no to a question like that, in any version of its meaning?
READ PART IV ON AO3.
dividers by @/saradika-graphics!
NOTE: you can follow @foxglovenotifs and turn on notifications or subscribe to my ao3 for future updates!
🩸CW: Mild smut (voyeurism, f!masturbation, max phillip's filthy fucking mouth, two (2) pussy pronouns as a treat). Discussions of death. General vampy behavior, reference to gore/blood, and enough yearning to send a man to his grave (if he wasn't already in it).
Part 4?? On my birthday???? Happy fucking birthday to meeee<3
I love love love this man and his stupid non-corporeal yearning, he’s a SIMP in all caps and he’s the cutest killer out there!!! Fixing the grocery list, waiting at home like a puppy, same reaction to close physical proximity as an Austen character bc he’s so touch starved, regaining some humanity and continuing to be a good ghost roommate boyfriend guy, WHAT CANT HE DO?,! Until recently, be corporeal
So many lines in this are so good, chefs kiss, all the awards, etc etc. Max is still near and dear to me and his transition from undead finance bro to undead finance bro but domesticated is so well done bc he’s a sweetheart but he’s also him.
UNTIL RECENTLY BE CORPOREAL I’M GONNA LOSE IT oh my GOD. this put the biggest smile on my face hello??? thank you so fucking much for reading & for this comment - it has brought me so much joy :,) and I love that this chapter came out for your birthday omg (happy belated!!!)
thank you again, seriously <3 I’m so so happy you enjoyed this chapter and our man’s path to domestication :,)
Summary: Din Djarin is on what he expects to be his last bounty hunt for Greef Karga. However, after capturing a wanted starship engineer who would rather go anywhere other than “home,” the Mandalorian is forced to reassess his priorities.
Your taste of freedom had been brief but glorious. Now you are a prisoner of the most infamous bounty hunter in the Outer Rim – it’s only a matter of time before he turns you in. There isn’t much you would not do to keep from being sent home, but as you find yourself growing closer to your captor and his strange little companion, you start to wonder whether escape is really what you want.
Set immediately following Chapter 13: The Jedi.
Tags & Warnings: 18+ MDNI, slow burn romance, minimal descriptors of reader character, no use of Y/N, dual POV, canon-typical violence, sexual tension, angst, mutual pining, SMUT (Each chapter will have specific warnings, please check them before reading!)
ughhhhhh I wish I could read this for the first time all over again!!!!
one of those fics that has implanted itself so firmly in my brain that it's meshed with canon and I forget wether I'm remembering stuff from the source material or from the fic!
This is just the sweetest comment omg - thank you SO much. I know exactly the type of fic you're talking about, and the fact that Quarry is that for you means the world to me.
Thank you for sharing and for your kind words! I so appreciate it!
tags: dual POV, slow burn, best friends to lovers, mutual pining, yearning, angst, all of it, feelings denial, soft! Frankie, everyone knows before they do, Santi and Benny are support actors in this, only allusions to smut with this one, the girlfriend is not the villain, idiots in love, kissing
summary: Best friends. Always there, never quite enough.
He broke your heart without ever knowing he held it—until everything fell apart, and the only person he wanted was the one he pushed away.
word count: ~ 8k
read on ao3
You and Francisco Morales had been you and him for as long as anyone could remember. Not in the romantic, hand-holding, Sunday brunch kind of way—but in that soul-deep, private-joke, finish-each-other’s-sentences kind of way. Inseparable. A pair that moved through life side by side, facing every challenge together like you were built for it.
He was your person. You were his constant. You’d both sucked at love, made terrible choices, fallen for the wrong people, gotten burned, and picked each other up off the floor more times than you wanted to count. And somewhere along the way, you’d decided Frankie just needed a little push.
So you pushed.
Blind dates, setups, meet-cutes at your yoga class—you threw him at every semi-decent woman within a 15-mile radius like some emotionally-invested Cupid. And he let you, mostly because saying no meant watching that bright-eyed hope in you fade. And he couldn’t stomach that.
But tonight?
Tonight, you could tell, something had changed.
You pulled up to the curb outside the sad little Italian place you’d sent him to, elbow resting on the open window. “Hey, hot stuff. You survived?”
Frankie didn’t answer right away. He opened the door, flopped into the passenger seat like someone returning from battle, and just sat there, staring out at the glowing neon of the restaurant behind him.
You laughed, trying to lighten the mood. “That bad?”
He didn’t answer. Just kept staring straight ahead, jaw tight.
“Okay,” you said slowly. “Was it the weird laugh again? Or did she talk about astrology like it was a PhD?”
Frankie exhaled hard through his nose. “Can we not do this tonight?”
Your smile faltered. “I’m just asking, Frankie. You’re the one who said you wanted to meet someone.”
“No,” he snapped, turning toward you, his voice sharp. “You’re the one who decided I should meet someone.”
You blinked. “Okay... what’s your problem?”
“My problem is I’m exhausted,” he said, his voice heavy. “Tired of these setups. Tired of pretending. Tired of you pushing me into dates I never asked for.”
You sat up straighter, your frustration rising. “Excuse me? You agreed to them. I never forced you.”
“Yeah? Because every time I say no, you look at me like I’m broken. Like you’re trying to fix me.”
Your heart twisted, his words landing on your chest. “Maybe I am trying to fix you, Frankie,” you fired back. “You’ve been stuck for years—half-living, half-dating, half-everything. You don’t even try. I’m the only one who’s been in your corner this whole time, and you’re making me out to be the bad guy?”
He let out a bitter laugh. “You don’t get it.”
“No, I don’t!” you shouted, anger flooding through you like molton. “You’re mad at me for caring? For trying to help? What is this really about?”
Frankie didn’t respond, instead clenching his jaw and gripping his thighs like he was holding back something too big to say.
“Say something!” you demanded, your voice cracking with the weight of everything that had built up between you.
He finally turned to you, eyes blazing. “You want to help? Stop trying to build me a life with someone else when you don’t even know what the hell you’re taking from me.”
And then Silence. Thick, stunned silence.
You stared at him, your throat tight, heart pounding like it may jump out of your chest. “What does that mean?”
He shook his head, suddenly looking like he regretted everything. “Nothing. Forget it.”
“No, you don’t get to say something like that and then shut down,” you snapped, your voice trembling now. “Why are you acting like I’ve betrayed you? Why are you looking at me like I did something wrong?”
“Because you did,” he said, voice softer now, but still laced with fatigue. “And you don’t even see it.”
You looked at him—really looked—and felt something twist in your chest. A rift you couldn’t name but felt in every part of you, ugly and all consuming.
“I don’t understand,” you whispered, more vulnerable than you meant to be.
Frankie stared at the windshield, his face tense. “Yeah,” he muttered, his voice low and resigned. “You never do.”
You wanted to scream. Or cry. Or rewind everything to five minutes ago when it was still just you and him. But instead, you turned the key in the ignition and said nothing in return.
And for the first time since you’re hovering in each other’s orbit, the silence between you wasn’t comfortable.
It was unbearable.
Frankie didn’t sleep that night.
He sat on his couch in the dark, the TV on mute, some old movie flickering across the screen while the same sentence looped in his head: "You don’t even know what you’re taking from me."
God.
He’d said it. Almost said everything.
Too much—but not enough.
He dropped his head back against the couch, eyes stinging. The fight had cracked something wide open, and now he couldn’t shove it back inside. it broke free and was hovering just nearby like a giant shadow of something even bigger than both of you.
This wasn’t how it was supposed to go.
You never fought. Ever. You bickered, teased, got under each other’s skin, but you were a constant in each other’s lives. You knew when to push and when to pull back. You always knew.
Until now.
Now you were probably sitting in your apartment, running the argument over in your head the same way he was, wondering what the hell just happened—wondering why he was the one suddenly flipping the board when you’d only been trying to help.
He stood up and started pacing restlessly.
You didn’t deserve that. He’d lashed out like you’d hurt him on purpose, like it wasn’t killing you too, watching him drag himself through one failed connection after another. You were trying to give him something he couldn’t reach for. Because it wasn’t there.
Not in those other people. Only in you.
And he was such an ass to you, you. The only person in his life that kept up with all his bullshit and by some miracle didn’t leave.
Frankie grabbed his keys twice that night. Almost left. Almost showed up at your door to apologize, to explain—but what would he even say?
“Hey, I’m sorry I lost it. Turns out I’m in love with you and watching you help me find someone else feels like dying."Yeah, No.
Instead, he stayed up until morning, slumped in his hoodie on the back steps of his building, smoking a cigarette he didn’t even want, tasting as bitter as the words he told you on his tongue and watched the sky change color. For the first time since you’d become friends, he didn’t know how to come back from this.
Didn’t know if there was a way back.
The night stretched on like an endless tournament—one exhausting round after another, only there was no prize at the end. Just pain. Like you were being tested for some higher purpose you couldn’t quite grasp, and you’d failed without knowing why.
He’d never been like this with you before. Sure, Frankie had a temper, always quick to boil over when something pissed him off—but never at you. Never like that. And now, all you were left with was confusion and this dull, aching hurt in your chest.
All you ever wanted was for him to be happy.
He deserved that. Deserved someone who saw past the sharp edges, the emotional clutter, the history he carried like a second skin. Because despite all of it—despite everything—Frankie Morales was one of the last real gentlemen. A dying breed. Being around him was like witnessing an extinction in slow motion, only you had front-row seats and the last perfect example sitting right there in front of you.
It’s not like the thought hadn’t crossed your mind—showing up to one of those dates and pretending to be his date instead. It had. More than once.
But every time, you chickened out. Too scared to ruin the one good thing in your life. The thing you’d somehow, miraculously, managed to hold onto.
The next morning, everything was too loud.
The clink of your coffee mug. The buzz of your phone. The way the silence in your apartment felt like it had grown teeth overnight.
You kept checking your messages like maybe he’d say something. A joke. A half-apology. Anything.
But nothing came.
Not even a stupid meme.
You stared at your phone, thumb hovering over his name. The little photo you took of him months ago still sat there in the corner of the screen—Frankie in his kitchen, shirt inside out, pretending to argue with a toaster. You remember thinking, this is it. This is what home feels like.
And now it just felt like you’d been locked out and someone tossed the keys.
You typed a message.
“Hey. Are we okay?”
Deleted it.
Tried again.
“I didn’t mean to push. I just…”
Backspaced until the screen was empty again.
You tossed the phone onto the couch like it had personally offended you—then immediately picked it back up. Paced the apartment. Whispered test messages under your breath like they were spells you could get right if you just said them enough times.
But eventually, something clawed its way up from inside you.
Something sharp and tired and aching.
And you stopped overthinking.
Stopped editing. Stopped protecting both of you from the truth that was already out there, bleeding between the cracks. Lingering.
You sank onto the edge of your bed now, change of scenery, thumb trembling slightly as you typed:
“Frankie, I don’t know what happened to us last night. But I miss you.”
And this time, you hit send.
Then you sat there, phone in your lap, staring at the floor, leg nervously bouncing as you waited for a response.
You kept your phone on loud for days.
It never buzzed. Not once.
You told yourself it was fine. Frankie just needed time. You fought, and it hit hard—maybe harder than either of you expected. Maybe he was licking his wounds. Maybe he didn’t know what to say.
But Frankie always said something. Even when it was stupid. Even when it was sideways and barely made sense, he showed up. A meme, a photo, a “you good?” that carried the weight of a whole conversation.
But this time? Nothing.
And it didn’t just sting—it unraveled you.
The texts stopped. The late-night calls and with it the way you could feel him across town without a word. It was like he'd ghosted his own life, and you were collateral damage.
Until three weeks later, Santi said it like it wasn’t a big deal.
You were helping him stack chairs after a backyard cookout, trying to pretend you weren’t checking your phone every five seconds. And Santi, half-distracted, said:
“You heard Frankie’s seeing someone, right?”
You blinked. Thought maybe you misheard him over the wind chimes or the clatter of metal legs.
“What?”
“Yeah.” Santi shrugged. “Some girl he met at that dive bar on the 14th. It’s new, but… he seems into it.”
You laughed. But it came out too sharp. Too forced. “Since when does Frankie get into anything that quickly?”
Santi paused, squinting at you, like he suddenly realized you hadn’t known. That maybe he’d said too much.
“I just thought—he’s been MIA lately. Figured he told you.”
He hadn’t, not a single word.
And suddenly it all made sense. The silence. The distance. Why he never answered your message. Why it felt like you’d been cut out without ceremony, like a chapter he just skipped over.
It wasn’t like it was with you. You knew that.
You felt that.
But it was something.
Enough to pull him away.
Enough to make him forget to look back.
And standing there with your hands clenched around a folding chair and your heart somewhere between your ribs and the dirt, you realized it:
This was heartbreak.
Not the kind that happens when love ends—
The kind that happens when it almost begins, and then doesn’t. Impending grief for a feeling, for a connection, for him.
You tried not to spiral after that.
Tried to be the cool, collected version of yourself—the one who let things roll off your back, who didn’t let silence crawl under your skin and nest there. But the truth was uglier than that. It curled up in your stomach, sick and sour, and stayed there. A constant pain you just learned to shoulder.
You stopped texting. Stopped staring at your screen like maybe it was broken.
He’d made his choice.
And you weren’t part of it.
Still, when the group chat lit up about drinks at the bar on Friday, you didn’t bail. Part of you wanted to—wanted to ghost the whole damn night and pretend you were busy or tired or just over it. But the other part, the louder one, needed to see. Needed proof that it wasn’t just in your head. That the silence hadn’t lied.
The bar was warm and loud and exactly the kind of place you used to end up in together, laughing over too many wings and trash-talking each other over darts. You walked in and found the usual suspects—Santi, Benny, Will—clustered near the back corner table.
And then you saw him.
Frankie.
He was already there. Drink in hand. Hair a little neater than usual, no cap whatsoever and a button-down that wasn’t flannel. Beside was a girl perched close. Too close.
You didn’t recognize her. She wasn’t beautiful in that cinematic way, but she had this softness about her—easy to look at, easy to fall into, maybe. Her hand brushed his arm when she laughed. And Frankie—
Frankie smiled.
Not the dumb, half-smirk he used to give you when he was being a pain in the ass. Not the tired, grateful grin that came with late-night takeout and long silences that didn’t need filling. No. This smile was different. Smaller, careful. Like he was holding something back, but offering it anyway.
And that’s when you knew.
He brought her.
To this.
To your table, your friends. The little circle that had always been you and him and everyone else orbiting around the mess you made of each other. You didn’t walk over right away. You hovered by the bar too long, pretending to wait for your drink, pretending your heart wasn’t jackhammering in your chest, pretending you hadn’t just been sucker punched without warning.
When you finally made your way over, Santi gave you a look—one part apology, two parts brace yourself—and pulled out a chair for you to sit.
Frankie’s eyes met yours for half a second. Not a word. Not a smile. Just a blink, a shift in his jaw almost unrecognizable, and then he turned back to her.
That was it.
No hey. No you good? No flicker of the person who used to make space for you without even thinking.
And you sat there, surrounded by laughter and the hum of conversation, with the hollow roar of grief in your ears. Because now you knew what it looked like—what it felt like—when someone moved on and left you behind. Frankie hadn’t just found someone new. He’d brought her into your world like you were never part of it.
And the worst part?
You couldn’t even blame him, because you were the one who told him to try. You were the one who pushed him. And now he was gone. Gone in the way that matters most—not out of your life, but out of reach.
You made it thirty-two minutes.
Thirty-two minutes of nodding along, sipping watered-down vodka, laughing too loud at things that weren’t funny, and pretending like your entire chest wasn’t about to collapse every time she touched him.
Every time he let her.
You didn’t even know her name until Will leaned over and said it like it was normal. Like it didn’t feel like a knife being twisted right under your ribs.
“Mira seems sweet, huh?”
You smiled. A tight, practiced thing. “Sure. Sweet.”
Mira.
The name tasted wrong in your mouth.
And maybe it would’ve stayed quiet—maybe you would’ve kept swallowing it all down like poison you could survive—if Mira hadn’t looked at Frankie, all wide-eyed and innocent, and asked, “How come you’ve never brought me here before?”
Before.
You heard it before he even answered. Before implied history. Ritual. Something that existed long before she did. Frankie paused, just a second. But it was enough.
“This used to be our spot,” he said, voice casual, not looking at you. Giving the words no meaning at all. “It’s been a while.”
Our.
As in you and him.
You swallowed hard and stood up too fast, chair scraping against the floor like a siren. “I need some air.”
Nobody stopped you. Not even him.
The night was warm and loud, headlights dragging down the street like slow thoughts. You didn’t make it to the curb before you heard footsteps behind you, you didn’t need to look to know it’s him.
Frankie.
“Hey,” he said. Not urgent, not guilty. “You good?”
You turned, eyes narrowed. “Do I look good?”
His jaw tightened. “What do you want me to say?”
“I want you to say anything,” you snapped. “Anything real. Because for the past three weeks, you’ve been radio silent and now you show up with her—like I’m just some extra in your new life?”
He exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “I didn’t think you’d take it like this.”
“Like what?” Your voice rose, sharp and brittle. “Like I’m hurt? Like maybe you bringing your rebound into our space like it means nothing would actually mean something to me?”
Frankie’s eyes flashed. “It’s not a rebound.”
“Oh, right. Of course not. It’s serious, huh? That’s why you brought her here—to mark your territory?”
“Stop,” he said. Quiet, but there was power in it. This voice meant no bullshit. “You don’t get to make this ugly.”
“You made it ugly the second you ghosted me.”
That shut him up.
You pushed forward, voice trembling. “You always text back. Always. Even when you’re drunk or pissed or halfway asleep. You always showed up. And now what? I’m just gone?”
Frankie’s mouth opened, then closed. He looked like he wanted to say something, then didn’t. Which pissed you off even more.
“You owe me, Frankie,” you said, stepping in close now, eyes wet but your voice firm. “You owe me honesty. Because I was there. Every time you fell apart, every time you doubted yourself, every time you needed someone—I was there. And the second you get a maybe-kind-of-working-something, I’m just background noise?”
“It’s not like that.”
“Then tell me what it is.”
He looked at you then. Really looked. And it cracked something in both of you.
“I didn’t know how to face you,” he admitted, raw and low. “After what I said. After how I said it. I was pissed, and I took it out on you, and you didn’t deserve it.”
“No,” you whispered,brows furrowed deep. “I didn’t.”
Silence stretched between you, thick and ugly.
Then you added, “And now you’ve got her. So I guess I was just... convenient enough”
His face twisted like you’d slapped him.
“You were never convenient,” he said, almost a whisper. “You were the constant.”
You stared at him, heart clawing at your ribs, and for one stupid second, you wanted to kiss him just to make it all go away.
But then Mira opened the bar door behind you and called out, “Hey, babe, everything okay?” her voice was so sickeningly sweet, it made your stomach turn. You didn’t look at her, didn’t need to. Frankie looked back once at her, then down at the ground like it was suddenly the only thing that made sense. He didn’t even look at you.
You stepped back, more stumbling than walking. Shaky steps, as unsafe as you felt.
Frankie tossed and turned, stared at the ceiling, counted sheep. It wasn’t because of the heat or the creaking pipes in his apartment or Mira breathing soft and even beside him—but because your voice kept replaying in his head like a broken record.
“I was just… convenient enough.”
He’d heard a lot of things in his life. Screaming commanders. Crying civilians. Doors slamming, hearts breaking, all kinds of silence. The one that makes your ears ring and the one that makes your chest tight.
But your voice cracking like that?
That was new, brutal.
He sat on the edge of the bed now, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. The digital clock blinked 3:47 a.m in an alarming red light. Mira shifted behind him, half-asleep.
“You okay, babe?” she mumbled, barely conscious.
“Yeah,” he said. Automatically. Out of habit, out of guilt. “Just need some water.”
He got up, padded barefoot into the kitchen, and stood there in the dark, palms braced on the countertop like it was the only thing holding him up.
There was a photo stuck to the fridge—one you’d taken. Him and Santi arm-wrestling at your place, stupid grins on their faces, half a beer spilled in the corner of the frame. He remembered you laughing behind the camera, saying “Act natural, idiots.”
He hadn’t taken it down, he couldn’t.
He grabbed a glass but didn’t fill it. Just stood there, staring into vast nothingness, thinking of you. How you didn’t yell until the end. How you didn’t cry until he turned away. How you said “crystal fucking clear” like you meant it.
And for the first time, it hit him:
You weren’t mad because he was dating someone.
You were mad because he’d shut you out.
You were hurt because he made you feel replaceable.
But you weren’t.
God, you weren’t, you never could be.
You were the one person who saw through all his bullshit and still stuck around. You were the reason he even considered fixing himself. Not for you—but because when you believed in him, he started thinking maybe he could believe in himself too.
He closed his eyes and pressed the heel of his hand into his eye sockets like he could rub the image of you out of his head. Didn’t work. You were everywhere.
In the mug you left once and he never returned.
In the hoodie Mira kept asking about—"Whose is this?" your scent still clinging to it.
In the way he couldn’t laugh at dumb memes anymore without checking if you’d seen them too.
Frankie Morales was in a relationship, sure.
But he was in love with someone who wouldn’t even look at him now.
And he only had himself to blame.
The next morning, he made breakfast. French toast, Strawberries on the side, just how Mira liked them. He kissed her shoulder while she sipped her coffee and made her laugh hard enough to snort. He was attentive. Present. Trying his best to silence the ghost in the room that only he could feel.
And when she asked, softly, cautiously, “You okay? You’ve been a little... distant,”
He smiled and lied. “I’m good. Better than I’ve been in a long time.”
She lit up. Actually lit up. And the worst part? She bought it.
Hook, line, and sinker.
And Frankie hated himself for how easy the lie slipped out.
It was supposed to be game night. You showed up late on purpose—half hoping maybe he wouldn't be there, half terrified that he would. But the second you walked in and saw him sitting on the couch, hand resting on the back of her chair, like it was the most natural thing in the world?
Your heart dropped.
You tried not to stare. Tried not to see it. The way her laugh came easy. The way Frankie leaned in to say something just for her, close enough to catch the scent of her hair. How she reached for his knee when she laughed too hard at something Benny said. He’d never brought girls to this. Not game nights. Not Sunday barbecues. Not this space—the one sacred little pocket of your friendship he used to keep just for the people who knew him best.
For you.
Your chest tightened like someone was wringing out your lungs.
He glanced at you once, a flick of the eyes, and then quickly away like it burned. No smile. No wave. Just... nothing. Like he hadn’t spent the last few years orbiting your every step. Like you weren’t the one who held him through half of his worst nights. Like that fight didn’t leave a crater between you big enough to swallow this whole damn room.
Santi handed you a beer. You didn’t even remember asking for one.
“You okay?” he asked quietly.
You nodded too quickly. “Yeah, fine.”
But your hand shook when you took a sip, and you hoped no one noticed.
Mira laughed again. Loud, beautiful, perfect. And Frankie ? He laughed with her. Not that half-hearted chuckle he used to do when dates didn’t land. This one was full. Real.
You excused yourself to the kitchen before you could break down in front of everyone.
You barely made it in there before the tears started.
Silent at first—just a sting in your eyes, a tightness in your throat. You braced your hands against the counter, trying to breathe through it, trying not to fall apart like some cliché in a movie. But it wasn’t just heartbreak—it was the kind of grief that comes when someone doesn’t die, they just stop being yours.
And then you heard footsteps.
Santi.
He didn’t say anything at first. Just came up beside you, leaned his hip against the counter, and cracked open a beer like he hadn’t just walked in on a silent breakdown.
Then, quietly, observed like he always was. “Yeah... I figured this would happen.”
Your lip trembled, and you shook your head, wiping under your eyes quickly like it might hide the mess.
“I’m fine,” you lied even if your voice betrayed you in its thinness.
“You’re not,” he said gently. “And it’s okay. You don’t have to be.”
That broke something. A small, shattering sound in your chest. You let out a breath that turned into a sob and folded into him before you could stop yourself. Santi pulled you in without hesitation. No questions. no pressure. Just arms that held tight and steady while your shoulders shook, his hand on the back of your head.
“I didn’t think he’d really...” you started, but the rest dissolved into his shirt.
Santi rubbed slow circles on your back. “I know. None of us did.”
You stayed like that for a moment, tucked against him, letting his steady presence fade out some of the noise when another voice cut through the quiet.
“Jesus,” Benny muttered from the doorway. “He’s a goddamn idiot.”
You laughed against Santi’s shoulder, the sound more broken than amused. “Don’t say that. She’s not the problem.”
“I’m not talking about her,” Benny said, stepping inside. “I’m talking about him. He’s sitting out there like you never existed. That’s not Frankie. Not the one I know at least.”
Santi nodded. “He’s... stuck. Pretending so hard he forgot he’s not that good at it.”
And they didn’t say it—no one said it—but you all knew exactly who Frankie used to be good at pretending with. You. He never had to.
You wiped your face with the sleeve of your hoodie, trying to pull yourself together. “I don’t want to ruin the night.”
“You’re not,” Santi said firmly.
“You showing up tonight?” Benny asked. “That made the night.”
You offered a shaky smile, grateful even if you couldn’t quite show it yet.
Out in the living room, you could still hear Mira’s laugh. Still hear Frankie’s voice, low and warm and not at all the boy who used to show up at your door at 2 a.m., asking if you had Pop-Tarts and time. And maybe everyone thought he’d moved on. Maybe he thought he had, too. But if he had even glanced toward the kitchen just once—he would’ve seen the other two important people in his life holding up the one person he’d forgotten how to hold.
Nobody prepares you for the call you get late at night when you were supposed to sleep, telling you that your dad is in the hospital because of a heart attack, his condition critical.
Frankie sat on the edge of the bed, hands in his hair, breathing like he’d forgotten how. Mira stirred beside him, mumbled something soft and half-asleep, but it barely registered. The words from the phone call were still ringing in his ears like a fire alarm.
Chest pain. Ambulance. Unresponsive for two minutes.
His first instinct wasn’t to shake Mira awake.It wasn’t to call his mom, or Benny, or even Santi. It was you.
His hand moved before his brain could stop it—phone unlocked, your name already pulled up in the recents even though it had been weeks. His thumb hovered over the call button like it had muscle memory. Because in every other version of this moment—in every other emergency, every broken-down car, every fight, every loss—it had always been you.
He didn’t call. Not right away. He just stared at your name, and the photo next to it—blurry, laughing, eyes shining from that road trip last year when the AC broke and you threatened to abandon him on the side of the highway.
And that’s when it hit him, hard, fast and cold:
This isn’t a best friend anymore. This is the first person I think of when my world ends.
His hand recoiled from the phone, like it bit him.
Mira was sitting up now, rubbing her eyes. “Frankie? What’s going on?”
“My dad,” he said, voice as hollow as he felt. “He’s in the hospital.”
She was by his side in a second, hands on his shoulders, asking the right things, offering to come with him. She said all the things a good girlfriend should say, but they didn’t land.
Because all he could think about was you. Not just because you would’ve been there in a heartbeat—but because you’d know what to say. Because you’d reach for his hand before he asked. Because you’d sit beside him in that sterile waiting room and not talk unless he needed you to. Because with you, he wouldn’t have to explain what this felt like. You just… would.
And that’s when it shifted. In a way that couldn’t be undone. It wasn’t about dating, or jealousy, or the fight, or Mira. It wasn’t even about the timing anymore.
It was about truth and for the first time in weeks, it crushed him.
The fluorescent lights in the waiting room buzzed low, mechanical. Too bright for a place this heavy with dread. Frankie sat hunched over in a plastic chair, elbows on his knees, staring at the tiled floor like it owed him something—answers, maybe. A break. Mira had gone to grab coffee, or air, or space. She hadn’t specified and he hadn’t asked.
And then he heard your voice.
Soft, tentative.
“Frankie?”
He didn’t look up at first. Thought maybe his brain had conjured you again—just like it had when he’d scrolled past your name in his phone and nearly called you on instinct, like some kind of survival response. But then you were closer and right in front of him.
There, not just an imagination. Real.
Hair in this messy bun you always did when you couldn’t be bothered to straighten it. Eyes wide and red-rimmed like you’d cried in the car before coming in. Like the thought of him hurting still cracked you open even if he hurt you first.
“I’m sorry,” you said gently. “Santi told me. I just— I needed to be here.”
His breath caught. Not because you were there. Not even because you showed up without needing to be asked. But because part of him had known you would. Even now. Even after everything.
“You didn’t have to come,” he muttered, but it came out hoarse. Hollow, useless.
“I know.” You sat down beside him anyway. Close, but not touching. “But I wanted to.”
Frankie didn’t know what to say. His hands shook. He dug his nails into his palms like that could stop the ache building under his ribs. But it was too much, everything was too much.
“I can’t lose him,” he said, voice cracking on the last word.
And that’s when you moved. No hesitation. Just reached for him, pulled him in like you’d done a hundred times before. Only this time it broke him.
His arms wrapped around your waist and he buried his face in your shoulder and for the first time since he got that call, Frankie cried. Not loud, not dramatic. Just silent, shaking tears against the only person who ever made him feel like he was allowed to fall apart.
You held him, steady and firm. Holding his broken pieces together like you always did. Your hand in his hair, your breath steady and close. No questions, no anger, no I-told-you-so.
Just you, the one constant that always has been there and it all made it worse. Because this wasn’t Mira. This wasn’t temporary comfort, this was home. And he’d spent weeks pretending it wasn’t.
You were still holding him when Mira walked back in. Frankie’s face hidden in your neck. His hands clutching the back of your sweatshirt like he’d sink without you. His entire body folded into yours in that desperate, wordless way that doesn’t look like friendship. It looks like gravity.
She stopped mid-step.
You didn’t see her at first. You just whispered, “I’m here, okay?” and brushed your fingers through his hair the way you always did when things got bad.
But Frankie did see her and lifted his head. Eyes glassy, face streaked with silent tears, breathing uneven. His gaze locked on Mira—and in that instant, everything in the room went still. Her expression didn’t crack. Not really,not yet. But her eyes said enough.
This wasn’t the grief of a girlfriend who’d been left out. It was the grief of a woman realizing she’d never been in.
“I brought you coffee,” she said, voice tight, like she was reading a script someone handed her last minute. Frankie stood up too fast. Swiped at his face like he could erase what she saw. “Mira, it’s not—”
She held up her hand. Calm, composed. Kind.
“Don’t,” she said quietly. “You don’t owe me a performance.”
You stepped back instinctively, putting space between you and Frankie like that might fix it. Like that might soften the blow. But Mira wasn’t stupid, she wasn’t cruel, either. She just nodded, a silent resignation and set the coffee on the table beside him, looking at him with an unreadable expression.
“You should’ve called her first,” she said. “I think we both know that.”
Then she left.
No big scene. No yelling. Just the hollow echo of her footsteps down the hallway and the sound of a door swinging closed behind her. Frankie didn’t move.He just stood there, looking at the coffee, shoulders stiff like they were holding the rest of him. And you?
You didn’t say I told you so or she deserved more or what are you doing even if you had every right to. You just picked up the damn coffee, pressed it into his hands, and whispered, “Drink, you’re shaking.”
And he did, even in the wreckage, in the fallout of his silence, you stayed.
It was sometime after 2 a.m. when you finally convinced Frankie to sit down again.
The ICU floor had gone still, lights dimmed, nurses moving in hushed, practiced rhythm behind sliding glass. No updates. Just waiting. You were still there. So was Santi—sitting cross-legged on the floor with a vending machine coffee and a million-miles-away stare. Benny had shown up with tacos no one asked for, claiming ‘grief makes you hungry’ and refused to leave since.
Nobody asked questions. Not about Mira, not about crying. Not even about the way Frankie hadn’t let go of your hand since you laced your fingers through his hours ago.
Santi finally passed him a coffee. “Still hot. Miracle of science.”
Frankie took it with both hands. “Thanks.” His soft brown eyes full of sorrow.
Benny threw an arm around the back of the chair beside him, stretching like he owned the room. Typical. “Listen, Morales, I know it’s not a great time, but if your old man pulls through and you don’t tell him we all waited like a bunch of loyal golden retrievers, I’m gonna start charging emotional support fees.”
That pulled the smallest breath of a laugh out of Frankie, which was the point. You gave Benny a grateful look over Frankie’s shoulder. He winked and shoved a half-eaten taco into his mouth like it was his life’s mission.
Santi leaned forward, arms on his knees. “You good on food? Water? Want me to harass a nurse?”
Frankie shook his head, lips pressed tight. Then softer, “Thanks, man.”
“You don’t have to thank us,” you said, your thumb brushing lightly against his. “This is what we do.”
Frankie didn’t answer. But his grip tightened. Because he felt it—the thing that held him upright. It wasn’t Mira. It wasn’t some illusion of romance or a picture-perfect fix.
It was this. You, Santi and Benny.
People who’d sit with him in fluorescent hallways all night long. Who didn’t flinch at his mess. Who knew him and stayed anyway. Chosen family. And for the first time since he got that call, Frankie felt the sharp edge of loneliness dull just enough to breathe.
You didn’t realize you’d been holding your breath until the nurse smiled.
“He’s stable,” she said gently, as if the words might shatter in the air. “It’ll be a long road, but he made it through the worst.”
Frankie didn’t react at first. He just sat there, staring at the tiles like he hadn’t heard her. Then something in his shoulders sagged. His whole body exhaled. Like the fear that had been coiled so tightly in him all night finally let go.
You touched his arm. Lightly. Carefully. “He’s okay,” you said. And the words felt like a blessing.
Santi clapped him on the back, eyes tired but warm. “We’ll be back in a few hours. Get some rest if you can.”
Benny stood, stretched like a lazy cat, then leaned down and pressed his knuckles into Frankie’s shoulder. “Try not to emotionally combust while we’re gone. I’ve bonded with your old man now—I’m personally invested.”
They left without needing to be told. That’s what family does.
The quiet that followed was heavy. It settled over the waiting room in soft waves—early sunlight through the blinds, the hum of machines, the lingering tension that hadn’t quite disappeared with the good news. Frankie hadn’t let go of your hand all night, it’s been sweaty and uncomfortable at times but you wouldn’t say anything. But suddenly he let loose and leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyes trained on the floor.
“You didn’t have to come.” You swallowed hard.
“Don’t say that.”
He didn’t look at you. “I called her first.”
Your heart twisted, but you kept your voice steady. “Of course you did.”
“No,” he said. “I wanted to call you.”
He said it like it was a confession. Like it cost him something to get it out.
“I started dialing,” he went on, “but I hung up. I told myself it wasn’t fair. That I couldn’t ask you to show up again—not after everything I’ve already taken.”
You stayed quiet, let him speak.
“I tried,” he said, voice breaking. “I tried so fucking hard to move on. To convince myself that Mira was good, that she made sense. That she could be the person I needed.”
He finally looked at you and it took all your air out of your lungs.
“And she’s not you, she’ll never be.”
The words slammed into you. Hard and simple and impossible to miss.
“I thought I could keep it buried. That if I never said it out loud, I could live with it. But when I got the call about my dad, when I thought I might lose him—I couldn’t lie to myself anymore. The only person I wanted was you.”
You couldn’t breathe for a second. Couldn’t think.
Frankie scrubbed a hand over his face, tears in his eyes he didn’t bother hiding anymore. “I don’t expect anything. I know I wrecked it. I just… I needed you to know. Because if I lost him and never told you the truth, I don’t think I could’ve carried that.”
You reached out before your brain caught up, threading your fingers through his again, lifting it up to your lips and kissed his knuckles.
He looked smaller like this. Not weak, just real. Raw. All things he never let anyone see except you. You didn’t say anything. Because some truths didn’t need answers right away—they just needed air. And this one, between you and him, was finally breathing.
It didn’t happen in a single moment. There was no dramatic speech, no fireworks. No declarations in the rain.
Just… quiet.
The kind that came with knowing someone inside and out. The kind that had always lived between you.
A few days after the hospital, you showed up at his door with two coffees and a bag of something warm, and he didn’t question it. Just stepped aside and let you in like you’d never left. You curled up on the couch, tucked your legs under you like you always did, and when your fingers brushed reaching for the remote, you didn’t move away. Neither did he.
After that, it was movie nights again. Grocery runs together. Your hoodie hanging off the back of his kitchen chair. Your hair in his sink. He never asked you to stay, but you did.Until one day, you just… were. A part of his , his rhythm, his everything, like you always were, just without holding back now. Frankie wasn’t afraid to name it anymore.
No one asked questions. Not Benny, not Santi. Maybe because they’d all seen it before he had. Maybe because it was written all over both your faces the second the storm passed.
You were all at Benny’s one night—barbecue smoke thick in the air, beers half-drunk, someone playing music off an old speaker—and you were curled into his side like gravity had always meant for it. Your head on his shoulder, a small gesture but so monumental to him.
And Santi, mouth full of ribs, just grinned and muttered, “Finally.”
Frankie looked over at him. “What?”
“You two. Took you long enough. Benny and I had a whole betting pool.”
Benny snorted. “I lost, by the way. Thought it’d take ‘till Christmas.”
You laughed into his shoulder. Warm and soft and unmistakably you. Frankie rolled his eyes but couldn’t help the smile pulling at his mouth. “Real supportive friends I’ve got.”
Benny raised his bottle. “We’re rooting for you, Morales. Doesn’t mean we can’t roast you while we do it.”
Later, after the sun dipped low and the night got quieter, you tugged him out onto Benny’s balcony. Just the two of you. The city stretched out in front of you, all hazy lights and faraway sounds. You leaned on the railing beside him, arms brushing against each other.
“I know you were a bit slow at times,” you said, eyes on the skyline. “But this… this was slow motion.”
He huffed out a laugh. “I had a lot of shit in my head, okay?”
“I know,” you said, voice softer now. “But I was right there.”
He turned to you. Took in your face, lit by the dim glow of porch light and stars above you. That expression he’d always known but only just let himself hold onto.
“You’ve always been there,” he echoed.
And then he kissed you.
Not like the end of something, not even like the start. His hands in your hair, your mouth meeting his like it already knew the shape of him. Slow, sure and welcoming.
The sun eased into the room slowly and quiet, like it knew better than to speak after the kind of night that changed everything.
You lay on your side, tangled in sheets that still smelled like him—like heat and skin and something you’d waited years to have. Frankie was asleep beside you, one arm stretched toward where your body had just been, hand curled loose on the pillow as if even in sleep he couldn’t let you go too far.
You reached for him instinctively, fingers brushing the curve of his shoulder, then trailing down his arm like you were retracing last night’s map.
It played like a movie behind your eyes. His hands, his mouth, the way he said your name like it broke something open inside him every time. The first kiss, not rushed but anchored, like he’d known exactly what he was doing—like he’d been dreaming about it and was just finally awake. Your lips tingled at the memory of where he’d kissed you. Where he lingered. Your skin still hummed in the places his hands had claimed, like he’d memorized you with his fingertips.
You pressed your fingers to your own mouth, not to stop a smile, but to feel him again. To remember how it felt when he whispered things you never thought you’d hear from him—need you, been dreaming about this, can’t believe it’s real.
Your breath caught. Not from lust, but from how right it all had felt.
The mattress dipped behind you and suddenly, there he was—still half-asleep, hair a disheveled mess, voice low and rough as he murmured, ‘Where’d you go?’ Only one eye open, just enough to peek at you.
You smiled, settling back into the warmth of him as his arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest like you belonged there.
“Was just thinking.”
Frankie pressed a kiss to the back of your shoulder, slow and warm and so him, it made your throat go tight.
“’Bout what?” he mumbled.
You smiled. “When it happened for me.”
He went still behind you. “What?”
“When I fell for you.”
His breath hitched, just slightly, and his hand tightened at your hip. “Yeah?” he whispered. “When was it?”
You let out a soft laugh. “That day you showed up at my apartment soaking wet ‘cause your car broke down and you needed to borrow a charger. You were dripping water on my rug and swearing in Spanish under your breath like the world personally offended you. I made you tea, remember?”
He groaned. “I do. I was a mess.”
“And I just… looked at you. And felt it.”
Frankie was quiet for a second, then leaned in, lips brushing the back of your neck. “You know when it happened for me?”
You turned your head slightly. “Tell me.”
“That night we crashed at my place after the bar. You passed out on the couch, and I tried to sleep. I thought I’d be fine, but I had one of the nightmares. Bad one.”
Your breath held in your chest.
“I woke up sweating, choking on my own damn breath, and before I could even sit up, you were there. Not scared, not freaked out. Just there. Sat beside me, hand on my back. Let me breathe. Didn’t say anything stupid. And most importantly you didn’t run.”
Your heart clenched.
“That was it,” he said quietly. “That’s when I knew.”
You turned in his arms, met his eyes, your hands cupping his face like he might disappear if you blinked too fast, thumbs stroking his cheekbones.
He looked at you with those warm, deep brown eyes—like melted earth after rain and it felt like he’d never seen anything more certain. More beautiful. The same way he looked at you that night on his couch, when you didn’t flinch at the worst parts of him. When you just held him, no questions asked, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like maybe love had already happened and neither of you had realized it yet.
And when he kissed you this time, it wasn’t wild or desperate—it was soft. Full of all the things neither of you had said for years. The things you didn’t need to say anymore.
Summary: Din saves you after your home is destroyed, giving you both a chance to finally come clean about your feelings.
Warnings: language, descriptions of death/violence, longing/pining, hurt/comfort, angst, smut (18+ MDNI), fingering, unprotected piv sex, dirty talk, reader wants his baby real bad
WC: 5.9K
---
He knew something was wrong before he even landed.
Naxore was never what one considers a paradise, but the dusty planet never looked as ashen as it did from this distance.
It was small, but it managed to house about one thousand citizens. From his experience, they're good people. They mind their own business and require very little from the galaxy. Most of what they eat and use gets produced right on the planet itself. It's small, ugly, and hardly a blip on the radar. This never stopped the people who live there from loving it with their whole hearts.
When he first arrived all those years ago, ship in desperate need of repair and Din in desperate need of hiding, the citizens welcomed him. They fed him and cleansed his wounds without a second thought. They put their lives and their little planet in danger to keep him safe. And when he left, the doctor who tended to him and gave him a bed said, Keep Naxore a secret.
And he did. But whenever Din had the chance, he would stop by and pay them a visit. He brought goods and wares from other planets, trinkets and toys for the children, and anything else he could think of they might find useful.
He always stayed with the doctor, whose wife passed on before Din had ever arrived, but still had a daughter.
You.
He told himself he was being kind, that the reason for his visits were virtuous, but deep down he knew it was you that kept him coming back. After every visit, he became more and more infatuated. Less and less time would pass before his next trip, just so he could get a glimpse of you, and when he was away, his thoughts were consumed with your laugh, your smile, the way your eyes sparkled when he unveiled to you whatever little gift he brought. He thought of you constantly. He longed for the conversations you would have, all alone, late at night around the fire. He grew hooked on your every word, eager to learn as much about you as possible. You would tell him stories of your mother, of the children at the school where you taught, how worried you were for your father as he aged.
You never once spoke of a partner, and he never asked. It would be considered too forward. Besides, what sort of life could he offer you if he tried to make you his? A bounty hunter, living a life of danger with no real home?
No, you were safer with your father.
Still, he enjoyed his visits. It temporarily satiated his thirst to be near you, to listen to you speak, to watch the way your nimble fingers worked to mend clothes or knead bread.
Din didn't have many pleasures in life, but that was certainly one of them.
So as he began his descent and saw your little planet was barren, his heart sunk. He discovered once he stepped off the Razor Crest that what little trees and foliage you had are burnt to a crisp. Everything is grey, death looms everywhere. Corpses, nearly skeletons now, litter the streets. Buildings collapsed, rubble crunch under his boots, and the entire town is silent, yet he still follows the familiar path to your father's house. He knows what he's going to find, but he can't stop himself.
Sure enough, when your house comes into view, his suspicions are confirmed. The entire building is leveled to the ground. He stumbles a moment, fighting the pain swelling in his chest. Not much is recognizable, but there is a chair that used to be in the sitting room. The same chair you used to sit in while he regaled you with his stories.
He falls to his knees then, and dips his head, fighting the urge to cry. He isn't even sure why he bothers. No one is alive and he still has his helmet on, yet he still blinks back tears.
You were so young and beautiful. You had your whole life ahead of you. You were kind and thoughtful and patient with the children in your class and with your father.
His gloved hand digs angrily into the dirt, fingers curling like he could find some answer for his pain. If he just visited more — if he took you with him, like he always wanted — maybe you would still be alive.
He feels sick. Enraged. His heart splits in his chest and his body folds over, slowly, as if the weight of his agony was trying to bury him.
Just then, there's a noise. It sounds as though someone's walking over the rubble, albeit much softer than he just did. His breath stalls and he scans the area, freezing with his hand on his blaster when he spots the source.
He can hardly believe his eyes. Yet, there you stand. Dirty, ashen, hair a mess and clothes torn. But still, you're there.
He blinks and a tear slips past his defenses. He's convinced at first he must be hallucinating, but then you move again, looking at him like you must be thinking the same. Like he's a mirage.
When you get closer, his hand falls from his waist and he slowly brings himself to his feet. He refuses to tear his eyes away, afraid if he does, you'll disappear.
Finally, you slowly raise your hands to cup your mouth. Your eyes crinkle and streaks of wet trail down your filthy cheeks and you call out his name with a broken sob.
"Din."
He closes the distance in a heartbeat. His arms wrap around you and he feels your body heave, bawling and shaking in his arms. He murmurs your name, tells you you're okay, and promises to take care of you.
You nod and continue to cry. Your fingers grab at him, searching for comfort. They slide over his steel armor, feeble fingers clawing at unwavering metal, and he never before felt so angry. Angry at whoever did this to your planet. Angry at himself, for not doing more. Angry at the promise he kept to remain hidden behind a helmet.
He doesn't ask. He leads you to his ship, slowly. Your shoes aren't as good as his and your body seems weak and malnourished. But when it starts to grow dark and you stumble next to him, he scoops you up in his arms. A squeal of surprise slips past your lips but your arms wrap round his neck, anyway.
"You need rest," he says by way of explaination. "I can carry you the rest of the way. I have food and a warm bed. You'll be strong once again, and you will be safe."
You simply nod and lean your head against his shoulder. He feels your warm breath on his neck through his cowl and he has to resist the urge to strip himself of his armor and press his body to yours the second he gets you safely on the Crest.
He feeds you and gives you fresh clothes. He shows you to the fresher, where you can wash up, and promises to wait just outside the door in case you fall or need help. You don't, but he never once leaves his post. When you emerge, your eyes look sunken and puffy. You're exhausted and he knows there was no use in asking you for details that night. He ushers you to his bunk and you crawl inside, collapsing into his cot with a deep sigh of relief.
"I'm going to get us out of here," he says. You just nod with your eyes closed. "Call out if you need me," he adds before flicking off the light. He gives you one more glance before he ascends to the cockpit. You look comfortable. You look at peace. And you look fucking incredible in his clothes.
He stifles a growl and heads up the ladder.
His priority is to get you to safety. Everything else can wait.
---
"If you never take it off, how can you eat?"
Din's eyes flickered up to you through his visor. It's been two days. You nearly slept for one of them. You look healthier and more like yourself now. The sight made him happy, more relaxed.
"I eat alone," he explains. You're sitting across from him at the small metal table that folds out from the wall. You are halfway through your meal, which is nothing fancy, just some freeze dried rations, but based on the noises you made since the first bite touched your lips, you'd think you're eating fresh tiingilar.
Your eyes drop to the plate in front of him, untouched.
"Oh," you say, recalling from his prior visits when he would retire to his room to eat. You always thought it was due to exhaustion or perhaps he didn't want to hear you prattle on about nonsense like you had a tendency of doing whenever he lingered in your father's sitting room. It was always so hard to read him when his face and body was covered in armor.
"What if I turned my back?" you offer. His head tilts and his fingers thrum against the tabletop.
"I can wait," he assures you, then asks, "Will you tell me what happened?"
Your face falls and you look down sadly at your plate. You push around the food and drag in a shaky breath.
"We were attacked," you say. "It happened at night. They ransacked the town while everyone slept. I remember—"
You choke on your words and he stiffens.
"I remember going to the window when I first heard the shouting. I... they were dragging people from their homes. They took the women and killed the men."
Din stops breathing. His jaw tenses behind his helmet. You sniffle, then continue.
"My father built a small bunker underneath our home when I was a child," you say, wiping a tear from your eye. "He hid me down there and I begged him to join me, but he wouldn't — I begged him, Din."
Tears trickle down your face now. He reaches out a gloved hand to stop you, rests it on top of yours.
He knows it's a long shot, but still he asks, "Do you know who these people were?"
You shake your head somberly, eyes drifting now to his hand. You think it over for a moment before lifting your other hand to place on top of his. Your thumb idly rubs the tough fabric.
"I never found another living soul," you whisper. Din's gaze is still locked on your hands. "I searched for days. I suppose it's fortunate my father was a paranoid man."
"Your father was a careful man," he corrects. You smile but it doesn't reach your eyes. He feels horrible because it's clear your heart is torn in two and filled with guilt, yet he sits across from you, brimming with joy and relief that you managed to survive.
"What will happen now?" you ask, "what will I do?"
He swallows and you must hear it because you tilt your head slightly.
"I can take you anywhere you want to go," he eventually says.
You laugh, but it sounds flat. You keep his hand sandwiched between yours when you say, "I have nowhere to go. I've never even left my planet before. I have no one. Well... except for you."
Your cheeks burn. You give his hand a little squeeze before letting it go and even through his gloves, he instantly misses the heat from your touch.
"Navarro is nice," he says, "I have people there that I trust. People who can help you get back on your feet."
"Oh," you breathe. Then you blink and drop your gaze to your lap, food long forgotten. "Yes, okay. That... okay."
He studies you through his visor. He can tell the idea makes you nervous. You're shifting awkwardly in your seat and anxiously chewing your bottom lip.
Then, he says something foolish. Something reckless and selfish.
"Or, you could stay with me. On the Crest. It's not much of a life, but—"
"Really?" you ask, cutting him off. You peer at him hopefully through your lashes and warmth spreads in his chest at being the object you chose to grace with that look.
"Of course. You're welcome here for as long as you wish. I just ask you listen to me," he tells you sternly. He wants to make sure you understand the seriousness of what he's trying to say, but you're practically bouncing in your seat from excitement. "It can get dangerous, at times. If I tell you to stay on the ship, you need to stay on the ship, no matter how bored you might be, or—"
"I will, I promise," you say before jumping up and rounding the table. He barely has a chance to blink before you throw your arms around him for a hug. It's clunky and awkward with his armor, but you don't seem to mind. You're grinning from ear to ear, the happiest he's seen you look in days. He inhales deeply, breathing in your scent through the filter in his helmet. It makes him dizzy. With his soap and clothes, you smell so good that it leaves him breathless.
"Thank you," you say softly. You pull back slightly to gaze up at him and for one second, he thinks you can actually see him. Your eyes lock on his and you hold it, and it all feels so real that it has his breath catching in his throat. Without thinking, one of his hands lifts to cradle your face. You immediately lean into his touch but your gaze never falters. Nobody has ever looked at him the way you did. It cuts him to the core in a way he never imagined.
The air between you grows too heavy and he can't resist quickly scanning your body. Through his visor, he picks up your heat signature is slightly elevated in your face and chest. And he tries to fight the urge, he really does, but he can't help scanning lower. He clocks the temperature between your legs and his cock stirs when his suspicions are confirmed.
"You said you've never left your planet."
His voice breaks the tension. You blink and nod with a smile before stepping back, creating some breathing room between you.
"You shouldn't hide down here, then. You're missing the entire galaxy. Let me show you the cockpit."
Your eyes flicker nervously to the ladder before slowly nodding.
"O-okay," you reply shakily.
Din frowns and reaches for your hand. "There's nothing to be afraid of. I think you'll like it."
Your shoulders square up. Your chin lifts confidently and he smiles when you say, "I trust you."
He climbs the ladder first, then reaches down to help you up. When you clamber to your feet and look around, your eyes grow wide and your lips part with wonder.
"Oh, my..." you breathe, gaze raking over all the lights and controls before settling on the huge windows. He can see the reflection of the stars in your eyes and he can't tear himself away. As he suspected, all traces of your earlier apprehension vanished. You're hypnotized by the way the bright stars stretch and swirl through hyperspace, completely enraptured.
"This view. It's... beautiful," you whisper, unblinking.
With his attention still fixed on you, he replies, "Yes, it is."
Your eyes dart to him and you try to bite back a shy smile when you realize he wasn't looking at the stars.
"I've never flown before," you tell him, "it's so incredible. I can't believe you can do this all on your own."
"Really? Never?" he asks, and you shake your head. "Then we should celebrate," he adds. Your eyes light up when he spins around to a small cabinet bolted to the wall and pulls out a half filled bottle of liquor. As he pours the dark red liquid into two glasses, he realizes he hasn't stopped smiling since you stepped foot in the cockpit.
"What is this?" you ask when you take the cup he offers you. You sniff it and your nose scrunches up.
"It's Mandalorian wine," he says, "try it, it's good."
You take a tentative sip then look up at him with surprise. "It's sweet."
"I don't have it often, it's hard to come by," he admits. Then his free hand unlatches his helmet and your eyes snap to the place his fingers hook under the edge. He swears he notices excitement flicker across your face for a brief moment before you turn around.
"I won't look," you promise.
He opens his mouth to tell you it was fine, that he was only lifting it a few short inches to take a drink, but he doesn't. He sips from his glass and allows himself to take you in fully without your heated gaze pinning him to the wall. He can just make out your reflection in the windows and you faithfully have your eyes squeezed shut, just in case you catch an accidental glimpse. He sips again and his eyes darken. He can feel his body responding to how obedient you are and it's growing uncomfortable.
He slips his helmet back down and when you hear the telltale hiss of the latch, your eyes open.
"Can I turn around now?"
A muscle flickers in his jaw. Fuck, you're such a good girl.
"Yes," he says, voice rough.
You pick up on his tone. Your face warms as you slowly turn around to face him and its imperceptible, but your thighs squeeze together in his fucking pants. It's a good thing you can't see him because underneath the helmet, he is fighting every urge to pull you into his arms. He's sure it's written all over his face. Maker, he wonders what it would be like to be touched by you, to be held by you, to be kissed by you. It's been so long.
You're nervous again, he notes, but not due to fear this time. Your gaze shifts around the cabin and you swallow thickly before pointing towards the controls.
"W-what do all these do?"
He follows your finger. You're pointing to the control wheel and dials right in front of his chair.
He sets down his mostly empty glass and sits. He begins to half heartedly tell you what certain switches and knobs do, and you nod along, sipping from your glass and leaning into the side of his chair.
You lean forward, across his lap, and squint at one particularly important looking lever.
"What about this?"
His eyes slide closed and he breathes deep. You're so close to him he can feel the warmth from your skin through the slivers of exposed fabric that lies underneath his armor.
"It— it's one of the controls that sends us into hyperspace," he mumbles. You hum curiously and take another sip, draining your glass. Your body still stretches over his lap as you study the control panel and he hopes you don't notice the twitching in his pants.
"One of?" you echo. Then your beautiful eyes find his visor. He swallows harshly, leather creaking over his knuckles.
"Yes," he rasps, "there's — well, there's levels I need to check first and a course needs to —"
He stops speaking when you straighten up and sidestep so that you're wedged between him and the control panel. He watches in a haze when your small hands wrap around the control column, right where his hands normally go to steer the ship.
His gloved fingers dig into the arms of his chair.
His legs straddle yours where you stand. If you sat, you'd be right in his lap. His hands twitch and his heart stutters in his chest. You're so fucking close, he could simply wrap one arm around you—
The ship hits an unexpected rough pocket and it jolts. It's small, nothing he would even wake up for, but you're not used to flying. Your knees give out and you fall back, right into his chest.
His arms circle your waist and you let out a squeak of surprise. Then your hands cover his. Instead of pulling them off your body, you tug them tighter and squirm a little in his lap, as if you're trying to get your bearings and stand, but it's taking just a little too long.
Din murmurs your name and you still.
"Cyar'ika, I'm a patient man. But you're testing me, and I think you enjoy it."
He can't see your face, only your back and shoulders, which tense at his words. There's a long pause as if you're trying to decide your next move and he holds his breath, hoping he didn't read things wrong.
Then, your shoulders drop.
Your fingers loosen around his hands but still remain in place, holding them to your stomach. When you tilt your face to the side and look at him over your shoulder, you give him a sly grin.
"Am I that transparent?"
He doesn't respond right away, but his cock does. It swells underneath you and a soft noise that has him forgetting how to breathe slips past your lips.
"Din—"
He shakes your hands off his so he can pull frantically at his gloves, one at a time. They drop to the floor, then his hands are back on you again. Your eyes flutter shut and you tip your chin up when you feel him — really feel him — for the first time as he explores the skin under your borrowed tunic. It has been so long since he's felt the warmth of another that it makes him weak. Under his helmet, his jaw drops open in wonder. You're breathing heavy, he can feel it, and it's making his vision blur.
He cups your left breast and you whimper before leaning into his hold. Stars, you're so soft and warm and perfect that he never wants to stop touching you.
Your body sags against his chest when he rolls your nipple between his thumb and forefinger. Your back presses against his beskar and your head falls backward onto his shoulder with a loud thud. You wince and try to hide it, but he sees it.
"Sit up," he orders. He releases your breast and you whine but you do as you're told and lean forward so he can remove the metal that covers his upper body.
He eases you down so your back rests on his chest once again. Now, the only metal you have to contend with is his helmet and the plates on his thighs. When the back of your head comes to rest on his shoulder, you instantly twist so you can bury your face into the crook of his neck. You inhale deeply, like you're committing his scent to memory, before fumbling for his hand and guiding it down, past your waistline. His fingers dip underneath your pants and he bites back a groan. The fabric is oversized and loose, making it easy for him to find exactly what he's looking for.
"D-Din," you stammer when the pads of his fingers slide through your slit. Your head rolls and your lips part when you lift your hips off his lap, chasing his gentle touch.
You must hear how fast he's breathing. Even though the modulator muffles it, it's so loud it's impossible you don't notice.
"Maker, you're soft. So soft and wet," he murmurs. You preen a little in his lap, hips rolling so his two thick fingers slip through your cunt, spreading your folds and slick with each pass.
When he sinks both fingers past your entrance, your hand flies back, slapping loudly against the side of his helmet.
"Oh!" you cry out, fingers clutching uselessly at the metal. Your back arches off his chest with a wet gasp when he pushes in all the way to the knuckle, then he's shushing you. His distorted voice is trying to quiet you down but, as it turns out, you both want each other so badly that it's an impossible task, even for a Mandalorian.
"Do you know how long I've thought about this?" he asks, watching the way your eyes pinch shut and your jaw trembles each time his fingers drag in and out of you. Your backside writhes in his lap and he has to use his other hand to keep you still, wrapping it around your waist from behind and pressing his palm flat against your stomach.
"No," you shudder. You're coming apart so easily for him, heat blooming in your chest and cheeks the faster his hand moves down your pants — his pants. He's so hard, his stomach hurts.
"Years," he grits. "Each time I left, I dreamt of taking you with me. Dreamt of your perfect mouth, your beautiful eyes, your smile, your laugh—" He curses under his breath when you clench tightly around his fingers. He can't wait to feel you wrapped around his cock, squeezing him so tight and milking him for every last drop of his release.
"You came b-back for m-me," you stammer breathlessly. "Y-you — oh, f-fuck, Din—"
A thin sheen of sweat covers your forehead. You're grinding down on his hand, back bowed and nails digging ruthlessly into his covered arm. You look so sweet, coming apart on his hand, moaning his name, that he wants nothing more than to kiss you, to taste you.
But, he can't.
So, he settles for driving you wild, for curling his fingers deep inside you, grunting in your ear, rubbing his palm against your clit until your lungs are empty and your entire body is pulled tight.
"Pl-please," you beg, "oh, please. Pleaseplea— I'm g-gonna come," you whine. You gasp hotly against his helmet, holding him so close with a hand still clutching at the back of his head that his visor fogs up.
"Come for me," he tells you shakily, even through the modulator. "Come for me and then I'll fuck this sweet little pussy, just the way I've always wanted."
That tips you over the edge. You moan his name so loudly that it echoes in the small room. You thrash your head around on his shoulder, body convulsing in his lap as he pulls every ounce of pleasure he can, and then your teeth find a small patch of exposed skin just above the collar of his shirt, below his ear. He swears when your teeth pinch him and his grip on you tightens, holding you steady until your orgasm slows and you relax in his arms.
He doesn't give you much time to recover. He can't. He's so pent up, it's making him dizzy. Sliding you off his lap, Din reaches down and pulls on his pants, lifting his hips and tugging the fabric down just enough to free his cock. You're still in a daze, slumped against his shoulder, chest heaving. When he tugs you back in place, leaning against his chest and sitting in his lap, he loosens your slacks, letting them pool to the floor.
In his crazed, lust-filled stupor, he manages to realize something through the fog. The position you're in — with your back pressed against his front — maybe...
His hand fumbles around until he finds the button he's looking for and he smacks it, probably louder than is necessary. You jump in his arms when the cabin goes black, the only lights filling the space are from some switches on the console, too dim to create a reflection. But, if you turn your head—
"Keep your eyes closed."
You open your mouth to ask the question, then clamp it shut and quickly obey. He regards you for a moment, just a moment. He trusts you. You wouldn't look.
A hand comes up to unclasp his helmet and it falls to the floor with a loud thud. You jump again but keep your eyes closed.
He says your name, voice clear to your ears for the very first time. You shudder in his arms and your brows pull together, like a blanket of warmth just passed over you. He smiles to himself, then his hand drops to grip his leaking cock. He presses the thick tip between your thighs and you twitch before spreading your legs as far as you can manage.
He can't wait any longer — his hips flex and you moan in unison as he slides inside your warm, perfect cunt. The way you clench around him, the noises you murmur in his ear — it all adds to the heat building at the base of his spine since you stepped foot in the cockpit.
"M-Maker—" he groans, "you feel so good."
Then you start to roll your hips, tight pussy gripping and fluttering around his length as you try to fuck yourself in his lap. Your legs drape over his thighs, feet dangling near his ankles, unable to graze the hard metal floor for support, yet you still try to work faster, just so desperate for him.
His hands grip your hips, helping you move. Your eyes are still squeezed shut but your mouth is open, gasping for air every time he pushes back inside to grind against a spot that makes you whine through your teeth.
"I've wanted you so badly, it hurts," you confess shamelessly. Something about not being able to see him makes you feel bold. "I would follow you anywhere, Din Djarin."
He groans and nips at your earlobe. You feel his chest rumble against your back and you smile. Your hand falls to where you're connected and your fingers spread, gasping when you touch him. He's thick and hard and soaked with your arousal.
"I always knew you must have had a nice cock," you whisper, still feeling emboldened with your eyes closed. "No one carries themselves the way you do without having the goods to back it up."
You cry out when his hips snap roughly against your ass, and your entire body is practically bouncing in his lap. If it weren't for his ironclad grip around your middle, you're sure you'd have fallen out of the chair.
"Keep — talking," he grunts. His wet tongue slides slowly up your neck before his lips pucker and he begins to suck a mark that will take days to disappear.
"I— I —" you stammer. He's fucking you so fast now, it's hard to think, let alone form a sentence. "I used to — to think about you — oh, f-fuck, right there—"
"Think about me?" he repeats, ignoring everything else.
"Yes," you hiss, then your hand reaches back to slide through his hair — it's thick and a little curly and you commit the feeling to memory before it's taken from you.
"I would think about you — wh-when I... when I would touch myself."
Your stomach muscles begin to bear down and your thighs go rigid. You're so fucking close, you can taste it.
"Yeah? You thought about me when you made yourself come? Thought about my cock in this tight pussy, just like this?"
His deep voice in your ear makes you shudder.
You nod with your mouth hanging wide open.
"Oh fuck," you whimper when the tip of his cock finds a sensitive spot deep inside. You writhe and roll your hips, eager to find the angle again, but Din knows. He knows what you need and he wants to be the one to give it to you, so his hands still your movements and he rocks upward. You're both breathless and sweaty, but it doesn't matter because he's there — he's right fucking there, right at the spot where you need him the most.
Your mouth creates a combination of noises and melted words. There's no sense to be made when he's fucking you like this. You push back, deepening the angle. You both moan so loudly, it echos, but you barely register it.
His fingers fall to your clit and he starts to swirl messy circles over the throbbing bud. Three, maybe four passes. That's all it takes.
You throw your head back violently, his name ripping from your throat as you cunt clenches around him, pulsing and squeezing. Your stomach flutters, the released tension rippling across your muscles.
He doesn't stop. His fingers move frantically and he fucks you through it until your body sags and you whimper when swatting weakly at his hand.
"That's it, that's my g-girl," he groans, abandoning your clit. He wraps his arm around you instead, keeping you upright so he can thrust into you as hard as he can. You moan and bite at his neck, his ear, his cheek... any part of him that's normally hidden by his helmet. You feel the stubble under your lips and you lick his skin, reveling in the sharp prickle across your tongue.
"Come inside me," you whisper. He makes a choked sound and shakes his head.
"Can't."
"Please?"
His movements grow erratic. He's losing rhythm.
"No, it's — too risky."
"Would that be so bad? Don't y— don't you wonder what it would — be like?"
You're babbling. You sound insane. You don't care.
"Please stop," he begs, then his teeth sink into your shoulder and he pulls out of you roughly, just in time to shoot hot cum all over your inner thighs. He's groaning your name into your skin and he's panting so heavily, you fear he may pass out.
"I'm not —"
Din swallows and then he drags in a deep breath. With your eyes still closed, you start blindly peppering kisses across his cheek.
"I know," you mumble, "I'm sorry."
Suddenly, his fingers pinch your chin and he tilts your head so his lips press firmly against your own. Your heart stops when you first feel what it's like to kiss him — never in your wildest fantasies did you think you would know what his lips felt like. The trust he must have for you makes you weak and you melt, getting lost in the taste of him when his tongue slides into your mouth.
"I wasn't going to give you my child without kissing you first," he murmurs when he pulls back, but he doesn't go far. His forehead rests against yours and he sighs when your hand lifts to get lost in his messy hair.
"Really?" you whisper in disbelief, but you're smiling like a fool.
"Is that something you really want? With me?" he asks. You don't need to see his face, you can hear the doubt — the shock — that you would pick him out of anyone in the galaxy.
You nod and peck a kiss to his lips. "I'm tired of waiting," you tell him. "We almost lost our chance... I don't want to waste another second with you."
He laughs and you grin when his soft exhale fans across your face.
"I will gladly devote my life to you, if you'll have me," he says.
And yes, it feels fast. But what's the point in waiting when everything you want is right in front of you? You very easily could have died, but you were given a second chance.
summary: Marcus is fine. He wakes up, goes to work, goes home, goes to sleep, and then does it all over again, just the same, every day. And he's fine.
And then he meets you.
a/n: this is for @guiltyasdave and @sizzlingcloudmentality's writing through the seasons challenge! you can see my prompt and moodboard here (which I borrowed from for the header). I had the prompt ("to live with the delusion of being found") banging around in my head for days and it just screams Marcus to me. thank you @katareyoudrilling for being a wonderful beta, as always.
tags/warnings: angst, fluff, flirting, meet cute, Missy is a fun teenager, texting, coffee shop, touching, I named Miracle Guy Rob and Missy's mom Melissa, self deprecation (Marcus), shifting POV, kissing, grinding, reader has no description other than being a woman and having a job, no age mentioned but just FYI I was imagining her in her 30s or 40s, first date, coffee, pet names (beautiful, sweetheart), some Spanish (mija, calmate)
...
On Monday, Marcus woke up with his alarm.
Missy had picked it out – it wasn’t one of the sounds that came with his phone. She’d used some app to make it play part of “Takin’ Care of Business,” but only on weekdays. He didn’t know how to change it. He probably could have looked it up but he wouldn’t, anyway – she’d said it made her think of him going to work every day. So now it made him think of her, and at least he had that thought, if nothing else, to warm him as he got out of bed.
(His mood never quite matched the song’s, but at least he had a goal to work towards. Right?)
So he woke up when the piano came in, and sighed as he swung his legs off the bed. He sat there for a moment, letting Randy Bachman sing to him about getting to work by nine.
He sighed again.
He turned off the alarm, finally, and stood. He did not look in the mirror on top of his dresser as he walked past it into the bathroom.
Marcus showered and dressed on autopilot, mind almost blank. As always he just picked the next slacks, jacket, and shirt, whatever was at the front of his closet. He’d done this so many times, on so many mornings, it barely required him to be awake.
When the coffee maker beeped, he found himself standing fully dressed in his kitchen without really noticing that he’d walked there. He poured his coffee – just a splash of cream – and sat at the kitchen table to turn on the news. As he let the sound of yet another day wash over him, he texted Missy, smiling when she responded almost instantly.
Marcus
08:27 AM: Good morning, mija
Missy
08:28 AM: dad
08:28 AM: why did I sign up for a 9am dad
08:29 AM: i’m dying
Marcus
8:30 AM: if I’m remembering correctly, you had “big gym plans”
Missy
8:32 AM: never listen to me about gym plans again
8:33 AM: what was I thinkinggggg 😩
Marcus let his amusement at Missy’s texts buoy him to the sink and then out to his car, feeling a bit lighter.
Like his morning routine at home, he barely noticed the drive to work. It was the same as always, and in 17 minutes he was getting out of his parked car at HQ. He felt his shoulders stiffen as he stepped through the double doors into the lobby.
On his floor, Marcus walked to the kitchen first to drop off his lunch. He nodded at the same people he walked past every morning. Then he sat at his desk, answered his emails, and attended some meetings about upcoming missions for the current active teams. On his way to the break room for lunch he nodded at the same people again. After lunch he attended a few more meetings, dodged Rob in the hallway when he asked about Marcus’ weekend, and answered more emails.
At 5pm he stood up from his desk and walked to his car, nodding to the same people again on his way out.
Marcus drove home on autopilot, and 17 minutes later he found himself walking into his kitchen from the garage. He sighed as he opened the fridge, and decided dinner would be leftovers. Again.
Since it was Monday, and Missy wouldn’t be calling, he sat on the couch and turned the TV to the Food Network. He let the soothing sounds of low stakes cooking problems take over and crowd himself out of his own head.
10pm found Marcus in bed, setting his alarm. He got comfortable, stretched out his back, which always seemed to be aching these days, and pointedly did not think about the fact that he couldn’t think of a single thing he’d done at work that day.
As he fell asleep, he thought idly that he was glad his time as an active member of the Heroics had taught him how to fall asleep anywhere, if nothing else.
…
On Tuesday, Marcus woke up with his alarm.
His morning unfolded almost identically to Monday’s, aside from the fact that Missy wasn’t awake yet to respond to his good morning text – her Tuesday classes started at 11:30 and she usually took full advantage of the chance to sleep in.
As he sat and sipped his coffee, something on the news briefly caught his interest, until he realized it was something that had already crossed his desk the week before.
He sighed.
Marcus drove to work – 17 minutes – and went through the motions of another day at the office.
He ate lunch with Rob in his office, which had bigger windows than Marcus’s, and got his regular updates on how Rob’s family was doing (Peter had gone off to college, too, and they commiserated about their kids abandoning them).
Rob, as always, asked Marcus how he was doing with a knowing look that Marcus, as always, pointedly ignored.
“I’m fine,” he said, as always, stabbing a piece of chicken in his tupperware dish with a bit too much force. He was always fine. What else would he be?
Rob eyed him. “Are you?”
Marcus chewed and did not sigh. “Yes, I am,” he promised.
Rob squinted, and Marcus squinted back. That made his friend laugh, at least, and they changed the subject.
Marcus left the office a bit quicker that night and 17 minutes later he walked in the house just as his phone rang.
“Hi, mija,” he said, smiling as he picked up his daughter’s regular Tuesday phone call. She had a long walk home from her last class and usually called him to pass the time.
He let her voice wash over him, soothing the tension that had crept into his shoulders when Rob had squinted at him over lunch. Missy’s updates on her classes and her friends carried him through reheating his leftovers and collapsing on the couch. By the time she had to go he was more relaxed than he’d been in days. (Since her last call, probably, he did not let himself think, and made sure to tell her he loved her before she hung up.)
With a bit more help from the Food Network, Marcus successfully distracted himself until it was time for bed.
…
On Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday, Marcus woke up with his alarm.
He got dressed, went to work, nodded at his coworkers, answered emails, ate lunch, nodded a bit more, and went home.
And through all of it, he was fine.
He was fine.
…
Marcus spent Saturday at home doing chores, and Sunday at the farmer’s market and the grocery store. Missy called once, and Rob texted him to invite him to Corina’s birthday dinner in two weeks. Marcus added it to his calendar and took care not to notice how every other weekend was empty.
…
On Monday, Marcus woke up with his alarm.
He moved automatically from his bed to his bathroom and then to his closet, showering and dressing as usual.
He walked downstairs, thinking idly about the meetings he had scheduled in the morning, and the training he needed to plan for the newest crop of Heroics.
Lost in thought, Marcus stood holding an empty mug in front of his coffee maker for almost 5 minutes before he realized it hadn’t beeped.
He blinked and looked down, confused.
There was no coffee in the pot. He realized he hadn’t smelled the coffee as he usually did while he was getting ready. He looked it over and saw that the setting was right, but there was no coffee.
He frowned.
Poking at the coffee maker revealed that the screen wouldn’t come on, even though it was plugged in. A few more moments of tinkering and he knew – it was broken.
Marcus sighed and checked the time – 8:10 AM. He texted Missy.
Marcus
08:10 AM: Mija, I am sorry to report that after a long and fruitful life, our beloved Mr. Coffee has percolated his last brew. May he rest in peace 🪦
Missy
08:12 AM: nooo!! not Mr. Coffee 💔
08:13 AM: your best friend, taken from us too soon
08:13 AM: how will you go on without him
He smiled. He knew she’d be able to cheer him up.
Marcus
08:15 AM: with difficulty, but I will persevere
Missy
08:17 AM: wait!
08:17 AM: dad you should go to the Bean Box!! I know you never actually did when I told you to
08:18 AM: it’s on your way to work dad you have to go
08:18 AM: it’s the best the coffee is so good
08:19 AM: daaaaaad
Marcus
08:20 AM: ok ok, calmate
08:20 AM: I’m going
Missy
08:22 AM: good! and get a scone to eat in my honor
08:23 AM: I miss those scones
15 minutes later Marcus pulled up in front of the small facade of the Bean Box and couldn’t help but smile. It was exactly the type of place Missy would like – cozy and colorful, with lots of tables stuffed inside and flower boxes overflowing along the bottom of each of the large windows in the front.
When he stepped inside, the smell of freshly roasted coffee filled his nose and he almost stopped in the doorway. It smelled good.
He joined the long line for coffee and scrolled idly on his phone, checking the news, a bit oblivious to his surroundings.
So he was surprised when his phone almost flew out of his hand a few moments later. Someone knocked into him from behind and he stumbled forward. He made some sort of noise as he juggled his phone between his hands, just barely catching it before it could fall.
“Good catch,” an admiring voice said from behind him. He turned as they continued, “Wait, I mean, I’m so sorry about that! Shit.”
Marcus turned around fully and almost froze. A woman was standing there with her hands out, as if she had just caught her balance, grimacing at him. A very beautiful woman, he couldn’t help but notice. He blinked, trying to clear his vision, but she was just as beautiful as she’d been a moment before. His eyes darted across her features but he didn’t let himself sweep his gaze over the rest of her. He didn’t want to be a creep.
Suddenly it felt much warmer in the coffee shop, and he was very aware of how close they were standing to each other.
“Shit,” she repeated. “Sorry, again. I tripped,” she pointed at the leg of a chair that was almost in the aisle, “and ended up sort of falling on you. But I’m glad you caught your phone! Nice catch, really.” She looked down and he did, too. She’d dropped her bag and some of her belongings had spilled out. She sighed. “Shit.”
Marcus was crouching before he’d even thought about bending down. “It’s alright,” he said, smiling a bit. “No harm done. Sorry about your stuff.” he gathered some papers and held them out to her. She had followed him down, kneeling as she gathered her things back into her bag.
She took them and said, “wait, you don’t have to do that! I already almost knocked you over, you don't have to help me.”
He shook his head. “Like I said, it’s fine.” He realized she had all of her things but they were both still crouching. He stood and offered her his hand to help her up.
She slid her hand into his easily and his breath caught as she said, “well, thank you, and sorry, again.” Her hand was warm and he ignored the way his fingers tingled at her touch.
She was smiling, then, and Marcus couldn’t help but notice that her smile was very pretty. So pretty he had to drag his eyes away from it, trying not to stare.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt like this. There was warmth in his chest and a floaty feeling in his stomach and the tips of his fingers were still tingling where they’d touched hers. It felt almost foreign, it had been so long. He felt lightheaded.
“Please don’t worry about it.” He looked around and realized the line had moved a little, so he took a step forward to move with it. She did the same. “I’m Marcus, by the way.”
She gave her name and he smiled. It suited her.
“Can I buy you an apology coffee?” she asked, looking hopeful. “I still feel bad.”
He shook his head, laughing. “No, it’s really ok. I mean it.”
“Hmm,” she hummed, looking suddenly thoughtful and amused. “I’ve never had anyone turn down a free cup of coffee from here before. You must be new.”
Marcus was smiling. He realized he might have been smiling at her the whole time, and felt a bit of wonder at that. “It’s that obvious? I am. New, I mean. My daughter has been telling me to come here for months but this is my first time.”
Her eyebrows raised and he hoped he was imagining the way her expression closed off a bit. But in the next moment he wondered at himself for even thinking of it. Don’t be a fool, he warned himself, even as he felt the urge to explain. She’s just nice, she’s not interested.
“She has good taste,” she said lightly. “What took you so long, then?”
Marcus sighed and gave in to the urge. “It’s just me at home, with her away at college, and I’ve just been torturing my ancient coffee maker by keeping it alive. But it took its last dying breaths this morning and I was forced to venture out for coffee, instead.”
She nodded solemnly. “Rest in peace, ancient coffee maker.” The jokingly serious look on her face reminded him of the way Missy would tease him and he couldn’t help but smile. Again.
Suddenly Marcus realized they’d made it to the front of the line. He wasn’t ready to order, or to stop talking to this beautiful woman who had almost knocked him over.
“I guess I’m up,” he said, as the person in front of him started to pay.
He tried not to watch as she bit her lip, hesitating for just a moment. “Well, Marcus,” she said, voice light again. “I’m here most mornings, so you’ll have to come back and let me know if you liked it.”
Marcus felt his cheeks warm and he smiled. “Ok then. I’ll try.”
For the rest of the day, he found he couldn’t quite wipe that smile off of his face, not even when Rob teased him about it.
…
On Tuesday, Marcus woke up with his alarm, already smiling.
He glanced at himself in the mirror as he got dressed, and was stunned to see his face looking so relaxed for once.
Is that all it takes? He wondered, amused at his own expense. A bit of flirting and a pretty smile? But it wasn’t just about her pretty smile, he knew that. He’d felt something the day before, something he hadn’t felt in years.
Something he wanted to feel again.
He’d told Missy he liked her coffee shop the night before and promised he’d be back (and that he’d get a scone, this time). So he hurried downstairs and out to his car as soon as he was dressed, ready to find out if he would run into her again.
When he pulled up outside The Bean Box, he took a deep, slow breath. Sure, he was a teensy bit invested. Something about her had kindled a tiny fire in his chest. But he didn’t want to get his hopes too high. He shouldn’t. Right?
But as he stepped inside, he realized he needn’t have worried. She was standing by the door, looking just as stunning as the day before. And she was watching the people coming in.
When she saw him, she grinned. “I knew you’d be back! It’s good, right?”
Marcus nodded as felt a smile stretch across his face. “It is. And I promised my daughter I’d get a scone this time.”
Her eyes lit up. He couldn’t look away. “Oh, you definitely need to get a scone. They’re amazing.”
She stepped into line next to him and he noticed they both kept their bodies turned towards each other as they talked.
“You said she’s in college, right?” She tilted her head at him. Marcus tried not to trace the line of her neck with his eyes. “Is she enjoying it?”
He nodded. “She’s a freshman, but she settled in quick. She’s so independent, I knew she would.” He looked down, smiling as he thought about his daughter, and told her about Missy’s major. “She blows me away, honestly.”
When he looked back up he found her smiling softly at him. “Sounds like she’s got a great dad.”
Marcus smiled and ducked his head again. “I miss her, but it helps that she’s doing so well. And we talk a lot. More than I expected, really. Figured she’d be too busy.”
He felt something warm on his arm and realized she had reached out and lightly rested her hand on his forearm. He blinked and felt a flush rise in his cheeks and start to travel down his neck. He suddenly wished he wasn’t wearing a sweater over his dress shirt, wished he could feel her hand on his skin again.
“I’d say that means you’re definitely a great dad.” She was still smiling. “Take it from me, and my memories of college. I definitely didn’t talk to my parents that much.” She laughed and Marcus felt his breath catch at the way it lit up her features. Her hand was still on his arm and he fought the urge to cover it with his own, to keep it there.
He shook himself and nodded. “It’s been just us for so long. We are pretty close.”
She squeezed his arm lightly and he felt a shiver run up his spine. When her hand fell away, he missed it immediately. “Has it been tough? Adjusting without her.”
Marcus sighed and nodded. “My house is so empty now.” He laughed, ruefully. “I swear, it echoes in there. Never expected I would miss all the noise.”
She nodded. “I’ve got nieces and nephews, and they’re so loud, but I always miss it when they’re gone. It’s not the same, but I get that.”
As the line moved forward, she told him more about her sister’s kids and their antics. Marcus found himself smiling and laughing more than he had outside of a call with Missy in… months. Longer? He didn’t want to think about it, not when he was caught up in feeling like this instead.
By the time they reached the front of the line, he was only wishing they had more time.
She hesitated when it was almost her turn to step up to the counter. “Did you get your coffee maker fixed?”
He shook his head. “No, I don’t think it’s fixable, and honestly it deserves to rest. It lived a long life.”
She laughed and then bit her lip. It drew his eyes like a magnet.
“So, will I see you again tomorrow?” She looked hopeful and he wanted so badly to read into it.
“I think so,” he agreed, smiling a bit shyly.
She grinned at him. “Good.”
He carried the memory of that grin with him through the rest of the day, until Rob managed to weasel the whole story out of him over lunch. He told his friend about the way they’d met and how she’d been standing inside the door that morning.
But somehow telling it to someone else had Marcus second guessing the whole thing.
“I’m probably just imagining it.” He was standing with Rob in the hall by his office, coming back from lunch, wishing it had never come up.
“Well, I think you should go back and you should talk to her again.” Rob furrowed his brow at Marcus and poked him in the arm.
Marcus frowned and brushed his hand away. “Rob, she’s probably not interested.”
His friend frowned back, exaggerating the expression until it was comical. “Sounded like she was. Why wouldn’t she be?”
Marcus shook his head and grimaced. “Why would she be? I’m a sad, boring, almost 50-year old man who does nothing but go to work and wait for his daughter to call him. I’m not delusional, ok, I know no one wants to deal with that. Especially not someone like her.”
Rob sighed. He reached out and grabbed Marcus’ shoulders and squeezed. “Marcus. Listen to me. You are a smart, funny, and caring man who loves his daughter and his friends. You deserve more, ok? Tell me you know that.”
Marcus shook his head. “Know what?”
“That it’s not a delusion to think you deserve to be loved.”
“Loved?” Marcus shook his head and tried not to scoff. “We’re just talking about someone I met at a coffee shop.” He ignored that his heart had started to beat just a bit faster when he thought about her, just like it had in The Bean Box when she’d touched his arm. And when she’d smiled at him, looking so hopeful that she’d see him again.
Rob raised his eyebrows. “Someone you can’t stop thinking about, and who flirted with you and got you out of your shell. Right?”
Marcus sighed.
“Marcus,” Rob said, voice careful, and Marcus knew what was coming next. “Is this about Melissa? I–”
He shook his head, interrupting. “No, I mean, not really. You know I’ve gone on dates, well, a while ago. It’s just…” He closed his eyes. “It’s been so long, and since Missy left for college, I’ve just been…” he trailed off, looking for the right word. “Asleep, I think. It’s so quiet. Every day is the same.”
Marcus opened his eyes to find his best friend frowning at him.
“I get it. But it sounds like this shook you out of that routine, right?” Marcus sighed. “Marcus, look, just– promise me you won’t just dismiss it, ok? Give it a chance.”
He wanted to scrub his hands over his eyes but Rob was still holding his shoulders. “How do I do that?”
Rob shrugged. “You’ve already run into her twice. Just keep going back. See what happens.”
Marcus closed his eyes and finally broke out of his friend’s hold. He leaned against the wall behind him. “Ok. Ok, I can do that.”
Rob let out a long breath, clearly relieved. “Good. And just let yourself enjoy it, ok? I know you know how to flirt. Even if you’re rusty.”
Marcus rolled his eyes and shoved Rob back a bit. “Yeah, yeah. I thought you wanted me to go back, huh? Stop making me nervous.”
Rob waved his hand, laughing. “You’re already nervous. But I’ve seen you flirt, man, even if it’s been a minute. I believe in you.”
At least someone did.
…
On Wednesday, Marcus woke up with his alarm, and immediately felt nervous.
He paused in front of his closet, actually looking at his clothes for the first time in a long time. Should I wear this shirt? Or a sweater? He hesitated, cursed himself for wasting time, and then grabbed the next shirt and slacks, as always.
He walked straight past his kitchen on his way to his car, only glancing at the clock. 08:14 AM.
Missy
08:17 AM: are you going to the Bean Box again
08:18 AM: have I created a monster
Marcus
08:27 AM: just pulled up
08:27 AM: I’ll eat a scone for you
Missy
08:28 AM: mail me one 🙏
Marcus
08:29 AM: counter offer: I’ll buy you one when you’re home next
Missy
08:29 AM: deal
Marcus was smiling at his phone as he opened the door into the coffee shop, belatedly looking up at his surroundings after he stepped inside. He didn’t see her and started to frown.
“Let me guess – your daughter?”
He turned to find her behind him, leaning against the high table by the door. She gestured at his phone with a smile. He nodded. “How’d you know?”
She stepped closer and looked down at his phone. “You were smiling at it as you walked in.”
He couldn’t help but smile again. “She asked me to mail her a scone.”
She laughed and Marcus watched the way it changed her face. Beautiful.
“Would it survive?” She grinned and fell into step next to him in the line for coffee.
He shook his head. “No, but I promised I’d buy her one next time she’s home.”
“When’s that?”
“Spring break.”
She frowned sympathetically. “So far away! That’s too bad.”
Marcus sighed, agreeing. “It is, but it helps knowing that she’s having such a great time.”
She looked thoughtful and nudged Marcus with her shoulder. He felt himself flush. “You know, you could look up coffee shops near her campus and buy her a gift card or something. Somewhere similar. Probably better than mailing a scone.”
He blinked, surprised. That was a good idea. “I…” he trailed off. “That’s–”
“Sorry,” she interrupted, wincing. “I didn’t mean–”
“No,” he said, not wanting her to apologize. He touched his fingertips lightly to her arm – she was wearing short sleeves, and the touch of his skin against hers deepened his flush. His fingertips started to tingle and he felt his heart start to beat faster in his chest. “I was going to say, that’s a great idea. Thank you.”
She grinned at him and leaned forward, which brought her arm more in contact with his hand. Suddenly he found himself with a light hold on her forearm, gripping it gently. He stroked his thumb across her skin before he even realized what he was doing.
“I was worried I’d overstepped,” she said without moving away from him.
Marcus shook his head, momentarily speechless at the feel of her skin and the knowledge that she hadn’t pulled away.
“No,” he murmured. “I’m definitely going to do that. She’ll love it.”
For a moment he didn’t move, and neither did she. He noticed the line moving out of the corner of his eye but didn’t do anything about it until the person behind them in line cleared their throat.
Startled, he stepped forward, losing contact with her arm. She was still smiling at him as she turned.
“You know,” he said, wishing he could reach out to touch her hand. “I never asked what brings you here every day.”
She hummed. “Well the coffee, of course,” she winked at him, “but I also work from here most mornings. I like the atmosphere, and all of my meetings are in the afternoon.”
He nodded, thinking that sounded nice. “So if I were to keep up my new coffee habit, you’d be here in the mornings?”
She turned towards him then and he leaned closer.
“Yep,” she agreed. “Most days. Maybe you could stick around sometime.” She raised her eyebrows but he sighed.
“I can’t,” he said, looking down. “Have to be in the office.”
Her face fell and he felt something twist inside his chest. She opened her mouth to reply but he interrupted. He didn’t want her to feel like that, not when he was feeling like this.
“Maybe we could,” his voice came out a bit strangled and he cleared his throat. “Maybe we could have dinner sometime instead?”
Marcus watched as her face transformed from disappointed to hopeful. He smiled.
“I’d like that, Marcus.”
…
Marcus couldn’t remember the last time he’d been on a date, it had been so long.
(That was a lie – he just didn’t want to remember, it had gone so badly. But it had been years – he was pretty sure Missy had been in middle school at the time.)
He spent way too long staring at his clothes and trying to ignore Rob’s encouraging texts. He settled on dark jeans and a sweater. When his phone pinged again, he finally looked down to check it.
Rob
(5:37 PM): Corina says wear the dark green sweater
(5:38 PM): I don’t even know which sweater she’s talking about but I assume you do
Marcus looked down and laughed. He had, in fact, chosen the dark green sweater.
Marcus
(5:41 PM): tell her I am and that I had the same idea
Rob
(5:43 PM): she says good choice and have a great time
(5:44 PM): I mean, me too
Marcus smiled as he walked downstairs. He was glad for the support, but he knew he looked good in this sweater. It was one of the few purchases he’d made in recent years just because he liked the way it looked.
He got in the car and headed towards the restaurant where they’d agreed to meet. It was a short drive but he could feel himself getting more and more nervous the closer he got.
After he parked, he stopped and took a deep breath. He thought of Melissa, as he’d done quite a bit since he met the beautiful woman in the coffee shop. It had been so long since they’d lost her, and he’d had quite a bit of time to think about dating again. This wasn’t even his first try.
But it always made him a little wistful. He took a moment to think about what she’d say – probably something about how his arms looked in the sweater. The thought made him laugh and shake his head. He got out of the car.
She was waiting by the door, and she was stunning.
…
You tried not to fidget as you stood by the door to the restaurant. It was a place your coworker had recommended, but you’d never been. Your nerves had driven you to arrive ten minutes early and now you had nothing to do but wait, and think of the gorgeous man you were waiting for.
And he really was gorgeous. You’d known that from the moment he’d turned around after you’d almost knocked him over in your favorite coffee shop – a memory that made your cheeks burn, even now, you’d been so embarrassed. He was tall with a jawline that made you want to bite, shoulders that were so broad you needed to get your hands on them, and warm brown eyes that had so much feeling in them, it took your breath away.
And then he’d smiled at you, and helped you with your things. And flirted. And then he’d come back, and kept coming back. For coffee, of course, but also to talk to you.
Every time he walked into The Bean Box, he looked around, looking for you. And when he saw you, his face lit up. You couldn’t help but smile just thinking about it.
How is he single? It was a question you’d been wondering about all week. You figured it was probably because he was a single dad, and his daughter had just gone to college. But at the same time you couldn’t comprehend that no one had locked this gorgeous, thoughtful, funny, caring man down. Their loss, you thought, and smiled again.
At that moment you looked up, and caught sight of Marcus getting out of his car. Your smile stretched into a grin.
“Hello there,” he said, smiling as he walked closer to you. “You look stunning this evening.”
You looked him over and tilted your head. “So do you, in that sweater.”
He blushed and you bit your lip. It was so charming when he did that.
“Ready for dinner?” he asked, and when you nodded he turned to guide you inside. You felt his hand come up to rest on your lower back. It was big and warm, just as warm as it had been when he’d held your arm. You shivered.
The restaurant had a table waiting for you, and you turned to look at him with a raised eyebrow. He smiled and shrugged. “I called two days ago when you said yes to dinner.”
The table they led you to was cozy – tucked in a corner with a window, a romantic candle flickering in the center. When you sat, you realized a couple of plants hid you from the rest of the room.
“Cozy,” you said, smiling.
Marcus nodded. “My best friend has brought his wife here, says it’s fantastic. And romantic.”
“Hmm,” you hummed, reaching out to nudge his hand where it rested on the table. “Romantic, huh?”
Marcus looked suddenly unsure, which made you slide your hand over his and squeeze. “Is that alright?”
You nodded. “It’s more than alright, Marcus. It’s perfect.”
He smiled again, and the two of you settled into an easy conversation about your weeks, about his daughter, and about your work. It flowed just as comfortably as it had at the coffee shop and you felt the warmth that Marcus had kindled inside of you from the first moment start to burn again. It carried you through dinner.
You watched his face as he talked and couldn’t help but marvel again at how handsome he was. He seemed to notice your focus and smirked a bit. “What?”
“Hmm?” you blinked, eyes snapping back to meet his.
He reached across the table and laced his fingers with yours. “I was just wondering what you were thinking.”
Your face warmed but you wanted to tell him, anyway. “Just got distracted by how handsome you are.”
Marcus blushed again and you grinned. “Really?” he looked doubtful, and you couldn’t have that.
“Oh yes,” you said, leaning towards him. “Not for the first time. You know how hard it was not to stare, in the coffee shop?”
He laughed and picked up your hand. He leaned forward, too, and pressed a soft kiss to your knuckles. You bit your lip at the sensation of his lips against your skin. “Me?” he asked, smiling against your knuckles. “What about you? You’re so beautiful I couldn’t take my eyes off you. And then you smiled, and well.” He kissed your knuckles again. “Still can’t look away from you, even if I wanted to.”
For a moment you just stared at each other, smiling.
“Marcus,” you started, lifting your fingers to press against his jaw. He held on, but let you turn your hand until you could cup his cheek. “Do you want to come home with me?”
He blinked, clearly surprised. “I–” He swallowed, looking nervous. “It’s been a while, since…” he trailed off. “It’s been a while,” he repeated, smiling shyly.
You traced his cheekbone with your thumb. “There’s no rush,” you promised. You leaned a little closer and he leaned in to meet you. “I just want you to kiss me, Marcus,” you murmured, and watched his pleasure at that idea take over his handsome face. “And then we can just see where it takes us. No rush, no pressure.”
His eyes darkened as he smiled, a new sort of smile you hadn’t seen before. It made you press your thighs together under the table. “No rush,” he repeated, “but I’ve been wanting to kiss you, too,” he said, voice low and warm. He moved to stand. “Let’s go.”
…
Marcus stepped up close behind you at your door, and you smiled at the feeling of his warm body almost touching yours. His hand came to rest on your waist and you shivered.
You finally managed to unlock the door and he followed you in.
So quickly it made your head spin, Marcus turned and pressed you up against the inside of your door. you gasped. His chest was just as broad and firm as you’d thought, and he held you easily in place, right where he wanted you. You marveled at his sudden confidence – it looked very good on him.
“Hi there, beautiful,” he murmured, looking down at your lips. “Can I kiss you?”
“Please,” you breathed. Before you could say anything else, he leaned in and pressed his lips to yours.
Marcus’s lips were warm, and soft, and his kiss was slow and gentle. It seeped into you and you felt his warmth light you up from the inside.
Your hands found his hips and you tugged him forwards until your bodies were touching from shoulder to knee. He moaned lightly, into your mouth, and suddenly his kiss wasn’t so gentle anymore.
It was fierce. Your head was spinning as you opened your mouth to him and felt his tongue stroke along yours.
His thigh came to rest between yours and you shivered.
“Marcus,” you sighed, breaking the kiss. He pressed soft kisses along your cheek and jaw before he let his head drop to your shoulder.
“You feel perfect against me, you know that?” His voice sounded almost hoarse, and you wrapped your arms around his waist. His sweater was soft and it made you smile. His right hand was flat against the door by your head but his left came up to cup your jaw and neck. “Shit, sweetheart. You’re perfect.”
You pressed a kiss to the side of his head. “I’m not perfect,” you laughed.
He shook his head against your shoulder. “Feels pretty perfect.” He thrust his hips forward and pressed his thigh against you more firmly. You moaned.
You felt Marcus huff a small laugh against your shoulder and pulled back to eye him. “What?”
He was smiling. “It’s nothing.” He shook his head as you raised your eyebrow, still confused. “I was just thinking how lucky I am that my coffee machine broke that day. Never would have met you, otherwise.”
You felt your face relax as you smiled back and leaned in for another soft kiss. “Sounded like it was on its last legs, from what you told me.”
He laughed again, and you grinned. “It was. RIP, Mr. Coffee, and thank you for your timely death.”
You hummed. “I like to think I would have found you, anyway. Maybe on another day at the Box.”
Marcus pressed forward and buried his face in your neck again. You felt his soft kisses working their way down to your shoulder and shivered. “Yeah? How?”
You shrugged and he nipped at your shoulder. “Just feels right, you know? I felt it the moment I met you.” You leaned your head to the side and he took advantage, worrying a mark at the spot where it met your shoulder. It made you squirm and his grip on you tightened. “Like I’d found something I’d been looking for, and didn’t even know it.”
He lifted his head again and the look in his eyes made your breath catch in your throat. “I know exactly what you mean, sweetheart. You woke me up when you almost knocked me over.” He grinned, teasing you.
“What do you mean?” You lifted one of your hands and let your fingers trail through his hair.
He leaned into it, smiling. “I’ve been… asleep. Living the same day, over and over again. And then I met you, and it’s like I’m awake for the first time since Missy left. Before that, probably.” He leaned forward and kissed you, gently. “You woke me up,” he repeated. You smiled, surprised and pleased that you’d had such an effect on him, too.
Marcus kissed you again, and for a while after that there wasn’t a lot of talking. You could only manage his name, and please, and don’t stop.
Modern AU with Retired Mob Enforcer!Din Djarin x fem!reader
Summary: Din Djarin, retired mob enforcer, falls in love, but worries his past could put his future (you) in danger.
A/N: First time writer, please be gentle 🥹 This is a modern AU where Din is a former enforcer for the Fett family, and the world building and relationship development between Din and Reader takes place over many chapters. Some Star Wars names thrown in for fun, but there aren't meant to be any serious parallels to canon. Thank you for reading and hope you enjoy my brain rot for everyone’s favourite tin man 🥰
Series warnings: Chapters with smut denoted with 🚑, chapters with angst denoted with ❤️🩹, fluff throughout. Individual instalment warnings are included in each post.
Ch. 1 (The Coffeeshop)
Ch. 2 (The Bookstore)
Ch. 3 (The Drycleaner)
Ch. 4 (The First Date)
Ch. 5 (The Courtship)
Ch. 6 (The Courtship, Din's POV) ❤️🩹
Ch. 7 (The Third Date) ❤️🩹
Ch. 8 (The Cab) ❤️🩹
Ch. 9 (The Dam Breaks) 🚑
Ch. 10 (The Afterglow) 🚑
Ch. 11 (The Poker Game) (a summary)
Ch. 11 Addendum (After The Poker Game) 🚑
Ch. 12 (The Workout) 🚑
Ch. 13 (The Birthday)
Ch. 14 (The Subway) 🚑
Ch. 15 (The BBQ) 🚑
Ch. 16 (The Matchup) 🚑
Ch. 17 (The Preparations) 🚑
Ch. 18 (The Threat) 🚑 ❤️🩹 Inspo
Ch. 19 (The Betrayal) 🚑 ❤️🩹
Ch. 20 (The Way to Get Over Someone, Part 1)❤️🩹
Ch. 21 (The Way to Get Over Someone, Part 2)🚑 ❤️🩹
All the one shots and drabbles can be slotted in the above timeline; as the chapters get written, I’ll note where they fit in. For now, consider the below to all be set when Din and Reader are in an established relationship (hence the smut 😂).
Carnival Fright Night 🚑 (set between Ch. 12 & 14)
Lingerie 🚑 (set anytime after Ch. 10) (Link to the Lingerie set)
The Wedding, Part 2 🚑 (insert btwn Ch. 17 & 18) (Moodboard by @hellishjoel - thank you!)
2 More Days (A Textfic) 🚑 - Part 1, Part 2 (set anytime after Ch. 12)
Holiday Remix (A Textfic) (set anytime after Ch. 12)
Let Me Carry It For You (SBowl 🏈 Drabble) (set right after Ch. 11)
The Mando Roll (Valentine’s Day Special) (set anytime after Ch. 10)
Hat Trick (set anytime after Ch. 12) Part 2 (The Playoffs) 🚑
Birthday Bunny 🚑 (HBD P! 🥳)
Gouda Girl (Happy Pedro Hours Challenge)
Thots
Alfredo’s the best dog
Favourite nook
Walking the dog
POV: On a date with Din
Naming of Mando’s Gym inspo
Working at Mando’s
Paz Vizsla face cast
Excellent boxing advice
Young boxer Din inspo
Rotta Hutt face cast, I guess 😂
Series vibes and this amazing graphic by @gasolinerainbowpuddles (thank you!)
Here's my story for @jolapeno 's Dear-uary challenge!
I had fun writing it and I'm quite proud of the results, but his fic wouldn't have ended up being like this without the help I've gotten. @schnarfer I know I've said it before, but your notes were wonderful and really helpful. Thanks for taking such a thorough look and lending me your brain for a little bit. @encasedinobsidian The first combo of texts wouldn't be this great without you. Thanks for helping me with them and always being so supportive. And to my friends, @thundermartini @joelmillerisapunk, thanks for always being there and listening to my rambles.♥️
pairing: Tim Rockford x fem able-bodied reader
summary: Help and surprises come from unexpected places.
word count: 2900
tags: fluff, sweetness, and yearning, reader has no body description other than mentions of having hair, no use Y/N (Tim's texts are in bold and reader's in italics)
Dividers by @saradika-graphics
(8/9/24)
(7:35 pm) Morales
Where the fuck are you?
I need backup
(7:36 pm) No Morales in here, I'm afraid!
(7:36 pm) Don’t fuck with me, man
Get down here, I've got 30 seconds leeway at best
And that's being generous
Once it gets dark it will be a nightmare to follow him.
(7:36 pm) This is the wrong number, I'm sorry! Don't know what's going on but I hope it goes to plan!!
(7:37 pm) Shit
I'm sorry. Disregard all of that
(7:37 pm) It’s alright:)
(8:50 pm) Did it work?
(10:13 pm) Bad day?
(10:13 pm) Busy.
(10:13 pm) At work?
(10:13 pm) Yes.
(10:14 pm) Couldn't be worse than mine I almost lost my fingerprints with the ovens.
I'm not usually this clumsy, but the period cramps are no joke this month.
(10:20 pm) Sorry to hear that ma'am. You'll be in my prayers.
There’s no glamour in saying he’s a detective tonight, no pride or fulfilment, no satisfaction in having closed the case and kicking off February with an apparent good note, just a crestfallen sensation as he finishes parking the car, a desolate silence sinking in its claws once he switches off the motor and his eyes close. Leaning back to rest his neck on the car seat, the exhaustion, the sore muscles, the aching back and knees, and the headache growing by leaps and bounds -courtesy of the blow he took, and left him with a cut on his forehead that is still bleeding slightly- threatens to obliterate the last scraps of willpower as he dares to question if he should have accepted the suggestion to go to the hospital. An option he had dismissed as soon as it had been conveyed, the lack of concussion symptoms and his urge to be alone, away from any pretence, and decompress had won over his caution.
Only her voice keeps Tim grounded, one he's created in his mind -lighter and sassy, spurring him to leave the car, offering the final push to get inside his apartment and care for himself. A voice he's yet to meet, but who has provided him more comfort in the past months than anyone else around him.
A voice he yearns to hear. For it would gift him her company, the privilege to revel in her presence and maybe feel her arms around him, hugging him, bestowing the solace he desperately craves.
(8/13/24)
(9:05 pm) Do you guys all go to a special school to learn how not to see things?
(9:15 pm) Excuse me?
(9:15 pm) Nothing.
My boyfriend.
I'm drowning in the mess and he tells me to holler if I need help.
(9:15 pm) I’m sorry.
(9:15 pm) Are you?
(9:20 pm) Sorry. I’m in a mood.
Thanks. It's all done.
But I’m pissed.
(9:25 pm) That’s understandable.
How did you guess I'm a man?
(9:25 pm) You called me ma’am.
(9:25 pm) Touché. You didn’t disagree. Does that mean you’re a lady?
(9:25 pm) A lady? Hahaha.
(9:25 pm) You mentioned your period, and I feel bad for assuming.
(9:27 pm) Did I say something wrong?
(9:27 pm) No.
You surprised me.
That was quite thoughtful and you set some precedent the other day.
(9:27 pm) I was an asshole, and I’m sorry.
(9:27 pm) It’s ok. I snapped at you too.
It’s all forgotten.
But yeah, I’m a woman.
Tell me something funny. I don't want to think anymore.
(9:29 pm) I may have caused a small explosion today.
(9:29 pm) YOU WHAT!?
(9:29 pm) I said may
(9:29 pm) No way! You totally did! lmao!
Leaving the car, he lets his dreary feet carry him across the street and through the lobby of his apartment block, halting in front of the elevator. Her parting wishes of good luck for the stakeout still reverberate in his mind, even hours after he responded to them, bringing forward the memories as he waits, the myriad of conversations exchanged since the first message sent by mistake - a fortuitous error, the consequence of his thick fingers mixing the numbers while setting the contacts on his new phone. A lapse he has no words to express how grateful he is for.
He hadn't thought it would have a special significance, a brief mishap flooded with his rudeness, a happenstance, inconsequential till not. Her texts, the random questions, the silly facts she kept sending initially, undeterred by his surly personality, had caused a ripple, a seed powerful enough to grow and become so much more. A source of reassurance and laughter, it was cheering, a safe space to speak, a shoulder to vent without judgment. A friendship.
(9/2/24)
(5:45 pm) You have a name, don’t you?
(5:45 pm) Of course.
(5: 45 pm) Wanna share it?
(5:46 pm) It doesn't seem smart. I shouldn't talk to strangers.
(5:46 pm) As you wish, Buttercup.
(5:46 pm) How did you know The Princess Bride is my favorite movie?
(5:46 pm) I’m a detective. It’s my job to know things.
(5:46 pm) Like Riggs and Murtaugh?
(5:46 pm) What?
(5:46 pm) Yes, from Lethal Weapon.
(5:46 pm) I know that movie.
(5:47 pm) It fits, you know?
With the explosion you caused.
I think I’ll call you that.
Riggs.
He knows a lot now -sure, not her name or face- but her height, birthday, that they live in the same city, her work at the bakery, hobbies, favorites, and things under the title of hate.
Initially, his wariness had made him hesitant, less prone to share until the easiness he felt around her had won. But it's never enough. Her presence, becoming solid, no longer shapeless but a woman beautiful and strong, intelligent, complex, supportive and understanding, funny, alluring, and stunning, his Buttercup, making him fall in love before he could say no.
He's been hoarding every bit of information, treasuring every glimpse of her trust, guarding her secrets, supporting her desire to write a book someday, thoroughly reading any slice he receives -the beautiful and evocative images that feel like poems whispered in his ear- pouring his full attention. Memorizing one very vivid and erotic encounter between a man and a woman she had surprised him with and left him wondering what had inspired her. A slip from her fingers -her turn, not having planned to show it- that had left him so hard he hadn't been able to contain his hands, picturing himself and her, the tension building with each rub, exploding as he never had before, his whole body tingling, spurting all over his torso, breathless, almost going blind. Hoping to confess one day, face to face if he's lucky, naked, with their bodies entwined, and sharing an intimacy just as passionate.
(10/7/24)
(10:17 am) I think I have a cat.
(10:20 am) A cat?
(10:20 am) Yeah. He’s cute now that the dirt is gone.
Wanna see a picture?
I found him in the alley behind my building.
I know, typical.
But he's so skinny. I couldn't leave him there.
(10:20 am) I didn't know you were that fond of them.
(10:21 am) Me either lol.
We're learning together.
What do you think about Milo?
For the cat, I mean.
Google says it means beloved.
Or dear.
(10:21 am) Sounds good.
(10:21 am) For real? Pinky promise?
(10:21 am) Pinky promise.
(10:21 am) Oh! I almost forgot! Did you know the moon looks upside down in the southern hemisphere?
The elevator doors ding. Opening, as expected, efficiently and with no fanfare, breaking his musings, the battle between his desire to reach out to her and not wanting to risk waking her up. His solitude ends with the presence of his new neighbor standing inside. He’s seen glimpses of her these past weeks since she started living here, three doors down from his, but he’s yet to exchange a word with her.
He's too tired to do little more than nod in greeting as he enters, noticing the button of his floor number is already pushed and resting his weight on the wall.
“Rough night?” She inquires, sympathetic, her tone unfolding an echo Tim doesn’t know where to place as he hums in affirmation, his stare centered on the monitor, watching the numbers change, feeling hers on him, taking in his state as the elevator goes up. “I have some butterfly stitches and antiseptic if you want some help.”
Her offer forces him to glance at her, his eyebrow rising, doing nothing to hide his surprise.
“I imagine the badge and Mrs. Davis' high praises make you safe enough to invite you in. I’m not that irresponsible to ask a bloodied unknown man into my home at night.” Her sass soothes him, stealing a smirk from him, short and tired, but not less genuine, reminding him of his Buttercup, triggering a fresh wave of longing, making him dream what it would be to be here with her, curious if her figure is similar to the woman standing beside him, the perfect size for him to mold his around.
"Smart girl,” he sees a tinge flash in her irises, a glimmer vanishing as fast as it had appeared, sparked by his praise, flaring his interest, "If you're sure, I'd be grateful.”
(10/2/24)
(1:10 am) (video)
Milo is having a blast.
(1:11 am) I reckon so. Who's his friend?
(1:11 am) Emma's cat.
Sorry for waking you up. I didn’t realize it was so late.
(1:11 am) I was awake. I couldn’t sleep, don’t worry.
Babysitting duty?
(1:11 am) I'm crashing on her couch, eating my weight in chocolate ice cream.
(1:12 am) What’s wrong, Buttercup?
(1:16 am) I don't have a boyfriend anymore, nor a home.
(1:16 am) I'm sorry.
(1:16 am) I should have seen it coming. I feel so stupid.
You can tell me I told you so.
(1:16 am) You’re not stupid. What happened?
(1:16 am) He decided to christen our bed with his secretary.
And I obviously got home earlier than I usually do.
(1:16 am) Fuck.
(1:16 am) Indeed.
(1:16 am) You want me to break his knees?
The walk hardly takes a minute; a welcoming aura envelops him the second he puts his feet inside her place. Despite her recent move, it already feels like a home, cozy and inviting, with warmth pouring from the corners. The comfortable furniture, blending seamlessly, and the light illuminating the space, surround him as she guides him towards the bathroom, signaling the toilet seat for him to sit as she gets the supplies ready and begins to disinfect his wound.
“Do I want to know how you got that scratch?”
“It was my mistake. I was running behind a perp and not properly looking where I was going. It wasn't my best decision.”
“You…” The sting of the antiseptic and the curses slipping from his mouth interrupt her quip. “I'm sorry,” she hushes, delicately blowing over the laceration, her thumb brushing the skin around it, soothing the burning sensation.
His eyes close at her actions, leaning on the touch, starving for it, her sweet scent, with hints of vanilla and lavender, that leaves him far too soon.
She applies the gauze, the pinkish shade in it denoting a job done, her attention focused on the next task, carefully laying down the first stitch, all of them, one after another, with kindness infused in each stroke, fuelling the itch to reach out and caress her.
Her gentleness and beauty mesmerize him. Luring him in with how effortless it feels, genuine and bare -the sort that has always attracted him- dressed in an oversized sweatshirt, yoga pants, and no trace of make-up on her skin. Soft curves, pliable and supple, draw him in, begging to surrender to the unexplainable pull he's been feeling, unusual in him and his guarded nature, silencing his remorse, any guilt for accepting her touch, for his thoughts when his heart is spoken for as if his soul was cognisant of a secret his brain had yet to discover.
"I'm not that familiar with cuts. Bakeries are more prone to cause burns, but it doesn't seem that bad. You'll make a full recovery." He has no time to elucidate or ponder, the puzzle pieces falling before him, kneeling, slotting flawlessly, thanks to a noise driving her gaze to the hallway and exposing her neck.
(1/18/25)
(10:30 pm) Tell me a secret.
(10:30 pm) Quite bold tonight, detective.
(10:30 pm) Will you indulge me?
(10:30 pm) What kind?
(10:30 pm) One you’re comfortable sharing. Or something that would let me recognize you if we crossed each other on the street.
(10:30 pm) Another bad shift?
(10:30 pm) You could say so.
(10:31 pm) I've got three moles on my neck, below my jaw, shaping a triangle. What about you?
(10:32 pm) I left my first day on the force with a souvenir. Three inches. A knife sliced my left wrist. I was so high in adrenaline that I didn't notice it until my boss told me to go get it taken care of.
He witnesses what she recently told him. A treasure, a trio of dots, of gems, rounded shapes of a darker color, splashing her skin, three moles forming a triangle.
It lifts the veil obscuring the truth, a unique hue blazing, bathing each gesture with a renewed color, no more blurred insights but undeniable clarity, appealing and arousing almost to the point of no control.
“Where’s Milo, Buttercup?” He barely hears his question, drowned out by his heartbeat, drumming against his ribs in tempo with his exhilaration and fear, scared it's all a mirage, a fantasy born of his yearning. But her body stiffening, freezing, becoming a statue for a few seconds, gives him hope.
He offers himself as proof, raising his arm as she turns towards him. The rolled-up sleeves of his shirt display his wrist, the scar he had described.
“I…”
His smile expands. Unstoppable. And his stare roams, unashamedly, drinking her in, memorizing this moment -her beauty, silhouette, edges, and core, every detail, how her hair frames her countenance, the color and cut she had mentioned, the contrast between what she looks like to what he had imagined, how reality is infinitely better, perfect- the surprise in her expression, the twin of his, awed that fate has brought them together.
“Riggs?” Her voice is no more than a trembling whisper.
“It’s Rockford,” he says, realizing he hadn't offered his name.
“Oh.”
“Tim Rockford,” he states, locking her gaze, extending his palm, pleading to hold hers, a knight avid to swear his loyalty.
She responds, accepting, her name escaping in a murmur as she anchors the connection, turning it physical -gasping at the charged touch. Anew. Meaningful. Heavy. Loosening the knot in his chest, infusing air in his lungs. He seizes it, clasping her fingers, bringing them to his face, smelling, ingraining her fragrance in his brain, her name carving an imprint on his tongue as he repeats it, savoring her taste with an unhurried peck on her knuckles.
"You can keep calling me Buttercup."
His chest rumbles, a growl more than a chuckle, using the grip to tug her closer, between his legs, spread out for her to fit, close enough to feel her heat, craning his head to maintain eye contact, watch her pupils dilate and bask in the growing desire, burning. His hands land on her hips -squeezing her pliant flesh- and hers don't stay idle. Her nails scratch his jaw as they draw a path to his hair, interlacing with his curls, bold, conquering, cradling his head, bewitching him with her succulent lips, curving upwards, conscious, beseeching to be claimed.
“I prefer Tim.”
“Of course, Timmy.”
Her grin twinkles with mischief, adorable and infectious, making his own grow so big it hurts, rolling his eyes, fully aware that he's definitely in deep trouble. She could call him stupid, and he’d be a happy man.
“Will you go on a date with me?” He asks, finally, now that she's found her footing, healed from her previous relationship, not daring to wait any more time, unwilling to have another case suspending his plans again, eager to start something that will never end.
“Is tonight too soon? The food I ordered should be about to arrive. There's plenty. We could sit on the couch and talk." She proposes, hesitation splattered in her expression. "I’m not ready to let you out of my sight.”
He stands, closing the distance, his hands traveling to her cheeks, cradling them, ensuring she's looking at him, bumping his nose with hers to ease her nerves and make her giggle. His bliss permeates his movements, slow, with intent and hope, stopping just a breath away from her, his forehead grazing hers.
“I’d love to.” He replies, destroying the last traces of space, sealing his vow to her lips.
Npt (because there was interest on my WIP Wednesday) @secretelephanttattoo @harriedandharassed @almostfoxglove @yxtkiwiyxt @milla-frenchy
A/N: Jesus fuck that gif. Okay so let’s be honest with ourselves - Pero is a walking UTI so in my head and little universe here, he’s bathes a lot and is nice and clean lmao. Headcanon: he buys lavender soaps from his travels and is always washing that beast wherever and whenever he can. BTW, Pero has a big dick - no I won’t be taking criticism, we all know it. Enjoy, angels.
This is all @blueeyesatnight fault, based from this post so this is dedicated to them ❤️
Pairing: Pero Tovar x f!reader
Word count: 3.4k
Warnings: SMUT—STRICTLY 18+. Oral (f & m receiving), unprotected p in v sex, masturbation (f), spanking, smidgen of knife play
+
The arrival of the strange group of mercenaries spread throughout the town like wildfire, the weathered men only stepping a mere foot into the parish before every man, woman and child knew of them. You had yet to see any of the well armoured, weapon-clad men, only taking on the small slivers of information through your friends. They weren’t to stay long, they said. Only resting in between their extensive travels across the lands.
You were hardly expecting to watch one of the brutes sneak into your stables in the cover of shadow from your bedroom window where you had been sat with a book, unable to sleep.
“Get away from my horse.”
He startles only slightly, head whipping to where you stand at entrance of the stables and dark eyes rolling over you in quiet assessment. You have a sword, blade shining in the lamplight, but he clearly finds you of little to no threat clad in your night clothes, his frame staying relaxed and unbothered.
summary: after having moved to rome for a fresh new start, you begin to receive letters from an unlikely stranger that you begin to develop feelings for... only to come to the heartbreaking realization that the two of you may never meet.
pairing: marcus acacius x fem!reader
content warnings: angst (with a happy ending), strangers-to-lovers trope (?), mutual pining, mentions of war and death, sorry - i've got a lack of historical ancient roman knowledge but trying my best lol, deviation from the film (lucilla dies before marcus - sorry, wanted marcus to be single / widowed which only fuels his hatred for the emperors), reader has a nickname (rose), excuse my poor attempt at speaking italian, no use of y/n.
word count: 9.4k
a/n: so i'm really stepping out of my comfort zone with this one, but i've been obsessed with marcus a since gladiator 2 came out (and honestly who else hasn't lol). also a bit of a tidbit - my first ever tattoo is with the latin saying ad maiora so i had to fit it into this story hehe. if the characterization seems off or if the historical aspect of ancient rome / dialogue is inaccurate, please bear with me - it's my first ever marcus a fic and first time writing in that time period... anyway, huge thank you to @jolapeno for hosting this "dear-uary" challenge <3. my epistolary is letters and my prompt is here. hope you all enjoyed this!
Finally settled in, you walk out to your small balcony and take a seat. It overlooks the famous Colosseum and despite the sounds of chatter coming from nearby, you have to wonder how this place looked centuries ago. Rome had always been a place you wanted to visit, but never did you think that you’d move here.
You don’t speak the language (yet), and the apartment you moved into was surprisingly affordable given the location. An elderly couple owns the small building and when you had approached them about a vacant apartment listing, they were more than eager to have you move in. It wasn’t at all luxurious–the apartment building. It was very dated, remnants of ancient Rome decorated throughout the building. It almost felt like you were transported back to that time period, given the decoration that filled not only your apartment but the entire building itself.
The couple could speak a little English, asking plenty of questions that a usual landlord wouldn’t ask.
American? Yes, you answered.
Married? No, you replied with a heavy sigh–memories of your last relationship flickering in your mind.
A beautiful girl like you, not married? No, you repeated–now trying to end the conversation in hopes that you don’t have to go into detail why you uprooted your entire life into one suitcase.
You had noticed the way the older woman’s smile drops, can see her eyes softening at the sight of you. It’s almost like she knows, like she can understand why you’re here. She’s the first one to say that you got the apartment–the brief meeting lasting only twenty minutes.
It’s yours, she said.
You had told them you weren’t sure you could afford it, given how close it was to the Colosseum and knowing that it was one of the hottest tourist spots. There’s a lot of foot traffic that surrounds this area and you’d be lucky to have found an apartment this fast.
Whatever you can pay, the husband had chimed in. We will accept.
Then, the woman had touched your arm–gentle, light, almost feather-like and you could have sworn the warmth radiated throughout your entire body. This place, this couple–it felt familiar, it felt like home.
You nodded in agreement and you shook hands with the husband before the woman hugged you gently.
And now, sitting in your new apartment, this didn’t feel real. You still feel like you’re running, like you’re looking over your shoulder, waiting for the other shoe to drop. But the sun begins to set, the sky soon turns a shade of orange and you let out a breath that you hadn’t realized you were holding.
A flood of relief washes over you.
You’re safe.
This is your fresh start.
And you remember what the woman had told you when they had given you the keys to your new apartment: Ad Maiora, cara mia, she whispered, eyes staring into your own. A fleeting gaze of understanding. You asked her what that meant and she smiled, patted your hand and answered, Towards greater things, my dear.
After finding luck with your apartment, you doubt that your luck would continue. But now, a month later, you have a steady job at a coffee shop that’s within walking distance and the elderly couple–Giovanni and Antonia–have begun teaching you Italian. Most nights, they invite you to their apartment for dinner where they ask you about your day along with a detailed lesson in learning Italian. Some nights, though, they ask you to teach them English–living so close to a famous tourist area, they encounter plenty of Americans and they believe it’d be good for business if they learned how to speak the language.
Rome starts to feel more like home as the days pass. Giovanni and Antonia have welcomed you with such warmth that they soon find out the reason for you moving here. You told them you left America for a fresh start–having just gotten out of a very toxic relationship and a very meaningless job. You wanted more for yourself and you knew that staying in America was only going to keep you complacent, stagnant.
Antonia had given you a hug at the end of that night–a hug that you had gotten so used to receiving, a hug that you found so much comfort in. They reminded you so much of your grandparents that had raised you–those were the only good memories that you dreamt of, a time where you could be a young girl again, running around in your grandparents’ home.
You feel much freer, more at ease, safe now that you feel fully settled in here. And one day after work, you walk up the two flights of stairs to your apartment and unlock your door. There’s an envelope on the hardwood floor–almost like someone had slipped it underneath your door. There’s no writing on it, no name addressed on it, but you pick it up anyway and notice that it isn’t sealed. You set it on your small rounded table and walk to your kitchen to pour yourself a glass of wine–this is routine for nights when you don’t have dinner with Antonia and Giovanni.
You take a quick sip of your red wine and then move to your bedroom, removing your clothes to change into much more comfortable clothing–shorts and an oversized crewneck, your hair now pulled into a messy bun. You’re barefoot when you walk back into the kitchen to retrieve your wine glass. As you pass the rounded dining table, you notice the envelope. Someone must have had to slide it underneath your door on purpose, right?
You take the envelope and then walk out to your balcony, sitting on one of the seats as you set the glass on the small table. Slowly, you pull the letter out of the envelope and open it, the writing in neat cursive. You shouldn’t be reading it, especially if this was meant for someone else.
Confused but intrigued, you continue to read.
Lucilla died today. I was not there to bid her goodbye. I had given her a promise–that this campaign will be my last. All of Numidia–for the glory of Rome… all for nothing. Writing this journal entry surely is treacherous–I could be punished for it, but what is the point of it all? This is not Rome. This is not the Rome I had promised to fight for.
Lucilla–I am sorry, my lady. I will love you for the rest of my days and cannot wait until we meet again. Your blue eyes, your smile… Your laugh and your voice–I will carry it with me, my love. I will speak with the Senate. I will–I will do what is right, what must be done.
For you. For Rome.
Acacius
You’re unsure of what you just read. Lucilla. Numidia. Acacius. Rome. It almost seems like this is a journal entry–the feel of the paper, the cursive writing. Maybe you shouldn’t have read it, but you’re curious. Something inside you tells you to write back–almost like a tug, a pull that you feel in the pit of your stomach. So, you grab a piece of paper and a pen and begin writing–not in cursive, though.
Dear Acacius,
I’m so very sorry for your loss. I’m not sure there’s anything anyone can say to make things better and I’m not even sure if time helps either… Shit happens. It sucks, and I want to say that life goes on, but it doesn’t. At least not for the person who lives.
I lost my grandparents when I was eighteen–it crushed my entire world and set me on a path that I’m still trying to fix. I know this isn’t the same as losing a wife or a partner and I’m not even sure if I’m making any sense. I just–I know what loss feels like and it fucking sucks.
Anyway, I think this might have been sent to me by accident and I’m sorry that I opened it and read it. It wasn’t my intention. So, I’m just gonna send it back to you–somehow–but… I hope things get better for you, Acacius (really cool name, by the way!).
Best wishes,
A stranger
You fold your letter and place it into the envelope with Acacius’s original piece of paper. You then close the envelope, grab your glass of wine and walk back into your apartment, setting the envelope onto your dining table so that it’s visible for you tomorrow morning to ask Antonia about.
The following morning after getting ready for work, you notice that the envelope is gone. You furrow a brow in confusion, beginning to turn over your entire apartment to find the envelope–contents of your letter along with Acacius’s journal entry inside of it. When you realize that you’re late for work, you decide to call in sick and quickly leave your apartment to descend the stairs to speak with Antonia.
She’s in the community garden, tending to the roses and when she sees you, a bright grin lines her lips. She stands and pulls you into a hug without hesitation.
“Cara mia, no work today?”
You shake your head and ask, “Antonia, there was an envelope in my apartment last night. Do you know who might have slid it under my door?”
“Envelope?” she shakes her head, confusion written across her features. “Like a letter?”
“Well, not really?” you answer. “It seemed like a journal entry. They talked about Lucilla, about Numidia–”
“Lucilla? My dear, she was the daughter of Roman Emperor Marcus Aurelius.”
“Wait, that was centuries ago.”
Antonia nods. “And Numidia,” she sighs. “So very tragic.”
“Antonia, who’s Acacius?”
“General Acacius?”
“G–General?”
“Cara mia, cosa sta succedendo?” asks Antonia. My dear, what’s going on?
You shake your head. “Nothing. Um, I’ll have to skip tonight’s dinner with you and Giovanni. Mi dispiace.”
“Cara mia–”
You give her a hug and walk back inside your apartment, determined to find out more about Acacius.
Marcus returns to his chambers, distraught and overcome with grief. His bed–once shared with Lucilla–now remains cold and empty. He can’t bring himself to lie in bed, yearning for his wife who is no longer alive. After Numidia, he was more than ready to return home–returning home meant returning to Lucilla, but when news of her death finally reached him, he no longer found the need to go back to Rome, despite the emperors’ orders.
But Marcus was a man of honor. He would ask Emperor Geta and Emperor Caracalla for a period of rest from war, to fully grieve the loss of Lucilla. He can’t even think about attending the emperors’ ceremony that’s dedicated to his success in Numidia–how can he when Lucilla is no longer here?
He hears a knock on the door and he walks–barefoot–to open it. He sees a chambermaid on the other side–she has a look of sympathy across her features with a hint of fear.
“G–General,” she mutters. “There is a letter for you.”
“A letter?” he asks, confused.
She nods and extends her hand. Marcus takes the envelope from her and gives her a single nod, dismissing her silently. She turns on her heel and Marcus shuts the door, walking towards the candle that illuminates a small table. He takes a seat, pours himself a cup of wine before he begins to open it. He holds two pieces of a paper–one he’s familiar with and when he opens it, he realizes it’s the journal entry that he had written–and the other, much more smooth, less texture, more white in color. When he opens it, his eyes widen at the writing–all capitalized, not written in cursive.
He reads the first line and realizes that this is a letter to him. He reads it with interest, eyes still slightly widened at the choice of words that he’s not used to.
Shit sucks.
Cool name.
It’s signed A Stranger and he isn’t sure how his journal entry even got into the hands of someone else. He doesn’t have any information aside from the fact that your writing is unusual and the words you use are out of the ordinary.
But, he finds comfort in your letter. He’s known loss before–plenty of his men understand what he’s going through–but somehow talking to a stranger who doesn’t truly know who he is provides a sense of relief. He doesn’t have to be General Acacius in his response to you–he can just be Marcus.
So, he grabs a piece of paper and his quill and begins writing to you.
Dear Stranger,
Thank you for returning my journal entry. I am not sure how that fell into your hands and it is quite alright that you read it. However, for some reason, I feel some relief knowing that I am not alone. Maybe my journal entry was meant to find you… Do you believe in that? In fate?
Anyway, I am sorry for your loss as well. Loss is… Well, it is a part of life but that does not mean that it is pleasant either. I am sure the path that you are on now will lead you to greater things. There is a saying–if you are familiar–Ad Maiora. It means towards greater things.
Also, what do you mean by ‘cool name’? It is quite interesting that my name is associated with some kind of temperature… unless I am misunderstanding.
In any case, you may call me Marcus. If you are comfortable, may I ask what your name is?
I hope this letter finds you well, stranger. And I hope I get to talk to you again.
Best wishes,
Marcus
He re-reads his letter, furrows a brow and sighs. It sounds desperate–a plea to get you to talk to him again because he feels less alone when he’s writing to you. He isn’t sure how this letter will get to you, but he keeps his journal entry and your letter and places his reply back into the envelope.
Marcus spends the better part of his night drinking, having ended up falling asleep at his desk and the envelope magically disappearing by the time he awakes the following morning.
You awake the following morning, having fallen asleep on your couch with your laptop and notebook scattered on the coffee table. You had spent the entire night researching Acacius. Antonia was right–Marcus Acacius was a General for the Roman empire, serving under the rule of Emperor Geta and Emperor Caracalla. Empress Lucilla was his wife, but had died while he was on his way back from Numidia. But all of this–it happened centuries ago. 211 AD. And Acacius ended up dying–right in the center of the Colosseum after he was forced to fight in the arena after the emperors found out his plan of treachery.
There’s no way that the person you had written to the other day was the same man you had researched–he was dead. Surely, you can’t be writing to someone from a different time period and to someone who is no longer alive. Right?
You sit up from your couch and notice the same envelope magically resting on your coffee table. Quickly, you grab it and pull the letter out. Same paper, same writing.
It’s from Acacius.
You read it quickly, a small smile lining your lips and a quiet giggle escaping you. You feel a wave of emotion when you read his reply; it’s obvious this man is clearly still alive but how could it be possible that you’re communicating with someone who lives in an entirely different time period? And how come the envelope is your only string tying you to him?
After you finish reading his letter, you grab your notebook and pen and begin writing your reply.
Dear Marcus,
You can call me Rose. It’s my favorite flower and I grew up helping my grandma with her garden, which was filled with roses.
You’re cute, Marcus. Cool name meaning… You have a nice name. I think that translates the same?
Ironically enough, Ad Maiora is something I’m trying to remind myself when I have tough days. A good friend of mine mentioned it to me when I moved here. It’s been something that keeps me going every day… the hope that I’m moving in the right direction.
And fate… I don’t think I believe in it. We all have free will and everything we do in life is a choice we make… like my choice in getting into a relationship with a really bad man. Would you call that fate?
I like talking to you too… and I feel less alone too. Can I ask a question, by the way? What year is it?
Best wishes,
Rose
You take Marcus’s letter and set it aside, folding your reply and placing it back into the envelope. You’re sure that it’s going to disappear during the night and you hope that you can wake up the next day with a response from Marcus.
Marcus attends his ceremony, dressed in white and gold as he feigns a look of pride, a forced smile when he’s standing in front of Emperor Geta and Emperor Caracalla. It makes his blood boil–the fact that these two young men are parading him around like he’s done something so great, so grand. All he can see is the unnecessary bloodshed, the bodies burning in that pit. All he can feel is the emptiness in his soul–Marcus doesn’t want to be here.
And not once did they give their condolences over the loss of Lucilla. Marcus asks for a respite from this war, but they don’t grant him that luxury. He has a cut along the side of his neck due to Emperor Geta placing a sharp blade along his skin. As soon as the ceremony is over, Marcus retreats to his chamber where the envelope that disappeared that morning magically appears on his desk.
Still in his white and gold attire, he quickly opens the envelope and reads your letter. He lets out a breath of relief as he sits down and reads your words over and over again. It gives him comfort–something he desperately needs right now.
There’s something in the way your words put him at ease. He still has to put Lucilla to rest and he isn’t looking forward to it–that the next time he sees his wife will be in a coffin.
He grabs a piece of paper and begins writing to you.
Dear Rose,
That is a beautiful name and a beautiful flower. There are gardens filled with them here. Now, when I see a rose, I will think of you.
Cute–I have never been called cute before. That is certainly a first, thank you.
I believe in fate, Rose. I believe that everything happens for a reason… But I am sorry to hear that you had to endure a difficult relationship. It pains me to hear that you were mistreated and I surely hope that you are far from him now.
I believe that we have crossed paths for a reason. Maybe we will never know why, but I am surely glad that we did.
You can ask me any question you like and I will be more than happy to answer. It is 211 AD–do you not know the year? Also, I assume that you live in Rome since these letters are coming rather quickly.
The next few days will be… rather difficult. I am planned to bury my wife and I am not sure if I will be available to reply, but if you send me a response… I will do my best to write to you when I can.
I am not looking forward to saying goodbye to Lucilla. She was an amazing woman. She had to sacrifice a lot in her life–she was very brave, strong, resilient… I should have been there at her bedside. I should have held her hand when she took her last breath…
I failed Lucilla.
What kind of man does that make me?
If you choose to never respond after this letter, I understand. I just–there’s something in the way your words bring me comfort, puts me at ease, gives me a sense of relief…
Anyway, I must go now. Until we speak again, Rose.
Best wishes,
Marcus
He folds his letter and puts it back in the envelope, ensuring this time that he passes it along to the chambermaid.
Later that night, you come home after having spent dinner with Antonia and Giovanni. You’re welcomed with the sight of the envelope sitting neatly on your dining table. You set your things down immediately and grab the envelope, taking the letter out and sitting down on the couch.
Your heart breaks slowly as you read Marcus’s letter. You can feel his guilt through the words on the page and when he confirms the year he’s living in, it all but crushes you. This is a man that you’re slowly developing a friendship with and you know that it isn’t going to last long.
As you continue to read his letter, you feel tears sting your eyes. So, you don’t hesitate to begin writing your response back to him.
Dear Marcus,
With you, I’m starting to believe in fate. Would you believe me if I said the year I live in is 2025? I’m not sure how to explain how we’re able to exchange letters from different time periods, but… here we are. It’s possible. I just don’t have an explanation for it.
I can assure you that I am no longer in a relationship with that man and I am very much far from him. I moved to Rome about a month ago and I love it here. I can see the Colosseum from my balcony.
I’m sorry that the next few days will be difficult. I can’t imagine the pain that you’re feeling–losing the one person you thought you’d spend the rest of your life with. Lucilla sounded like a great woman, Marcus. I know saying sorry doesn’t change anything, but I don’t know if there’s even anything I can say to make things better.
I’m sure Lucilla knew… I’m sure she knew that you did your best to get to her. I’m sure she knew that you wanted to be there with her…
And you know, maybe you don’t have to say goodbye. The ones we love don’t ever really leave us, do they? We continue living to keep their memory alive.
You didn’t fail, Marcus. Sometimes, things happen out of our control. Not being there for her at the end isn’t a reflection of who you are as a person, or as a husband. I’m willing to bet that if you had it your way, you’d have been there for her. Maybe wherever you were… you wouldn’t have gone if you had a choice.
Finally, I’m not going anywhere. You’re stuck with me, sorry.
I hope the next few days give you some closure, Marcus, and when you’re ready, I’ll be right here waiting.
Best wishes,
Rose
You take his letter and put it on the pile you’ve collected before you place your reply back into the envelope. You turn your back for a moment to grab a glass of water and when you turn back around, the envelope is gone.
Marcus awakes that morning to the sight of the envelope. He can’t explain how it just vanishes and reappears out of thin air on his desk. He pulls your letter out of the envelope and reads what you have written.
2025? Surely, that’s a lie. There is no way he’s exchanging letters with someone centuries into the future. He has to wonder if this is some sort of joke, if maybe the emperors put someone up to this. As he continues reading though, he feels tears sting his eyes, threatening to spill over. Your words–it provides a sensation of warmth that blossoms in his chest. He wants to believe you, wants to believe that he’s a good man.
Marcus rereads your last sentence repeatedly, commits it to memory as he begins thinking of what he has to do today.
I’ll be right here waiting.
He doesn’t have time at the moment to write you back, so he keeps the envelope and letter separate from each other. He takes one last look at your letter before he leaves his chamber.
The next few days, you’re anticipating a response from Marcus. He did warn you that he wouldn’t write back until he’s able, but you still can’t help the disappointment you feel when the envelope doesn’t appear for the next few days. Antonia and Giovanni notice a change in your demeanor since you’ve been receiving the letters–they notice the excitement in your eyes, a much freer spirit, but you tell them it’s because you’re finally feeling more and more comfortable here in Rome.
You learn more about Marcus through your research and you try to find someone who can explain the phenomenon that you’re experiencing. How is it possible that you’re communicating with a man from a different time period? Sure, there are theories about time travel but that never felt real to you.
At the end of the week, you’re already getting anxious. It’s been four days since Marcus’s letter. You have to wonder what he’s doing, how he’s doing. You know how his life ends, and you have to wonder what would happen if you told him. That would change so many things, right? It would not only change history, but it would ultimately change the trajectory of how the world is now.
On the fifth day, Marcus is exhausted. Saying goodbye to Lucilla had only fueled his anger for the emperors. He has a plan in place and he knows what end he will meet if he gets caught, but at this point, he has nothing else to lose.
After he buries Lucilla, he finds some time to ask around if anyone knew a woman named Rose. When someone would respond with a nod, there’s a flutter of excitement that he feels in the pit of his stomach but he’s left disappointed every time. Every Rose he’s met so far has no idea of the letters and he’s starting to believe that maybe you do live in the future–centuries into the future. It leaves him with an unsettling sensation in his chest, a sad reality that there’s a likely possibility that Marcus will never get to meet you.
Now, he finally has some time alone. So, Marcus sits at his desk, rereads your letter once more before he takes his usual paper and quill out to begin writing a response to you.
Dear Rose,
I am sorry for the delay in my response. The last five days have been very difficult for me, but every time I saw a rose… I thought of you and it brought me a lot of comfort that I did not realize I needed.
I want to express my gratitude to you, Rose. Your last letter–I kept it close to me at all times during the last few days here. Somehow, knowing that you’re waiting for me helped me get through each day… and knowing that I get to write to you again helped me through the difficult moments I endured. Ad Maiora, I suppose. Towards greater things… and I think that greater thing is you.
I buried Lucilla yesterday. She still looked so beautiful, but she looked… peaceful. She endured a lot of hardship in her life and there is some comfort that I feel knowing she’s no longer in pain. She no longer needs to fight… and I believe you are right. The ones we love do not ever leave us. We keep their memory alive and Lucilla will always hold a special place in my heart.
I must be completely honest with you, Rose. I am the General of the Roman army. I have a lot of blood on my hands… all for the glory of Rome, but you are right. If I had a choice, I would have been by Lucilla’s side from the start. I am conflicted… It is difficult to fight for this version of Rome. So much bloodshed, so many lives lost… all for nothing. I should not be writing this–it is certainly punishable, but I am exhausted, Rose.
If you do live in 2025–which does not seem possible–how does Rome look like then? You say you moved to Rome. Are you happy here? I also tried to look for you. Asked around about you, but I did not get anywhere. There isn’t anyone by the name of Rose that knows about these letters. Do you really live in 2025?
Lastly, tell me more about you. I want to spend as much time as I have getting to know you, Rose. I hope that is okay.
Best wishes,
Marcus
He folds his response and places it into the envelope. Right before his eyes, it suddenly vanishes and Marcus is sure that he must be hallucinating. He’s exhausted and hasn’t had much sleep since he’s gotten back, but he has no other explanation for it.
You awake the following morning to see the envelope on your coffee table. Excitement fills your veins and you quickly walk over to the envelope, carefully taking the familiar piece of a paper out. You begin to realize the letters you have begun exchanging with Marcus are becoming longer and longer–it brings a smile to your face and heat rising in your cheeks.
You sit on the couch, pull your legs underneath you and grab the blanket to drape over your lap as you finally read Marcus’s letter. He thought of you–the last five days and he thought of you. When he finally tells you the truth about who he is, you feel a sense of relief. You had been afraid that you’d accidentally let it slip that you know who he is, despite already telling him that you live in the future.
The last sentence in his letter brings you back to reality. You feel the pit in your stomach drop at the realization that this is as far as you’ll ever get with him. Sooner or later, this letters will end but you can’t help the feelings you’ve begun to develop for a man you will never meet.
I want to spend as much time as I have getting to know you, Rose.
It’s almost like he knows what will happen to himself–maybe he knows that the plan he eventually comes up with is a death sentence once the emperors find out.
You know you shouldn’t get attached, but you get your notebook and pen and write back to him anyway.
Dear Marcus,
I must say, it’s such a relief to hear from you. I wish I could have been there for you, with you… supporting you. If I’m being honest, it’s hard to hear that you’re going through a difficult time. Makes me want to go back into time and pull you into a hug. Do you think that’s possible? Time travel?
You sure know how to make a girl feel special, don’t you? You make me blush sometimes with the things you say. Are you sure you’re real? A lot of the men here certainly don’t talk like you do–you can definitely teach them a thing or two.
I'm starting to think our saying is Ad Maiora, isn’t it? Moving to Rome led me toward a greater thing… one after the other, and it finally led me to you. I’d say that’s fate, wouldn’t you?
And General Marcus Acacius–sounds so formal, so official. You must be very important, aren’t you? Like I said, I wish I could pull you into a hug. I hope, at least, knowing that I’m here to listen is enough though. Also, if talking about this is punishable, then maybe we should be careful. I don’t want anything to happen to you…
Yes, I live in the year 2025. I’d be surprised if someone lied to you and said they knew about the letters we’ve been exchanging. Rome is… different than what you’re used to. There are no emperors. The colosseum is no longer in use–there aren’t anymore gladiators. I’ll attach a photograph of me and my balcony, maybe it’ll help you believe me.
Well, what do you want to know? I’m an open book, Marcus. Ask away.
Can’t wait to hear from you again. I have missed you.
Love,
Rose
You sign the letter without thinking, but you don’t bother to change it or rewrite it after you realize the word you used. You hope it isn’t too forward or too insensitive. You grab your Polaroid camera and quickly walk out to your balcony. You face the camera to yourself and smile, pressing the button to take the picture. Once it develops, you go back inside and fold your letter. After a few minutes, the Polaroid develops and you look down. It’s a good picture and gives a good view of the colosseum in the background.
Placing the letter and the Polaroid into the envelope, you close it and surprisingly see the envelope disappear.
“So it is real,” you whisper to yourself, a smile lining your lips as you already begin counting down the time before you receive a reply from Marcus.
Later that same night, Marcus sees the envelope on his desk as he gets ready for bed. He sits down instantly at his desk and uses his candle to illuminate your writing.
But he sees the Polaroid and takes it out of the envelope. Marcus lets out a quiet breath when he sees you. He isn’t sure what exactly he’s holding or how this managed to capture a realistic photograph of you but he’s distracted by your beauty to even notice the colosseum in the back. He’s still reeling over Lucilla’s death, but there’s something in the way your smile and your bright eyes somehow puts him at ease.
“My lady,” he mumbles. “Lucilla, if you can hear me, please forgive me. This woman–She is helping me through this, through your loss.” Marcus shuts his eyes, guilt and desire mixing together. Guilt because he’s still dealing with the grief of losing Lucilla, and desire because you are absolutely stunning. Marcus isn’t even surprised–this is exactly how he pictured you when you began exchanging letters with him.
Marcus turns his gaze to your letter, but his eyes flicker to your picture repeatedly. You really do live in the future and you will always be so out of reach.
Then, he sees the word you sign your letter with. A warmth washes over him. His lips curl upwards just slightly and he begins to write.
Dear Rose,
This–This picture, it is you, yes? I cannot explain how something like this exists, so it must be true that you do live in the future. So far into the future.
But you are breathtaking, Rose. Absolutely beautiful. Your smile and your eyes… there’s a kindness and warmth to them. The man you had been in a relationship with before truly did not realize what he had because any man would be lucky to have you.
The colosseum in your photograph–it looks old. If what you say is true, no gladiators and no emperors, then can I ask… is your world a better place than what it is here? I think I will dream of this, of you, of a different life. This is not to say the life I currently have or have led is not great, but a man can still dream, right?
A hug from you sounds very nice. I imagine that I would feel even more at peace with my arms around you. I am not too sure about time travel, but if these letters are any proof of what’s possible, then maybe time traveling is too. Though, if anyone is doing the time traveling, I would rather it be me. I do not want you to be in this time period here, Rose. I do not want you to be around such men because there are bad men here too. Maybe more worse here than there.
If I may be honest… I cannot stop looking at you. I believe I’m going to keep this very close to me from now on. I am sorry that I cannot provide the same type of picture of myself–we do not have this here… but maybe I can think of something else…
An open book, hm? Well, I know your favorite flower. I know that you are starting fresh here in Rome… I suppose I should ask what do you like to do then? If you are living in the future, what is there to do?
I am unsure if you have experienced this yet, but this envelope… it seems to be the reason why we are able to exchange letters. It vanished before my eyes the other day, Rose. I cannot explain how or why that happened, but maybe this is fate. Exchanging letters across time sounds impossible, but for some reason, the Gods wanted us to meet. That sounds like fate to me.
I will wait for your next letter, Rose, and I have missed you too.
Until then.
Love,
Marcus
He quickly folds the piece of paper and gently slides it into the envelope, not bothering to wait for it to disappear because his attention is pulled to your photograph. He brushes his thumb across it gently–wishing you were here.
The following morning, you’re awake far too early but excitement fills your entire body when you see the envelope sitting on your dining table. You make a cup of coffee and open it, having grown accustomed to Marcus’s neat cursive. You can feel the heat rise in your cheeks when he compliments you, can feel the butterflies in your tummy.
I think I will dream of this, of you, of a different life.
You feel your heart tug just a little–the harsh truth that you will never get to meet him becomes more and more real as you continue to exchange letters with him.
He’s seen it too–the envelope disappearing without a trace. You can’t explain how it’s possible and there is a part of you that no longer wants one. Time travel–there isn’t a way that’s possible and even if it was, how would it even work?
You grab your notebook and quickly begin writing to him, setting your cup of coffee down. You lift the cup away from the paper, taking note that it left a coffee-stained circle at the top corner of the page.
Dear Marcus,
You are very sweet… I’m sure there are more pretty women there. I’m just… me.
But Rome… it’s beautiful here. It’s always been a place I wanted to visit. I never did think I would end up moving here and now, I can’t even imagine ever leaving.
Considering your time period, I would say the world now is much better. I think you would like it… it might take some getting used to–it’s so very crowded here, but I think you would like it. I suppose that’s all we will have, isn’t it? Dreaming of a different life… Or maybe I’ll learn how to time travel and bring you here.
I love the beach. I love the water, the sunsets… It’s calming, almost peaceful to me. There’s just something about the sounds of the waves, the feel of the water, the sight of the sky that just puts me at ease. The beach was the one place that I felt like I could get away from everything. It became my safe haven, my safe place…
What about you? General Marcus Acacius–what do you like to do?
I have also seen this envelope just disappear. I don’t have an explanation for it either, but maybe you’re right. Maybe there is a reason why we’re able to communicate across time. Do you think we’ll ever get the chance to meet face to face? You know, if I learn time travel…
Sometimes, when I go to bed, I pray that I dream of you. I think it’s the closest I can get to ever meeting you. I imagine what you would look like, what your voice would sound like… How it would feel like to be in your arms. I would assume I’d feel like how I would if I were at the beach–safe, calm, peaceful.
If by some miracle I’m able to time travel, may I come visit you instead? I think it would be much easier for me to go back in time rather than you come here. Some things might change if you were to leave your time period and come to mine…
Looking forward to your next letter, Marcus.
Love,
Rose
You fold your letter and place it in the envelope, already counting down the hours until you receive Marcus’s reply.
Marcus finally sits at his table after an exhausting day at the colosseum. He doesn’t find the violence entertaining like everyone else. It’s unnecessary and he wants no part of it, but he has to put on a facade for the emperors. He still plans on speaking with the senate, to conjure up a plan to somehow overthrow Emperor Geta and Emperor Caracalla.
However, he’s conflicted with so many emotions. The grief and loss he feels over Lucilla lingers in his chest, but he feels hopeful–excited whenever he sees the envelope on his desk. If he goes through with his plan and he ends up getting caught, Marcus knows what the consequence will be. He knows that it’s ultimately a death sentence if the emperors find out, but his mind drifts to you whenever he thinks about what his end might be.
His eyes drift to your picture on his desk, a small smile curling his lips. He dreamt of you last night, after he had written his response to you. He dreamt that he was in your world, somehow lying in a bed with you in his arms. It was the first time since losing Lucilla that he had woken up with a feeling of ease–just dreaming about you brought him that sense of peace.
Marcus takes your letter out and reads it with a smile. Once he finishes reading, he begins writing back to you.
Dear Rose,
I dreamt of you last night. The Gods answered me and I dreamt of you. I dreamt that I was in your world, sitting on that balcony in the picture I received from you. I have this image of you–smiling and laughing–ingrained in my mind. It puts me at ease. Talking with you has been my safe haven, I suppose. Things have been difficult here ever since I got back and it’s lonely without Lucilla. I am sorry to bring her up.
These letters have been able to get me through each day. Your picture, too. Lately, I have been dreaming of a different life than the one I am living. I have been a soldier for most of my life, Rose. I do not think there’s a day that has gone by where I have not fought… And it is tiring. The beach sounds like a great place to just get away from it all, I agree. Here, though, I like to go to the gardens. More so now than before. I am usually surrounded by roses and it makes me feel closer to you.
I am ready to retire, Rose. I am ready to spend the rest of my days in quiet–possibly far, far away from Rome. Maybe near a beach, hm? That would certainly be another place where I can be reminded of you.
I will pray to the Gods for a miracle that we get to meet one day. I didn’t think it would be possible to exchange letters with someone from a different time, so maybe being able to meet face to face may not seem so out of reach… I imagine that I would feel safe and calm with you near too.
Your beauty, your words… The way you have made me feel… It all reminds me of Lucilla, but in your own way. I am a man of honor, Rose, and Lucilla will always have a piece of my heart, but… you have become the reason why I am able to get up every morning. I look forward to the next time I see this envelope because it means I get to talk with you.
Maybe tonight, we can meet in each other’s dreams, Rose.
Until then, my lady.
Love,
Marcus
Days turn into weeks and your letters with Marcus become more and more frequent. You’ve tried to teach yourself the theories of time travel, but you’re just as confused as when you first started. The more you talk with Marcus, the more you begin to realize the magnitude of your feelings for him. You try to tell yourself that developing feelings for a man you won’t ever meet–a man who’s already dead–is only going to set you up for heartbreak.
But despite knowing how this might end, you still exchange letters with him anyway.
Marcus is set to meet with the Senate tomorrow and he knows that if he gets caught, it will be his death sentence. There won’t be any way that he will be able to get out of it. He holds onto your letters–and especially your picture–when the days and weeks become more difficult for him. Emperor Geta and Emperor Caracalla require his presence at the colosseum and Marcus finds it increasingly exhausting to sit there and feign interest.
When he gets back to his chambers every day, the envelope is there waiting for him. He reads your letters repeatedly before he can even write a response. The way you talk about your world–it helps him escape his reality. He begins to realize just how deeply he feels for you and it saddens him because despite how strongly he feels, Marcus knows that you two may never get the chance to meet.
Later that night, you see the envelope and feel the excitement rush through you. However, once you open the letter and begin reading the words on the page, you feel your heart drop–tears building at the corners of your eyes. This feels almost like a goodbye…
Dear Rose,
I am set to meet with the Senate tomorrow. In secret. I realize that this might be the last letter I will ever write to you, but I will be praying to the Gods that it won’t be, but if it is… I wanted to write to you one last time.
You have given me hope, have made me feel alive when I had lost everything. Coming back to Rome after Numidia, after losing Lucilla–I could not find the will to live, but then I received your first letter. It was fate. You saved me, Rose. You continue to save me.
I wish I could see you. I wish I could touch you. I wish I could hold you. I know I said in a previous letter that I would want to spend the rest of my days in quiet… but I think that has changed.
If I had it my way, I would spend the rest of my days with you. I imagine what my life would be like with you. I imagine a lot of laughter. I imagine that we would be at the beach or maybe at the garden and we would have plenty of meaningful conversations. I imagine my mornings would be one of my favorite times of the day because I would get to wake up every morning with you by my side.
If this is the last time I get to speak with you, just know that you now also have a piece of my heart, Rose. I will carry your photograph with me forever. I will hold onto the conversations we’ve had and the letters we’ve exchanged.
If I do not make it… please remember that you deserve all of the good things in the world. You deserve to always be happy. You deserve to live your life the way you want. You deserve to be with someone who will cherish the very ground you walk on because you deserve nothing less.
When I sleep tonight, I will dream of you… like I always do, Rose.
Yours forever,
Marcus
You know what he means when he says he’s going to speak with the Senate tomorrow. You’ve read what will happen–after all, you know exactly how history plays out after having researched the history of Ancient Rome and Marcus.
You can feel your heart breaking–the ache in your chest beginning to throb almost painfully. You know how Marcus’s story ends, but you can’t let him go. You had been hesitant before–altering history–but you have to tell him. You may never get to meet him, but you don’t want this to be the end.
Grabbing your notebook, you begin to write your response. Almost fifteen minutes later, you fold it in half and place it inside the envelope, watching it disappear yet again before your eyes.
Marcus awakes that morning with a knot in his stomach–his eyes glance over at your photo before he catches the envelope. He sits up from bed and walks towards his desk, pulling out your letter and reading it carefully.
Dear Marcus,
Don’t. Your last letter feels like a goodbye, and I don’t want you to go. I don’t want to say goodbye, not yet… Not ever. I shouldn’t be telling you this because I’m sure it’s going to alter my own reality, but I don’t care. I don’t want to let you go.
You’re going to get caught. No matter how many times you’ve rehearsed it in your mind, you will be caught. Emperor Geta and Emperor Caracalla will find out and they–they will not take it lightly. They will make you fight in the colosseum and that is where you will die. I know how your story ends and yet, I made a choice to continue exchanging letters with you. I knew that our story would only end in heartbreak, but maybe… Maybe there’s still a chance for us.
I am begging you, Marcus… Please do not do it. Don’t go to the Senate. Just–Just leave Rome. Live the rest of your days in quiet–away from war, away from the bloodshed, away from the emperors. You no longer need to fight and I understand… I understand that you made a promise to Lucilla, to yourself, but I cannot lose you and maybe this makes me selfish, but– You saved me too, Marcus.
I will spend the rest of my days figuring out how to transcend time… to find a way where you and I can finally meet. Fate brought us together, right? We will figure this out. I will figure this out.
This is not the end of your story, Marcus Acacius. Do you understand me? And this certainly isn’t the end of ours. At the end of the day, we still have a choice…
If you decide to still go through with it, then I will understand. I know you are a man of honor, Marcus. And if you do decide that you will go to the Senate tonight, then I hope you know how deeply I feel for you too. I didn’t think I would ever love again, but you… You nestled your way into my heart and made a home there. I go to sleep dreaming of you. When I wake up, you are the first person I think of.
I love you, Marcus.
Yours forever,
Rose
He sits at the edge of his bed, rereading your letter over and over and over again. You know how his story ends and you know exactly what will happen when he goes to meet with the Senate tonight. He should have known that you’d be aware of his history–you live in the future after all.
Marcus isn’t afraid to die–in fact, it’s something that he’s come to terms with a long time ago, but for once, he doesn’t want this to end yet. He doesn’t want to let you go either and maybe, maybe you two will never meet, but he would rather die an old man exchanging letters with you.
He reads the last sentence repeatedly and he can’t help the way the words stir something in him–the butterflies he feels in the pit of his stomach, his heart beating faster–you love him.
Marcus knows what he needs to do now.
The rest of the day seems to drag on–the minutes trickling by ever so slowly. Even at work, you can’t concentrate. Antonia and Giovanni pick up on your distraction, but you reassure them with a fake smile and tell them that you’d just rather spend the night alone.
You know it was selfish to tell Marcus the truth, to practically beg him to stay, but you couldn’t imagine continuing to live your life with the possibility that you could save his life. You had only been exchanging letters with him for a little over a month, but you couldn’t help the feelings that you had begun to develop for him. The way your heart races faster when you see the envelope, or the way your stomach flips when you read his letters.
In your free time, you had been trying to learn how to time travel. It seemed almost impossible, but you didn’t want to quit. You couldn’t explain how you’re able to exchange letters with someone who lives centuries in the past–and if that was possible, then surely it was possible to time travel.
Somehow.
You enter your apartment later that night–you can feel the nerves settle in the pit of your stomach when you slowly open the door. You can hear your heart beating in your ears, heart rate slowly picking up when your eyes scan the dining table.
No letter.
Your stomach drops, so you close the door and then move your gaze to the coffee table.
Nothing.
Tears begin to pool at the corner of your eyes and you realize that Marcus had made his choice. You sit on your couch, bring your legs to your chest and cry into it. The sob builds and builds until you let out a quiet whimper, tears now streaming down your face.
He was gone.
Forever.
A week later and you finally get the courage to go back to work. When at work, you fake a smile–feign happiness, but when you get back home, you cry yourself to sleep.
Antonia and Giovanni leave you dinner at your front door, but you don’t bother to open it. You aren’t hungry–you haven’t had an appetite since Marcus’s last letter. You wonder if he ever received your letter and if he did, did he read it?
And if he did read it, what went through his mind?
And when you admitted that you loved him, did that scare him away?
When you open your front door later that night, you set your things down and begin walking into the living room until you finally see it.
The envelope.
Your heart leaps out of your chest.
You waste no time in opening the envelope, quickly taking out the letter and breathing out a sigh of relief when you see his familiar cursive writing.
Dear Rose,
I am sorry that I have not written back to you. I had a change of plans after your last letter and had to strategically plan how I would be able to execute it.
I am no longer in Rome. You were right–I no longer need to fight. I faked my death–with the help of some trusting men of mine–and am far away from that place.
I am living the rest of my days in the quiet–I now live in a small village where no one is familiar with who I am or what I have done. It is almost like a fresh start–a chance for me to live a different life… a life that I might have chosen from the beginning if I had the choice.
I want to thank you, Rose. For telling me the truth, for warning me. I am much happier now than I have ever been, and I am more than ready to spend the rest of my days with you. Traveling to this village was not easy, but you gave me the strength–like you always do–to keep going.
I love you, Rose. I wanted to tell you that once I was safe–once I was finally settled in. Ad Maiora, right? Towards greater things...
So, my lady, what do you say? Shall we continue our story together and maybe–one day–finally meet?
Yours forever,
Marcus
summary: Dieter comes in your mouth. You come in his. You make out. That's the plot.
wc: 717
tags/warnings: 18+, MDNI, straight up smut, oral (both), fingering, gratuitous cum worship, cum play
a/n: this is my filthy love letter to @dieterbravobrainrotclub 🥰 Happy one year to one of the most accepting and inclusive groups I've had the pleasure to be a part of! Here's to many more days and nights of losing our minds over this silly little character who ran away with our hearts and fills our minds with dirty thots.
"Oh ffffuuuuuuck yeah, babe. Oh oh oh hnngh-" Dieter whines, gripping at his own hair to try and keep his cool as you take him down your throat in one gulp.
Usually you would be dragging this out: slow, tortuous bites and licks along his inner thighs, nuzzling his balls while completely ignoring his leaking cock, and when you finally do give your attention to his cock you start the teasing all over again. slooow, gentle kitten licks up and around his shaft, soft chaste kisses around the head, a slow flick of your tongue over the tip before you finally wrap your lips around his cock and then start edging him until he's crying.
But not tonight.
Tonight you were the impatient one, in a rush to make this new delicious fantasy of Dieter's come to life. The second he finished his confession, you were on him, stripping the both of you of your clothes and getting to work.
Your right hand comes up to cup his balls, gently massaging the silken skin as you bob your head up and down, saliva pooling at the corners of your mouth, absolutely soaking his cock working him closer and closer and closer until…
"oh fuck oh fuck ohfuckohfuckfuckfuckfffffuuuuu-" Dieter whimpers, grabbing the back of your head, rocking his hips into your face, the feeling of his cock throbbing and pulsating as he comes in your mouth has you dripping down your thighs and onto the sheets below you, making sure to fight your instinct so swallow it down, keeping his cum pooled in your mouth as you pull your lips off his softening member.
Dieter wastes no time flipping you on your back and sinking his head between your legs. He immediately licks into your folds, a long wide stripe of his tongue parting your lips, scooping your wetness up to swirl around your hardened clit with his tongue.
Your back arches as you grip the sheets below you, muffled moans and whines sound from your tight lipped mouth, not taking into account how tortuous this would be for you. You love being vocal for Dieter, it's another way you can tell him he's doing well, being "my good boy," but if you were to do that now, it would ruin the entire fantasy the two of you were trying to accomplish.
He greedily sucks your clit between his lips, the tip of his tongue swirling around the swollen nub expertly as he shoves two fingers inside your dripping wet pussy. pumping them in and out, in and out, curling his fingertips just so against that spongy little spot that makes your toes curl. You grip the sheets even tighter, on the verge of tears as he focuses all his attention on rubbing that spot, flicking his tongue exactly how you like it. Bringing you that much closer to the edge at an alarming rate, your legs shaking from his ministrations.
He works his fingers faster, harder, moaning around your clit as your cunt starts tightening around his digits, your whole body shaking as you fight to keep his cum in your mouth as you whine and moan, writhing as your building climax finally breaks, crashing and cresting over you, absolutely gushing as Dieter seals his lips around your clit, sucking harder as you come and squirt into his mouth.
Your body still shaking as you recover from your earth shattering release, Dieter crawls up your figure, cupping his palm around the nape of your neck before bringing his lips to yours, his tongue immediately darting into your mouth. Your tongues swirl together, winding around the other in a mess of your mixed saliva and cum. The sweet tang of your release on his tongue blending with the salty musk of his seed on yours merge and mingle with your combined saliva to create a taste so uniquely you and Dieter it sends shivers down your spine.
You wrap your arms around his broad shoulders, pulling him impossibly closer to you as he lays all his weight on you, reaching around and under your body to wrap his arms around your form. You spend the rest of the night wrapped up in each other's arms, tongues dancing and swishing together, spending each second slowly drinking the other in.
Bridgerton AU Regency!Pero Tovar x fem!reader, a childhood best friends to lovers story (complete)
Series Summary: Three part mini-series that follows our dear reader making a delayed debut for her first social season, not expecting to run into her childhood best friend, the Barón, on the marriage mart. (Fluff throughout, Angst = ⚓, Smut= 🍬).
A/N for the series: The story is written as a reader insert, with no physical description other than having hair and she wears dresses in the style of the time. I'm ever grateful for Bridgerton being cast the way it is because many years ago, I wouldn't have been able to write a story like this without feeling like there wasn't a place for me in them, but now more things than not feel possible. The reader, however, will have a backstory, and I think that sort of makes sense since none of us lived in Regency times so our imaginations in this respect can be stretched 🥰
I also ran a poll wondering if the SAG Award pics could serve as inspo for a childhood best friend to lovers story where there is no large age gap; for the record, the age gap is 8 years - reader is 23 and Pero is 31. But we all know that 23 today and 23 during the Regency Era is very different so feel free to imagine reader’s mental age/maturity to be whatever you like 😊 (in other words, she's you! 😘)
You think you’re used to everything The Green has to offer; the toxic air, the asshole mercenaries, the long days. Think you can handle everything it has to give you, especially now you have a somewhat established situationship with your companion.
Hell, it’s almost nice, the routine you’ve established. Go out prospecting, make it back to the lander, decontaminate, eat, curl up together in a tangle of sweat and satisfaction, Ezra whispering poetry into your ear.
It would be almost romantic if nine times out of ten, you weren’t dripping his cum onto the sheets. Or maybe that’s what makes it so. You don’t want to think too hard about what you are; putting labels on it just complicates things. You’re his, as much as he’s yours, and that’s all there is to it. Anything else makes it too difficult, too real, and once it becomes real, it means you have something to lose.
Anyway.
You’re not sure what’s happened; it’s usually cool in the lander at night, but you’re sweating, overheating, and it has nothing to do with your lover’s hands on you.
Part of you wonders if the air filters have gone faulty again, but you aren’t exactly thinking about the science of the situation right now, far too consumed with need and heat that won’t go away, no matter how desperate you are as you pull him to you, rub your soaked cunt along his cock.
Normally he’d comment on how needy you are, taunt you for it, but whatever is coursing through you has hit him, too, and hit him hard. He’s just as needy as you are, which is saying something.
Usually, he’s the one in control, perfectly composed and whispering filth into your ear as he steadily fucks into you. Not now. He’s clawing at you, spreading your thighs roughly, as though the only thing that matters to him right now is getting your legs wide enough for him to fit between.
It’s a fair assessment; you completely understand it, just as desperate, dragging your dripping pussy along his length as he lifts you into his arms, into his lap, guides himself to your entrance and pulls you, unceremoniously, downwards.
You cry out, making absolutely zero attempt at muffling the sound as you sink onto him, impale your tight cunt on the perfect thickness of him, wriggle your hips to settle, but it’s not enough. He’s as deep inside you as he can get, hips flush to yours, but you still need more, and so does he.
He draws himself out half way before dragging you back down by the hips, drawing a desperate moan from you that jolts straight to his cock. You’re so tight around him, he can feel himself pulse and throb inside you, swears he can feel every drop of pre cum that you milk from his cock as it drips into your eager, welcoming cunt.
“Fuck, please, I need-“ you aren’t even entirely sure what you need; he’s already as deep inside you as he can get, rocking his hips steadily, hitting that sweet spot inside you with each deep stroke.
“I know, sweet thing, I know…” Ezra moans it into your shoulder, even though he doesn’t know either, can’t put into words what you both so desperately need, even though he feels it too. Maybe there’s no words for it, just an overwhelming desire and need to be intimate like this, as though he might actually combust into flames if he doesn’t fuck himself as deep into you as possible.
A tiny part of his brain registers, dimly, that that isn’t scientifically possible, but then again, what does he know? As far as he was aware, whatever the fuck you’ve both been hit by in the atmosphere isn’t scientifically possible, either. The bigger part of his brain - and, arguably, the part thinking with his achingly hard cock - doesn’t care about science right now. All that matters is the steady rhythm of pulling half out of you, slamming back in, over and over, drawing those sweet, unrestrained moans from your lips.
You’ve never been this loud before, this confident; Ezra supposes it’s something to do with the drugs, rather than anything else; it doesn’t hurt his ego, because either way it’s still him causing this reaction, causing you to drag your nails up his chest, leaving claw marks in your wake. He’ll wear those like badges of honour, he thinks, as he leans in and sinks his teeth into your shoulder, sucks a deep purple mark into the soft skin.
You claw at him again, bear down onto him, your voice a wordless symphony of moans and pleas, even if there’s no actual words coming out; he can tell, knows what you want from him. Harder, faster, deeper if he can get there. He does, doesn’t care about the ache he’ll feel later, just as much as you don’t care about the subtle pain as he slams into you. All that matters is this.
You lean in, have to lean up, even in this position, and steal a hungry, demanding kiss, one hand knitting into his hair to keep him close as you take what you need from him, uncaring that when you pull away, your lips are still connected by a faint string of saliva. Maybe any other time, you’d find that disgusting. Not now. Now all that matters is leaving as much of each other on the other as possible.
“Starving, aren’t you?” There’s that vicious glint in his dark eyes again as he nuzzles his face between your tits, pulls you down onto his cock particularly hard. “Can’t blame you.”
He sucks a hardened nipple into his mouth, moans at the taste of sweat and salt on your skin, holds you in place as your back arches. He isn’t gentle, teeth scraping, lips greedy; in his frenzied state he almost wishes you had something to give, would gladly lap at any liquid that he could draw from your body, especially when he’s commented before on how much he fucking loves your tits.
Maybe he should just do as you’ve begged of him before, as he’s considered, and fuck you so full of his spend that it takes, claim you as his, spend his nights worshipping at the altar of your body as it grows new life.
His cock throbs inside you at the thought as he pulls away to demand another kiss, moaning into it as his hips buck up against yours; you can only hold on, breathing ragged and desperate, no relief in sight no matter how many times you come for him. At least, not yet.
“C’mon, little dove, I know you can come for me, I can feel how close you are...”
You gasp out, half at the words, half because he finds your sweet spot, the thick head of his cock caressing it almost lovingly with each deep thrust.
“Fuck -“ you whine it out, drawn out and needy, “right there…”
He takes the hint, doesn’t change up the way he’s moving, keeps rutting into you like a man possessed, his hands holding you steady, stroking up and down your back as he urges you closer and closer, until you’re tightening painfully around him, back arching, aching cunt gushing over his cock, soaking him, you, his lap, the thin sheets.
It’s almost instant relief, like a fog in your head is cleared, but all you can do is cling to him; you have no idea how long you’ve been out of it, how long he’s been fucking you, but you’re aching and exhausted and yet still so desperate and determined that he’ll find pleasure too.
Whatever has hit you both clearly still has him in its grasp; part of you wonders if you should stop, now that you’re clear headed, but the way he’s holding onto you like you’re the last tether to life makes it impossible, even if you truly wanted to.
He nuzzles into your shoulder again, presses open mouthed kisses to every inch of skin he can reach, like he can’t get enough of your scent, your taste, all while keeping himself pressed deep inside you, grinding his hips up into yours.
“Fuck… fuck…” he’s more moaning than speaking; you’ve never heard him sound so desperate, so needy. It must do something to you, because he groans again, nips at the junction of throat and collarbone.
“So wet for me, little dove, so fucking wet, I could find nirvana in this sweet little cunt, fuck-“
Normally, Ezra is a little more restrained; a little more eloquent in his words, making even the most sinful thoughts sound like poetry. Hearing him like this, completely unrestrained, almost feral, sends you over the edge again, drugged or not. You don’t need to be hit with some weird shit in the atmosphere to come again for him, and you do, clinging to him, gasping and sobbing his name as he fucks you through it, trailing more bites and kisses in his wake.
“Gonna come soon, birdie.” His voice is soft in your ear as he kisses just below it. “Gonna stuff you so full of me you’ll be dripping for days…”
You whimper softly at the thought; so far you’ve only been held in his arms, half riding him, half being pulled down onto him. He takes advantage of your distraction to flip you, press you into the bunk so he can fuck deeper into you, harder and faster as he chases his own release, entirely blind to anything but pleasure.
You’re more than happy to be used, to feel the comforting weight of him pressing your body down, your legs hooked tightly around his waist. It’s as if your bodies were made for each other, and you know it, staring up at him through half lidded eyes, lips parted as you study him, that single blonde streak in his hair falling into his face as already dark eyes become depthless with lust as he slams into you one final time, holds himself there.
You can feel him pulsing inside you, feel every hot, thick rope of his spend that fills you as he finally collapses on top of you, panting into your shoulder.
“Fuck… fuck…” he breathes it out between deep breaths, sounding more and more like himself with each passing moment.
You reach up one shaky hand to stroke his hair, just wanting to touch him, to reassure him that you’re there with him.
Silence fills the lander for a few moments before he finally speaks again.
“Hey, birdie?”
“Yeah?” Your voice is still a little ragged, too.
“Think we need to change out the filters in our suits.”
He lifts his head to give you a little smirk; you stare at him for a moment before you laugh.
“Yeah. Yeah I think we do, too.”
Neither of you make any attempt to move; you can change the filters out before you go out again. For now, you just stay wrapped up in each other, enjoying the afterglow and the ache that comes with it.
pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader
rating: Explicit (18+ only!)
warnings: smut (PiV), competency kink, grumpy/sunshine, he falls first, yearning, angst, almost enemies to lovers, Tommy being a little shit, no use of y/n, Jackson!Joel
word count: 4k
summary: Three little words. Joel heard those same three words damn near every day for the last seven months. Most days, they were the only words you said to him. Sometimes, if he was lucky, you'd say them more than once. Other days, you didn't say anything to him at all. He liked those days least of all.
A/N: happy holidays @trulybetty! thank you for being so lovely about this being a little late. I was only going to go for one or two of your prompts for the @pedrostories secret santa, but then my brain went why not all of them, and now here we are.
divider by @saradika-graphics
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Three little words.
"I got it."
Joel heard those same three words damn near every day for the last seven months. Most days, they were the only words you said to him. Sometimes, if he was lucky, you'd say them more than once. Other days, you didn't say anything to him at all. He liked those days the least.
You said other things too, of course. He heard you speak to other people. Not always nicely, but he heard you. You said more to him on occasion too. Out my way or put it down were some particular favorites, but none said more so than those three, tiny, little words.
I got it.
Because you did. He had never met a woman who had got it more than you. Strong, capable, and everything he ever tried to be. He watched every day how you'd got it. Climbing up ladders with tiles stacked on your shoulder, hauling wheelbarrows full of gravel, chopping wood in bitter wind and cold. You had it, and he watched, wanting it too.
The only problem was, he wasn't too sure what it was.
To begin with, it was the respect you commanded that he yearned for. He had that, once. Not here. Fuck, never here. The people here would barely look at him for the first few weeks. But you? They listened to you. If you said move they listened, even if it was with a roll of their eyes. If you told someone to fuck off to medical, they went without a grumble. They trusted you. Even if you weren't particularly generous with your smiles.
You were the exact opposite of what Joel was finding he had to be.
In Boston, people feared him, and that kept him, and Tess, safe. It was for the best. The people here feared him too, at first. Maybe even still now, if he was to be honest with himself, but he'd worked hard to change that. He met the mumbled good mornings with as much of a smile as he could muster. He went for drinks with his brother, made small talk with the locals even when he didn't want to. He tried to get into Maria's good graces, but never quite succeeded.
And he worked. With you mostly. Jackson didn't have much use for hired muscle or someone who could smuggle shit discreetly - not outside of the daily patrol shifts they wouldn't let him on yet, anyway - but they did have use for contractors. Plumbers, electricians, carpenters, anyone who was good at doing shit with their hands. Those were things that had value behind these walls and, luckily for him, that meant he had value too. For the first time in a long time, he meant something to people.
Just not to you.
As much as he smiled, and made small talk, and helped out fixing shit in this place that was now his home, he could never get through to you. He'd try to help you out, only to be knocked aside - sometimes literally. You barely looked at him. Spoke only when necessary. Once, you'd even told him to fuck off.
He did.
At first he took it all personally. He moped, and kept his sour mood hidden from his brother and Ellie. Then, he saw how you were with, well, just about everyone else, and that lessened the sting.
But, as time wore on, Joel saw other things too. Where at first you'd seemed rude and abrasive, he now saw the kindness and compassion you treated everyone with. If you told someone to go the fuck home, it wasn't because you wanted them gone it was because you wanted them rested. If you let people struggle, strike their thumbs with a badly aimed hit of a hammer, it was to help them learn. You never did let anyone make the same mistake twice. And, because of you, no one did.
It was with the waning of spring that his desire to be you changed into something different and entirely more confusing.
As the gardens and trees exploded in the frenzy of summer, you shed your layers. Literally, not figuratively. You still stayed firmly closed up as your jacket disappeared and made way for a shirt hung loosely about your shoulders. Then, even that found its way around your waist and Joel had to come face to face with the bare, strong expanse of your back while you worked in nothing but a tank top, the patch of sweat at the small of your back blooming while he watched.
It was for the best that he didn't think about what you looked like walking towards him during those relentlessly hot months, with nothing but a thin tank top pulled across your chest. It wasn't something he should think about in public, anyway. It was something he kept for late at night, when those three little words echoed around his head and you showed him just how much you really, truly got it.
By October, Tommy had caught on. Your jacket was fastened back around you, and you were as hostile as ever. You breezed past him one morning, hooking a ladder over one shoulder, toolbag gripped in your other hand.
"I got it."
By now, Joel knew you did.
By now, he wanted to come with you anyway.
So he did, grabbing his own set of salvaged tools and heading up to the latest reno with you, only to have you square up to him the second you saw him.
"I said, I got it."
Five words. It was a good day.
So good, that he couldn't keep his eyes off you in the Tipsy Bison that night. You weren't in here often - from what he could tell, you didn't do much outside of work - but the people who shared your company seemed to enjoy it. You sat soft and quiet in the corner, listening in to their conversation more often than you contributed. But, when you did, they laughed, and Joel caught himself smiling, and Tommy caught him too.
"Never thought you'd be more of a ray of fuckin' sunshine than anyone else, but there's a first for everythin', I guess," he'd said, tilting his glass to the table in the corner where you sat.
Joel took a swig of the last fresh cider of the season and shrugged.
"You got an eye for her."
He sputtered, choking on the tart, sweet liquid. "No I ain't."
"Well you got somethin'," said Tommy, clinking his glass against Joel's own. "If it ain't an eye it's your-"
A harsh kick, and a grunt loud enough to turn every head in the bar later, and Tommy dropped it entirely.
For about a week.
Tommy ribbed him at dinner, drinks, lunch and just about every time in between. Called Joel 'Sunshine' even as he scowled. Asked about his girl as if you were anything other than a person who hated him. Slung his arm around Joel's shoulder and told him all about the birds and the bees, as if he'd ever forgotten.
He couldn't forget. Not with you running around barking at him and keeping him in a seemingly permanent state of arousal. If it wasn't your voice and that angry way you talked at him, it was just about anything else. He couldn't escape it.
It was how you did everything he could do, and more. What he had in strength, you had in technique. Your hands - fuck, did he watch your hands - were rarely unblemished with dirt or scrapes, but they were adept at everything you put them to. He couldn't look away, even if he knew each minute he looked was a minute quicker he'd be when he touched himself to the thought of you later that night.
The taunts stopped with the first snowfall.
"If you're really that interested, should talk to her," Tommy said instead. "Bark's worse than her bite."
"You're still sayin' she bites, though."
"Sure she would if you asked nice enough, brother."
Joel didn't ask.
He didn't ask the morning he woke up early to see the town blanketed in thick snow either. He simply went out, picked up a snow shovel and began working until the sun came up. He didn't expect to find you at his door that evening, or for you to grab him and throw him outside, pushing him up against the side of his own house.
"What do you think you're playing at, Miller?" you growled up at him, pushing him firmly against the siding.
Joel stared, dumb-founded, your hands curled in the front of his shirt - touching him - and blinked down at you.
"I don't give a shit who you are or what you've done out there. I am not scared of you and I am not having you take my job."
You ignored him more after that. Days went by with barely a word to him - not even a scowl thrown his way if he made too much noise or offered to help someone out on a job.
As for him, he couldn't stop thinking about it. Every day for weeks that night played through his head, memory of the feel of your hands on his chest and your face so close he could feel your breath, until Christmas was on the horizon and a pit of fear began stirring in his stomach. You were a balm to it, somehow. Something to focus on when the fear got too much and kept him inside, away from the crowds of happy people.
Every single I got it was more of a comfort than the last. It could have been the familiarity of it, or the way those words came softer and softer as the season wore on. Sometimes he'd head by the workshop to ask if you needed a hand, just to hear that soft rejection one more time.
Until late one cold afternoon, it didn't come. You were alone, blowing warm air onto gloved hands, and when he asked you simply nodded, and he followed.
You worked together in silence until the sun set, when you turned to him as you parted ways.
"S'hard this time of year, but joy and grief can exist at the same time, y'know."
He didn't go to the Bison that night. Or the next. He let the grief crack open his chest instead, and let it pour out over his bedroom floor for two whole days.
On the third, he let the joy back in. Ellie reeled off new jokes from a book she found in the Jackson library. He held his nephew and rocked the teething babe to sleep. He went back to the Bison - you weren't there - and celebrated the impending holiday.
Seven months, three days, and about as many hourssince he stepped foot back in Jackson. Damn near every day he's heard those three little words, and he'll be damned if he goes another without them.
With the day as short as it could ever be, the sun tracking low in the sky, he finds you.
"I got it," you say softly, when he asks you that very same question he always does.
"I know."
He doesn't know how your lips end up on his - because it is you who kisses him. He doesn't know how his fingers find themselves under your shirt either, the coldness of them making you gasp into his mouth until you're pulling apart, both wide eyed.
He does know you taste like fruit, even in the dead of winter. He always suspected it - knew your sweet tooth by the berries you couldn't resist and the sweet treats gifted to you. He knows your fingers are as cold as his when you hand him a shovel.
He does know, even though you got it, you let him help anyway.
You clear streets and roofs of snow together until the sun goes down. He follows at your heel in the dark, cold biting through your layers as you both stomp the snow off your boots, shovels thrown down, workshop locked up. You barely even look at each other until you're staring through the fog of your own heavy breaths on Joel's front porch. He doesn't know how to welcome you in - he never was too good with words - so he simply unlocks the door and pushes it open.
You step inside.
Layers are shed before the door even closes. Heavy coats dumped on the couch, boots toed off and left this way and that. The hat on your head stuffed in a pocket - he can't remember which.
You move upstairs - worked on this house, you say - and pull him into his own bedroom before his lips even touch yours again. But when they do, they do. Joel's frantic with it, feeling the softness of you so close to the hardness of him. His hands hold your waist, rooting you to him, but then you're moving them up and under your shirt to the flair of your ribcage. The curve of your breasts fit perfectly against the cradle of his thumb and forefinger, and he thinks of everything his hands have done, this is what they were made for.
It must be. When you whine at the feel of this thumb stroking across your pebbled nipple, he thinks for the first time in a long time that maybe his hands aren't so monstrous if they can pull such pretty noises from you.
In fact, the things they've done don't seem to matter at all when he gets to touch you, to pull sounds from you so sweet he'll be tasting you on his tongue all over again just from the memory of them. For all the harm these hands have done, they could never hurt you. You would never let them. You'd tear him apart first.
And he'd let you.
You swallow his groan when you palm his length over his jeans. He stiffens beneath your touch, warm and firm, and grinds into your hand. It's been so long since he's felt the touch of anyone other than himself. He could come just grinding himself against the firm press of your hand against him, if he thought about it too hard.
So he doesn't. He focuses instead on the soft plink plink plink as you run a nail up his ice cold zipper, the way you bite his lip, tangle your fingers in his hair.
He tries to take off his own belt, cold fingers fumbling against even colder metal, but you mumble I got it into his mouth, and his knees quiver.
You do. You always do.
His belt is pulled off and you're tugging him by the loops of his pants and pushing him against his own bed, the sheets still rumpled from the morning. You slip off your own and toss it to the side too, tangling it with his on his bedroom floor. Then, you're so very close to him again, his thigh between your legs as you nip and suckle on his bottom lip. He holds you close - one hand finding its way under your shirt again, cupping your breast fully this time, and the other pulling you firmly against his strong thigh.
You warm his thigh with the burning heat between your legs, grinding yourself against him, the seam of your jeans pulling tight against you. Moans you were pulling from him a moment ago are silenced by your own, your nails digging crescents into his arm as you burrow your face into his neck in an attempt to stifle them.
You're better than he ever dreamed. Softer. Warmer. Stronger. The sounds you make so much prettier than he ever thought. Those three little words so much sweeter within these walls than any other.
Even when you strip off layer after layer, it's better than he dreamed. Summer was barely a taste of you, he realises, when your shirt, your tank, your soft bra, all tumble to the floor and you climb onto the bed behind him.
You kick your jeans off, and he pulls his down too. He can't get his shirt off quick enough, the scars on his body forgotten as he strips bare for you as you watch, lust barely turning to curiousity as you take in the sight of his body.
"Come here," you tell him, and he obeys. You're softer with him when he lies beside you then. Grasping hands turn to gentle strokes, his own hands on your bare flesh mimicking your gentle movements across his skin.
When your hand trails down to his cock, squeezing once again when you feel him throb in your palm, he has to pinch his eyes closed and pretend he's anywhere but here.
"Been a long time," he says through gritted teeth. "Long, long time."
Me too, he thinks he hears you whisper before your lips latch to his again and his soft, worn boxers are slipped down his legs, kicked to the side, forgotten.
You don't look at him, and for that he's grateful. He's less grateful when you start to play with your own nipples and toy with the edge of your panties. He presses a kiss to your shoulder instead, hiding his face against you and breathing you in.
When he opens his eyes again, your panties are off, thighs spread, one hooked lazily over his own, the other stretched out on his sheets.
"Don't have to," you mumble, when he looks down at you, stunned look obvious on his face.
"I want to."
He touches you and you let him. His hands run all over your body, rough, calloused palms dragging across your soft belly, your hips, your thighs. He's dreamed of this, and still it's better than his wildest fantasies.
When your hand wraps around his bare cock, pumping his length once, twice, he thinks that's better than any fantasy too. You practically drag him by the cock, tugging gently to pull him towards you until he's kneeling between your thighs. You lazily stroke him, swiping precum across his tip and making him jerk in your grip. His own hands play with your thighs, massaging and squeezing them, drawing his fingers closer and closer to your apex.
Seven months, three days, and twenty-something hours since he stepped back into Jackson, he slips into you for the first time.
And, fuck, is it divine.
You're slick, and wet, his cock gliding across your skin before he pushes into you, and you both gasp.
He's slow. He trembles. His fingers make dents in your thighs as he grips them. You shuffle your hips, make yourself comfortable, and he holds steady while you adjust to the intrusion. Then, you pull him in, grabbing him by the neck to steal a kiss while he makes space for himself deep inside you, rocking each tentative inch into you until he's rooted inside.
You adjust - let the tenseness in your core release - and he barely holds on. And, just when he thinks he's got a hold of himself and begins fucking you in slow, languid movements, your hand moves and you say those three little words.
"I got it."
For the first ever time, he stops you. His hand pins yours to your hip, his movements stilling as you frown up at him, a threat on the tip of your tongue. So, he begs.
"Let me. Please."
And you do. He slowly swipes a spit slicked thumb against your clit, and watches as you melt into his sheets. By the look of you, the pure relief on your face, he thinks this could be the first time you've ever truly let go, and his ego soars.
It soars again when your legs tremble, rocking his thick cock in you as his thumb works slowly over your clit. You moan his name, and he groans too. He can't keep it back. It's the first time he's ever heard you say it, and he doesn't think it could sound better. Your eyes find his when you say his name again, testing him, only to pull another groan deep from his chest.
A small nod is all you give him as a sign you want more. His thumb moves quicker, popped into his mouth to taste you just for a moment before it swipes around your cunt where you grip him, and back up to your clit.
You come on him, face turned into his sheets, brow furrowed, mouth open as you moan and shake, trembling and pulsating on his cock as you come.
For you, he keeps going. Let's you ride out the waves, fluttering against him, as he barely holds back from the brink himself.
If this is all he gets - if you push him off and walk away now - it would be a good day, he thinks. But you don't. He doesn't even get chance to ask if you want him gone when you're pulling him down, kissing him, rocking your hips against him and murmuring against his throat for him to fuck you.
So, he does.
It feels sloppy, and awkward, his hips not quite knowing how to move any more as he snaps them against yours.
"Don't stop," you whisper to him with a scrape of your teeth against his shoulder. "Don't stop."
He's never been able to disobey you, he realizes. He's never had reason let alone want to. Even now, he does as he's told, keeps fucking forward into you, mattress squeaking and bed rocking as he finally, finally, finds his rhythm.
It's easy then. You spur him on, grip him tight, wrap your legs around his waist. He grunts, growls, can barely stop himself from panting, looking down at you and how you stare back at him and he thinks fuck, this is what it's like to be trusted by you.
With a sudden gasp, he pulls out, slipping from your wet heat to rut against your sopping cunt until he's spurting ropes of come against your mound and belly.
He apologizes, tries to admonish himself for being so quick. You tell him to shut up, hitting his shoulder. He does.
You both sigh in the afterglow. Even in the before, he never had times like this, he doesn't think. It was always frantic, too quick, too drunk, too fumbling. In the after, he could never quite relax enough to enjoy it fully. In the now, it's just about the best he's ever had.
You're still covered in him. Your fingers play idly in it on your belly, and he glows. He'd trace patterns with it over your skin, if only you'd let him. But then, you're up and gone, and he fears you're gone for good until you waltz back in and throw yourself next to him, mess cleaned from your skin as you stretch and yawn beside him.
"I aint tryin' to take your job, y'know," Joel tells you some time later, when the afterglow wanes and sleep pulls at him.
"Right."
He looks to you, the roll of your eyes and tug of a disbelieving smile on your lips visible in the glow of the bedside lamp.
"I promise. I'm just tryin' to... be some place."
You're still. And silent. He thinks he's fucked up for all of one second, until you're smiling sadly up at the ceiling.
"I get that," you say softly. "This is a nice place to be, all things considered."
And, though he thinks he knows what you mean, Yes, he thinks, this is a nice place to be.
This is a good day.
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summary: it’s new year’s eve, and frankie only wants to kiss one person when the ball drops — too bad it’s his boss’ daughter.
warnings: unspecified but legal age gap, alcohol, soft!frankie, mild violent threat (no actual violence lmao), cursing, kissing, touching, fluff, smutty thoughts, unbeta’d (sorry for any mistakes hehe), 18+ mdni.
notes: happy new year! 2024 has been testing at times, but i’m grateful for all the new connections made and love shared. here’s hoping for a healthy and happy 2025 for us all when you get there ❤️
Frankie watches you longingly.
The soft curve of your waist, the way your lashes kiss your cheekbones when you smile. Your gentle touch, the way you listen intently to any story being told to you.
He sits across from you in the warehouse, propped up at the makeshift bar. String lights hang low across the ceiling; shrouding you in a golden glow, your appearance even more angelic than usual. The grip on his beer tightens as he notices your colleague lay a hand on your forearm, presumably asking you to dance.
He knew this party would be torture — but he’d figured it would be worth it, if only for a glimpse of you.
“If I catch you gawkin’ at my daughter again, Morales, I’ll take it out of your paycheck.”
His cheeks flushing red, your father’s hand slaps against his shoulder. “Sorry,” he mutters, as Joe takes a seat beside him. Frankie’s worked for your dad since he left the military — as a warehouse manager for his family-run hardware company.
“‘m only messin’ with you. She’s still pretty cut up over Joshua breakin’ up with her a few weeks back — just before Christmas too, if you can believe that. Fuckin’ asshole.”
Frankie quietly agrees, jaw ticking as he sinks back another mouthful of alcohol. He never had the pleasure of meeting Joshua, but he’d heard plenty about him every time you were home from your big city job, the one you’d dreamed of ever since you’d finished college a few years back.
Frankie knew all about your dreams.
You always sought him out whenever you visited the depot, spending hours beside him as he managed inventory or looked over his budgets. He’d hugged you every time you aced your exams, put a friendly arm around your shoulder when you appeared dejected or stressed.
“I’ve just got too many plans, Frankie.”
“Well, if anybody can achieve it all — ‘s you, sweetheart.”
“You’re only being nice because my dad pays you to be.”
He remembers that particular encounter like it was yesterday: you, leant against his desk as he worked, all soft thighs and bare midriff in your denim cutoffs. You’d leant in close and pressed your lips to his cheek before you left, leaving him in a cloud of your perfume and a badly-timed hard-on.
Christ. You make him feel like a fucking teenager.
Your father brings Frankie back to the present, droning on about setting some time aside in the new year to draw up new logistics plans, work out a way to further modernize the business.
“‘s a party, Joe,” he interrupts. “One you’ve paid for.”
“You’re one to talk. It’s New Year’s Eve and you’re sat here like it’s a goddamn funeral.”
Frankie raises his bottle sourly, draining the last of it as Joe heads off to mingle. He’s lost sight of you, the crowd growing as the time edges ever closer to midnight. A sinking feeling settles in his stomach, wondering whose hand you’ll be holding when the ball drops, knowing for certain it won’t be his.
The party was all your idea: begging Joe to let you bring everyone together to celebrate, involving everybody from the senior board to the receptionists, sourcing the caterers and decorations and DJ — roping Frankie in to help you set up, thanking him with an endless supply of casual kisses on his cheeks and sugary home-baked gifts.
You’re so sweet, so pure, and he’s fucked his own fist more times than he count thinking about you.
You look so beautiful tonight — dressed in red velvet, the perfect hostess. Frankie can’t understand how Joshua ever let you go; feeling quiet rage bubble in his veins at the idea of your heart breaking, and the ridiculous notion of you not being good enough.
Frankie would treat you better.
He already knows he can make you laugh, how to bring the dimple out in your cheek. He knows your complicated pizza order, the books you like to read, your favourite place to get coffee, the exact age you want to have babies.
He knows he’d fuck you better, too.
Frankie’s consumed by the thought of it — of pushing you down into his sheets and burying himself between your thighs, his tongue in your mouth as he works himself inside you, his name on your lips when you come for him. Over and over again.
He checks his watch. 11:45pm. There’s still no sign of you, and he has no desire to join the throng gathering on the dancefloor, their arms around one another as the drinks continue to flow freely.
Frankie heads for his office instead, his safe haven. There, he’s sure he’ll continue to think about you: how he’s a decade too old, how Joe would string him up or fire him on the spot if he ever even considered telling you how he felt.
He’s so preoccupied with misery that, at first, he doesn’t notice the lone figure already sitting in his desk chair.
“Frankie?”
Your voice is so quiet — barely a whisper in the darkness, the party outside growing louder with every passing minute.
“Hey,” Frankie clears his throat. “What’re you doing in here?”
You rest your forehead on the heel of your palm, bare shoulders heaving in a sigh. “I know I shouldn’t have come in here without asking you first — I’m sorry.”
“Baby, your dad owns this building. Besides, I’ve got no secrets from you in here,” he jokes gently, leaning back against his desk. Your face is illuminated by the moonlight streaming through the window: effortlessly beautiful, but smiling sadly.
“You sure you’re okay?”
Nodding, you finally look up and meet his gaze.
“Planning the party.. It was a distraction from everything. Now it’s happening, and I know everyone’s having a good time — I started thinking about Joshua, what we’d be doing if he was here.”
Frankie swallows. “That’s normal, though. Nobody would blame you for feeling that way.”
“I guess,” you shrug. “But y’know what’s odd? All I can think about is how much he’d hate it.”
He’s silent for a moment, willing you to go on. He watches your teeth sinking into your lower lip, the way you anxiously tug at your dress.
“He always asked me why I hung around this place, made fun of me for spending all my free time with my dad — with you.”
Frankie feels his chest swell a little at the idea of Joshua’s jealousy, but it soon dies away as you get to your feet, standing inches away from him. He’s overcome with the need to reach out to you; pull you close, tell you it’s okay.
That goddamn perfume.
“So, I started asking myself: what do I keep coming here for? I mean, you know Joe — I love him, but he’s hardly a renowned conversationalist.”
You share a smile; a clandestine joke about the man you both know so well.
“Well, did you find an answer?” Frankie dares to ask, breath caught in his throat. Eyes widening as you step even closer, he feels his heartrate spike as you wrap your fingers gently round his wrist.
“I’m working on it.”
He’s not sure exactly how it happens, but your lips are soon pressed to his. Your tongue begs for entry, Frankie groaning as he finally tastes you — sweet as sugar. All thoughts of his job and your father’s right hook leave his mind as you push him against the row of cabinets, moaning quietly as he feverishly puts his hands on you.
It’s heavenly.
His touch is light over your ass, travelling greedily across your belly to cup your tits, the blood rushing to his dick when you arch your back and thrust more of yourself into his hands. “Frankie,” you cry out softly, scraping teeth and tongue against the scruff along his jaw.
A dulled chorus of cheering and party poppers causes you both to spring apart, Frankie realising the time just as you do. “Midnight,” he pants, wrenching his beloved cap off his head and carding a hand through his hair. Your chest is heaving, silvery light bouncing off your collarbones.
He begins to come to his senses: the door is unlocked, your father and his entire team not too far away, able to discover your tryst at any given moment. But you’re gazing at him in a way that makes Frankie forget the whole fucking thing: he can get a new job, he can heal from any bruises.
You’re all that matters.
“C’mere,” he mutters, barely recognising his own voice, hoarse with desire.
You go into his arms, kissing him with just as much vigour as before. You’re toying with his belt buckle before long; his hands wandering underneath your dress, encouraged by the sounds you’re making in his ear. No dream he’s had about you can compare to the real thing, to feeling your arousal as he explores between your thighs.
It takes all of Frankie’s inner strength not to tug your dress to the ground and fuck you on the floor, make you beg him to take you right here in his office — the place that holds so many memories for you both.
You deserve more than that.
You break apart breathlessly at some point, foreheads leant against one another. “Happy New Year, I guess,” you whisper, squeezing his arms. He doesn’t know how to tell you he loves you, how long he’s admired you from afar, falling further with every smile, every laugh.
So, Frankie just kisses your cheek tenderly instead, holding your face in his palms. “You, too.”
“I’m sorry — I know this isn’t very appropriate. You probably weren’t expecting that.” You look away shyly, leaning into his hand.
“Best surprise ever, actually.”
“Yeah?”
Frankie nods, and you grin, beginning to formulate a plan of where you’ll go from here. He already has your number, of course, promising to call you in the morning, take you out for breakfast. Everything is tentative; slow and steady compared to the urgency of before, but his heart is still beating rapidly.
He can hardly believe it.
You’re still wrapped round him, unwilling to let go, kissing the tip of his nose, fingers curling in the hair at the nape of his neck. He basks in your affection, content to stay there forever.
“I hope you get everything you want this year,” you tell him.
Frankie presses his lips to yours, swallowing the squeak of pleasure in your throat.
