pairing: Frankie Morales x Fem! Reader
summary: You left for a bar not expecting much and end up with permanet fingerprints on more than your heart.
tags: sexual tension, first meeting, public sex, Frankie the consent king, alcohol mention, some negative thoughts
wc: ~2.2k
a/n: Long time not publishing so which better moment to rescue this silly thing I had buried on my drafts than Frankie Friday?
You didn’t usually go to places like that.
Bars felt loud in a way that didn’t invite you in, only reminded you how out of place you were. Too many bodies. Too much noise. Too many versions of yourself you no longer recognized reflected in dark windows and half-empty glasses.
That night started with two mojitos and zero expectations. Just the need to keep moving. To stay out. To exist somewhere that wasn’t your apartment, your couch, your thoughts.
Your ex used to say you were too much. Too loud. Too impulsive. Too emotional. So you learned to shrink. To soften your edges. To become agreeable, quiet, careful.
By the time it ended, you didn’t know what was left of you.
So you stood there, leaning against the bar, the glass sweating between your fingers, feeling like a ghost wearing your own face.
And then he appeared.
He didn’t enter the room loudly. He didn’t demand attention. He simply took up space in a way that felt solid and calm. Broad shoulders stretched beneath a worn jacket. Dark curls escaped from beneath a faded baseball cap, the kind that looked like it had been with him for years. His stubble framed a mouth that seemed used to holding back words, and his eyes, warm and steady, moved through the room with quiet awareness.
Frankie Morales.
You didn’t know his name yet. You only noticed how the air shifted when he sat on the empty stool beside you, how suddenly you felt less alone in your own skin. There was something about the way he carried himself, quiet, solid, like he’d learned the hard way how heavy the world could be. It pulled at you before you even realized it.
He didn’t open with a line. Just a glance. A small, crooked smile.
“Long day?” he asked.
His voice sounded calm. Grounded. Like he wasn’t in a hurry to be anywhere else. You laughed, surprised by how easily it came out.
“Long… life.”
That earned a soft huff of amusement from him.
“Yeah,” he said. “I get that.”
You talked. At first about nothing. The music playing too loud. The bartender who kept messing up orders. How neither of you had planned to stay out late. And then, without noticing when it happened, the conversation drifted into softer territory. More honest ground.
You told him things you didn’t usually say out loud. About feeling hollow. About missing the version of yourself that laughed easily. About how you barely recognized who you had become.
You expected him to fix it. Or joke it away. He didn’t. He listened. Really listened. When he looked at you, there was no pity, no judgment. Just something steady and attentive, like he saw you clearly without trying to reshape you, and that quiet attention made your chest feel warmer than the alcohol had.
“You don’t sound gone to me,” he said gently. “Just… tucked away.”
The words settled deep in your chest. Maybe it was the alcohol. Maybe it was the way he said it, like he meant it. But you felt it: a small, sharp spark waking up inside you.
Alive.
You caught him looking at your lips more than once. His gaze would linger for a second, dark eyes softening, before he dragged them back up to yours, almost like he was scolding himself. That small struggle in him made your stomach flutter in a way you hadn’t felt in a long time. It made you feel somehow wanted… but not hunted. Desired, but respected. And that felt dangerously addictive, so much so that, without even realizing it, you started flirting back. You leaned in a little closer when you spoke, let your smile linger, touched your hair without thinking. It surprised you how easily it came, how naturally your body responded to his quiet attention.
God, he’s dangerous, you thought. Not because he looked like trouble, but because he didn’t. Because for the first time in a long time, sitting next to someone didn’t feel exhausting, or performative.
When he suggested going somewhere quieter to talk, you nodded without thinking.
The moment you stepped outside, the cool night air brushed against your skin. The noise of the bar faded behind you. You laughed again at something he said, lighter this time, freer. Like the version of you that existed before everything became so careful.
You didn’t make it far.
The alley behind the bar felt narrow and strangely intimate, cut off from the streetlights and the noise. A single lamp flickered above, casting soft shadows across the brick walls. You turned to say something, and Frankie was suddenly very close.
Too close.
His tall presence filled the space without overwhelming it. You caught the scent of him then: clean skin, faint soap, and something warm underneath. His hand brushed your arm, slow, almost tentative.
You didn’t pull away.
For a second, the responsible voice in your head warned you this wasn’t smart. That he was a stranger. But you were so tired of being smart.
So when he leaned in, slow and deliberate, giving you time to stop him, and you didn’t, he kissed you.
The kiss hit like a release. Deep, grounding, hungry in a way that felt controlled rather than reckless. His mouth moved against yours with quiet intent, his tongue sliding in like he already knew you’d let him.
And you did.
Your hands fisted in his jacket, pulling him closer. The kiss grew heavier, breath turning uneven, bodies pressing together in the narrow space. You felt the solid heat of him, real and unmistakably affected, and instead of panic, you felt powerful.
Wanted.
You broke the kiss only to catch your breath, forehead resting against his. His thumb traced your jaw, gentle despite the tension humming between you.
“You okay?” he asked softly.
You nodded, already breathless. Already past pretending.
His hand slipped lower, sliding beneath the hem of your black top with unhurried certainty. Warm fingertips traced the skin of your stomach, then moved higher, cupping your breast through the thin lace of your bra. He brushed his thumb over your nipple, slow and deliberate, feeling it tighten under his touch. You shivered, a soft sound escaping your throat.
He didn’t rush. His fingers explored with quiet focus, learning what made your breath hitch, what made your hips press forward instinctively. Then his hand drifted lower, slipping under the hem of your skirt. His fingers brushed the sensitive skin of your inner thigh before he paused.
“Can I touch you here?” he murmured against your lips, voice low and rough, but patient.
You managed a shaky “Yes” and that was all he needed.
He touched you like he was listening to every reaction, sliding his fingers beneath your underwear, finding you already slick and warm. He circled your clit with steady, patient strokes, then slowly slid a finger inside you, curling it just right. The rhythm was unhurried but sure, building heat with every movement. Your legs trembled. Your fingers dug harder into his broad shoulders as pleasure coiled tighter and tighter in your belly.
That was what undid you. Not just the touch, but the way he paid attention. The way he asked. The absence of pressure. The permission to simply fall apart.
You pressed closer, the brick cool against your back, Frankie’s body warm and solid in front of you. His mouth returned to yours, slower now, deeper, swallowing the gasps and whimpers you couldn’t hold back.
When it crested, it caught you by surprise. You gasped against his lips, thighs tightening around his hand as the pleasure rolled through you, sharp and overwhelming, wave after wave. Frankie stayed with you through it, murmuring something low and soothing against your skin, his fingers still moving gently until the last tremor faded.
Your breathing gradually slowed, but the heat between you didn’t fade. He stayed close, so close you could feel the hard line of him pressed against your thigh. Then he shifted, hips rolling forward once, slow, deliberate, letting you feel exactly how much he wanted you.
You felt him fully then. How hard he was. How much he was holding back.
Another rush of want bloomed low in your belly, hot and insistent. Your hands, which had been fisted in his jacket, then grew braver. You slid one down his chest, feeling the solid muscle beneath his shirt, the way his breath hitched when your palm pressed lower, cupping the hard line of him through his jeans. He groaned softly into your mouth, hips pressing into your touch, and the sound sent a rush of heat through you.You stroked him slowly over the denim, amazed at your own boldness. But right behind it came the familiar voice:
Be good. Be careful. Don’t want too much. Don’t take up space.
The voice that sounded like this every time you’d been chosen only when you were easy, quiet, undemanding.
For a split second you wanted to silence it. To stay reckless. To let your body decide.
But you couldn’t. Not yet. So you pulled your hand back, breathless and a little stunned, resting your forehead against his chest.
“Wait. I-”
For a moment, neither of you spoke. Frankie didn’t push. His hands stayed warm and respectful at your sides, his breathing measuring. He simply waited until the silence felt safe again.
“Okay,” he said softly. “That’s okay.”
He didn’t move away immediately. He stayed there with you, letting the moment settle instead of break.
“I should go home,” you whispered.
“I can walk you,” he offered gently.
You shook your head. “No. Not tonight…”
He nodded, understanding. “Then at least let me call a taxi and wait with you until it arrives. I’d feel better knowing you got in safely.”
You hesitated only a second before nodding. The walk back toward the street was quiet. Too quiet. An awkward silence settled between you, thick with everything that had just happened and everything that hadn’t. When you reached the curb and the taxi was already on its way, Frankie finally spoke, voice low and careful.
“Hey… I'm sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to push or make you feel like I was taking advantage of you. I just thought… you wanted it too.”
“I did,” you admitted, voice low. “I do. It’s not that. It’s just… I’m not like this… anymore. Or… I don’t know. I don’t want to wake up tomorrow and regret it. Not because of you, I mean, but because… oh god, I don’t even know how to do this without overthinking everything.”
The words came out messy and half-formed. You kept talking, trying to explain feelings you barely understood yourself. Frankie listened without interrupting, his thumb brushing slowly over your hand in a soothing rhythm.
“I get it,” he said softly when you trailed off. “More than you know.”
When the car pulled up, you reached for the door handle and lingered a second longer than necessary. The night still clung to your skin, your body still humming faintly, reluctant to let the moment go. Frankie stood a few steps away, hands in his pockets, dark curls tucked under his cap. He didn’t move closer. He didn’t ask you to stay. He simply looked at you, steady, contained, like he understood that this was something meant to pass.
Something brief. Something that would not survive daylight.
But then, Frankie’s voice stopped you one last time, just when you opened the door.
“Wait-” He gave you a small, hopeful smile, when you turned to look at him again. “Can I at least have your number? So we can do this right next time. In daylight. Without the chance of morning regret.”
You hesitated only a second before pulling out your phone. When you handed it to him, both of you were smiling. Small, a little shy even, but real.
He typed his number and gave it back, fingers brushing yours.
“Text me when you get home safe?” he asked.
You nodded and whispered a farewell.
Once inside the taxi, as the city blurred past the window, the warmth slowly receded. What remained wasn’t longing or regret. It was awareness.
You hadn’t gone out looking for anyone. You hadn’t wanted disruption. But you had found proof.
Proof that you were still capable of reacting to the world. That laughter could still escape you. That desire could still bloom, sudden and inconvenient, inside your chest.
That the version of you who felt alive hadn’t died. She had just been kept small. Contained. Taught to wait.
And in a bitter kind of irony, it took someone fleeting, someone who arrived without promises and left without staying, to return your pulse to you.
It had been only a spark. But sometimes one brief flash is enough to light up everything you thought had gone dark.
Summary: Marcus has never slept with a man, Dieter's willing to remedy that - written for @romanarose Pride Event Week 3: Sex/kissing
Word Count: 7,730
Pairing: (college aged) Marcus Pike x Dieter Bravo
Rating: 18+ mdni
Warnings: coming out, discussions of sexuality, brief mentions of homophobia, oral sex(m), (lots of) hickeys, frottage, cum eating, armpit stuff
Betas: OBVIOUSLY @for-a-longlongtime and @perotovar the loves of my life 💖A/N: I highly suggest listening to Naked in Manhattan by Chappell Roan before/while reading this. Totally got the vibes of this entire fic by listening to it on a walk one day
Dieter’s learned a lot in his five and a half years of college. Not really much about statistics or geology, but about people. He’s been around long enough to know that the sad little guy on his front porch steps, avoiding the party, and chain smoking cigarettes is having a rough go of it.
“Hey buddy,” Dieter says, quietly, as not to startle the slumped figure.
Marcus looks up at him through misty eyes and a cloud of stale Winston smoke.
“Hey.”
He’s not crying, but he’s definitely crying for help.
“You okay?”
Dieter takes a seat on the step below him.
“Yeah, fine. Just needed air.”
Marcus gestures with the cigarette in his hand, then huffs out a laugh at the irony.
“You’ve been getting drunk a lot lately.”
Maybe Dieter shouldn’t pry. It’s not unusual for his rented house to be filled with students coming and going at all hours of the day, between classes on weekdays or all day on the weekends. The cheap beer just shows up, as does the weed, and he doesn’t usually question it.
But he’s closer to Marcus. So he notices more. He usually only sees him here on weekends. During the week he’s commonly found in the library or the student union, books sprawled out in front of him. He’s driven, pre-law, and has a better head on his shoulders than most people he hangs with.
But Marcus has been at his place every night this week, either stumbling home in the wee hours of the morning or sleeping late on his couch or floor. It concerns Dieter in a way that surprises him.
Usually it’s none of his business.
“I haven’t had a sip,” Marcus tells him.
And his voice doesn’t have that sharp, defensive tone Dieter was expecting. It’s more defeated than anything.
“Yeah but what about last night?”
Marcus shrugs.
“And the night before? And every other night this week?”
“Just having fun,” Marcus mumbles through another drag of his cigarette.
Dieterlooks around at his empty porch.
“Are you?”
Then Marcus laughs. It bubbles up out of him in an almost terrifying way, and damn near immediately turns into sobs hidden behind his hands.
“Fuck, dude, are you tripping?”
Marcus shakes his head. Dieter didn’t think so. He’s strictly an alcohol guy, won’t even touch weed. Something about the FBI and polygraph tests. Dieter finds it charming if not a bit manic.
He keeps crying though, so hard he has to flick his cigarette out onto the dimly lit street so he can rub at his eyes.
Dieter’s not sure what to do. Normally he’d offer someone drugs, but that won’t work.
His hand hovers over Marcus’ shaking back for a few moments before he rests a heavy palm between his shoulder blades.
He can feel the way Marcus’ breath shudders out of him, and tells him to start taking slow breaths. When it works, Dieter’s kind of amazed at how great he is at damage control.
“That’s it man, just breathe.”
Marcus nods, finally removes his hands from his face. He’s always been pretty in a very preppy way, with his perfect hair and teeth and his little dimples. He looks even prettier now, as much as Dieter kicks himself for that thought. His face is red and wet and his brown eyes are wider than they’ve ever been before.
A few deep breaths in through his nose and out his mouth later, Marcus is sufficiently calm enough to speak.
“I’m sorry.”
Dieter waves him off.
“Don’t be. Looks like it felt good, I might have a cry later too.”
Marcus lets out a wet chuckle and shuts his eyes as one last salty little droplet brushes past his long eyelashes.
“Everything okay at home? You’re not failing a class, are you?”
“No, no, nothing like that. It’s stupid.”
“Girl problems?”
Marcus laughs again, and Dieter startles a little, afraid he’s going to start back up sobbing at any moment.
He doesn’t though. He’s quiet and avoiding Dieter’s gaze as he frantically gets another cigarette from his pack and lights it up.
Dieter thinks he’s hit the nail on the head until Marcus takes a long drag of his cigarette and exhales.
“I’m fucking gay.”
Dieter opens his mouth in shock, or understanding, or maybe to try and say something, but Marcus continues.
“This whole time I’ve been gay. I don’t even— I’ve had so many girlfriends. I think they’re just nice. I’ve never— I fucking hated sleeping with them. I thought it was because it was awkward, and we’re all inexperienced? It sucked, Dieter. And I thought all guys were curious about other guys, you know? They all talk about their dicks with each other, since middle school. I just thought— and then there’s this guy… in my intro to psych class. And he’s so nice and handsome and I just always want to hang out with him. And I didn’t know why. But I want to kiss him. And I never felt that way about any of my girlfriends. And now I realize I’ve just— I’ve just been gay this whole time.”
He’s out of breath when he quits talking, but he sucks down more of his cigarette anyway. Dieter isn’t quite sure what to say to him. Usually when someone comes out to him, it’s in a less… frantic manner, more proud than anything. But this poor freshman has been on a gay crisis bender all week and is more than a little traumatized by all of it, and it’s just different with Marcus.
“That’s um… Sounds like you’ve been going through a rough time with it.”
Marcus sniffles and nods.
“Been through all five or whatever stages of grief already. It’s been a long week.”
“Are you… Upset? That you’re gay?”
Marcus’ head lolls back to thump against the porch railing.
“No… I’m more upset that I didn't figure it out until now.”
“You’re still plenty young, Marcus. You’re what— nineteen?”
“Eighteen. Skipped a grade.”
Jesus. Dieter feels even worse now about thinking he’s pretty when he cries.
“See? You’re a spring chicken, dude. You figured it out plenty quick.”
“When did you know?”
Dieter chews on his lip, considers lying just for Marcus’ sake, but decides against it.
“I pretty much always knew, honestly. But I mean— I was weird anyway, you know? Never really fit in or felt I had to play a certain part or be a certain way. It just made sense. Also, my dad always said I was as queer as a three dollar bill so… that helped.”
Dieter steals the cigarette between Marcus’ fingers to take a drag himself.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to—”
“Nothing to be sorry for, man,” Dieter tells him.
Marcus stares at where Dieter’s lips wrap around his cigarette for a bit too long, and Dieter hands it back, if only to try and stop whatever it is that’s bound to happen next.
But Marcus takes another drag himself, and his tongue peeks out to wet his bottom lip, and Dieter has never been called strong-willed.
“What’s it like?”
“What?”
“To be with a guy? What’s it like?”
Dieter shrugs.
“Depends on the guy.”
Marcus sighs.
“Are you uh— how do you like… it?”
“Are you asking if I’m a top or a bottom?”
Marcus’s face flushes a cute color in the yellow of the porch lights.
“Both,” Dieter shrugs, “but I haven’t really done that with a lot of guys. Kind of a hassle, you know?”
Marcus nods, but then his brow quirks up in question.
“What do you mean? What do you— what do you do, then?”
Dieter chuckles.
“All kinds of things, babe.”
He watches Marcus’ breath catch, the little stutter of his chest.
“Would you show me?”
Dieter rolls his eyes to distract them both from the fact that he really, really wants to.
“C’mon, man. You don’t wanna fool around with me. I’m a loser. Go find a pretty finance boy to shack up with.”
Maybe he’s less weak-willed than he thought.
Marcus’ shoulders slump again, and christ, though, is he supposed to just let him leave like a kicked puppy?
“There’s no intro to psych guy.”
It’s quiet, mumbled around his cigarette, and his eyes won’t leave his feet.
“What?”
“It’s you, okay? You’re my— gay awakening, or whatever. Why do you think I’ve been here all week?”
Dieter’s heart is hammering against his chest at that admission. This was not how he figured his Friday night would go.
“Free beer?”
His joke doesn’t land. Marcus rolls his eyes.
“It’s not like… I’m not like in love with you or anything. I just… always wanna see you. And you’re— well, you know. You’re hot. And you’re really nice to everyone. And I get this… I feel so weird when I’m around you, like, nauseous. Fuck, I’m sorry.”
Marcus flicks yet another cigarette to the curb and makes to get up, but before Dieter can think better of it, he grips him on the shoulder to keep him seated.
“That’s… actually really sweet, Marcus.”
He scoffs, hides his face in his hands, and it’s so cute Dieter can’t help but smile.
“Really— Usually people just want to fuck me, or use me for drugs.”
Marcus groans a little, mortified, and his hands run back to mess up his pristinely styled hair.
“Buddy, I’m serious. You’re a little charmer.”
Marcus looks up from his lap at that, scratching that neatly buzzed hair on the back of his neck, and his eyes are a little less embarrassed and a little more twinkly.
“You’re just saying that.”
Dieter shakes his head grinning.
“No, it’s cute. Being genuine is never a bad thing.”
And the thing is, Dieter’s not lying. It’s possibly the sweetest thing anyone’s ever said to him. But he’s toeing a very very fine line here, with himself. Because Marcus is so pretty, and so smart, and he’s soft and kind and he’s real but he’s young.
And Dieter’s just a Super Super Senior, a total burnout, on his way to holding the world record for The Longest College Career. He’s 23 and he’s still undecided and he probably won’t even get a college degree after all is said and done.
But Marcus is looking at him with those big brown eyes, watching, calculating.
“I just— I feel like you wouldn’t judge me. If I did the wrong thing. You know?”
“I wouldn’t. Anyone who would isn’t worth your time.”
Marcus huffs. Maybe Dieter can still save this.
“Would you… tell me? What you’d do? What I should do?”
And just like that, Dieter is hopping right over that line with both feet.
“Kiss me.”
Marcus’ eyes grow even bigger.
“Like, right now? Here?”
“If you want to. That’s what I’d want you to do, to kiss me right here, like you couldn’t help yourself.”
And Dieter will be damned if he doesn’t do just that, surging forward to grab the sides of his face and press their lips together.
His lips are so soft, and his face is smooth, and he’s eager, a bit too much, but it only adds to that coincidental charm. Dieter’s left to catch up, as Marcus swipes his tongue along the seam of his mouth and groans.
Dieter pulls away. Marcus’ mouth gapes open, and his shoulders heave with his fast breaths.
“You’re so… scruffy.”
Dieter chuckles, wipes Marcus’ spit from his lips and straightens out his mustache.
“Not good?”
“No, god no, it’s really good.”
And then Marcus smashes their lips together again as a pathetic little sound escapes his throat. Dieter opens his mouth this time, lets Marcus slide his tongue around, a little violent, and this is all a bit too much for some front porch steps, isn’t it?
“Hey,” Dieter says softly, pulling away.
Marcus’ brows draw up in confusion.
“Sorry. I’m not a good kisser, am I?”
Dieter sighs, grabs one of Marcus’ hands on his face to link their fingers together.
“It’s not that,” he says.
He turns his face to kiss the center of Marcus’ palm and smiles when his breath hitches.
“You really wanna do this with me?”
Marcus is nodding before Dieter even finishes speaking.
“Only if you really want it, too.”
Dieter squeezes his hand.
“I do, really.”
Marcus smiles the sweetest little smile, and they both stand up, and Dieter doesn’t let his hand go.
There’s music on in the house, and it smells like weed, and a few people are playing Nintendo in the living room. They don’t pay any mind as Dieter pulls Marcus up to the second floor, down the hall, and into his dimly lit bedroom.
At least he’s kept it semi-tidy, he thinks, as Marcus looks around while he shuts and locks the door. His bed isn’t made. He’s sure Marcus makes his bed every morning before class. He hopes he doesn’t mind.
He seems like he’s too nervous to mind, a jittery little thing standing next to his bed. He’s fiddling with the hem of his shirt, staring holes into the stained carpet, when Dieter moves to stand in front of him.
“Are you nervous?”
“No. Maybe. I don’t know.”
Dieter grabs both of his hands, and Marcus finally meets his gaze.
“It’s okay to be nervous. As long as it’s good nervous.”
He smiles and nods, but the worry in his brow is still there.
“We won’t do anything you don’t wanna do, okay?”
That seems to soothe him more.
“Can we kiss again?”
Dieter chuckles.
“Of course we can.”
Marcus tips over into him, landing at the side of his mouth but quickly correcting course. He licks, but Dieter keeps his mouth shut, goading him to calm down. And he does, slotting his lips around Dieter's bottom one, and everything else slips into place with a soft, satisfied noise from his own chest.
He lets go of Marcus’ sweaty hands to grab his hips instead, lithe and a little bony. He twitches at the touch, sighs, and presses his lips harder into Dieter’s. His hands search around frantically, jostling them both, until he finds the hem of Dieter’s sweatshirt and gets his hands underneath.
“Slow,” Dieter mumbles.
“Hm?”
“Not a race, Marcus. Take your time. Enjoy it.”
Marcus nods, but gapes at him, like he’s not quite sure what to do next.
“You wanna get comfy? Take your shoes off, sit down?”
Marcus nods again, but with a little direction, takes his shoes off and sits on the bed, criss-cross applesauce like the cutest fucking thing Dieter’s ever seen.
“I want this to be— I want you to have a good time, feel good. So tell me if you don’t feel good… or if there’s anything you wanna try. Communication is like, super sexy, right?”
Dieter sheds his shoes and his hoodie as he speaks, thinks he catches Marcus’ eyes staring at the spot between his signature pajama pants and his shirt where it rides up.
“Yeah… like, dirty talk?”
Dieter huffs out a laugh as he sits facing Marcus, crossing his legs, mirroring him to make him as comfortable as possible.
“Could be dirty talk, yeah. But just normal talk, too. It can be hot to talk about things like… how do you like to be touched? Where?”
Marcus clears his throat and scratches the back of his head with a puzzled look on his face.
“My— my dick?”
Dieter wants to laugh, but he can’t blame the guy. It sounds like the only experience he’s had so far is rushed fucks with high school sweethearts.
“Okay, yeah, that’s a good start. So, for me, I like being kissed. Everywhere. I like feeling lips on my jaw and my neck and especially my nipples. You can bite, too.”
Marcus’ eyebrows raise, his plush lips forming a circular shape that Dieter tries and fails not to focus on.
“Oh, yeah, okay. I— I like that too. I like when it’s… sloppy.”
Dieter hums, smiles, and nods.
“Anything else you like?”
He watches Marcus bite his bottom lip and trace shapes on the bedsheets between them.
“I don’t really know.”
“That’s okay. Maybe we can figure it out together, yeah?”
His long eyelashes flutter as he blinks real slow, and he smiles.
“Yeah. Thank you.”
Dieter does chuckle then.
“You don’t need to thank me. I’m gonna have a lot of fun with you.”
Christ, Dieter thinks, if his face gets any more red he might burst into flames.
He kisses him, to save him from a fiery death. It’s a little awkward, with both of their legs crossed in front of them, but it’s easier to take their time like this.
Marcus keeps it slow, so Dieter can finally lead. He licks into his mouth to feel his hard palate, and the way he whimpers and shivers in response is so delicious that Dieter can’t help but to do it again and again.
He feels long fingers grip his thighs, soft at first, but squeezing harder when Marcus returns the favor and scrapes his tastebuds along Dieter’s sharp canines.
There’s twin sighs when Marcus pulls away, only a little, eyes still shut.
“You’re really fucking good at this,” he mumbles.
Dieter hums and pecks his lips again, soft and wet.
“Could kiss you all night.”
It’s true, even though there’s also a million other things he wants to do with Marcus. He tries to push those wants down by kissing him again, getting that plump bottom lip between his teeth and nibbling on it. The noise Marcus makes has his cock filling steadily with blood, and he knows it’s very obvious in his pajama pants, and he hopes Marcus doesn’t freak out.
Like he’s reading Dieter’s mind, Marcus’ hands slide so fucking slowly up his thighs. The movements are jerky, and he hesitates when just the tip of his finger brushes his cock. His inhale is audible, but his curious touch proceeds, just the lightest ghosting across his shaft.
But then he’s pulling away, and Dieter feels on edge, bracing himself for the worst.
“Can I touch it?”
Dieter exhales his relief.
“You can… Are you open to suggestions, though?”
Marcus nods, his slick mouth hanging open.
“You could get on top of me, let me feel how much you like this, too. Drag it out, make me really want it.”
He smirks as Marcus curses, closing his eyes and pressing his palm to the front of his jeans. But he nods, and uncrosses his legs, so Dieter does the same.
And then, he’s got a lapful of Marcus, and he’s staring up into his glassy, beautiful eyes.
“Like this?”
His hips shift, and his pert little ass grinds against Dieter’s cock while his own presses against his belly.
“Just like that. Is this still okay?”
Marcus doesn’t answer him, just devours his lips again as he rocks his hips and supplies them both with heady friction. His little whimpers are muffled, and his teeth are sinking into Dieter’s lip a little too hard, but in a way that makes his cock throb and pulse against the tight ass against it.
Dieter’s hands find those lithe hips again, this time under his shirt. His skin is scalding to the touch and so fucking smooth. He digs his thumbs into his hip bones, drags little circles into them that make his hips jolt and stutter.
Fuck. He likes this a lot. Maybe too much. He pulls himself away to reel it in a bit, maybe to check and make sure this is still alright—
“I’m so fucking hard,” Marcus breathes, “I’ve never felt like this.”
And as he speaks, he’s ripping his t-shirt over his head and flinging it elsewhere.
He’s gorgeous. A little scrawny but smooth, everywhere, just miles of tan skin that’s paler here where it gets no sun. Dieter wants to bite, and kiss, and suckle on every fucking inch of it.
For now, Dieter uses all of his brain power to mumble a distracted ‘me too,’ as his hands moved upward to splay across all that hairless skin.
Marcus’ stomach tenses and relaxes under his hands, and his chest heaves as Dieter cradles his ribs and brushes his thumbs over his nipples.
“Does this feel good?”
He circles them, flicks them a little bit, and wants to curl up and live in that little gasp Marcus makes.
“Yes.”
His head is leaning back between his shoulders, all raised and on-edge. That’s not what Dieter wants. He wants him relaxed, wants him all gooey and loose.
Slowly, gently, Dieter tips him over, a hand on the back of his head until it lands on the pillows. The look in his eyes gets a little squirrely, and his breath picks up, and his nails scrabble at Dieter’s bicep.
“Is this still okay?”
Marcus nods quickly, but he’s slower with the verbal response.
“I think so… just nervous.”
“Still good nervous?”
As if to prove it, he cants his hips up into Dieter and he’s rock hard against his thigh.
“Still good nervous.”
Dieter’s own prick throbs and twitches as he hums. He lowers himself even more over Marcus, finds his racing pulse point and plants a hot, wet kiss there.
“Can I kiss you here?” he whispers.
His chin brushes Dieter’s cheek when he nods, and Marcus relocates his hands to reach up the back of his shirt. His palms are sweaty and hot as Dieter trails a wet line of kisses down to his prominent collar bone.
His skin is so salty, and the heat from his body is making his cheap cologne smell even stronger, and Dieter feels high even though he hasn’t smoked in hours.
“How about here, Marcus?”
He looks up at the younger man as he hovers his mouth above one tiny, pebbled nipple. He watches as his adam’s apple bobs in his throat, and smiles and impish grin when Marcus nods again.
The groan he receives when he closes his mouth around it has him pressing his hips to the mattress for relief. One of Marcus’ hands finds Dieter’s hair and grips.
“Ah fuck.”
Just like that, the fingers loosen and leave his head and Dieter actually whines at the loss.
“Sorry!”
“No, no, that was a good fuck. Love getting my hair pulled.”
Dieter glances back up at Marcus and watches as his wheels turn.
“Oh… really?”
He chuckles as he places a sloppy kiss on his sternum, delighted at the way the muscles twitch under his lips.
“Mmmhmm.”
Marcus sighs as Dieter finds his other nipple.
“My ex-girlfriend hated it.”
Dieter nips at the hard bud in his mouth and smirks when Marcus’ hips jolt up.
“I like a little pain with my pleasure,” he explains.
“I— can you bite me again?”
Dieter curses and obliges immediately, sinking his teeth into the meat of his pec this time.
“God, I like that.”
He even earns another tug at his hair, and Dieter knows there’s gotta be a damp spot on the front of his pajamas.
“That’s so good, Marcus. Keep telling me what you like.”
Marcus squirms under him as he alternates a string of kisses and licks and bites down his torso. His nails scratch Dieter’s scalp in between tugging on his hair, and this is the most fun Dieter’s had in the bedroom in a long while.
Marcus has a tiny bit of hair below his belly button, and it’s so fucking cute and whispy when Dieter runs his tongue along the path. But before Dieter can get the fly of his jeans unfastened, Marcus holds a hand over his.
“Can I try on you now?”
Dieter’s gaze flickers up to his face, and he looks so sweet, pleading with his big puppy eyes.
“Yeah, yes, of course you can.”
Marcus smiles, and it’s sure, like he’s finally settled into this, and it makes Dieter’s apprehension fall away.
It also makes him that much more horny, hard as ever when he lies down with his head on the pillows. He reaches down to readjust and watches Marcus clock the movement with a heady look.
“This is good for you, too?”
His voice is breathy when he asks, when his hand slips under Dieter’s t-shirt.
“Marcus, I’m loving this. I feel like a sexy experiment. Poke and prod me, babe.”
And through all of this newness and anxiety and apprehension, Marcus laughs. It’s music to Dieter’s ears, watching his eyes light up as he chuckles.
“Take this off then,” he instructs through his laughter.
“Yes sir,” Dieter purrs, “bossing me around also does it for me. You’re a natural already.”
“Y-yeah? I don’t— I’ve never been like that.”
Dieter fumbles to back track at the way Marcus’ confidence falls away.
“It’s okay, that’s an advanced lesson. My bad. Just— Just do what you want with me. Explore. I’m all yours.”
He talks as he sheds his shirt, and when the damned thing finally pulls free, he feels a little scrutinized under Marcus’s wide eyes. And he kinda really likes it.
He settles back against the mattress, one arm above his head while the other reaches out to encourage Marcus to come closer. He does, only a little timid as his gaze rakes over every inch of his body.
He settles between Dieter’s spread legs, one hand dipping the mattress next to him while the other lands hesitantly on his flank. His warm, sweaty palm feels the skin there, draws upward toward his chest, but takes a completely unconventional detour to his armpit.
Dieter’s cock throbs. This is so fucking weird and so fucking hot.
Marcus’ jaw drops slack as his fingers card through all of his armpit hair, and it tickles a little bit, but mostly it just makes Dieter’s arousal grow heavy in his groin, burning.
Before Dieter can really assess what’s going on, or encourage him, or tell him how fucking hard he’s making him, Marcus leans down to capture his lips in his own.
Dieter groans and scrabbles to grip his waist, arching his hips for any relief and finding it against the front of Marcus’ jeans, a hard line wrapped in denim that twitches against his own. He moans, low and long, as he twirls the thick hair between his finger and thumb.
And then his hand is gone, and Dieter’s quite disappointed, but he can’t just say that, can he? He weighs the pros and cons of telling Marcus not to stop as the other man trails his lips down the patchy stubble on his jaw, and bites the sensitive skin on his neck.
Maybe he should tell him. That’s a good lesson, right? How to take feedback, good or bad. But ‘hey keep stroking my armpit hair’ is a bit startling, isn’t it?
He’s so distracted by the inner turmoil that he doesn’t realize the path Marcus’ has taken until hot breath ghosts that bit of fat between his tit and armpit and then he sniffs, and groans, and licks up all the hair while he presses his cock down into Dieter’s own and Jesus Fuck—
He quickly finds purchase in Marcus’ hair and curses, grinds his hips back up into him with what he hopes is encouraging words. But forgive him if his brain is a little bit completely scrambled.
Marcus bites just under his patch of armpit hair, burying his nose in it once more, and these primal sounds he makes are vibrating through Dieter’s chest. All he can do at this point is lie back and take it and succumb to the fact that this is definitely altering his brain chemistry for the rest of his life.
It all stops rather abruptly, though, and two hot hands grab Dieter’s hips hard, pushes them down into the mattress as Marcus arches away from him.
“I might— I might come.”
Dieter blinks his bleary eyes open to look at the panicked man, who’s squeezing his eyes shut and biting his lip.
“It’s okay if you do. You can have me all night.”
“Fuck— Shut up, Jesus Christ.”
Dieter huffs, scratches at his wet armpit, and patiently waits for Marcus to settle down. He could probably come that way too, to be honest, with that pretty boy’s tongue lapping at his underarm and their cocks grinding together.
Marcus’ eyelashes flutter open, and Dieter smiles at him softly, careful not to move or touch. He looks like a hair trigger, sweaty and panting already, with a really fucking hot damp patch soaking through the crotch of his jeans.
“Sorry. I think I’m good— wait, sorry, was that weird?”
Dieter allows himself to place one of his hands on Marcus’ own, where it’s still gripping tight to his hip bone.
“It was weird in the hottest way possible.”
Marcus shakes his head at himself and closes his eyes again.
“I’m dead serious. I didn’t know how sensitive I was there. You’re teaching me things. That’s super hot.”
Marcus sighs.
“It’s just… I like the hair. And your deodorant smells nice.”
He pries his eyes open, like he expects Dieter to be disgusted, but his confession only makes his cock jump very prominently in his pajamas.
“Doesn’t taste very good, though.”
And now Dieter is laughing, and tugging Marcus back down, mumbling ‘prove it’ and shoving his tongue into his offensively chemical-flavored mouth.
It’s okay though, he just licks and licks until the taste has dissipated and Marcus is letting go of the death grip on his sides. His mouth follows a much more predictable route, this time, and Dieter watches his every move as those pretty lips wrap around his nipples, one and then the other, until he’s biting and Dieter is whimpering and asking for more.
“You can leave marks. I like ‘em.”
Marcus curses against his sternum and obeys, so fucking obedient, suckling Dieter’s skin and rolling it between his teeth. Looking up at him, his eyes look so determined, all dark and heavy, especially when he pulls away to admire the bruise he’s left.
“More. Want to see you all over me in the morning.”
“Fuck, Dieter. How’d you get so good at— at talking like that?”
Dieter chuckles, then hisses when Marcus sucks the skin on his belly into the sharp edges of his teeth. He’s looking up with an expectant quirk of his brow.
“I just say what’s on my mind,” he answers.
Marcus hums, and Dieter places his hand on his jaw to feel it working, a third mark blooming bright red on his hip.
“What’s on your mind?” He asks.
A fourth mark, this one deeper than the rest, right above the waistband of his pants, as Marcus thinks.
“I want your cock in my mouth.”
Said cock jerks wildly, disrupting the tent in his pajamas, and Marcus has the audacity to smirk. Dieter lets his thumb trace that wet, swollen bottom lip and doesn’t miss the little whine that Marcus tries to hide.
“Will you teach me?”
It’s now that Dieter realizes he’s created an absolute monster, with Marcus looking up at him all wide-eyed, batting those long eyelashes. He knows what he’s doing, and it just makes it all so much worse. Or better. Both, really.
He clears his throat to try to gather his bearings before he speaks.
“Yeah, I’ll teach you. Pull it out for me.”
Dieter watches as his breath hitches, and he eyes the tent in Dieter’s pants with an array of emotions washing over his features. There’s hesitation for sure, as he toys with his waistband. But he’s licking his lips, and taking a big deep breath as he tugs them down Dieter’s thighs.
And then he’s staring at his cock, swaying in the breeze, and Dieter thinks this would be much less intense if penises weren’t so offensive and in your face.
“Pretty,” Marcus mumbles, and it makes him giggle.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah, it’s— I like it.”
“Thank you. That’s very sweet.”
Marcus rolls his eyes but smiles.
“I can touch it?”
“Yeah, of course. Anything you want. Go at your own pace.”
Maybe it’s cliche, but as soon as Marcus’ hand wraps around his cock, Dieter is done for. Fuck, it feels so good, the way his movements are gentle and calculated, the way he’s being so attentive for his first time, exploratory. His free hand cradles Dieter’s sac, his thumb tracing the seam, and it’s alarming how close this is getting him. It’s so intimate, and genuine, and it’s so hot that he gets to be here for Marcus’ first time.
Marcus squeezes him tight and strokes, once, from base to tip. He thumbs at his frenulum, slippery with pre come, then lifts that to his lips. It’s like slow motion when he watches him poke his tongue out to taste, and he closes his eyes and hums.
“Better than the deodorant, for sure.”
And Dieter’s cock bobs as he laughs.
“That’s a relief.”
“I’ve never tasted my own before,” Marcus says.
“No?”
“Mm-mm. Seemed… gay.”
And he laughs at himself, but his face inches closer, and in an instant his tongue is flicking out to lap up more of it, straight from the source.
Dieter gasps at the contact, so sudden. His taste buds are rough against his slit, in a good way, and he has to cradle Marcus’ neck to reel himself in.
“That’s so good,” he whispers, “keep doing that.”
And he does, little kitten licks to the sensitive head of his cock, looking up at him from under those long eyelashes. Dieter groans and closes his eyes because if Marcus keeps looking at him like that, he will come before he can have any fun with him.
Then, in an instant, he’s completely enveloped by warmth and wetness, too fast, and he opens his eyes at the same time Marcus gags and coughs and pulls off of him.
“Jesus, Marcus, take it slow.”
He coughs more, with brow all furrowed and frustrated, and Dieter smooths his hair off of his forehead.
“Are you alright?”
Marcus clears his throat as he nods.
“Yeah, sorry, I can’t— I thought that would be easier.”
Dieter huffs, sits up a bit and leans on his elbow so he can see him better. His eyes are watery and not in a sexy way this time. He pets Marcus’ hair a bit, hoping to soothe him, but the redness doesn’t fade from his cheeks.
“You don’t have to take it all, that’s no fun, choking like that,” he says, “are you sure you’re okay? We can stop.”
“No! No— I don’t wanna stop. I’m just embarrassed.”
God, he’s so fucking sweet.
“Don’t be embarrassed. We’ve all been there. I threw up on the first dick I sucked.”
“Gross, dude.”
“I’m just saying, it could be way worse. Nothing to even be embarrassed about.”
Marcus sighs and hides his face in the crease of Dieter’s hip.
“Seriously, I’m still so hard I could shatter diamonds. You’re so fucking hot, it doesn’t matter if you choke a little.”
He feels Marcus’ teeth on the skin of his hip before he sees his jaw moving. He bites and sucks and it’s another beautiful piece of him he’ll get to take from this experience.
“That’s it. It’s all about the recovery. Fuck, Marcus, your mouth feels so good on me. Everywhere.”
Dieter lifts his hips up to encourage him to bite more, mark him up all over. He follows eagerly, until there’s little love bites scattered across the thin skin over his hip bone and his cock is weeping for attention.
Marcus looks up at him, finally, as he hovers just above his prick.
“Can I try again?”
Dieter hums and cards his fingers through his thick brown hair.
“Play until you win, babe.”
He’s much more careful, this time. He takes the head into his mouth and sucks, lets his tongue lather and swirl around it as his hand keeps his dick in place. He’s gorgeous, with his cheeks hollowed out and his eyes shut in concentration.
“Yeah, just like that, fucking perfect.”
Marcus whimpers around his cock, and drool is starting to leak from the corners of his mouth and drip down Dieter’s shaft.
“Move your hand a bit, jerk me off while you suck on it.”
He follows the direction so well, letting his hand draw up to meet his lips, then back down, over and over, and Dieter can feel his gut growing hot and tight. His tongue is working him relentlessly, and he’s never really had a partner use theirs so much, but the frantic swirling and flicking has his head spinning.
“You’re amazing,” Dieter breathes, “making me feel so good.”
At the encouragement, Marcus braves another inch of his cock. He starts to bob his head up and down, following his lips with his fist, and the breaths through his nose get heavier. Dieter babbles a bit, just encouraging words as Marcus works him dutifully, trying with all his might not to thrust up into his hot, sloppy mouth.
But then Marcus looks up at him with his pretty brown eyes and groans around the cock in his mouth and it’s too much.
“Fuck— fuck, Marcus, let me go.”
Marcus does, as quickly as he can, panting when his mouth is finally free.
“What’s wrong?”
Dieter huffs.
“Nothing, you’re perfect, gorgeous, beautiful. I just don’t wanna come yet.”
“Oh.”
The little cock drunk smile he gets is too cute, and Dieter tugs lightly on his hair to get him to crawl back up for a kiss. He tastes like pre-cum, and his nails bite into the heated skin of Marcus’ back for purchase.
“How are you feeling? Still gay?”
Marcus laughs against his lips.
“The gayest I’ve ever been.”
Dieter collapses back on the pillows to look up at him.
“Really though, are you still into this?”
Marcus nods, presses his hips into Dieter’s thigh to swipe away any last remaining doubt.
“Alright, next and final lesson. Get those tight little jeans off.”
He’s so quick to obey, and Dieter tries not to gawk at how much bigger that wet spot has grown just below his fly. He shakes himself out of it and gets his pajama pants completely off his legs.
Marcus is so fucking hot, jesus, Dieter feels like he’s pushing his luck having him here in his bed. So lean and long, and his cock is uncut and curves a bit to the left, and he’s still so hard.
“Get beside me, face me.”
And Marcus looks right at home like this, laid out in his bed, with his bicep bulging from propping his head up on his hand.
“What’s the lesson?”
Dieter smirks at the eagerness.
“I’m gonna jerk us off together.”
Marcus raises his brow.
“Like, at the same time?”
Dieter hums his affirmative, reaches a tentative hand out to cup Marcus’ pert little asscheek, and chuckles when he twitches.
“Don’t worry, we’ll save that for another time. If you want.”
“Shit, yeah, okay.”
And isn’t that gonna be fun? The thought makes Dieter’s cock throb and jerk and he shuffles to close the distance so their pricks line up together.
“Is this okay? Like this?”
He looks up from their cocks to watch Marcus’ jaw go slack.
“Oh god, ‘m not gonna last at all.”
Even as he says it, he’s wrapping his own hand around both of them and squeezing, groaning at the feeling and bucking his hips so they slide together.
“I don’t want you to last, I want you to feel good.”
Dieter lets his hand join the fun, covering what Marcus can’t, and his cock jumps in their combined hold when Marcus whines.
“I do, I— fuck, I really do.”
“Kiss me?”
He’s cut off by Marcus’ lips, all swollen and hot against his own. Marcus moans as soon as their tongues meet, and he starts shaking like a leaf. His hand squeezes harder around their pricks, works them faster, and Dieter can feel each and every twitch of his dripping cock.
He’s so frantic with it. His breathing whistles fast through his nose, panting into his mouth, and every other exhale is a desperate little noise. It only takes a few dozen strokes for Marcus to fall apart.
“Gonna come— I’m coming, Dieter—”
He gasps as it washes over him. Dieter feels his hot, sticky cum splash over his own hand and his cock and his stomach. Marcus hides his face in the crook of Dieter’s neck and bites as it courses through him. It sends a hot white spark down his spine, and what little filter he’d maintained throughout the night completely short-circuits.
“Shit, that’s it. So fucking good, coming all over me— Fuck, Marcus, you’re hot when you come. You feel so fucking good.”
Marcus whimpers through his aftershocks as Dieter fills his ears with whatever filth he can muster. When it’s too much, and Marcus has to slide his spent cock from their joined hands, he doesn’t let go of Dieter. He helps, with the slick aid of his cum, and Dieter topples over the edge with a growl and Marcus sucks another mark into his overheated skin.
It’s blinding, it’s his favorite orgasm he’s ever had for sure. Marcus gasps when the first streak of his spend shoots all over his smooth stomach.
“Fuck yes,” he sighs, exerted but intrigued as Dieter fucks their fists.
His cum mixes with the stains Marcus already left on his blanket, slowing to a trickle just as Marcus’ grasp loosens. Even when he’s empty, Dieter can still feel the orgasm buzzing through his body as he tries to regain his breath.
Marcus finally looks up from the scene of the crime and Dieter wants to take a picture of the fucked-out look on his face, his messy hair, his spit-slick lips and flushed face. But he can’t, so he kisses him instead, closing his eyes so maybe he can burn that image into his memory for eternity.
It’s lazy, so much slower and softer than the way Marcus kissed when he was all keyed up.
Shit.
Dieter’s in for it. He’s always had an addictive personality, and having Marcus in his bed has been stronger than any fucking drug he’s tried before.
He whimpers when Marcus pulls away, chasing his lips just for a moment before he reels himself back in.
He looks down at the mess he’s going to promptly ignore, thinks about how far away the bathroom closet is with all the towels. But then one slender finger is swiping through the cum puddle between them, and lifting to his face, and Dieter devours.
Marcus chuckles at the desperate noise Dieter makes as he swirls his tongue around to lick up every last drop.
“How do we taste together?”
Goddamn, Marcus is much more suave after an orgasm.
“Like we were made for each other.”
Christ, he needs to get himself together. His brain is just so fucking fuzzy and light.
Marcus doesn’t run for the hills, though. He giggles, and dips that same finger into their mess again. He brings it up to his own lips this time, sucking it inside his mouth and pulling it out clean.
There’s a slight grimace as he rolls it around in his mouth.
“Not as sweet as you were earlier.”
And Dieter laughs, brushes his two cleanest knuckles against the skin of Marcus’ hip.
“It’s an acquired taste.”
Marcus nods, and looks down between them, and some of that lightness in his features fizzles out.
“Hang on— here, use these.”
Dieter hands him his discarded pajama pants, and they use one leg each to tidy up their hands and stomachs and cocks. Then Dieter balls them up to swipe at his sticky blanket as best as he can. And it’s all so quiet, as their breathing has evened out, and fuck, what if Marcus has some crazy post-nut clarity after this… heavy situation?
He’s staring at the bedroom door when Dieter looks up to face him.
“Should I uh… go… now?”
Dieter sighs and finally gets his freshly wiped hand on Marcus’ skin, colder now where all the sweat has cooled.
“Personally, I would like it if you stayed. Cuddling after sex is… well, I like it a lot. Some people don’t… it’s okay if you don’t. Whatever you’re comfortable with. This was probably a lot for y—”
Marcus cuts off his rambling— thank god— by burrowing his face in Dieter’s chest and tangling their naked legs together. They both release two huge twin sighs, and Dieter’s instantly soothed by the weight against him, and the lithe fingers stroking his back.
Dieter can’t help it, he tucks his chin and plants a kiss to the crown of Marcus’ head. He drowns in the scent of sweat and cheap shampoo and feels so grounded for the first time in a very long time.
Marcus hums, and Dieter pulls him in tighter, swipes his palm over the curve of his tiny asscheek.
He clears his throat.
“I don’t have any plans tomorrow…”
Marcus lifts his head, and he looks so sleepy but so satisfied.
“So we can stay up all night? You can— could you show me more things?”
Dieter chuckles and kisses his lips to hide how relieved he feels.
“Was gonna see if you wanted to catch a movie or something. But I think I like your idea better.”
“Oh— a movie sounds good! I mean, it would be chill.”
Dieter huffs.
“Split the difference, we’ll watch a movie here while I eat your cute little ass?”
Dieter actually feels his limp cock twitch against his thigh, and tries to hold back a self-satisfied smirk.
“Yep. Yeah, let’s do that instead.”
Dieter kisses him, this time just because he can.
“Get some sleep first, okay? I’ll be right here.”
The look of comfort on Marcus’ face makes his chest burn and ache. His droopy eyelids close as he smiles, and his head drops to Dieter’s splayed out arm.
He just watches, for a little while. Lets himself count the deep, even breaths Marcus takes and feels them on the skin of his bicep.
His arm is gonna go numb in about two minutes tops, and he’ll cherish every pinprick until he drifts off.
This fic crossed my dash again today and naturally I had to read it. Because it’s so good!! So heartwarming and beautiful and cute and hot! Like insanely hot! And so damn cute!
Summary: Set during The Mandalorian and Grogu, so if you haven't seen the film back away right now. Otherwise, there's another summary below the cut.
Dividers by @/saradika-graphics
Masterlist
Summary: Din comes to inside a hollow tree trunk on Nal Hutta and wonders where the kriff he is and just what happened.
I was inspired by the whole scene of Grogu caring for Din and the snuggling under his arm to wait it out.
Din groaned softly. He could taste something earthy on his mouth, like…like dirt?
Dirt with a hint of…fish?
He swallowed and gagged slightly at the odious taste on his tongue.
As he lay there, he felt his senses slowly returning. He felt out of sorts with his body. Every cell screaming at him. He felt sore everywhere, all at once. Especially his head—that felt like he'd suffered a repeated blunt-force trauma.
How long had he been here?
He couldn't answer that question, it could be hours, it could be days. The stiffness in his muscles made him think it was more likely to be several day cycles.
Carefully, he tried to prise his eyes open. Attempting to peer through the visor, Din was temporarily panicked—all he could see was darkness.
Was he blind?
His breathing quickened and his pulse rate soared at the thought he might never be able to see again. A cold realization washed over him with that thought. He was blind and all alone in the Hutt's lair.
He would never escape from this place. Not without his eyesight.
Never getting away from this place would mean that he would never see Grogu again. The thought jarred, and his gut twisted tightly into a knot. He tried to suppress the surge of emotion that welled up within him.
Focusing his efforts elsewhere, he strained his eyes and his vision swam into focus behind the visor. Shapes appeared out of the inky blackness and he relaxed. He was not blind, but it was dark. Very dark.
Where was he?
As a man of logic and reason, Din tried to piece his memories back together. To pull the threads out of thin air and stitch the tale into a whole.
He had fought the Dragonsnake. Its bite had pierced his flightsuit. He had barely escaped its deadly clutches with the help of Grogu and the Anzellans. Recalling running through the swamp, he remembered his dismay at realizing that their ship was too small to carry him with them. But he had also known that his end was almost upon him and bought them time so that they could escape safely, whilst he…he drew his last breath and succumbed to the poison flowing through his veins.
Din breathed heavily as the memories rolled over him. He should be dead.
Why am I not dead?
The thought swirled around in his head.
Why aren't I dead? And where the kriff am I?
He cautiously reached out a gloved hand, his orange-tipped fingers meeting a solid, but uneven surface.
Was it wood?
It wasn't durasteel. It was definitely organic.
Definitely wood.
As his mind flowed with more questions, Din noticed regulated breathing. Another living creature in his space.
A light purring noise. The soft hum of sleep.
Snoring?
Feeling unsure, he craned his neck to look down for the source of the noise. There, nestled tightly into the crook of his arm, as though using it as a comfort blanket, was Grogu. Eyes closed. His breath rising and falling rhythmically.
Din's panic melted into instant relief and awe. He was awed that his child hadn't climbed aboard the spacecraft, but was here, right by his side—where he truly belonged.
Din lay back down flat to take a moment of reflection. Overcome with a wild rush of love and affection for his sleeping foundling, Din quietly and softly, reached out with a tentative finger to lightly stroke his small, wrinkled brow.
In his sleep, Grogu snuffled, murmured, and burrowed deeper into Din's body, unconsciously seeking comfort by his father's side.
Turning his head away, Din lay quietly for a moment, basking in the unbreakable bond between father and son.
Summary: A wistful request to see something wonderful in the galaxy isn't an option when you live from bounty to bounty, credit to credit. Or is it?
Written for @the-blind-assassin-12's a pictures worth a thousand words challenge (my picture is here). Thank you for organizing this, Alyssa. It was fun. I ran slightly over, but tried to keep on target.
Dividers by @/saradika-graphics
Masterlist
Staring out of the viewport, you sigh, as you watch the endless streaks of light streaming past. Hyperspace. Nothing but the void of empty space.
Space stretches out in front of you. Bending and weaving as you hurtle across the galaxy.
Hearing your heavy sigh, Din turns to his helmet in your direction.
“What's wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“That's a large sigh for nothing,” he observes. His visor, trained solely on your face, never wavers. It's unnerving, but not in a frightening way, just in a way that leaves you feeling seen in a quiet way. That he wants to hear what you've got to say. He is, after all, a Mandalorian, and as well as being a fierce warrior and bounty hunter, you know that his core values are based on honesty and integrity.
You’ve come to value his honesty too much not to answer in kind.
“I was just thinking,” you start.
“Dangerous,” teases Din lightly.
“Heyyyyy,” you reply, in mock offence. “That's rude! I'm not the one who keeps putting themselves in harm's way.”
“No. But you're still here, despite the danger.” He shifts in his chair, folding his arms across his beskar-covered chest plate, his black visor still fixed on you, as if daring you to respond.
You jut out your chin, ready to protest when a well-timed, soft cooing noise from the back of the cockpit diverts your attention.
“I stay to make sure nothing happens to Grogu,” you say boldly, crossing your own arms, mocking his posture.
For a few moments neither of you speak, you just posture.
Changing tack, Din is the first to break the silence. “So what is it you're thinking?” His tone shifts into something more serious.
“Well,” you say, finally breaking eye contact, unsure of how to ask for what it is you want. Instead, your eyes focus on the small stain on the cockpits durasteel floor—the one left by Grogu last week, which you had been meaning to clean up.
“I would like to visit somewhere new,” you say with an air of wistfulness. “Somewhere beautiful. We've been chasing bounties through some of the sleaziest bantha-dung holes across the galaxy recently, and…”
You take a beat to collect your thoughts. “And I thought it might be nice to… see somewhere, well, nice.”
A small smile tugs at your lips. “Yeah, see somewhere nice. Beautiful even. I'm sure this galaxy must have some beauty left in it—even after the Empire's had its grubby hands on most of it.”
You think nostalgically of your home planet of Aldaeraan. Its beautiful lands, once covered in greenery and teeming with life. All obliterated in the blink of an eye.
“We don’t have enough credits to make a detour,” he says matter-of-factly. “When we've dropped off this bounty and paid for the repairs to the Crest, we'll just have enough to get back to Nevarro.” His visor never leaves your face.
“Don’t look at me like that,” you chide, feeling downhearted at his reply as you try to hide your disappointment.
“You can't see how I'm looking at you,” replies Din, his voice deeper than before.
“No,” you say, “but I can imagine the look on your face right now, you—”
“No,” Din cuts across you brusquely. “I really don't think you can.”
“No?”
“No.” He says it quietly and more softly, this time.
He tilts his helmet—the thing you've come to understand that he does when he's thinking, before he speaks again.“Why don't you catch up on some sleep? We've got another ten hours in this hyperlane.”
You nod at his suggestion and turn to leave the cockpit, still feeling dejected. His point is valid, there's no way you have enough credits to do anything special when this rust bucket of a ship is always in need of repairs.
Down in the hull, you toe off your boots and remove a couple of outer items of clothing before settling into your bunk.
Cocooning yourself in your blanket, sleep takes you quickly. The dull hum of space pulls you into the deep, dreamless void of sleep.
It's the silence that wakes you. The stillness. No vibrations from the hull. Just peace.
Realizing that you have landed in Theed, you pull your tunic on at speed and are fumbling with your utility belt when you hear the thud of familiar footsteps approaching.
“All good?” Din asks as he watches you cinch the belt around your waist and slip into your boots.
“Yeah, I slept like a fifty-something year old baby,” you say. “Shall we get this bounty unloaded?”
Din clears his throat. “Not just yet, no.”
You frown at him in confusion. “No?”
“No,” he clarifies. “There's something I want you to see first.” He lifts his arm and presses a button on his vambrace. There's the hiss of depressurized gas, a loud creak and then the ramp slowly descends, flooding the hull with daylight.
“Come,” says Din, holding out a gloved hand to you. “Let's go.”
Unsure, you reach out and take it. Din is never usually demonstrative. Touch is not something he's normally comfortable with. You found that out the hard way early on in your friendship, when you attempted to embrace him after he saved your life. He had shrugged you off as though you had burned him. But not now, now he's holding onto your hand as though you might be the one to run away.
With curiosity, you let him guide you down the ramp, your hand firmly clasped in his.
And when you stand at the bottom of the ramp, what you see makes you gasp out loud.
“Kriff,” you utter, as you survey the landscape around you.
It's filled with tall, imposing pillars of reddish-orange rock. Structures like you've never seen before and you stare at them in wonder.
“I thought we were going to Naboo. No diversions because of the extra credits?” you ask, still staring at your surroundings.
“We are on Naboo,” says Din smugly, tilting his head towards you, “just a more remote part. Barely used up any extra fuel getting here. And we'll dock in Theed later.”
“Mandalorians,” you tease, giving him a friendly squeeze of the hand you had almost forgotten you were holding—almost. “Who knew they were dangerous and thrifty?”
Beside you, you hear Din snort—a mixture of amusement and satisfaction. He shakes his head.
“Where are we?” you breath, stunned by the raw beauty of geography.
“This is an ancient rock formation,” explains Din. “The Tethran Columns. Formed millions of years ago when Naboo was covered in volcanoes. If you listen closely, the wind passing through the rock fissures and fractures produces low resonating tones. The locals call it The Singing of Thethran.”
You pause, taking in his words. “How do you know all of this?”
Din laughs, a small and self-deprecating laugh. “I looked it up on the Holonet while you were asleep in the cot. You asked to see something beautiful,” he gestures with his arm in sweeping motion, “so here we are.”
His thoughtfulness makes you trip over your words. “Th—thank you. This means everything. It's so…beautiful.”
“Meshla. In Mando'a it means beautiful.”
“Meshla,” you repeat softly, before turning to look at him. “It—”
But the words die in your throat, because he's not looking at the vista in front of him, his visor is trained on you.
Aw, this is so beautiful! Din is so thoughtful. Finding a way to not go out of his way too much and still doing something so wonderful for them. I love it!
summary: harry asks you a question that catches you by surprise.
pairing: harry castillo x fem!reader
content warning(s): MATURE CONTENT (18+ MDNI), friends with benefits, established situation-/friendship, fake relationship trope, slight age gap (not specified, but implied), both are bad at love/communication, mentions of lucy, minimal physical description, no use of y/n.
word count: 3.7k
a/n: here we go y'all!!! missed writing for my man, harry, and i'm so excited to explore a different side of him in this story. we're gonna go through a rollercoaster of emotions in this one, so buckle in and hope y'all enjoy <3
pt 2. || series masterlist. || read on AO3.
You had been hired by the Castillo family almost five years ago. As a commercial photographer, your goal was to help promote their business and brand. Your relationship with the family extended to them permanently hiring you for your services, which also meant you had to photograph corporate events.
You had gotten used to their extravagant parties and the family had always been so very nice to you.
But it was their oldest son that you had more of a personal relationship with. It started off as a one night stand, a drunken night where you both spent the entire night just pouring your hearts out to one another.
You wanted marriage.
So did he.
You felt like you couldn’t find the right guy.
He felt like no woman could meet his standards.
You wanted someone simple, someone that could challenge you but ground you at the same time.
He wanted a partner, someone equal to him.
And by the end of that night after realizing that you both would likely end up dying alone, you ended up sleeping with each other.
You both agreed it had been a mistake, that you both just had too much to drink and were just in your feelings.
But then, it occurred again later that month.
After a failed first date. You had stepped into his penthouse and just… used him, and he didn’t care either. You were helping him as much as he was helping you.
And so, your relationship with Harry shifted. He’d use you just as much as you used him, but never did it pass that threshold into something more.
Because he wasn’t what you wanted.
And you weren’t what he wanted either.
For now, both of you were just a warm body to each other.
Someone to pass the time with.
Someone to help him get his mind off a particularly rough date.
Or someone to help you move on when you’ve been broken up with.
That was just the type of relationship you had with Harry and you didn’t mind.
He didn’t either.
When he met Lucy, you knew to keep your distance. Just like he would when you were exclusively seeing someone too.
But it was different with her, you knew that already.
The last conversation you had with him was after Peter’s wedding. He told you all about Lucy, how interested he was in her, how such a good match she was. He wanted more with her right away and you knew better than to get involved in his personal relationships.
Because you knew that was just how Harry was. He had told you once before that love was always the most challenging thing in the world. It wasn’t his job, it wasn’t the endless meetings he had to attend, it was love.
He couldn’t understand how difficult that seemed to be—how someone like him couldn’t find anyone worth settling down with.
But Peter’s wedding had gotten him to start reflecting on the type of life he was living and the kind of life he wanted.
And he wanted someone to love, someone to come home to. He wanted what his parents had, what Peter was able to experience with Charlotte.
So, when he met Lucy, Harry thought he found the one. He knew that he could add value to her life, just how she could add value to his. Everything had been going smoothly too. He bought a ring, bought two plane tickets to Iceland, and was planning to propose to her just after a few months of seeing her.
But when she found out about his scars late one night, Harry knew something wasn’t right. His relationship with her didn’t feel right. He would be lying if he said he wasn’t hurt when she had broken up with him, but there was a bit of relief that he felt too.
When she left, he went to your apartment. Didn’t say anything when you opened the door, he knew you weren’t seeing anyone. And before you could even ask what he was doing there, he had just leaned in to kiss you.
It was urgent, messy, almost like he was trying to forget everything with Lucy.
Because the conversation she had with him in his kitchen did made him feel like a child.
Love is supposed to be easy. She said it so casually, so matter-of-factly too.
So, he went to someone familiar. Someone that knew all parts of him. Someone without any strings attached.
He went to you.
And he knew you wouldn’t argue, wouldn’t push him to ask him what was going on. That wasn’t the type of relationship you had with him anyway.
You welcomed him almost immediately and he spent the rest of that night fucking you into your mattress. It wasn’t a great relationship—you both knew that, but it worked for the two of you.
When you both finally had enough of each other that night, Harry was already pulling on his sweatpants while you laid there in bed, naked with a sheet covering you.
“I’m going to Iceland,” he blurted out. His tone was cold, hurt.
“Okay,” you said.
“Without Lucy,” he clarified.
“I figured.”
He sighed.
And for a moment, your eyes softened. “Do you want to talk about it?”
Harry’s jaw tightened. “She said love is supposed to be easy… what the fuck does that even mean?”
You sat up and reached for your shirt on the floor to cover at least your upper half. You knew Harry, knew the surgery he and his brother went through, knew how difficult it was for him to feel something that normally other people wouldn’t have trouble feeling.
“Sounds like she was in love with someone else,” you answered honestly.
Harry sighed. “I know.”
“And yet, you still wanted to marry her.”
He looked at you. “We could’ve been great together.”
“In what sense, Harry? Because if love is what you’re really looking for, you weren’t going to find it with her.”
“Oh, and you just know that, do you?”
You sighed. “Don’t get all snippy with me, okay? I’m just—I’m telling you what I saw.”
He sat down at the edge of your bed. His eyes softened too. You both knew how to regulate each other’s emotions in a way that no one else could.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbled.
“I know,” you said, reaching out to run a hand through his hair. “And you’re hurting, I get it, but she wasn’t for you… and I think you knew that too.”
“But we were compatible,” he reasoned.
“On paper, maybe,” you whispered.
“Exactly.”
“Harry,” you sighed. “Did you love her?”
He bit his lower lip and pulled away from you. “I don’t know.”
“If you can’t answer yes right away, then the answer is already a no.”
Harry looked at you and nodded once. You always had a soft spot for his deep brown eyes, but right now, he looked like a kicked puppy. So, you leaned in and gently pecked his lips.
“You’re not old,” you reassured him. “You’ll find the perfect woman.”
“I’m not getting any younger,” he said. “And maybe there just isn’t a perfect woman out there.”
“Of course there isn’t.”
His brows shot up slowly.
“You just need to find the perfect one for you,” you finished.
Harry looked into your eyes and moved a hand to your hip. The air felt charged now like something unspoken was now lingering in the air. You knew how to calm him down, how to get himself out of his head. He leaned in again.
“Will you wait for me?” He asked.
You let a small smile line your lips. “You know I won’t.”
Harry chuckled, pulling away from you as he stood from your bed. “That’s fair.”
“You wouldn’t wait for me,” you argued.
“I know,” he said quietly. “Will I see you when I get back?”
You nodded. “You know where I live and you know where I work, Harry.”
He nodded and bent down to kiss the crown of your head once more. “Thanks,” he whispered. “For tonight.”
“I know you’d do the same if I was in your position.”
“Yeah,” he said. “I would.”
You laid back in bed and turned on your side face him, arm tucking underneath your arm. “Have a fun trip to Iceland.”
Harry scoffed. “I’ll try.”
“Who knows? Maybe you’ll find someone while you’re there.”
“Doubt it.” He walked towards the door and turned back to look over you at his shoulder. “Good night.”
“Night, Harry,” you smiled. “Turn the light off on your way out.”
He chuckled to himself and nodded. He left your apartment that night feeling a bit more relieved, but the pain of rejection still lingered. Harry ended up boarding his plane that following morning, sending you a quick text that he was leaving.
He stared at his phone and couldn’t help the smile on his lips. It was a simple text, nothing that showed you were interested in something more, which was the kind of relationship you both already established.
You forgot to turn the light off, he read your message repeatedly before shutting his phone off.
Maybe leaving to Iceland would be for the best.
Harry had come back to Iceland two months ago. Nothing changed. He went back to work like he didn’t just get his heart broken and he still visited you almost every night to get his mind off of it.
You didn’t mind though. Sex with Harry had always been different than with other men. You weren’t sure if it was because he knew what you liked or if it was because he knew every spot on your body that would bring you closer to the edge, but it was easy with him.
He never stayed the night too.
That had been one of the rules you both established and even if there had been some nights where you had no choice but to stay, you always slept in different rooms.
Never together.
Because that meant also crossing a boundary that neither of you wanted to cross.
But tonight, Harry was nervous. He planned to show up at your apartment, just like he did last night, but for a different reason to see you.
All day, his parents had been hounding him about Lucy, about how he wasn’t getting any younger and that their hope to see him married likely wasn’t ever going to happen.
It started distracting him from his work too because they got in his head. Late to meetings all day, staring out the window of his office when he should be looking over reports.
His mother even came into his office and said she had some friends whose daughters could be good for him. He shook his head and just blurted it out. He didn’t mean to, truthfully, he didn’t, but he was tired. It was already bad enough that he had his own standards that having his parents go on about it just made it worse.
“I’m already seeing someone,” Harry told her. “And I’m bringing her to the Maldives.”
His mother’s eyes lit up. “What?”
“Yeah, I—I didn’t want to make a big deal about it.”
“You’re taking a woman to our family trip for an entire week to celebrate me and your dad’s anniversary?”
Harry nodded. “Yes.”
“Must be serious then,” she grinned. “It isn’t Lucy, is it?”
“No,” he sighed.
Then, Harry said your name.
“The photographer?”
“Yes,” he answered.
His mother’s grin grew. “Perfect.”
“Perfect?”
“I always knew there was something between the two of you,” she winked.
Harry cleared his throat. He wasn’t sure what she was referring to because even when you did come to work at certain events, you both tried to keep your distance. Sure, you’d have conversations with him, but never to the extent that anyone could see there was something more.
“Did you?”
She nodded. “I see the way you look at her sometimes. It lingers.”
His brow furrowed. Harry didn’t know what his mother was saying and it wasn’t something that he could tell you either. “Anyway, can we just stop with the trying to set me up and everything?”
“Well, if we’d have known that you were already with someone, we wouldn’t have hounded you all day,” she chuckled, leaning down to kiss the crown of his head. “We just want you happy, Harry.”
“I know, ma,” he mumbled. “And I am,” he lied.”
“Good. Your dad’s gonna be so excited to hear that you’re dating her.” She smiled, pulling away. “I’ll let you get back to work.”
When his mother left his office, Harry sighed and grabbed his phone. Sent you a quick text, asking to see you tonight, before he continued working. He thought by lying to his mother about his relationship status would help him focus, but instead it just distracted him even further.
Harry stepped into your apartment so casually once the door opened. He kicked off his shoes and shrugged off his blazer before moving to your living room to sit on your sofa. He moved around your place so effortlessly, like this had become his second home.
“Your text was… ominous,” you pointed out first, moving to sit next to him with your legs tucked underneath you and your body facing his.
“Don’t be mad,” he said.
“Uh oh,” you replied. “That usually means I’m going to get mad if you start with that.”
Harry sighed.
You noticed the tension in his shoulders, the concern and exhaustion written across his features. “What is it, Harry?”
“You’re coming with me to the Maldives,” he answered.
“Okay…” you said, brows furrowed in confusion. “For what?”
“For my parents’ 50th anniversary trip.”
“Oh, did they want me to work while I’m there?” You asked.
“No.”
“Right, so then…”
“You’re going to pretend to be my girlfriend,” he blurted out.
“What?”
“I panicked. I was just tired of hearing my parents go on and on about Lucy and how I should be like my brother, settling down already, and it just came out.”
“Harry—”
“I’ll pay you,” he interrupted.
“Well, that’s a fucking insult.”
He sighed. “I’m sorry. I don’t—” Harry shook his head and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he looked down at his feet.
“Listen, I know we don’t really talk much… I mean, we don’t do much talking when we’re together anyway, but,” you sighed. “I know you’d do this for me if I was in your position.”
He turned his head to look at you. Hope filled his dark brown eyes. You could see him relax now. “I would,” he whispered.
“How long’s the trip?”
“One week.”
You nodded, contemplating on what that trip would look like. One week with Harry and his family, pretending to be someone special to him. You knew there was a part of you that knew it’d be easy to slip into that role, but you kept thinking about how it’d change after that one week was over.
“Okay,” you nodded. “I’ll pretend to be your girlfriend. When do we leave?”
“This weekend.”
“I don’t know if I have any appropriate clothing for the Maldives.”
“I’ll give you my card.”
“Wow, already being the best boyfriend I’ve ever had,” you teased.
The corner of his lips lifted. He felt himself relax.
“Are you sure this is okay?” He asked.
You nodded and reached out to rest a hand over his. “It’s one week at the Maldives. I think it’s perfectly okay.”
“And being my girlfriend?”
“We’re already sleeping together, so it’s not like we have to tiptoe around that.”
He nodded.
“But we do need to establish some kind of rules and get our story straight too. They’ll probably ask us how we got together, what our favorite things are about each other… all of that couple stuff.”
“Right,” Harry said. “That makes sense.”
“And we also need to talk about what happens after.”
“After?”
“Yes,” you said. “After.”
“Okay,” he nodded.
“Let me get us some drinks. I don’t think this night is gonna end with you on top of me,” you teased, standing from the couch.
Harry looked up at you and grabbed your wrist, standing too, and gently tugging you to him. With his free hand, he reached up to cup your cheek as he leaned in to lightly peck your lips.
“Thank you for doing this,” he whispered.
“I’m getting a free trip and a new wardrobe,” you teased, smiling against his lips. “But anything for you, Harry.”
Then, you walked away to go into your kitchen. Harry watched you slowly and bit his lower lip. He did feel a bit more at ease, but now he couldn’t help but ponder on your words and the words his mother said too.
Anything for you, Harry.
I see the way you look at her sometimes. It lingers.
It was late and both of you already three drinks in by the time you both decided it was time to lay out the ground rules for the trip. You were laying on your side on the couch and Harry was seated on the floor, tie loosened around his neck and sleeves folded to his elbows.
“Sex,” you said first. “We can definitely have sex.”
Harry chuckled. “It’s always sex with you, isn’t it?”
“You’re good at it,” you winked. “Are you really going to say sex isn’t allowed for the entire week that we’re there? I’m guessing we’re also sharing a room?”
“Yeah,” he answered.
“Exactly.”
He smiled. “Well, sex was a given anyway.”
“Right, right,” you teased. “What’s the story for how we got together?”
Harry bit his lower lip. He looked over at you and let his eyes take in every inch of your frame before settling back onto your face. “Maybe we can go with it happened after one of your shoots for company. I was helping you clean up and it just… it happened.”
“Hmm,” you pondered. “Not good enough.”
“What?”
“It’s not good enough. You’ve never stayed back to help me before. I don’t think it’d seem realistic.”
“Fine,” he said. “What about…” Harry leaned over to get closer to you, one arm resting on the couch as he reached up to cup your cheek. “What about we bumped into each other on the way to pick up coffee? It was after Lucy and we just… started talking.”
“Ooh, I like that,” you smiled, leaning against his touch. “Then, I asked you out for dinner that same night.”
“You did?”
“Yes,” you answered. “Shows I like to take initiative. Besides, the men don’t always have to be the one to make the first move.”
He grinned. “Okay, that’s good. So, we bumped into each other getting coffee, started talking, and you asked me out.”
“Mhm, and then dinner was a disaster.”
“You’re making this more complicated than it needs to be,” he laughed.
“We can’t make it seem all perfect,” you reasoned.
“Sure, right,” he said, thumb brushing along your cheek. “Dinner was a disaster… we waited so long for our food, they gave us the wrong dishes—”
“And it started raining while we were waiting for the valet!” You chimed in.
Harry chuckled and dropped his hand. “You know, that actually sounds like something that would happen if we were to go out on an official date.”
You sighed dramatically. “Exactly.”
He sat up from the floor and moved to sit on the couch, placing your head on his lap. “So, how do we go from a disastrous first date to officially dating?”
“I kissed you,” you answered simply. “Because despite everything working against us, we still had fun.”
Harry smiled. “Romantic.”
You turned on your back and looked at him, feeling his hand move back down to your cheek again. “That’s something you don’t know about me,” you teased. “I’m a hopeless romantic.”
“Oh, I knew that about you,” he laughed. “But it’s cute. I like it.”
“Yeah, that’s because you’re a romantic too.”
“Good point.”
“Okay, we have that established. How about during the trip?”
“What about during the trip?” He asked.
“Are we affectionate?”
“Naturally, yes.”
“Okay, fine with me.”
“And after?” You asked.
“Nothing should change,” he answered. “We make it through the week and then we come back and just… slip back into our normal routine.”
You nodded. “Okay, good.”
His eyes narrowed as he watched you move to sit up and face him. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“It’s not nothing. I know that look on your face. What is it?”
You sighed. “What happens if one of us… develops something for the other person?”
Harry cleared his throat. “I don’t think that’s going to happen.”
“Me too, but we need to have some kind of plan in case it does.”
“Fine,” he said. “If that happens, we talk to each other about it.”
“And you’ll listen?”
“Me?” He scoffed.
“Fine, okay. We’ll both listen.”
Harry nodded and then gently pulled you onto his lap, watching you place both legs at either side of him as he sat firmly on you. He moved his hands to your hips as he looked up at you, tilting his head.
“One week,” he said quietly.
“One week of pretending,” you nodded.
“And if at anytime you feel uncomfortable, you tell me, okay?” Harry said, reaching up to cup your cheek.
“You know I will.” You replied, leaning down as your hands ran through his dark curls.
“Thank you,” he whispered. “Again.”
You nodded and leaned in to brush your lips with his. “Guess you’ll just have to owe me.”
He chuckled and gripped your hips before moving to lay you on your back on the couch, settling himself between your legs. “I can think of a few things to start with.”
You squeaked out in surprise when his fingers moved along your sides, digging into them teasingly as you erupted in a fit of laughter. You tried to squirm away from him, but he was stronger than you.
“Harry!”
He laughed to himself and grabbed your hands, pinning them above your head as he stared down at you. “You tired?”
You shook your head. Both your gazes darkened. “You know I’m not.”
“Good,” he grinned, leaning down and pressing his lips firmly against your own.
Oh, this is going to be interesting! I love that they already talked about potentially catching feelings. But I think they are both not prepared of what’s to come.
Summary: When sex gets too overstimulating, you offer Clint another part of you.
Tags: porn no plot, shameless smut, cum eating, unprotected p-in-v sex, dirty talk lite, facefucking, messy blowjob, overstimulation, no use of y/n, reader is afab and able-bodied, reader is a woman of color yet everyone is encouraged to read, reader has a curvy figure and hair, sorry for any stray typos/grammatical mistakes, if i missed any other tags pls let me know okay, thanks!
A/N: what can i say everyone, i saw THIS and needed to write something to rub the ache away. this is my first time writing clint and there isn't really any characterization here since he's just a ken doll for a sexual fantasy... but i still had a wonderful time indulging in this character. shoutout to @salingers for being the GOAT and sending me the video. the audio really helped me immerse and bang this out (hehe) in one day. reblogs, comments and likes are always appreciated, thank you my freaky little sluts 🖤
Your hips roll in sensual circles, chasing the thick drag of him even as your fingers twist viciously into the damp sheets.
The cotton is already ruined—crumpled and streaked with the evidence of how many times he’s already made you come undone.
When he’s been gone too long for work, it’s always the same: he comes back to you hollowed out by the hunger that trembles violently beneath his skin.
He becomes a starved man, not just for rest, but for you.
The moment he crosses the threshold with a fresh split on his lip and a purple bloom spreading under his left eye—you know exactly what’s to come.
You didn’t even make it to the bedroom the first time.
Just the feeling of his mouth crashing onto yours, tasting faintly of shitty cigarettes, and his callused palms shoving your tank-top up and your shorts down in one impatient yank.
The living room floor still bears the faint imprint of your knees and the smear of your arousal where he bent you over the coffee table and fucked you fast and brutal until you were sobbing his name onto the wooden surface.
Now you’re in bed—finally—and he’s taking his time wrecking you properly.
Face down, ass up, thighs trembling from the strain of holding the position he loves best. Your cheek is pressed into the pillow, mouth open, drool darkening the fabric in a wet oval beneath your lips.
Clint’s big hands are locked around the soft, generous flesh where your hips curve, fingers digging in hard.
He uses that hold to yank you back onto his thick cock with every punishing thrust, forcing you to take him to the root until the blunt head kisses your cervix and your whole body jolts.
“Fuck—there she is,” he growls low, voice shredded from exertion.
Your cunt is swollen, hypersensitive, dripping so much that every time he pulls out the cool air hits your soaked folds and makes you tighten involuntarily.
His balls are heavy as they smack against your clit with each deep plunge, slick with your release from… three? Maybe four orgasms ago.
You’ve lost count.
The insides of your thighs are glossy, strings of arousal webbing between your skin and his every time he withdraws.
Sweat runs in rivulets down the hard planes of his chest, catching in the dark hair that trails from his navel to his cock.
The muscles in his forearms cord and bulge as he manhandles you exactly how he wants you, and you really wouldn’t have it another other way.
You try to lift your head, to look back at him, but he presses a wide palm between your shoulder blades and forces your chest back down, cheek mashed harder into the pillow.
The new angle has him grinding against that swollen, spongy spot inside you on every stroke. Electricity races up your spine; your toes curl so hard they cramp.
“Clint—oh god—too deep—” The words come out slurred and downright pathetic.
“Too deep?” His laugh is dark, breathless. “You’re still squeezin’ me like you don’t want me anywhere else, sweetheart.”
He punctuates the taunt with a slow, intentful roll of his hips, stirring his cock inside you until you’re whimpering and shaking violently.
Then he pulls almost all the way out—only the fat, flushed head still stretching your entrance—before slamming back in so hard the headboard cracks against the wall.
Your cry is broken. The pillow muffles most of it, but not the wet gush that follows, another flood of slick coating his shaft and dripping down onto the sheets.
“Fuck, listen to that,” he groans. “That’s my good girl—so fuckin’ wet for me.”
One hand leaves your hip to slide up the sweat-slick arch of your spine, fingers threading into your hair.
He twists, yanking your head back just enough that your neck bows and your mouth falls open on a choked sob.
“Look at me,” he rasps against your ear.
You try. Vision blurry with tears and pleasure, you catch a glimpse of him—eyes black with hunger, jaw clenched, sweat beading on his upper lip.
Beautiful. Dangerous. Yours.
His broad chest presses to your back, heat radiating off him like a furnace. His mouth finds the side of your throat, teeth scraping over the racing pulse there.
“Gonna fill you up again,” he murmurs against your skin. “Gonna keep fuckin’ you till all you know is this cock and my name.”
Your core squeezes hard around him at the words, body already climbing toward another shattering peak.
He feels it and growls against your neck. “That’s it. Come on my cock one more time, baby. Let me feel you.”
His hand snakes beneath you, rough fingertips finding your slippery clit. He doesn’t tease, just rubs fast and merciless circles that match the punishing snap of his hips.
The world whites out after that.
Your orgasm hits like a freight train—back bowing, thighs locking, a broken scream tearing from your throat while your pussy spasms wildly around him.
More juices gush out, coating his cock, his balls, the sheets beneath you both.
Despite feeling like you’ve died in the best way possible, your body is screaming that it’s reached its limit. Every nerve ending feels overstimulated, and gloriously ruined.
But Clint… Clint is still hard as steel, hips barely restrained, breath sawing in and out like he’s fighting not to chase his own release again just from the way your walls keep pulsing around him.
You can’t take any more inside you. Not right now.
“C…Clint…” His name comes out thick, drowsy, almost drunken. Your arm feels impossibly heavy as you reach back, fingertips sliding over his sweaty skin, tracing the rigid line of his forearm before you tap three deliberate times, your signal for when things get to be too much.
He slows his thrusts immediately.
The grip he had on your hair loosens at once, fingers uncurling gently until they’re just cradling the back of your skull instead of yanking. His voice drops to something softer, edged with concern.
“What’s wrong, baby? You okay?”
You manage a tiny, shaky nod, too spent to form full sentences. Your whole body goes limp, trusting him to catch you as he eases you both down onto your sides.
He doesn’t pull out, yet it doesn’t feel invasive. The fullness of him inside you is almost comforting as he lets your overworked pussy adjust to the stillness.
He curls around your back, chest pressed hot to your spine, one thick arm banded across your waist to keep you close.
His lips find the damp curve of your neck, then your shoulder in slow, open-mouthed kisses, tongue flicking out to taste the salt on your skin.
His free hand roams with tenderness: wide palm gliding over the soft swell of your hip, tracing the dip of your waist, cupping the heavy underside of your breast without squeezing, just holding.
You turn your head just enough to catch his profile—strong jaw clenched, eyes heavy-lidded and dark with lingering lust.
He’s devastatingly handsome like this: post sex glow, dark facial hair rasping against your shoulder every time he kisses you, that jagged scar along his cheek and nose glistening in the low lamplight.
And god help you, even with your pussy throbbing and begging for mercy, the sight and scent and weight of him keep desire burning hot in your body.
You can’t help it. He fucks you too good.
“Baby,” you whisper, lips swollen and tingling. Your eyes are glassy, wet with tears of pleasure and exhaustion. “My mouth… I want you to use it.” Your lower lip trembles into a needy little pout, enticing him.
His brows knit together for a second as he searches your face. Then that slow lick of his own lips followed by a wicked smirk.
“Is that right?”
His palm slides up, finally closing around one heavy breast, thumb brushing over the tender, abused nipple before he squeezes possessively, just enough to pull a soft whimper from you.
“Mmm.” The sound vibrates against your neck as he leans in and claims your mouth in a deep kiss; tongue stroking yours, tasting the salt of your tears and the lingering sweetness of your earlier cries.
He slips out of you carefully, both of you groaning at the wet drag of it.
A thick trickle of cum immediately follows, sliding warm down the inside of your thigh.
You shiver at the sudden emptiness, but he’s already moving, shifting up the bed so his hips are level with your face, body angled on his side so you don’t have to strain yourself.
His cock hangs heavy between you—thick and flushed, wet with a creamy sheen of both your multiple releases.
The coarse dark hair at the base is matted, slicked down, and the musky, primal scent of sex hits you like a drug: salt, sweat, him, you, all mingled together.
Your mouth floods with saliva; your head spins. You need it so bad.
He wraps one big hand around the base, gives himself a few pumps—smearing the mess up and down his shaft.
A low, guttural Fuuuck drags out of his throat as his hips jerk forward into his own fist.
“Come on, sweetheart, open that pretty mouth for me.”
You obey without hesitation.
Lips part on a soft sigh. Tongue slides out, flat and eager, trembling just slightly from exhaustion and anticipation.
He guides himself forward, slowly and controlled, letting the fat, leaking head nudge against your tongue first.
You taste salt and bitterness and the faint sweetness of your pussy. Then he pushes in deeper, inch by thick inch, stretching your lips wide around him until the head bumps the soft barrier of your throat.
Your throat flutters when you swallow around the intrusion. A broken moan vibrates around his length and your eyes water instantly, fresh tears spilling down your cheeks.
Clint’s hand cups the side of your face, thumb brushing away the tears even as his hips give the smallest testing rock forward.
“That’s it,” he breathes. “Just like that, baby. Let me fuck that sweet throat.”
He doesn’t go too deep just yet. Only shallow, lazy thrusts that let you adjust and breathe around him while your tongue swirls messily along the underside, tracing every vein, savoring the way he throbs against your palate.
“Look at me.”
You do—eyes glassy, mascara smudged, lips stretched obscenely around him.
The sight seems to snap something in him.
His next thrust goes deeper. Your throat opens on reflex; he slides past the resistance with a slow, deliberate glide until your nose brushes the damp hair at his base.
You gag softly, tears streaming freely now but you stay still, relaxing into it, letting him use you exactly the way you wanted him to.
“Fuck—good girl,” he groans, hips rolling in a slow, filthy rhythm. “So fuckin’ good for me.”
After a few more shallow thrusts, he pulls himself from your lips with a slow, wet pop. The sudden emptiness makes you whimper softly, tongue chasing the taste of him that lingers on your lips.
He doesn’t give you long to miss it.
His hand wraps around the thick base again, heavy cock bobbing in front of your face, giving it one lazy stroke, then angling it to tap the swollen head against your cheek.
You flinch slightly at the feeling. It makes your cunt clench around nothing.
He studies your reaction for a beat, as if he’s memorizing the way you look right now… hungry for him how he is for you.
Then he does it again—harder this time. The fat head smacks your cheek, leaving a faint, warm smear of precum and saliva across your skin.
Your breath hitches and a soft, broken moan slips out before you can stop it. Not that you want to, anyways.
He guides himself back between your lips thereafter, more eager this time, and your throat immediately opens for him like how he’s trained you.
He groans low in his chest when your nose presses into the coarse, damp hair at his base again, the musky scent of him flooding your senses.
Clint fucks your throat harsher this time, his hands coming up to cup your bouncing breasts.
He squeezes each roughly—thumbs sweeping over your nipples, still tender and peaked from earlier. He pinches, rolls, tugs just hard enough to make your back arch off the mattress. The sharp pleasure-pain shoots straight to your clit, even though he’s nowhere near it.
“Jesus—fuck—” His rhythm falters for a second, hips stuttering forward when you moan around his cock. “You’re gonna make me come just from that sound, sweetheart.”
He keeps one hand kneading your breast, the other sliding up to cradle your neck, feeling the way the skin bumps with each drag of his cock.
Your hands caress your own inner thighs, uncaring of the oversensitivity at your pussy as you slowly move your fingers down to spread your sticky lips open, putting pressure on your erect clit.
Spit drips from the corners of your mouth and runs down either side of your jaw. Every time he bottoms out, your throat quivers and he swears under his breath.
“Gonna fill that pretty mouth, baby. Give you every fuckin’ drop.”
He’s close—you can feel it in the way his cock throbs heavier against your tongue and how filthy his dirty talk gets, his breathing turning even more ragged and uneven.
Clint swears viciously, pace stuttering. “Fuck—fuck—gonna—shit—” One last hard thrust—deep enough that your eyes water fresh—and he holds himself there, buried to the root.
His hand tightens in your hair, the other still squeezing your chest.
You taste the first hot, thick pulse of his release, then another, and another, flooding your mouth until it’s too much and it leaks out and around his cock in creamy rivulets.
His hips jerk as he rides it out, milking every last shudder from his body.
You suckle on his softening cock, coming down from your own unexpected orgasm, drinking down as much of his release as you can, savoring it, getting drunk off it.
He pulls out, a thin string of cum and spit connects the head to your swollen lips and your tongue darts out immediately, sweeping seductively along the corner of your mouth, catching the creamy spill that had escaped.
You lick your bottom lip clean, then the top, enjoying the sticky residue, the way it clings to the inside of your cheeks.
A soft, contented hum vibrates in your throat as you swallow one last time, eyes fluttering half-closed.
Clint watches the whole thing, chestnut brown eyes dark and glinting with admiration.
His thumb traces the mess on your chin now—smearing it gently across your lower lip before pushing it back into your mouth.
You close around the digit without hesitation, sucking it clean just like you did his cock.
“Jesus, baby. You’re gonna kill me one of these days.”
He shifts to replace his thumb with his mouth, kissing you passionately, tasting himself on your tongue, groaning softly into it like he’s already half-hard again just from the flavor of you both together.
When he finally pulls back, he murmurs against your lips:
“Don’t move.”
Then he’s readjusting your body on the bed, sliding down while his mouth trails wet open kisses over your sternum, your pillowy stomach, the sensitive dip of your hip.
He settles between your thighs like he belongs there, big hands spreading you greedily.
Because even though you’re both spent and every inch of you is tender and aching—he’s not done yet.
Not by a long shot.
i have a tag list for my works here, so if you're interested— pls check it out 🖤
Summary: Frankie finds your panties in his pocket and his mind starts wandering.
Tw: 18+ mdni, smut, fluff, Frankie is horny and sooo in love, established relationship, m!masturbation, daydreaming of fem!oral, unprotected piv, creampie, swearing.
Word count: 1,1k
A/n: Happy Frankie Friday, loves🧢 I got inspired/horny and wrote this little thing. Thanks to my baby @milla-frenchy for beta-ing and to @cursed-carmine for the dividers. Hope y’all will enjoy the story♥️
Frankie Morales Masterlist || MASTERLIST
Frankie’s at work when he finds your panties in his jeans pocket. He doesn’t realize what they are at first and frowns, looking at a piece of lacy fabric, hanging off his finger. As soon as he recognizes the shape his eyes widen and he quickly crumples them in his fist. He’s proud to show off his hot girlfriend to his friends anytime but this is intimate, for his eyes only.
He knows you sneaked them in his pocket on purpose and his lips spread into a smile.
Naughty girl.
Frankie shoves them back and rushes to the bathroom. He closes the door of the stall and presses his back to it. Then he pulls the underwear out again, holds it with his two hands in front of his face, imagining your pussy behind the intricate fabric and his balls get heavy with want for you. He glides his thumb over the lace, his pupils dilating just looking at the garment.
Of course, he brings them to his nose. That’s what you wanted him to do, little minx, — to press the soft material to his lips and take a whiff of your scent. Fuckkkk, your scent. Delicate and tempting. Delicious and sweet.
With his heart beating fast, his cock getting thicker in his boxers, his tongue darts out and he licks the gusset. Maybe he’s imagining it but a trace of your taste tickles his receptors, so he closes his eyes and licks it again. He imagines your soft folds like flower petals under his tongue, your juices as tasty as honey. A moan falls from his lips and he snaps his eyes open in fear that someone’s heard him.
“What are you doing there, Morales?” If he hears this now he’ll die from embarrassment.
But it’s quiet behind the door and Frankie lets out a relieved sigh.
“Oh, baby…” His whisper is barely audible. He wishes you’d hear it but you’re too far away and the pain of missing you squeezes his heart with a claw. He’d do anything to be with you right now, to make you pay for what you’re doing to him right this second.
He’d throw you over his shoulder like a Neanderthal and bring you upstairs to the bedroom, pin you to the mattress and kiss you hard. The images behind his eyelids are intoxicating him.
You’re giggling but he knows you’re trembling inside, ready to be ruined. He climbs down your gorgeous body and pulls up your skirt to find his heaven — your delicious, soft, warm, beautiful pussy. He can’t wait. He gets to feasting immediately. You might cry and beg for him to slow down, to give you time to get used to his caress but he doesn’t yield. Your nectar is too tasty to stop drinking it, your moans are too hot to quiet them.
His tongue inevitably finds its way inside you and Frankie begins fucking you with it slowly and steadyly, his hands keeping your thighs apart, his nose rubbing your little clit just how you like it.
You come hard for him, almost crying, your lips and lashes wet. He kisses the tears away after he moves up your body and settles between your thighs.
Your core is flooded thanks to his skillful mouth and your pussy swallows his huge cock without trouble after what he’s done to you.
He’d give everything to be inside you right now. To feel your velvet walls hugging him tightly, your warm slick coating his cock and Frankie bites his lower lip, imagining how perfectly you’d pulsate around his length.
“Oh, baby,” he quietly repeats and his whole being wishes to hear those words in your voice right now.
“Oh, baby, you’re so deep inside me… your cock’s so big… can feel it everywhere.”
He loves your dirty mouth. Your praise makes him lose his mind and his cock plunges harder inside you.
In his daydream he’s already made you moan, now he wants to hear you scream his name. Get the bed rocking, soak the sheets with his and your sweat. He’s thrusting his cock into you fast and hard, not letting you catch your breath, pounding into you relentlessly.
Then he pauses, still deep inside you, still caging you against the bed, and stops so he could feel you. His eyes lock with yours, both hazy and blown out, mirroring each other.
“You feeling good?” He asks and you nod with a big drunk-looking smile.
“I love you so much.” A soft kiss follows his confession and he licks ‘love you’s’ off your lips like it’s the sweetest nectar.
Your hips slightly move under him and when he drinks your whine he knows you need him too much.
“Mmm.. my impatient girl,” he teases you and thrusts in. You choke as a sudden pleasure washes over you and your thighs spread wider as an invitation, no— a plea for him to go on.
He’ll give it to you like you deserve it.
His hips moving slow and steady, he’s massaging your walls with his stiff cock, his movements accompanied by you, mumbling his name like a prayer. He’s not your God but you’re his — his goddess, his muse, his hope and his love.
Brushing your cheek with his lips he’s whispering sweet nothings to you while you’re gripping his shoulders, making him feel incredibly good.
You cry out when a wave of ecstasy hits you and your pussy starts fluttering around Frankie’s cock. He comes soon after, painting your walls with his warm cum, filling you so full your panties won’t have a chance to keep it all inside and your thighs will be wet and sticky after.
He smiles thinking of it, his claim is hidden but you both know it’s there.
Frankie’s head drops down and he stares at his huge cockbulge. Like a tiger in its cage it demands to be released, and not being able to keep hold of his desire any longer, he unzips his jeans.
“Hey, baby!” You cheerfully greet him on the other end of the line after he calls you.
“Don’t ‘hey baby’ me, little minx. I just found your present.”
“Did youuuu?” You sing. “Hope you like it!”
Your playful giggle feels his heart with love but his cock twitches impatiently. He gives it a stroke and grits his teeth, burying a moan in his throat.
“Very much,” Frankie lowers his voice and gruffs into the speaker, “I'm in the bathroom now. What do you think I should do to you when I’m back?”
You hum as if thinking hard but as you start talking he realizes you know exactly what you want.
He rests the back of his head against the door, closes his eyes and listens to you, stroking his leaking cock, his hand moving back and forth steadily, your panties wrapped around his palm.
Thank you for reading! Please, leave a comment and reblog if you liked the story💞
Well, I'd say the vote on who the next visitor to the bakery was pretty decisive! Harry won by a small landslide, and he will be coming up soon! But I voted for Acacius, so I'm hoping inspiration will strike for him too...
For those of you who aren't familiar, A Baker's Dozen is a collection of short, fluffy stories all set in the same bakery featuring 12 different Pedro boys that I wrote about two years ago. It started as a challenge to myself to get into writing different voices, and it turned into a great experience where I discovered several new, favourites.
Rich swamp smells, loam and river-weed, moist tree bark, springy moss and shading fern. Sounds of the deep fens, droids on patrol, frogs chorusing, the swell of countless insects droning. The feel of earth beneath his palms, his toes squelching in the puddles.
The way his father’s chest rose up and down, up and down, fast and shallow. The rattle of his breathing.
What if it had come out different?
What if he never found the kind man across the river? What if he never got the medicine?
He pulled at his father’s shoulder, tapped his armor frantically, listened for his heartbeat under beskar.
All was silent — all was silent — and he was alone —
*
Grogu woke up in the dark on Nevarro. He would know the closeness of their little home no matter what, the little hum of their security defenses in the background, the smells of caf and cookies, the way the air hung just so within four prefab walls. It was secure now. He could feel it in the Force.
But the dream was still so scary and so fresh. He froze, then pulled his blanket over his head. He stayed like that a minute before peeping his head out, ears brushing against the soft fabric. He called out, shyly, just once.
No answer.
He told himself he would be okay if his father slept through without realizing. They had been through so much these past days. They both needed rest. Grogu sighed and turned within his blanket, shivering a little, determined to fall back asleep on his own.
A hand, warm and steady on his back in the dark. “Hey, kid. You okay?”
Grogu hesitated.
He’d been okay after the assault on the Imperial warlord in the snow. Chilly, excited, but fine.
He’d been okay after they locked him in a cage. His legs were tired and he was embarrassed and worried about his dad, but they’d both been all right.
He was okay after he got his dad home safe again. They’d both fought so much, so hard, and they had won!
He was getting stronger. Better at helping his dad. Better at saving his dad. He knew that he was brave and that he’d done good.
“Grogu?” his father asked quietly, his voice rough. He clicked on Grogu’s glow-lamp. In the dim light, Grogu could see he had taken off his helmet, something he did only very rarely, when it was just the two of them in their clan and the world was quiet. His father’s face was lined and tired and kind. “You all right?”
Grogu shook his head no, and he held out his arms.
“Hey, hey. I got you, kiddo.” His father held him close, his embrace gentle as anything. They stayed like that until the sun crept around the edges of the windows, until the blurrg crowed with the morning. And Grogu knew that they were safe once more.
an: it’s been a long time since I wrote this guy, so go easy on me! this was just an idea I had this afternoon, so I wrote it down. dedicated to @intheorangebedroom — she’ll know why ❤️
—
The movie ended about an hour ago.
The screen went black, and then the TV turned off, and the room was left in a dusky, liminal space, where nothing held its true color, only variations on the color that you knew existed.
The stripes on the worn blanket you were sitting on, the colorful skulls that hung on the wall from an exhibition you saw last month, the art you had framed – it was all tinged in a greyish-blue that served as a holding space for the tension steadily rising between the two of you, from your spots on the couch.
You had met him at a café – a lone American sitting at the bar while the locals sat outside. Your elbow had bumped into his when you went inside to pay, and your apology had turned into a conversation, and then into an offer to meet up.
He – Francisco, as he introduced himself – was traveling for a few weeks, and in a show of courage that had you surprising yourself, you offered to be his guide.
Maybe it was the glint of interest in his eyes. Or maybe it was the hint of dark curls under his hat, ones that had you wondering how soft they were. Maybe it was the look on his face – first an assessing, intensely soulful look that pinned you in place, then a surprisingly vulnerable one that held you there.
Whatever it was, you offered and he accepted. Day trips had turned into night walks, had turned into this meeting at your place for a home-cooked meal, which had then turned into….this.
This aching space, where anything was possible.
This muted space, that was devoid of color but so rich in other things: in the low, gravely drag of his voice, in the heady, masculine scent of his skin, in the gentle caress of his fingers playing idly with yours.
Slumped together on your sofa, shoulder to shoulder, a low pitch of conversation is exchanged between you in the dark room. Your breath is shallow, your heart racing, your mind hoping – yet you sit still and let him play: his fingers sliding between yours, his thumb brushing over your skin, his touch tracing your knuckles.
He is so close you can feel him talking as well as hear it. So close you can smell a whiff of the detergent he uses.
Turning your head in reply to something he says, your warm breath mingles in the shared space between your mouths. His breathing seems just like yours, a cross between holding it in fear of breaking the moment, and taking sips just to breathe each other in.
The room around you is pregnant with intimacy, with the occasional street noise that drifts in on the wind, and in this aching quiet, his hand lifts to cup your jaw, the tension between your bodies swelling to new heights….
And then, he kisses you.
His mouth is tender, exploring. Weighted, firm. His lips press fully against yours, capturing you in place, fingertips brushing against the hinge of your jaw. Your mouth parts to invite him in, and he accepts with a slow slide of his tongue, tasting, tasting, tasting. The kiss deepens with a sigh, your body melting backwards to pull him on top of you and he follows your guidance, seeking out your closeness and your flavor, his hands beginning to wander, just like yours.
The comforting, solid weight of his body presses you into the couch, his hips finding a home between the cradle of your thighs. You kiss, and kiss. Lips sealing together, mouths opening wide, tongues sliding together to savor taste.
The room sees it all – a blank canvas for the bright bursting thing happening between you two. The thing that’s been there from the start, finally coming to fruition. Everything drips – the grey walls bathed in intimacy, the muted tones awash with arousal, the clinging cotton covering your core.
Your laps grind together, your aligned bodies melding as his strong arms wrap around you to hold you close, and your ankles hook over his lower back. Your fingers slide through his curls and they are exactly as soft as you thought they’d be, like slippery silk.
You give them a tug, and are rewarded with his lowest, neediest groan yet.
Weighted with want, rumbled into your open mouth.
The movie ended an hour and a half ago, and his form joins the dusky tones of the room when he kneels between your bare thighs, your jeans and panties hooked around one ankle while it’s his tongue this time that sparks and lights, washing your body in arousal so strong it hurts.
He delves deep, licks wide, flicks and swirls and laps.
With your back arched, he devours.
His broad back is reflected in the black screen of your TV, the filthy image of his grey t-shirt pulling tight between his shoulder blades in his hungry hunch, his dark curls tucked between your spread thighs. Your fingers curl to grasp at the blanket beneath you and you roll your hips into his hungry mouth until your moans break the weighted silence, joining the night sounds from outside.
He joins you on the couch after that, even though it’s not big enough for what he has in mind. It’s a two seater, a small thing, but he makes it work when he stretches out on top of you and smears your own wetness against your mouth with his searing kiss, and reaches between the press of your bodies to unbuckle his belt.
There are other people in your building – a neighbor whom you share a wall with, who you only hear on football match days. A woman beneath you, the shouts of her children heard sometimes through the vents. Still more in the floors beneath them, and in the streets outside, and in the expanse of the city as it spreads across the earth – yet your entire existence is reduced to this one room when he opens your mouth with his just as he slides forward to break you open with a filling, weighted grind.
Your teeth catch his lower lip when you whine underneath him, and you can tell he likes it, this confirmation that he’s a lot to take. He grins against your mouth – decadent and filthy, slightly cocky and mischievous – and begins to fuck you on your couch like he’s been planning it since day one, from that first meeting in the bar.
He fucks with intent, with purpose. With experience, with competence. But also just like that first meeting, his intensity gives way to something more base, something feral and open and vulnerable. Like he can’t help the need that pours out, or the way he seeks your warmth.
His hips rock forward, demanding you take him in your pinned place underneath his body. His strokes are a rolled grind that has you lifting yours to meet his, forcing him deeper as your nails dig into his lower back, holding on.
The room absorbs every filthy sound: the humid panting of breath, the needy, low moans, his grunts that match the rhythmic punch of his hips. Filthy confessions pour from his mouth – your pussy feels so good, I wanted to fuck you the first time we met, bet your mouth was made for me too, your fucking pussy is so tight I’m gonna cum, you’re going to make me cum.
Every piece of praise washes over the sensitive hollow beneath your ear.
It’s like rebirth, like baptism. Like your life was as muted and dull as the small room around you and he found you and tugged you into the bright bursting daylight, plunging you into a colored life of sensation, of aching desire, of feelings too strong to be real.
When he comes, you join him, a tear sliding from the corner of your eye.
The movie ended two hours ago, and dawn breaks on the horizon somewhere outside. It trickles in through your open window, a slice of barely illuminated gold.
Sated and spent, he lays on top of you and your fingers drift mindlessly through his damp roots, over his soft shirt, along the firm planes of his skin. It’s a tight fit, an uncomfortable one that you don’t mind, when he shifts his weight off you to tuck himself into the back of the couch, holding you close against him.
While he dozes, you stay awake.
Bird sounds replace the quiet, light illuminates the darkness. From your spot crushed against his chest, you watch his pulse beat under his skin, strong and steady. Leaning in, you inhale his scent from the place on his body drenched with it – the hollow of his throat.
Slowly, lightly, as light slips into the room and brings color with it, you brush your fingers over the freckles that dot his skin just above his collar. There is a cluster you’ve been obsessed with since you first saw him, and you find them, dusted across his skin.
Resting your mouth against them, you let your eyes close as you press a kiss that lingers.
A full press of your mouth — one that lingers, then stays, as you fall asleep.
A made-up fic title for you: "The Stars are Fire."
❤️🐾.
Hiii! I love this title! It made me think of a Din fic I wrote not long ago, Stars Fading and so I wrote this little drabble as a follow up, but it can be read a standalone.
The Stars are Fire | Din Djarin x f!reader
For the made-up fic titles
WC: 363
CW: smut, not very graphic but they are clearly having sex.
This is a follow up to Stars Fading but you can read it as a stand alone (it might spoil the other story though but that's ok)
dividers by @/saradika-graphics
The heat is unbearable, the sun of Nevarro never relenting. Even in the coolness of your house, you still feel the scorching sun, fire ablaze, through the windows, even with the curtains partly shut, still some light and heat coming into the bedroom, as Din alights your body with his mouth and his hands. Long gone is the time when you could only guess his face through your fingers, when darkness surrounded every intimate moment. You didn't mind, you didn't care, as long as he was yours, reunited after all those years, yours to love, yours to kiss, yours to consume.
But the wows exchanged, the clan growing from two to three, light is now part of your life. And fire too. Fire in the desire, in the love you have for each other, in the touches and kisses, fire like the stars marked on your bodies. After all this time, you still feel ruined by your need, by the feeling that burns inside your body whenever the beskar falls. And even when it stays up.
His hands are everywhere, inside and out, your own clasped over your head, on the headboard with his stuncuffs, because he was "going to bring you warm," the sentence that made you giggle, until laughter was replaced by moans.
Right now, he is kissing his way down your body, slowly, whispering small praises, like prayers, part mando'a, part basic. Between the pleasure and the sounds he makes, you feel hypnotized, in another world, one made only for the two of you.
"Talk to me, mesh'la (beautiful), I want to hear your sounds. It's only the two of us today, don't be shy."
You would do anything for him, and letting yourself utter louder sounds, as his mouth dives between your thighs, is very easy. Babbling, how good it feels, how much you love this, him, and then just his name as you come undone, warm.
Kissing his way up, until your mouths mingle, your taste on his lips, his cock pressing against your thigh, Din whispers in your ear, "How many times can I bring you cyare ?"(beloved)
Going to bring you warm and how many times can I bring you? Phew, holy moly, that is hot! I love that say spoke the vows and now are not holding back anymore!
This was written for @penvisions Give a Little Love writing challenge. I'm so late, I'm sorry! My prompt was Din Djarin and the Shared Past trope.
Summary: You wake up wounded in the Mandalorian's ship. He brings you back on Nevarro to heal. Trying to hide parts of your past, you battle with your growing feelings for the man and his child, who welcomed you into their home.
CW: mention of torture but nothing graphic, mention of wounds and broken bones but no description, mention of healing process, light angst, slow burn. Reader is abled body has no physical description, but if you notice anything please let me know.
A/N: This wasn't easy to write, I think writing in the Star Wars universe intimidated me a lot, I tried to be accurate but some stuff might have slipped my mind. All mistakes are my own. I would like to thank a few of you who helped me: @burntheedges & @secretelephanttattoo (you might not even remember it but I'm still hugging you for your encouragement) @iknowisoundcrazy you know exactly why & @djarins-cyare for the mando'a translation, for your encouragement and also for your Be-All And Endor that inspired me so much. And finally, thank you @eupheme for the beautiful moodbard you made me. To all of you, thanks 💖
More notes at the end
I wrote a short sequel: Stars are Fire
I'm always happy for comments and/or reblogs, so please don't be shy !
Main masterlist | Read on AO3
Dividers by @/saradika-graphics
Your head felt heavy and foggy. Emerging from the depths of unconsciousness, you didn't know where you were.
« Who are you? » A voice. You couldn't tell right away where, who, or what it came from. It sounded computer-like. You turned your head and saw a form, shiny, metallic. You couldn’t see more, eyes still blurry, brain banging inside your skull. But your annoyance with the question was very real.
« What? Who are you? »
The voice didn’t answer. But you could make more of the shape. A human form, an armor, the voice masculine, filtered by a modulator, a helmet. A Mandalorian. Shit. You were in trouble.
« How do you know my name? » His next question stopped your train of thought. You frowned. The pounding in your head grew louder, more painful.
« I didn’t… I don’t know your name, I don’t know who you are. » Silence again. Now that your eyes had adapted to the semi-darkness, you could make out his stature, the way he leaned on a wall. A head tilt, questioning. Not a chatty person. Taking in more of your environment, you realized you were lying down, head propped, on what looked like a makeshift bed, you couldn't make more of the place you were in.
« Where am I?» You tried not to show your fear, but you could feel it bleed out in the quiver of your voice.
« On my ship. You were hurt. »
"What? I need to go…" You tried to get up, to leave, you had to go, but it hurt everywhere. Head spinning, the blood drained from your upper body, and darkness surrounded you. Before you succumbed to it, you heard the voice "Don't get up, you're badly…"
And then nothing.
The next time you woke up, it was harsh. Light blinding, noise banging in your head. A cool hand on your arm, a sting and blackness, again.
The rest was a blur. In a state of barely consciousness, you felt like you were gliding through time. Awake, the surroundings changing. Asleep, dreaming, or drifting.
Another time, you woke to the sound of voices, muffled, modulated. Room in the darkness and hushed tones further away.
"She's been through a lot, those injuries..."
"How long..."
"I can take her to the medcenter..."
"No, that's not what I'm asking, she can stay here..." And you drifted back into oblivion.
And then you were awake. It was sudden, you felt doozy, but conscious. Eyes closed, you listened to your surroundings, trying to gather your thoughts. You opened your eyes, but it hurt, so you closed them again. You let your mind scan your body. It was whole, every limb was accounted for, and apart from the headache, nothing else hurt. Softness surrounded you, fluffy mattress and soft sheets around your body.
Then a sound, like little feet pounding on the ground, a thump like something small jumped on the bed you were sleeping in. An animal? But the small voice that cooed sounded more like a child. It was shuffling closer to you. You opened your eyes again, tentatively, and glimpsed a small form, green, with large ears and brown eyes, that bore into you, curious and worried. You couldn't help the smile on your face.
"Hey, little one, who are you?"
A sigh and a modulated voice came from further away.
"Grogu, let her rest."
You turned your head to the voice. The Mandalorian, the one from before, was standing at the doorway, and the little one, Grogu, apparently, babbled excitedly, something you didn't understand, arms extended toward the man. He walked in and picked up the small creature that instantly snuggled into the arms holding him. You had so many questions just from this small interaction, but first, you needed to know where you were. Before you could ask, the armored man spoke.
"You are in my house, on Nevarro. You refused to go to a medcenter; you were very adamant about that. Do you remember ?" You shook your head, the motion bringing a soreness in your head, and you knew your face showed it because he sighed and added, "You need to rest. Don't worry about anything, you're safe". You wanted to talk more, ask all those questions that were bustling in your brain, but exhaustion overcame you, and you felt your eyes shut, the warmth of the bed and the weariness of your body letting sleep overtake you.
The room was quiet, the house dark. You felt the need to use the 'fresher all of a sudden. A quick mental check of your body told you all your bones were healed, and nothing, not even your head hurt. You slowly sat up, one tentative foot after the other on the ground. Everything seemed to work. You were kept in that cell so long, bones barely mended that it was like a new sensation, not to hurt, no pain, just weariness of the body. Standing up and one small step after the other, you managed to get out of the room. You felt slightly weak but not too much. You were probably fed and changed during your stay. You imagined you had slept for at least a few days.
"You shouldn't be up." The voice startled you, and you almost fell, but two hands gripped you tightly, without hurting you, keeping you upright.
"I need to use the 'fresher." Without a word, the Mandalorian guided you to it.
When you were done, he helped you back to bed and brought you some water. No words, just small acts that made you feel safe. You should be wary, you knew Mandolarians, you'd been around them enough to know how deadly they could be. Especially his type, if your suspicions were correct.
"How long have I been here?"
"Three days. The doctor came twice a day to take care of you. He says you had old injuries that didn't mend right. He took care of it. But you might need more time." This felt like the most you'd heard him speak. The modulation was soothing, something from your past that always brought comfort.
After a beat of silence, he added. "You said my name before you lost consciousness. Do you remember?"
"You mentioned that before. Are you sure? I don't know you, have never seen …" Behind your unfinished sentence lingered a question you didn't voice: "Do you know me?" A shake of his head brought relief. He didn't know you, but you were safe.
Instead of dwelling on the matter, he embarked on another subject.
"When I found you, you were hurt but outside your cell..." His hesitancy made you interrupt him.
"I was running away, your intervention was what I needed to try to escape."
There was a beat of silence as he was trying to find the right question to ask.
"How long were you held captive?"
"When are we?" At his answer, you did a quick calculation." About 8 months."
"Why were you captive?" His questions were measured and straight to the point.
"Why? You want to bring me in? You're a bounty hunter, aren't you?"
"I don't have a quarry on you." That seemed to be enough for him to settle the matter. It wasn't for you, but you knew he would feel less wary of you if he had all the information. At least part of it. You settled into telling him the reason you were captive.
"The person you were here for, he didn't appreciate my thieving skills."
"You stole from him?"
"Let's say I took what he had stolen in the first place and gave it back to the people it belonged to. He was enriching himself and stealing the resources of the inhabitants of that planet. I just wanted to help. But got caught after a while."
At your confession, there was a slight pause. The Mandalorian didn't give much, you couldn't see his face, and his posture was calculated to give little tell. But you'd been enough of his kind to know he was hesitating and about to ask another question, a difficult one.
"Did he... did he hurt you in other ways than what the doctor saw?" You understood what he meant.
"No. No, just light torture here and there. It happened less recently, he forgot about me. I was entertainment when he had receptions."
You could tell he wanted to ask what type of entertainment, but you were happy he didn't press further. You didn't feel ready to talk about it now.
He stayed quiet, his helmet tilted toward you, his gaze searching even through the beskar. You didn't speak, studying his countenance.
You had so many questions. What were you going to do? When should you leave? Where would you go? It started to feel overwhelming, yet his steady presence grounded you. You only voiced one question, one you didn't even have to finish.
"Did you bring him...?"
"I brought him cold." The finality of his statement took away the weight you still had on your chest.
"Good."
As if satisfied by this, his search over, he started to leave you, but just before he added, "You can stay as long as you need."
"I don't want to impose." Your protest was barely out.
"You are not. Besides, Grogu likes you. We can talk more in the morning."
And with this, he left, and you surrendered to slumber.
The next few days passed in a daze. You felt yourself heal slowly. Heal from your past injuries, but also from the running around of the past years. You rarely settled anywhere for more than a couple of years. And while young, it was exciting, growing older, it got tiring. You knew you couldn't stay here, that eventually you would have to leave and start the cycle of moving again. But this forced rest helped you recharge. Mando, as he asked you to call him, never pressured you to leave. He inquired after your health in a way that showed it wasn't urgent but caring, going about his daily business around you as if it always were like this.
Your routine evolved, from getting out of bed only a few minutes at a time, long stretches of sleep in between, to staying up for hours, walking outside, and playing with Grogu.
Those quiet moments brought you too much joy and comfort. A sense of ease and belonging you shouldn't feel.
And so you settled comfortably. Way too comfortably in the presence of a Mandalorian, you knew his kind, the faceless and nameless Mandalorians, and of their creed. You should have been guarded. But instead, you felt safe. And you slipped, giving access to parts of yourself you didn't want to. Apart from jobs you did, your approximate age, and the name you gave yourself when your new life began almost two decades ago, you started giving more. Things from your past that you didn't want anyone to know, places you'd seen, people you met, and a small knowledge of his culture.
You felt his caution slip, day after day. As welcoming as he was, he always seemed guarded in the first few days. Never bringing back the fact that you apparently called him by his real name on your first encounter, something you didn't remember and barely believed. Studying you as you moved around, trying to understand you, deciphering your every move and word.
But eventually trusting you with, you soon realized was like his son, a quick explanation giving little details of you, they became a clan, one you didn't need, being very well aware of the necessity of foundlings in the Mandalorian culture, one of your first blunders. One he noticed but let pass, probably storing it somewhere in his brain for later.
And then it was trusting you with himself. Shedding some pieces of his armor, being more at ease in his own house, walking around in his flight suit and helmet. You even notice his gloves off more and more. Which sometimes meant you could graze his skin when you passed objects, Grogu's toys, a glass of water, a mug of caf. Light touch that brought tingle and warmth.
And as you got better and better, as you were able to stay up longer, you both evolved to spending evenings together, quiet moments of reflection and discussion, ones that seem like old friends when you forgot that none of you actually talked about your past, of certain parts of your situation. But you managed to talk about parts of the galaxy, as you are both very well-traveled, about Grogu, about your days.
And you learned to respect him, and, if you were honest, even admire him. His devotion to his son, to his tribe, creed, even if he didn't talk about it much. It was something you always respected and admired. But his steadiness, his skills and unaffected intelligence, his quiet presence, all of it turned your admiration to something more. Something that made you feel warm in his presence. Something you hoped would stop once you leave.
So you started talking about finding a job, here or elsewhere, Mando telling you he could talk around if you wanted to stay, and you accepted, startled to realize you wanted to put roots here.
One day, as you were playing with Grogu, about a month after your arrived, letting a ball roll between the two of you, him catching it, squealing with delight and tossing it back at you, with a precision you fond uncanny for a child his age (even if he was over 50, you still couldn't wrap your head around that fact). The game was starting to tire out Grogu, who showed signs of boredom and started looking for something else to play with. As you were getting up, you absentmindedly talked to him, never sure he understood, but his eyes, always expressive, showed signs he might, so you continued.
" Grogu, when do you think you're Buir is coming back?"
"What did you say?" Mando was standing by the door to the living quarters, his stature looming over you, still like a statue. You could feel how dangerous he was. Not that you didn't know it, but you sometimes forgot.
"Kriff, you scared me. I didn't hear you come in." You were stalling, you knew it, and he knew it.
"That word, how did you know it?" His tone was not menacing, but not kind either.
"I've traveled, you are not the first Mandalorian I've met." You tried to look innocent and added, "although I haven't seen a Children of the Watch in a long time." That was a mistake you realized as soon as it left your mouth, still tired or too comfortable with him. He came closer, wide and menacing. Your brain screamed danger.
"How do...?"
"I told you. I traveled." You brushed it off and quickly turned to Grogu, who had been watching the exchange with some worry, busying yourself with putting toys away and talking about dinner.
You could feel Mando watching you, searching, trying to see the truth and lies. But eventually his countenance changed to slightly more relaxed.
"Greef Karga, the magistrate, mentioned there might be some work for you. If you still want to stay. You don't have to leave right away, but..." Again, you interrupted him.
"That's fine, I'm feeling much better, might as well get a job and find a place to live." You knew you needed to go. Too many mistakes were made, and you are feeling attached too much. To Grogu, yes, but also to Mando, if you stopped lying to yourself.
He looked at you like he wanted to say something. But instead, you heard a sigh, frustration, or regret, it was hard to tell.
The next day, walking to the city for the first time, you listened to Mando as he showed you around, taking in the streets, the market, and the people surrounding you. You felt good here, at peace, in this growing community, rebuilding itself from past wounds, a little like yourself.
That's what you got from your exchange with Greef Karga, explaining with grandiloquence the past this planet lived through and the ideas he had for the future. You could envision it, he made compelling arguments. You knew the type, you knew that he was the king to embellish things, just so you would agree with him. But he seemed sincere, and you wanted to believe him. And if Mando brought you to him, you would trust him. Your decision was made on the spot. You would take the job, and you would move into the unit he was offering. You would stay for the community, for what it had to offer, for a glimpse of ease and a sense of belonging you felt. Not for a silent Mandalorian and his child.
That was a lie, but you didn't want to acknowledge it yet.
Life in Nevarro was exactly as you expected it. Quiet, yet bustling, easy, yet interesting. You settled in your small but cozy unit, decorating it, sensing your desire to settle for a bit. Your job was challenging and kept you busy. People were welcoming, and after a month, you realized you actually liked your life here. That, without really deciding it, your thoughts of leaving the planet were slowly being pushed to the background, and you were making plans for the next day, next week, next month. You were staying.
You thought you wouldn't see Mando and Grogu much, no real need for it. While you had stayed at their place, they hadn't been much into the city, their life was further out.
But eventually your path did merge. In town, in the market, at Karga's, more and more. Small talks, longing looks. Walking around the city is comfortable and easy. You hated it because every time your eyes would see a reflection akin to the sun on beskar, your heart skipped a bit. And when it was actually him, you would feel the butterflies in your stomach. And every time, Mando would come to you, walking a small distance together, Grogu stretching his arms so that you would pick him up for a cuddle for the duration of your walk. Walks that got longer and longer.
And then, before you knew it, they were both fully back in your life.
It started with helping out with Grogu, picking him up from school when Mando was late from whatever job he was doing, apparently helping the Marshall. You loved doing it, helping, and spending time with the child. You felt so thankful for the trust Mando gave you. Trusting with his son, but also, you felt it, trusting in you, even with your secrets, like he had decided that whatever your past and knowledge of Mandalorians were, he accepted it and wouldn't push.
And each time, the moments you spent at his place stretched longer. From just waiting until he got home, to staying a bit, to actually having dinner together, that is you and Grogu with Mando at your table, but eating later. Until one night you stayed over because it was late, and he insisted you didn't walk back home. And then you were staying the night more often because you watched on Grogu while Mando was off-world.
It was so easy, you were surprised. It shouldn't be, it always was easy. It was as if you had always been here, part of their little family. And every time you came back to your unit, you felt lonely. This was bad because you were getting attached. You could feel it. And you were afraid Mando was too. It was not something that should have happened.
One night, it slipped into the conversation, this something growing between you. Both of you on the couch talking, Mando in his flight suit and helmet, gloves off, Grogu put to bed, you needing to leave but staying. Talking about work, yours and his, and like a confession, it pours out of his mouth, the word "mesh'la" (beautiful).
The silence that ensued, his from the realization of what he said, yours from the understanding, heat creeping up your neck, it puts weight on the word. And he notices your reaction, of course, he does. The question that comes out of him flusters you even more.
"Have you been. ..?" He stopped, the end of the sentence settling on his tongue but never spilled.
"What?"
"With a Mandalorian… you know so many words."
You pondered your answer. "No. Never."
It was time to go back home.
You woke up suddenly, groggy from sleep as a dream slipped away through your consciousness. Warm hands touching you, cold metal under your own, voice deep and metal-like murmuring in your ear, "Would you look at that," as his lips unraveled you, a feat only possible in the daze of unconsciousness, face masked and unmasked at the same time. You felt the need inside your body, slick and deep. The vision was slowly going away, and you tried to catch it, willing yourself to fall back to sleep, to fall back in those beskar arms that you've wished to feel for so long. You knew it was not possible, even if you felt that sometimes the unnamed feeling was reciprocated, even if you felt his gaze and persistent touches. But how could it be with the secrets that surrounded both of you? Dreams were the only moments where you let yourself feel it, where you let the heat of your desire overtake you. Those dreams that grew more intense whenever you stayed in his house, reminiscing on those first days, weeks, when you observed him in quiet and learned to admire and respect him, before you learned to love him. The scent and feeling were overpowering in this house, your dreams always more intense, like this one you tried desperately to fall back into, cursing whatever woke you up, until you heard it again. A sound, something falling, or banging, it was hard to tell. You jolted awake, a million thoughts running in your head. The more logical, Grogu was awake and full of mischief, the more anxious one, someone had broken into the house. You pushed the fear aside and got up, tiptoeing to the sound, trying to understand what it was.
Walking quietly, you heard heavy breathing as you rounded to the 'fresher and were faced with a sight you didn't expect. Skin. Bronze skin displayed, a naked back, muscle and softness, tan and bruises bent over the sink. You let out a gasp before closing your eyes, before the head turned to you, hiding behind a wall.
"I'm sorry, I didn't see anything! I didn't see your face! I swear, Mando. I'm so sorry," you were pleading, hoping he believed you, because you didn't see anything, just glorious skin that made your own tingle, food for thought, but not his face. Part relief and disappointment, something you pushed aside.
"It's OK, I believe you." The voice was modulated, the helmet back on.
You opened your eyes and peeked inside the 'fresher. He was standing by the sink, armor off, the top of the flight suit pushed back, leaving his upper body naked. You couldn't help but rake your eyes over his body until you noticed more bruises and a wound on his side, gushing and deep.
"Mando! You're hurt!" You rushed to his side, hands ready to help, when you stopped, not wanting to cross another boundary.
"Do you need help?"
The helmet was on you, and you sensed his gaze, searching you, overwhelming as tension settled around you. Then a sigh. "Yes"
Rummaging through the medpac, you got what you needed, pushing Mando to sit on the side of the bath so you could help him better, allowing better access to his body. A wet towel in your hand, you lightly washed the wound. As delicately as you tried, you heard the pain he felt, a whimper, almost like a moan, coming out modulating. A sound that had you flustered, rubbing your legs together, need encompassing you. It was only now that you realized how you were dressed, only a long shirt covering your body to your thighs, both in a state of undress you had never been in each other's presence. The breath you drew as a reaction brought Mando's gaze to you.
In the midst of this realization, it was as if all pretense had fallen. After applying the bacta patch on his wound, you picked up the towel and continued to clean his body, even if there was no real need, except to bring comfort with a cool cloth. Soothing the bruises sustained even through the armor. It must have been a mighty opponent. And hearing his breath heavier and heavier, your own, echoing. Caressing his strong arms, his shoulders, settling on his torso. His hands gripped your hips, and his voice sounded like a warning.
« Cyar'ika. »
You breath hitched at the word, and Mando pulled slightly away, head tilted to study your eyes.
You felt his gaze piercing you as his hands on your hip started to stroke you. Hands without gloves. A rare occurrence, the brush of his fingers on you. When you were hurt, once or twice, as you were healing in the comfort of his home, fingers brushing when he handed you something. And now soft fingers gently circling over your shirt.
« You understood that word, didn’t you? »
You didn’t say anything. Just looked at him, imagining brown eyes. On instinct.
“Tion’cuy gar?” (Who are you?)
You didn’t answer, just shook your head, not because you didn't understand, but because you couldn't answer, not now. The silence was charged with more than questions, and your hands, now on his shoulder, continue their caress, light strokes on his body. Towel forgotten, so you could feel his skin under your own. You were so close, closer than you ever had been. His fingers boldly went under your shirt, making your breath catch. A slight whimper that made him pull it up slightly, discovering parts of yourself. Skin for skin. A dip of your head and your lips connected with his shoulder, a slight touch, barely a kiss. You wanted to lick his skin, taste the salt on him. Your eyes were drawn to his back, catching something you hadn’t seen earlier, when you caught a glimpse of him. A mark on his shoulder blade, an exploding star, faded and distorted by time and age, but one you knew so well.
And as you realized this, you felt Din's hands freeze on your body, a shock sound coming from his mouth as he surely recognized your own mark, one that looked like a shooting star, on your hipbone. The one you used to joke was a mirror of his, yours before the crash, his after. In a time when helmets and armor weren’t yet put on, they weren’t deserved or won. Before the creed. Before you left.
And both your names echoed in the other's mouth as you push out of each other's arms.
The daze of the moment is gone, but there is horror that lies ahead as you run away, run to your room, pulling up clothes, hearing his steps, usually so calm, so silent, now heavy and loud.
Your name, your real name, the old one forgotten when you left, rings out, a whisper, hurt in his voice.
"You were dead."
You stopped, back turned, you didn't want to see his face, even with the helmet, you knew you would feel it, the hurt, the anger.
"I faked it, I ran away."
"Why?" You turned. His voice was cold, mean, you couldn't bear it.
"I couldn't… I couldn't swear to the creed, so I left." There were no words, there was nothing but a helmet, voiceless, a mask in front of you. You have lost him, you knew it, lost the connection, lost the sense of belonging to this small family. You felt the tears and closed your eyes, willing them to go away. When you opened them, he was gone.
The steps that brought you home, the way back, were blurred in your mind from the overwhelming thoughts and blurred in your vision from the tears, the one falling freely.
It was over.
As you went through the motion of your life the next couple of days, waking, working, eating, poorly sleeping, rinse and repeat. Yet you couldn't help but feel a lingering hope. It oscillated with despair as your life moved in front of your eyes, one you barely participated in, lost in that night. If only it were repeated in a loop. If you had talked sooner, maybe he wouldn't be angry? If you had not helped him, touched him, you might still have his presence, you could live with only that. And as you lost yourself, you thought about what was next, but were unwilling to decide until you saw him again, and hoped that after thinking, he might forgive you and at least talk to you, if only that.
But that thought was crushed. Walking through the market, you saw him, his figure first, giving you butterflies, seeing him with the child buying food. When the purchase was over, his head turned your way, where you stood frozen, people pushing past you. A second that felt like a century, one of suspended hope and dread, one where you forget to breathe, hear, and see. Until he turned and was gone. The cold you felt was real, shivers and weight, surrounding you as you went back to the sanctuary of your home, where you decided to pack and leave.
Nothing held you back in Nevarro, not anymore.
Unfortunately, you had responsibilities. You could just pick up and leave, but you liked it here, liked the people with whom you worked, and you wanted a chance to say thank you and goodbye. So with a lie ready you announced your departure, giving yourself a couple of days to gather your things and find your next place to go to, studying your datapad, with different planets on your radar, ready to buy a one way ticket to a promising place, green and lush and cold, needing the opposite of Nevarro, the opposite of heat and dry, the opposite of metal and warmth.
The bangs on your unit door startled you. Three knocks, decisive, not giving you any second thoughts. You weren't expecting anyone, but you were definitely not expecting Din, as you opened the door in surprise, and when he pushed past you. Standing inside your small space.
You hadn't seen him this agitated, this restless, since you left the Tribe. Before you stood a reminiscence of a teenage Din, the hot head, full of revolt, subdued by time but never tamed. The one you shared your dreams with, your sorrows, your first kiss. He was angry, he was demanding, but he wasn't speaking.
With your back against the closed door behind you, you waited. And you tried not to let the small hope bloom in your chest as soon as you saw him.
"You are leaving. Again. Running away, without owning to your actions." The accusation, the underlying insult of cowardice, crushed the hope but flared the anger. You might have left long ago, you might have forgotten a lot of your Mandalorian upbringing, but you couldn't stand being called a coward. Even if you had fled, even if you were doing it again. Suddenly, resentment made you push away from the door, stride toward him, stand tall and large, looking at him straight into his eyes behind the helmet.
"Yes, I'm leaving. Why would you care?" Daring him to say anything else, after he had turned away from you.
"We welcomed you, we were your family, the Tribe was there when you needed. You betrayed us."His voice was rising with every word, standing in front of you, menacing and dangerous. Everything that wasn't said but didn't need to, echoed in the silence: leaving without saying goodbye, betraying his trust.
"But you weren't! My family died, and I never felt accepted. YOU never felt accepted either. I remember our talks, I remember what we used to say! I couldn't swear to the creed. I respected it. And I respected your own wish to swear, but I couldn't, because I never felt part of it. So I just left."
"You could have said it! They would have understood!"
"They wouldn't! And maybe leaving like I did was wrong, but I was an angry teenager, and my only ally left me when he swore to the creed. I felt abandoned because you were going away, I felt utterly alone, so I just left."
"You left us! You left me." Finally, the words were out. You could feel his anger abating, so did yours.
"I'm sorry. I truly am. I regretted it as soon as I left, but couldn't look back."
"I missed you. I grieved you." He was so close to you, so close you could hear his breath, the tremor in his voice, the sadness. It made your heart break over again.
"I know. I'm sorry." The tears were back, you didn't want to cry because you were the one who inflicted the hurt, but you couldn't help it. "I missed you, too. So much." Closer even now that you could almost touch. An untouched boundary that needed to be stepped over. One Din crossed when his hands pulled you into him.
"Close your eyes." He breathed it like a plea, desperate.
"Din…" You hesitated, knowing what was about to happen, overwhelmed by the idea, the faith placed in you.
"Do it, Cyar'ika. I trust you."
And so you did. You closed your eyes, the last tears falling from your lashes, down your cheeks, hearing the unmistakable sound of his helmet being taken off and put on the ground. You felt his breath before his touch, then his fingers, lightly brushing the tears away, before you felt his mouth on yours. Lips light, tentative. A second kiss that felt like the first, after so many years. But one that soon felt like home, meant to be, and like no time had flown by, not years, not decades, but merely seconds, as both of you reacquainted yourself with each other. Lips full, tender than demanding, touching, pulling, your teeth grazing his lower lip, a moan coming from so deep inside his throat.
And hands, hands that touched each other, that took off gloves, pieces of armor, and clothes.
In the darkness of your place, shutters closed and drapes blocking light, only shapes that could be seen, you rediscovered his face, under the beskar, his skin under the armor, bodies alight with need and pleasure, shared past and shared breath, to the point of not knowing where you began and ended. Soft cries and gasps and sweet praises murmured in the dark.
Tomorrow, you'd have to reclaim your job, tomorrow, you'd have to think about your future here.
A/N: The sound Din makes when he is hurt is directly inspired by this post and what he murmurs in reader's dream by this one
Read more about Din and his cyare: Stars are Fire
tagglist: I also added people who seemed interested (please let me know if you want to be added/removed) : @grogusmum @here-briefly @iknowisoundcrazyreads @javierpenaismyhusband @mani-pedro @lillaydee @littlemisspascal @harriedandharassed @sunnytuliptime @picketniffler @cuteanimalmama @sawymredfox @baronessvonglitter @milla-frenchy
Hi! I’d like to ask about one of your wips, assuming CF means Clint Flood, I’d like to know about that Untitled Document. 💜
Hi Nina
Thank you for the ask. You are absolutely correct. That is Clint Flood. It's something I've been working away on in the background. I haven't been able to come up with a title yet—it's a tale about the right person and the wrong timing.
Here's a snippet.
“What?” asked Amber, catching your sudden movement.
“Nothing,” you replied, trying to act nonchalant.
Callie turned her head. “Oh. My. God. The security guy?”
You turned your head again, just to be sure, making your pulse skitter beneath your skin.
“That dude looks like he could throw someone through a wall,” observed Amber approvingly. “More meat than a Texas barbecue, too.”
“Can we not make it obvious that we're all staring?” you hissed.
Chapter summary: You jump at the chance to spend Nevarro’s annual fifteen-day winter lockdown at a secluded cabin instead of among the usual communal chaos, but your so-called quiet retreat turns out to be anything but restful.
Rating: Explicit (18+) overall, but mature for this chapter.
Chapter word count: 6,600
Chapter tags/warnings: OFC!Reader’s POV; worldbuilding; family dynamics; overprotective Karga; use of a nickname for OFC!Reader; Grogu being adorably well-behaved (except for when breakfast is unattended); deadly weather; panic-induced angst; major character injury; graphic descriptions of severe injuries; strong language.
Author’s Note: The female protagonist can be read as both a reader insert and an OC (she’s physically a blank slate but has a canon-compliant background). Odd-numbered chapters are from OFC!Reader’s POV, with you/your pronouns (written in the second person) and he’s referred to as Mando. Even-numbered chapters are from his POV, with she/her pronouns used for OFC!Reader (written in the third person) and he’s referred to as Din. He doesn’t know your/her real name, so he uses various nicknames for you/her throughout the story, both in his head and aloud, and Karga has his own nickname for you/her. As always, I’ve added detailed notes at the end.
The locals have a saying about Nevarro’s winters: “Three months of gloom, three weeks of doom.”
It’s no exaggeration.
As you hurry toward City Hall, daylight is dimming by the minute, and you can smell the forecasted doom on the wind. The volcanoes have been vomiting toxic sulphur clouds for weeks, rebelling against the crisp winter air and choking the sky. And their misery is about to become everyone’s problem.
You take a shortcut through the bazaar, checking your chrono and swearing at the readout. Just over an hour until lockdown. You shouldn’t have left it this late.
Behind you, a shopkeeper slams down his durasteel shutters, startling a nearby stall owner who is frantically packing up their own wares. A mother bustles past you, dragging her reluctant children toward shelter; one wails as it loses its toy in the rush. You curse again as you hastily sidestep a sweeper droid zooming down the middle of the street. Kriff, the countdown has forced even the non-sentients into a state of panic.
Every morning for weeks, the weather droid has been droning on about increased sulphur counts and plummeting temperatures. The whole city tunes in daily, but nobody really listens until the droid delivers the one forecast they’ve been dreading. Lockdown will begin tonight. Suddenly, Nevarrans can think of nothing but the brutal weather event they learned about as children and live through each year.
Snowfall.
For the next fifteen days, stepping outside means dying outside – in the deadly acid snow.
By now, most citizens have gathered in larger homes or public shelters for the compulsory lockdown, though only the old and the young go in smiling. The officials call it ‘communal bonding to boost morale’. You call it three weeks of psychological torture. The enforced proximity, the constant noise, the performative cheer. The total lack of privacy, with every opinion, argument, and bodily function becoming public knowledge. You can’t stand it.
But this year, you’ve scored your ticket out of that sweaty, noisy hell. A secluded cabin, stocked provisions, and blessed solitude during Snowfall. Credits for looking after some creature while its owner’s off-world. With minimal duties and total privacy, you’re kriffing thrilled with the assignment.
Your uncle, however, is not.
You figured he’d be sorry to lose you this year – perhaps a little worried about you being alone. But when you make it through the nervous crowds to his office at City Hall and finally break the news, the storm in his expression rivals the one brewing outside.
You drop your holdall at your feet and slap both palms down on his desk, leaning forward. “It’s more credits than I ever made at the cafe, for less work,” you exclaim, glaring at your overprotective guardian. “What’s your karking problem?”
He stands from his chair and rounds his desk in four heavy steps to loom over you. It’s the same bullish tactic he deployed when he caught you sneaking home reeking of Corellian whiskey at the tender age of fourteen. “My problem,” he retorts, voice lowering to a venomous pitch, “Is that I don’t want you anywhere near someone like him.”
CONTINUE READING THIS CHAPTER ON AO3
Please feel free to JOIN MY TAG LIST or lmk in the comments if you’d like a tag for this fic only.
Omg, I love this so much!! Mando being so reckless and landing and coming back despite it being so dangerous. I wonder what caused it! And now he’s so badly injured, that’s going to be some interesting 15 days!
And Grogu, being the most adorable well behaved child!!
The next chapter of my boys is here! They are demanding my attention and making sure I only want to write them, lol! This chapter turned into something I wasn't expecting or planning, but that ended up making so much sense for them. Frankie and Ben guided me into this. @schnarfer, my writing bestie, thanks for your constant support and help! @bergamote-catsandbooks, thanks for letting me ramble so much and helping me. And @milla-frenchy, thanks for your support. You're all wonderful!!♥️
Part III // Series Masterlist // Masterlist // AO3
pairing: Frankie Morales x Ben Miller
summary: A gentle morning coaxes a meaningful conversation and a revelation
word count: 3200
tags/warnings: fluff, non-sexual intimacy, kisses, two boys in love having deep conversations first thing in the morning
Dividers by @saradika-graphics
Time is sluggish as Ben's eyelids start to open. They twitch at first, lazy and drowsy, clinging to the last echoes of his slumber, but compelled to wake by the sunlight sneaking through their bedroom window as he inhales deeply. And his body begins to uncoil, stretching muscles and rolling joints, making sure everything is still in place, ready to rouse and begin a new day.
The sun is still shy, painting the sky with specks of azure and coral, cloaking it with a gentle early-morning light- welcoming, yet still void of the characteristic warmth of late spring.
It takes Ben a spell to realize he and Frankie had drifted to opposite sides of the bed during the night. They usually sleep close, their bodies glued while spooning or taking turns using each other's chest as a pillow. And on the nights they don't, like this one, there's always a point of contact: foreheads pressed together, palms touching with entwined fingers, hands holding wrists or forearms, legs entangled, like otters. Unwilling to let the other become adrift during the night.
Ben lies on his side, torso exposed, with the sheets rumpled around his hips as he drinks in Frankie's physique. Fondness and love spread within his ribs at the sight of Frankie's half-open mouth and the peaceful expression on his face, making him look younger and carefree. He's sprawled on his back with his arms over his head, folded around the pillow. Frankie's bronzed skin glows with a golden hue under the sunlight. Irresistible. Alluring, beckoning Ben to touch and trace every mole scattered on his naked chest and shoulders.
Ben moves, unlocking their knotted ankles, longing to caress and embrace Frankie, thinking of last night. They had gone to bed naked, drunk on arousal, their lust licking their bodies, and boiling their blood as their greedy hands brought each other to the brink of pleasure, falling together over the cliff, kissing and caressing each other as the afterglow settled in their bones. Barely remembering to put on underwear in case Lucia came during the night as they fell asleep.
He reaches out, softly sketching the outline of Frankie's forearm with his fingertips, traveling down his chest to his side. Frankie sighs, his mouth twitches, but he doesn't wake, drawing Ben closer. He sneaks his arm over Frankie's belly, the softness he's self-conscious about, but Ben adores, never getting tired of worshiping it. Ben stays still for a second, making sure Frankie is still sleeping, before burying his face in Frankie's armpit, nuzzling and breathing him deep.
Frankie is warm, smelling of home, of them. His scent is musky. Slightly unclean, with hints of yesterday's body spray and cologne, remnants of yesterday's sweat, spicy and masculine, heady as Ben presses his nose, inhaling Frankie's smell again and again, getting intoxicated and a little bit aroused with the intimacy.
The freedom to touch, the permission to reach and relish in every sense, the conviction of being accepted and desired with the same fervour, is mind-blowing. It makes Ben greedy, addicted to Frankie.
"Morning," Frankie grumbles, barely awake. Ben doesn't answer him, humming with pleasure, absolutely devoted to his task, kissing Frankie's skin, savoring his taste.
Ben glues himself to Frankie's side, unashamedly grinding his half-hard cock to Frankie's thigh, not hard enough to arouse, just to indulge himself, as he keeps sniffing Frankie's armpit in adoration, like a bloodhound, nosing his way through the hair until he presses it to Frankie's skin, pecking it once more.
"Weirdo." Frankie's voice is still thick, a little rough, barely awake, already affectionate and smitten.
"Mmmmm," Ben agrees, fondling Frankie's armpit one last time before finally raising his head, smirking as he licks Frankie's nipple. "Yours, though," he murmurs, kissing the same spot with reverence.
"Fuck." Frankie curses, staring at Ben, awestruck. Taking all of him, his posture relaxed and delighted, his messy hair, his expression, bestowing Frankie a private smile, small and a little bit devious, genuine, one that's only Frankie's. Clumsily, he puts his hand on Ben's neck, squeezing him, tugging Ben closer to his face, as he murmurs, “No seas malo (Don’t be naughty.)”, pressing his lips to Ben’s.
Ben allows it, pliant under Frankie's force, eager to greet him.
The kiss is clumsy, the first of the day, all intent and no finesse, hungry without being frantic. Driven by the kind of joy that's too large to be contained, that demands to be celebrated. They both exhale a light moan, their tongues starting to play, uncaring of stale breath, as the kiss deepens, stoking the fire coiling in their groins.
“Good morning,” Ben grumbles, pecking Frankie’s mouth and scratching his ribs as he presses his cock harder to Frankie's hips.
Frankie chuckles, swatting Ben’s ass, aroused, gently nuzzling Ben’s cheek to soothe the heat as he warns him, "We don’t have time."
"I know." Ben's resignation is a growl shaped between pouting lips as he tucks his frame to Frankie's side, wrapping his arms around him and slotting himself into the space between Frankie's head and shoulder, fitting perfectly, aware that Frankie's right, but too stubborn to accept his defeat with peace.
Ben is surprised that Lucia hasn’t woken them before the sun rose, after promising her during dinner that they would visit the museum today; one of the joys of being blessed with an early morning child.
They stay cuddled up for a while, breathing in tandem, enjoying the quiet in the house as their hands dance over each other's bodies, still avid, never satiated, but tamed for the time being.
"Tell me a secret," Ben murmurs against Frankie's heart, sinking more fully against Frankie, his fingers shaping abstract patterns on Frankie's pecks.
Frankie stays silent, rubbing his hand up and down Ben's back, stroking his knuckles down the knobs of Ben's spine. Still present, pondering, while relishing, losing himself in the caress, the way Ben melts into his hold, unguarded and trustful that Frankie will take his weight, certain in a way born from a love that had long ago stopped being fearful and second-guessing.
Their game had started before everything took form between them, after Frankie's divorce, when sharing a bed was not a habit but an act of desperation. A tenuous reach between two lonely souls seeking shelter, seeking to be seen and understood, when the nightmares threatened to swallow them whole.
It had begun as a distraction. A question Ben had offered Frankie to focus on something that wasn't his grief twisted by his demons, muttered amidst the darkness while Ben soothed Frankie's trembling body, fresh from a nightmare, with no pressure to answer. Frankie's turn arrived a couple of nights late, once Ben's panic attack was just an echo shaking his bones and not a paralysing curse.
The first revelations had been silly memories, observations of the world, thoughts, and dreams. A thickening layer of trust that gradually allowed space for deeper baggage, coaxing with patience, regrets, guilt, and scars that still hurt when they spilled, initiating a healing journey that showed them a new insight, a new layer of who they are, and brought them closer.
They had kept it as their relationship grew, independently of the bed they lay in. They stop the world outside the walls that surround them when sleep threatens to overtake them or when the day has yet to begin properly, stripped of who they are, of their responsibilities and duties, creating a pocket of unadulterated honesty, of stillness in their unrelenting lives, of freedom, a door to their souls.
Frankie takes Ben’s hand, grazing at the ring he gave Ben, interlacing their fingers over his sternum while the other buries in Ben's hair, tugging it enough to make him look at Frankie.
“Why are you so serious? I just asked for a secret sweetheart, not to reveal your deepest sins.” He asks quietly, brow furrowing at Frankie’s expression.
Frankie stares at him, exhaling through his nose as something sinks in his soul. Feeling bold, brave, confident in what he's about to say.
“You know…When Gabi and I got divorced, I was terrified it would break something in Lucia. That, because of me, she would grow lacking something irreplaceable," Frankie starts, squeezing Ben's hand. "And yeah, she might never know what it's like to grow up in a house with her mother and father. But I know she'll be ok. Because, right now, she has a mother who loves her more than life itself, and two dads who would do anything to keep her happy and safe. Because, that’s what you're to her, one of her dads."
Ben inhales sharply and rises on his elbow, his eyes wide with astonishment. They are very big and round. Regarding Frankie with intensity, with a plea flashing in his bright blue irises, reverent as tears gather and start to roll down his cheeks. So raw and hopeful that Frankie shivers, feeling his heart skip a beat.
The seed has been there for a while. Had probably been there for much longer than they had realized, they had been ready to recognize. Ben's actions have stemmed from love- selfless and devoted love. The kind that has been given freely from the first moment Ben held Lucia in his arms, and has never asked for recognition. Never intended to. Still, being valued, being bestowed the honor for something Ben had never dared to contemplate. Not because he couldn’t have it, just because in his brain, his core, Frankie was Lucia’s father, brands him with an everlasting mark that reshapes him.
Ben sobs, caught off guard by Frankie's revelation. Disbelief, gratitude, adoration, and something that love is not enough to enfold delineate his expression. He tries to say something, failing helplessly, every word stuck in his throat, too feeble to encompass the sudden flood of emotion swelling in his heart. Speechless, he settles on cursing, his voice wet and broken, thieving a chuckle from Frankie. “Fuck you for making me cry at 7 am.”
“You asked for a secret.” Frankie's pulse spikes, shaky with the enormity of his revelation.
“Yeah…" Ben huffs, almost annoyed, but too sincere, too overflowing with sentiment, for his protest to have any power. "Something silly, not this…”
“Emotional rollercoaster?” Frankie offers understanding, as affected as Ben. Frankie's lips curl upwards in a soft smile as he cradles Ben's jaw, sweeping Ben's tears with his thumb. Willing to lean into their banter for a moment.
“Yeah,” Ben agrees, sniffling, accepting Frankie's caress, as his blush covers the tips of his ears.
"You’re blushing,” Frankie states, delighted with Ben's reaction, how it blooms, sweeping over Ben's face after Frankie's observation.
“Wow… First, a good dose of emotional wreckage, and now marital abuse. You’re crushing it this morning.” Ben tries to hide, grumbling, feeling too exposed, but Frankie's hold keeps him in place, under his cocky smirk and wicked irises.
“We’re not married, yet.”
“Cheeky bastard,” Ben complains, smiling so hard it hurts, vexed and absolutely smitten with the laugh that comes out of Frankie. Full and loud, making him shake and leaving him breathless. "And see how it goes for you if you keep this behaviour, mister."
“Come here.” Frankie pulls Ben by his shoulders. He tucks Ben back to his side, encircling his arms around Ben to hug him tightly, finally granting Ben some mercy.
“I hate you.” Frankie senses Ben's protest more than he hears it, as Ben clings to him, nuzzling his neck.
“No, you don’t.” Frankie's head dips down, his breath warming the side of Ben's face, with his palm pressed on Ben's lower spine to anchor them both.
“I severely do right now.”
“I love you too,” Frankie whispers, seeking a truce with a kiss on Ben's forehead, taking Ben's purr as a reluctant forgiveness. Frankie continues his pleading, resuming his comforting strokes down Ben's back, content to remain quiet and savor these minutes of bliss.
“I’m serious.” Frankie asserts once more, committed to Ben, for him to believe it, unwilling to let his words slip, and not ensure the importance they have. "If she ever wants to call you dad in some way, I'd be ok with it."
Ben's grip around Frankie tightens, whispering, overwhelmed by his feelings, “And Gabi? She ok with this?”
“She was the first one to say it out loud.” The admission drops between Frankie's chuckle and Ben's astonishment.
“When?”
“Yesterday. I didn’t want to tell you in front of Lucia, and... we got busy when she went to bed." Frankie wonders if their hunger for each other, not only physical, but for every aspect of their lives, the desire to be together, to share everything, will ever abate, and hopes that it never does." She called me during my lunch break. Her mom finally got approved for the surgery. Gabi wants to stay with her until she's healed properly, for at least a month, maybe two. She asked me if it was okay for her to go and leave Lucia with us," Frankie explains, aware that Ben will agree, be delighted to have Lucia with them for so long. "I told her that we’re getting married. And she just blurted it. How happy Lucia would be to be the flower girl at their dads wedding."
"Fuck," Ben chokes, crackling, "She's smarter than us."
"She is.” Frankie moves, pushing Ben to relocate and rest on his pillow, turning on his side to be in Ben's line of sight. “You’ve been there for Lucia since the very beginning, not as an uncle like Will or Santi, but as a father. She’s yours as much as mine.”
Ben nods in acceptance, “ours," nuzzling Frankie's nose with his.
The door of their bedroom opens abruptly, interrupting them, revealing a little girl with bed hair, too excited to remember to knock first.
“Daddy! Benny!” Lucia’s yells invade their home, carefree and full of delight, pushing Ben and Frankie to sit on their bed, as she runs to them. "We're going to the museum today!"
“Yes, we are!" Frankie agrees, grabbing Lucia by her armpits to help her jump on the bed, guiding her to sit between him and Ben, "But come here for a second, babygirl.”
“Why?” Lucia wonders, getting comfortable between them.
“We want to tell you something.” Ben stays silent, letting Frankie guide the conversation.
"But the museum," she protests, too keen about the museum to stay still, ready to start the day.
"We have time," Ben attempts to calm her down a bit, kissing her forehead as a good morning. "It won't open for a couple of hours."
"Ok," she graciously agrees, making them chuckle. “What is it?”
Frankie gazes at Ben for a second before looking back at Lucia, ensuring that Ben is ready to share the news after he had discussed them with Gabriela. Ensuring that they are both in the same boat, comfortable, eager to let Lucia in, and have her be a part of their adventure. A shy smile spreads across Frankie's mouth as he reveals, thrilled, "Ben and I are getting married."
Lucia stays quiet, watching them intensely as her brow furrows in concentration. "Like Piper’s mommies?"
"Yes, like Piper's mommies." Frankie agrees, remembering the wonderful day the three of them had at their friend's wedding a couple of months ago, and how the brides had teased him and Ben about when they would finally tie the knot.
He'd be ok with going to the city hall, signing the papers, and saying yes in front of a couple of witnesses. But he knows that both his family and Ben's would want to celebrate them. They would demand to if needed. And, more importantly, he knows Ben, his extrovert future husband, whom Frankie can't deny, would love a good party. "She was the flower girl. Do you remember? Would you like that too?"
"But what flowers?
"Anyone you want," Frankie tells Lucia, taking note of how quickly and firmly she replies.
"Daisies."
"Those are beautiful,” Ben offers. "We can get a flower book and pick a couple you like to mix with the daisies."
She nods, still deep in thought. Her hands move towards Ben's, holding Ben's left hand between her smaller palms. Her fingertips graze the titanium band on Ben's ring finger as she directs her next inquiry to Frankie. "It's why Benny wears a ring now?"
"You notice everything, uh, babygirl?" Lucia's perception never ceases to amaze Frankie. Sometimes it takes her a while to get comfortable enough to ask about something, but his little girl notices everything. "Yes," He answers her, caressing her dark curls. "When you ask someone to marry you, it's tradition to gift them a ring."
"It's pretty,” she murmurs, focused on the ring. "Does that mean..."
"What, babygirl?" Frankie gently coaxes her. He's simultaneously terrified and excited about where he feels her mind is going.
"Piper. She has two moms. She calls them mom and moma. But, if I already have mommy and you daddy, can I have another daddy?"
Lucia's phrase, the pure and genuine innocence of her question, cuts through Frankie. It sinks, expanding underneath his sternum and squeezing his heart. His eyes flicker to Ben, recognizing in his shaking lips and his swallowed sob, not wanting to disturb or pressure Lucia in any way, the same size of emotion, the same unwavering ripple of love.
“You can,” Frankie manages to say, forcing his voice not to shatter as he reaches for Ben, grasping his arm behind Lucia, needing the physical connection to tether them both.
“But you can't have the same name,” she adds, staring at Frankie as he nods.
"Well, there's papa or pops. I called my daddy papa when I was your age."
Her inquisitive chestnut eyes, a shade lighter than Frankie's, thanks to her mother's genes, turn towards Ben, "Can I call you that?"
Ben tears up once more, his adoration for his daughter being too enormous to restrain. "Only if you want to, Lulu."
"Ok." She stands, circling her arms around Ben's neck to hug him. "Can we have breakfast now, Papa?”
The title slips between Lucia's teeth effortlessly, as if she had always called Ben that, as if she didn't, not remake, for he had long ago stepped into the role, but granting him a precious privilege.
Ben moves, hiding the overwhelming gratitude to her in his mischief, rising quickly with Lucia in his arms, almost jumping out of the blue, making her squeal. "Of course! What are you in the mood for?"
"Pancakes!" She declares once Ben has lowered her to the floor.
"Pancakes?!" Ben questions Lucia, as both he and Frankie put on their pyjamas.
"Yes! With blueberries!"
"Blueberries? Are you sure? Don't you want chocolate chips? There are way better."
Frankie follows them, unhurriedly watching them walk in front of him. They are trekking to the kitchen, hand in hand, giggling and planning their breakfast while arguing over which topping is better for the pancakes. And Frankie knows it; he believes it with every inch of his soul, with a mighty, endless faith. He's the luckiest man in the world.
Part III: A Dance
Npt (because there was interest on my WIPs and people who read the other chapters and asked to be tagged) @thundermartini @aurorawritestoescape @604to647 @sixhours @baronessvonglitter @arcane-fox @whocaresstillthelouvre @beefrobeefcal @tinytinymenace @time-for-my-weekly-spanking @thedilfdiaries @kokoluwie @604to647 @kedsandtubesocks @jennaispunk @missadangel @the-blind-assassin-12 @simpingforjoel @cozymochaa @littlepedrito @sin-djarin @speaktothehandpeasants @jessthebaker @rosharanfiction @littleredpandanaps @readingiskeepingmegoing @copperhalfcent @pedrit0-pascalit0 @maried01 @just-ashlee @iknowisoundcrazy
Over the Andes | Frankie Morales x ofc/f!reader | 5 k
Summary: Let's meet our protagonists two years later. And let's see how the first meeting between Frankie and reader goes.
Content warning: Swearing, like a lot! Tom and Frankie are still very angry. Misogynist comments (and yeah, I'm sorry Frankie is a bit a of a jerk in this one), mention of alcoholism.
Reader here is more of an ofc, written as a reader insert. She will have some description and a backstory but has no name.
A/N: Do I know anything about working in a helicopter company? No. But the beauty of fanfic is that I can just make it up! Just please, don't look to close at reader's job or at anything work related. Settle in and suspend your disbelief!
Thank you @sawymredfox for your help on this chapter 🥰
A note on the Spanish I’ll include in the story: We don't really have any indication as to Santi's and Frankie's origins, although some dialogue seems to point out that Santi is from Colombia. And after much deliberation I decided that Frankie was Puerto Rican. I tried to be as accurate as possible regarding specific dialect. The translation will be in the story and any necessary explanation at the end. The Spanish is from my own research, so if there are any mistakes, they are my own. If you see anything wrong, or have any feedback to give I would be more than happy to hear it and learn from it.
I'm always happy for comments and/or reblogs, so please don't be shy !
Main masterlist | Series masterlist | Read on AO3
Dividers by @/saradika-graphics
Frankie wakes up to the sound of his phone, but before he can grab it, it stops. Still half asleep, he remembers he was dreaming of an alarm ringing somewhere while he was lost in what looked like his old high school. He groans, turns in his bed, and tries to go back to sleep. He isn't working until this afternoon, and apart from a lunch with Will and Tom, he has nothing else planned. He wants to catch up on some sleep after his week with Mia. At three years old, his daughter is the love of his life, but she's also a little tornado. It's been a couple of years, but he feels like he's still getting used to co-parenting, and every week he has her is just a whirlwind of playtime, naps, bedtime stories, and trying to get her to eat her veggies. He wouldn't change one little thing, but every time Elena comes to get her, he is left in a house that looks like it's been hit by a natural disaster.
Sure, he had his regrets. He wishes he and Elena could still be parents together, that he hadn't messed things up. But he has learned to let go of those feelings. Everyone's happy, and that is all that matters.
Last night, when Elena came home from work to pick Mia up, she looked radiant. Exhausted but radiant. Her life is good, she has a great job she loves, one Frankie doesn't understand, something involving numbers and laws and being very smart. She worked her ass off to get to where she is now, found a nice man she loves and that Frankie respects, and just moved in with him. They have a daughter who is turning out to be as smart and beautiful as her mother and as focused and stubborn as her father. He is happy he could help in his own way, for her to get where she is. Taking care of Mia whenever she has to work late, helping her buy a house in a nice area not too far from where she works, in a district with nice schools. That's the only money she accepted from him after the divorce.
Yeah, sure, Frankie wishes he had someone in his life, too. He really loved Elena, while they were together, so it did sting a little when she announced she had met someone, when he met him and realized he was a good guy. Sure, Mia had been a surprise; Elena had gotten pregnant a little early in their relationship, but it had been a good surprise. They were in love, still in their honeymoon phase. The only thing that had come between them was Frankie's demons. What he brought back from his years of service. The help he never seeked. When he got his license suspended for coke, that had been the tipping point. He got scared when Mia was born. He wasn't a bad father, but he was scared of not being good enough, and he did exactly what he was afraid of becoming: an unreliable partner and an unreliable parent. Coke wasn't a big problem yet, not in itself. It was more the fact that he went out, didn't always come back home when he said he would. Elena was working, Frankie wasn't, and he was getting restless. He was feeling like a failure, and Elena wanted to go back to work, but she just couldn't rely on him. And when she pointed it out, it would make him feel worse. Instead of doing better, he would fall back into his bad habit.
And then he left for Colombia. When he came back, rich, with a sense of accomplishment, his stuff was waiting for him in the living room, and Elena kicked him out. What happened next is not something Frankie wants to ever remember. But thanks to Elena, to her strength, thanks to Mia, he had overcome it. It destroyed any hope he had of going back together with his ex. But in the end, he got better.
The phone starts to ring again.
"¡Puñeta! [Fuck]" He sighs, grabbing the phone, ready to turn it off. But when he sees who's calling, even though it's 7:26, way too early for his morning off, he smiles before answering.
"Pope ¡My pana! [My friend!] What makes you call me this early?" His voice is still very sleepy as he shuffles back comfortably into his bed.
"Early? Parce [Dude], I remember a Frankie who was up at 6 every morning."
"That was before I became a father. Now I cherish every morning I get to sleep in. And you just ruined it. So you'd better have a good reason."
His friend laughed.
"Mi llave [my friend], I'm coming home."
"Shit, really?" Frankie sits up in bed; he's fully awake now.
"Don't sound so surprised, I said I would," Santi's voice sounded wistful.
"You've been saying that for the last 2 years, hell, the last 4 years, even before…" He doesn't finish his sentence, they don't say that name out loud. Ever. "Every guy is supposed to be your last one." Frankie can't help the slight resignation in his voice. It feels like he's had this conversation every 4 to 6 months.
"Yeah, well, this time it's real." There is resolve in Santi's voice.
"What's different this time?" Frankie asks, after a small silence.
Santi sighs, "I'm just tired, I guess. Maybe I finally want to settle."
Frankie huffs, "Come on, man, I know you, there's something else. What's her name?"
Santi laughs, "Shit, I'm that transparent?"
"Pretty much." When Santi doesn't say a thing, he steers the conversation on another subject. "Where are you calling me from?"
"Melbourne."
"¡No me jodas! [No kidding!] You finally went back to her."
"Maybe."
Now Frankie believes it. He knows his friend, even if he never said it, even if he would never admit it; he spent the last 2 years making sure Lorea's men would never find them. And he refused to settle down before he felt they were safe. They all feel bad about what happened there. But Santi's the one who's felt the most guilt, even if he never shared it with the guys. Guilt because ever since, the shift in the group has been more palatable as time went by. He has never allowed himself to go back for Yovanna.
"So when can we expect you?"
"A month or so, sorting out a few things."
"Estoy muy contento por ti, en serio. [I'm glad for you, I really am]"
"Thanks. How are the guys?" Santi probably knows, he keeps in touch. But what he's asking Frankie is something else. And Frankie really doesn't want to answer that question.
"Same old, pretty much. Benny might actually be settling down too!"
"Impossible! The heartthrob of Tampa, off the market? That seems impossible."
"Yeah, he's been seeing this girl for a couple of months. I haven't met her yet, he's pretty cagey, which means this might actually be serious."
"Well, shit! Our baby brother finally all grown up."
"Yeah, our 37-year-old baby brother. Will's good, the gym and charity are doing great work. He and Benny are really thriving."
"And Tom?"
Frankie sighs, "Same."
"Same?"
"Yeah, I'm meeting him and Will for lunch, he mentioned Tom wanted to talk to us, a new opportunity or something." Frankie knows his voice betrays how weary he is.
"Fuck, it's not better."
"No, not really."
They are both silent until Santi announces he has to go.
After hanging up, Frankie wipes his tired eyes. He might as well get up and finish cleaning up before meeting the guys.
You are awake before your alarm goes off at 7. It feels like the first day of school, part excited, part nervous, except now you are an adult and it's your first at a new job. But things never really change.
And it's not only a new job, in the past month you changed your whole life: a new city, heck, a new part of the country, traveling far south, near the sea, leaving behind everything and everyone you had known for the past decade and more. All of that to get closer to your best friend, former college roommate, who now worked at the Tampa Bay Times. You both met while doing your bachelor's in meteorology, and while she moved on to journalism and environmental studies, you moved on to statistics and data management. She moved back home, you stayed in the same city, but you never, ever stopped keeping in touch. When you got tired of your job, tired of your life, mostly tired that all your friends were actually your ex-husband's friends and that everything reminded you of him and your life together, she said part joke, part serious, "Move to Tampa!"
So you did.
And today you start working as a meteorologist analyst for a local helicopter company called Delta Heli Services, owned by a certain Colin Jones, a former British pilot and mechanic who moved to Florida a few years ago and decided to buy out this small helicopter company.
The commute is short, barely 20 minutes, but you are anxious and arrive there almost half an hour early, sipping your large coffee, sitting in the car by the hangar on small Peter O. Knight Airport on Davis Islands, right on Hillsborough Bay. The view is stunning, the sun on the horizon, not too hot yet, and you can make out the water further away. Everything is quiet, apart from a small plane that landed a few minutes ago. You feel at peace, lucky. Until the sound of someone tapping on the passenger car window makes you jump, almost spilling your coffee all over yourself.
"Jesus!" You can't help exclaiming, before opening the window to Colin, smirking.
"Looks like you are easily startled. And you are early!"
"Didn't want to take a chance with traffic, but didn't expect to be here so quickly."
"Well, why don't you come in, unless you'd rather stay here until 8:30?"
Frankie arrives at Mel's Diner, which is conveniently located merely a block away from Millers Wellness & Strength, the gym Will and Benny took over and have been running for the past two years.
Will is already sitting at his usual spot, a booth a little away from the rest of the crowd, looking at the menu he already knows by heart. He'll get what he always gets, taco salad with extra jalapeño when it's warm, clam chowder when it's a little cooler. Sometimes he'll change for a sandwich, but that's only when Benny nags him. Will is a creature of habit.
"Hey man, you've been waiting long?" Frankie leans into the hug when Will gets up to greet him.
"Just got here." Will answers as he sits back.
"Benny not joining us?"
Will smiles, "Nope, he said he had a work meeting downtown. Which means he's with Diana. He really thinks I don't know he's been dating her. I don't know why he's so secretive." He sobers up and adds, "Tom should get here any moment now."
"Do you know what he wants to talk to us about?"
Will's eyes go over Frankie's shoulder, "You can ask him yourself," He says as he gets up to greet Tom, who looks cheerful when he sits next to Will after hugging them both. Frankie can't help but observe that, despite the mood, Tom has dark circles and that his eyes are sunken. He's jittery, barely standing in place, knees moving under the table, fingers touching the menu, the napkin dispenser, and he is barely looking at Frankie in the eyes as they catch up.
The waitress comes to take their order, smiling sweetly at Will, who doesn't hide his own smile, one that Frankie knows is not just him being polite, especially when he greets her.
"Hi Gil, how's Andrew?"
"He's good, still liking his new school, making friends. He's been invited to his first birthday party last Saturday." She answers, beaming at him.
Will looks pleased, and his smile gets bigger. Frankie knows he helped Gillian find a school for her 6-year-old son, a gifted kid who was having trouble at school, between bullying and a terrible staff. He paid for the tuition in the specialized school through a scholarship, so Gillian couldn't find out. If the smile wasn't enough, this is definitely a reason to know that Will is head over heels for Gillian. And from the way she looks at him, she seems to share these feelings. Frankie just wonders when one of them will make a move.
The moment is cut short when Tom, who can barely hide his irritation at the interruption, cuts them off as he orders.
"I'll get the Cuban, pickled on the side. And a large Coors Light."
It takes Frankie all his self-control to refrain from telling Tom off. Instead, he asks, "What's the catch of the day?"
"Mahi-Mahi."
"'I'll get a Mahi sandwich then, Cajun. With slaw instead of fries. And a diet Root Beer."
"OK, and you Will, the usual?
"Yeah, you know me well."
Gillian blushes a little at the smile Will gives her, and seems to want to add something, but Tom makes an annoyed noise, and she leaves. Frankie sees Will's jaw tense, but he doesn't say anything.
"Right, guys, let's cut to the chase, I got a contact. Someone who can fly us back and help us get the money back."
Both Frankie and Benny groan, "Come on, Tom, you can't still be thinking about it!" Will says, to Frankie's relief, he doesn't want to be the one to say it. It's always better when another one of the guys does it.
"What? You can't be serious? Of course I'm still thinking about it! There's like 150 plus million rotting in a cave somewhere in Peru. I don't get why guys aren't thinking about it constantly." Tom's voice booms in the diner, and Frankie motions for him to be quiet.
"Will! Imagine what you could do with that, 50 million? All the veterans you could help, all the kids you send to better schools so you can bang their moms." Tom whispers furiously.
"Fuck you, Tom, that's not why I did it." Will seethes.
"OK, I'm sorry, Will." Tom's voice softens, "But you could do real good with that money, you really could." Will is quiet, and Frankie sees he's considering it. And it makes him angry. He tries to steer the conversation back to what's important.
"Tom, we don't know if the money is still there. And Pope's intel tells us Lorea's guys are still suspicious." He tries to grab Tom's attention, but he can see it isn't working.
"He said most have been neutralized. And there is no way they know where the money is. We owe it to ourselves to go and see this to the end."
"We owe it to no one! Fuck Tom, we are home, we are living a good life." Frankie can barely keep his voice down.
"A good life? I'm divorced and barely live on what I get as a pension." Tom isn't whispering anymore.
"Fuck this, Tom, whose fault is that? Huh?"
"What the fuck are you implying? Fuck you, Fish." Tom is finally looking him in the eyes, and Frankie doesn't like what he sees in them.
"Guys, please." Will tries to calm Tom down, to no avail. He gets up and looks down at Frankie. "Look at you, Fish, with your stupid little helicopter company, you're not even brave enough, using that stupid Brit as a cover, all so you can lie back, have your ex walk all over you, and take advantage of you."
"Don't you speak that way about Elena." Frankie gets up, furious, but Will's hand grabs his arm, reminding him they are in public. People are probably staring now.
"She's over you, Fish. And you are just her little puppet, doing everything for her, taking care of your daughter more than she does, just so can fuck her new guy while you wait patiently. It won't bring her back, you know?"
Even though Frankie knows Tom isn't in his right mind, even if he smells the alcohol in his breath, he can't help what he says next: "At least my ex and daughter are still on speaking terms with me."
Tom looks like he might punch Frankie. They both stare at each other, anger rendering their face almost unrecognizable. An echo to another moment, all those months ago, in a jungle instead of a diner, but its the same rage. And that's the moment when Gillian arrives with the food.
Tom spits out, "Fuck this." He turns to look at Will, then at Gillian, "You can throw out my sandwich. He storms out of the diner, leaving a bewildered Gillian, a regretful Will, and Frankie, who really doesn't know what to think.
The morning goes by swiftly. Between meeting your new coworkers, getting familiar with the equipment, making notes on some updates they could make, the office space, and the hangar, you barely have time to settle down. You quickly meet with the head pilot, Alysha, an ex-military, who became a private pilot after her service. She is striking, efficient, and you feel shy in her presence even though she is probably a decade younger than you. She leaves with a group of tourists for a tour, leaving you to meet Fred, the young mechanic who has just finished his apprenticeship here and has been recently hired. He works under the supervision of Colin, who occasionally flies when needed, but spends most of his time overseeing repairs. And then comes Jean, who is probably in her 50s, the administrative assistant, who you soon understand knows everything that needs to be known. There is one pilot left, who only works part-time, and is supposed to arrive this afternoon.
At lunch, Jean goes to grab sandwiches and takes you and Fred to eat on the beach, which is a 10-minute walk from the airfield. It isn't too hot, and even if the view on the Port isn't the most beautiful, you are struck by the calm, the white sand, and the water glistening in the sun. Fred is shy and not keen on small talk, which is a relief. You thought Jean might be the gossipy type who asks thousands of questions, but she's just a quiet lady who minds her own business.
Back in the office space, you hear Colin in his office talking to someone else, the voices are raised, like they are having an argument.
Jean looks at the door before shaking her head.
"Sounds like Frankie's in a bad mood." She sits down at her desk and goes on to her business.
You sit at yours and look around you. You should go and introduce yourself to the pilot. He has to leave for a transport soon, and before he goes, you want to check with him on the latest weather report. You don't want to interrupt, but after waiting for 5 minutes, you decide it's better to just do it.
As you get closer to the office, you start discerning the words. There is an unfamiliar voice, probably Frankie, saying, "I hope she's not as incompetent as the last one." You feel your stomach twist. Is he talking about you?
"Frankie, for fucks sake, trust me on this one."
"I don't know, the last hire was just a pretty face with no brains. I told you to run this through me, Colin." This makes you frown, something seems off in the way they talk to each other.
"Fuck Frankie, you've barely been here for the past month, only coming for your shifts and barely answering your phone. And stop implying I hired Jenna to get in her pants! I was trying to help out a friend, and didn't know she would be a shitty meteorologist."
You hear the snicker, and suddenly, you are not feeling uncomfortable for eavesdropping; you are furious. You don't know who this man is, especially with the way he is talking to his boss, but you've met plenty of his type. The kind that will step over women for their own benefit, the type that will always look down on women. And you can't let this happen. Whatever the person before you did, you aren't going to let him insult you.
Being a woman in a male-dominated field has always made you work harder. And after a decade of being nice and amiable, you got tired. Now you didn't mince your words and were ready to stand up for who you were. You were good at your job, and you didn't let anyone, especially not a cocky pilot with a god complex, say otherwise. And too bad if it makes you lose your job on your first day. You have enough savings to last you a few months.
You knock harshly on the door, and before anyone can answer, you open it. Colin is sitting behind his desk, looking tired and angry, and the other guy, Frankie, sitting on the other side, is already turning to you. Cargo pants, a gray t-shirt with aviator sunglasses tucked in the collar, and a hat on his head. He looks handsome but is annoyed by the interruption.
"What?"
Colin has the decency to look ashamed. He calls out your name, and you see Frankie falter a little.
"Hi, I came to introduce myself." You walk into the office and look down at Frankie, who is still sitting, looking at you, a little stunned by your forwardness. "I guess you must be Frankie. I'm the new hire, hopefully you'll get to see I'm not just a pretty face and that I do have brains." You rejoice when you see his mouth open slightly in disbelief, and then the shame that lingers in his big brown eyes. "Now, before your 2 PM flight, I wanted to give you the latest weather report, since we have a storm approaching through the Atlantic, with heavy winds. It's supposed to hit Orlando in a couple of hours. The chances that it gets here in the next few hours are very slim, but since you'll be traveling inland, I thought it was best to let you know. Here's the weather report and planned trajectory."
You hand the paper to Frankie, who takes it wordlessly, still looking like he can't understand what is happening. Before you turn and leave, you add, "Now I'll go back to my desk and maybe look at my nails or something else." And you leave, slamming the door behind you.
Back at your desk, you brace yourself for what will inevitably come. A couple of minutes later, you hear the door open, and Frankie leaves. Colin calls your name, and you get up, sensing the eyes of Fred and Jean on you. Too bad, you really like them.
"Sorry about that," Colin speaks right away, "what Frankie said is unacceptable, and he will apologize for that. He had to leave for the flight, but I know he will."
You were ready to argue, ready to fight, and hearing this makes you stare at him, mouth agape.
"I know how it sounds if I say Frankie isn't really like that. I don't know all of what you heard, but I think more than enough. Our last meteorologist was a mistake, and her mistakes could have had terrible consequences. She wasn't very thorough and once let Alysha leave for a flight while a storm was approaching fast, and not only did she not see it, but she also didn't keep track during the flight. Frankie has been on edge ever since. But his comment was totally out of line."
"I'm sorry I barged in, I just–"
"Don't worry. You were right to stand up for yourself. I get it. Let's forget it. I'm not asking you to become best friends with Frankie, but at least know he isn't as bad as he sounds."
"Sounds fair."
Frankie is in a bad mood when he gets to work. Between waking up too early and the tense exchange with Tom, his temper was already high.
But when Will had started saying that maybe he should cut Tom some slack and they should listen to him, he was ready to explode at the smallest annoyance.
He could see in Will's eyes that the idea was making its way. It wasn't the first time Tom had brought this up in the two years. But it was the first time he had a contact, and that he used this type of argument to convince them. And if Will was OK with it, then Benny would too. That left Santi. They didn't even talk about him coming back. But when Tom would know it, he wouldn't let it go.
Truth be told, Frankie understands why Tom wants to go back. It is very tempting knowing so much money might still be there waiting for them. And sure, they had plenty, but greed knows how to work its way. But Frankie doesn't trust Tom anymore. Not since that mission, and what happened after. Tom had resented Frankie ever since that day. And he came back bitter. Tess didn't come rushing back even if he had money. Of course, she didn't. The reason she left Tom wasn't because of money. After securing a place for his ex and daughter, Tom started spending most of his money on new projects, ventures that were crazier each time, resulting in him losing money and even asking the guys to lend him some. And what the others didn't want to see but that Frankie understood all too well was that Tom had a problem, namely, alcohol. He already wasn't doing well before, but now he barely seemed to be able to contain his drinking. Even Molly stopped talking to her father a few months ago. Frankie tried, he really did. He talked to him, and he introduced him to his sponso. But nothing worked. And it's almost impossible to help someone who doesn't want to be helped.
All of this results in Frankie arriving at work ready to explode. And when Colin announces happily that they have a new hire, he just goes berserk.
"Fuck Colin, what were you thinking! We don't need a new meteorologist, we were working perfectly well with the airport one. And we definitely don't need a full-time one! "
"Frankie, listen to me! I'm telling you she was extremly qualified. She was an environmental analyst before this. She knows her way around data and laws. She has a background in topography. She can be an asset in many more fields. You wanted to open our scientific subjects, aerial photography, and nature watch. With her, we have someone who knows this shit and can help us!
"Then why didn't you hire a local? She isn't even from this state! What does she know about laws and the lands here?"
"She's a fast learner! And she really was the most qualified person I met."
Frankie's pacing in front of Colin's desk, and the more they talk, the more annoyed he gets, especially when he sees Colin still sitting, looking at him like he is the unreasonable one. Frankie knows he is unreasonable but he can't help to think he should have had a say. He is the boss after all!
"Frankie, what is wrong with you? We had an arrangement, you left me most of the day-to-day decision making. This is part of it." Colin looks puzzled by Frabkie's outburt and it annoys him even more. He sits down, rubbing his face, trying to brush away the tension building between his eyes.
"Here, look at her resume." Colin hands him a paper.
"I hope she's not as incompetent as the last one." Frankie takes it and starts looking at it. And he has to admit it's an impressive one.
"Frankie, for fucks sake, trust me on this one."
"I don't know, the last hire was just a pretty face with no brains. I told you to run this through me, Colin." He's relenting but still wants to make a point; he did give Colin free rein on most of the decisions, letting him act as the real boss of the company, in exchange for a very handsome salary. But Frankie was stubborn, even though he knew hires had never been really discussed before, except for pilots.
"Fuck Frankie, you've been barely here for the past month, only coming for your shifts and barely answering your phone. And stop implying I hired Jenna to get in her pants! I was trying to help out a friend, and didn't know she would be a shitty meteorologist."
Right then, there is a knock on the door, which opens before either one can answer.
Frankie can't help an exasperated, "What?" and he turns his head to see a very pretty woman who looks properly pissed off.
What happened after that is something he knows he deserves. The way she talks to him makes him feel ashamed of himself. She's heard most of the conversation, and hearing the words said back at him makes him realize how awful they are, how awful he is. Fuck, he's no better than Tom in regard to the disrespect he had for a very competent woman.
He can barely muster a look at her before he leaves for his flight. But he is thankful for the report she gives him and can see she is going to be an asset to the company.
Shame is really gnawing at him during the whole flight, as he keeps replaying the scene and the look she had in her very pretty eyes.
When he comes back from his flight, she has already left and Frankie realizes that he's not due to work for the next couple of days. And the thought that he won't be able to apologize right away makes him feel unhappy for reasons he can't really understand.
Spanish translation:
Puñeta: Fuck/ Damn, Puerto Rica slang (source)
Pana: friend/dude, Puerto Rica slang (source)
Parce: Friend/Dude, Colombia slang, (source)
Mi llave: my friend (literally my key), Colombia slang (source)
¡No me jodas!: No kidding! or Don't shit with me! Used in many country, including Puerto Rico (source)
taglist - Please let me know if you want to be removed it's not a problem, or if you want to be added: @iknowisoundcrazyreads @lillaydee @littlemisspascal @harriedandharassed @sunnytuliptime @picketniffler @sawymredfox @baronessvonglitter @milla-frenchy @half-moon16 @sin-djarin @hanahleah @missadangel @simpingforjoel @aurorawritestoescape @kirsteng42 @annwrites24 @vodkaandpizza @quinnnfabrgay @littlepedrito @petalsinblood @savedyounine @isabellaboo2025 @copperhalfcent @the-blind-assassin-12 @madpanda75 @anoverwhelmingdin @inept-the-magnificent
Oh Frankie, that was not a very good first impression. I’m curious to see what he’ll do to make up for it. I’m very proud of her that she stood up for herself!
Tom really is an asshole. So greedy and disrespectful, urgh.
Summary: it’s a story about two people who are very dear to each other, but too scared to turn their friendship into something else. They search for each other in other people and places until fate brings them back together at the right time
Warnings: 18+ mdni. Childhood friends to lovers, post season 3 (Javi and reader are in their 40s), idiots in love, alt pov, time jumps, angst, arguing, smut, oral (f/m), piv, creampie
a/n: Ok, so yeah, Javi is a womanizer. But I deeply think he’s also one of the most protective and sensitive p boys. He cares a lot, we saw how worried he was about Helena. He’s just not really good at expressing his feelings. So yeah, another fic where I’m falling for soft!Javi 🧡
this is written for @time-for-my-weekly-spanking 2026 kinky challenge (masterlist), I chose Oral - Thank you for the event, V 🙏❤️ (I'm so late I'm sorry!)
Thank you @aurorawritestoescape for beta-ing and always being here for me 😘💕💕 @sawymredfox for your wonderful ideas, always ❤️❤️ @/saradika-graphics for the dividers 🙏
You
The first thing you noticed as you walked down the trail from Chucho's ranch was Javi’s lavender shirt. He’d always loved those bright colors, even as a teenager. Pink, green, blue, yellow, red— they all suited him, enhancing his sunkissed skin. Some stupid boys tried to make fun of his clothes in the past, but it never stopped him from wearing them. He had never been the impressionable type, even as a kid. He just didn’t care.
You, on the other hand, hated it.
“Don't waste your energy on them, cariño,” he’d say. “They're not worth it.”
Javi and Chucho were gathering materials to repair the fence, and you smiled when your eyes set on Javi for the first time in so many years. Jeans, dress shoes, his back drenched in sweat in that shirt while he was carrying wooden posts.
He couldn’t have been more inappropriately dressed for the task.
“Finally found your way back home, Peña?” you said as you approached, making him turn around and smile at you instantly.
“C'mere, cariño.”
You hugged as you’d done a million times before, yet it seemed like ages had passed since then. Now he felt much broader between your arms.
You had hoped that your emotions wouldn't engulf you too quickly when you had been mentally preparing yourself to see him again, but your heart already started to shatter, all those years weighing on you.
When you have a childhood friend, a real childhood friend, the perfect one that you only see in the movies, the worst thing you can imagine is life getting in the way and separating you.
And well, life really screwed you over.
Seeing him wasn’t a surprise. The surprise actually hit you a couple hours earlier, when you called Chucho first thing in the morning, knowing the fence was often damaged after a storm. You offered to come help him, as always. He thanked you then there was a moment of silence, before he finally said "he's here."
There was no need to say the name for you to realize who he was talking about.
Javi stroked your back, your bodies pressed against each other. “I’m glad to see you,” he said, his voice huskier than it used to be. You bit your lip before answering, trying not to show too much emotion in your voice.
“Me too, Javi.”
You missed him. So much. Probably more than he had missed you, but you weren't the one busy hunting down Escobar and then the Cali cartel.
And after all, you weren’t the one that left practically overnight. Or perhaps he knew long before he was going to leave, but chose to tell you only the day before. For a long time, your brain was torturing you, telling you that you'd never really been that close if Javi left so suddenly, almost like a thief, stealing a part of you and leaving a void in your heart that had never been filled since then.
You tried to shut that thought down. Javi was the impulsive type. Maybe he really decided to leave at the last minute.
You took a long breath before stepping aside to look at him, and how stupidly gorgeous he was, with that self-assurance only some men in their forties possess.
You noticed right away that his gaze was different than before. Grave, with a certain sadness he had always carried within him, but deeper.
His expression turned playful though, as you were watching him from head to toe.
“Are you checking me out?”
“You wish! So… you finally kept the mustache,” you said, smiling. Years ago you had suggested he let it grow and back then he had told you it was the worst idea ever, before finally giving it a chance.
“I did. You were right, it’s not that bad,” he replied, his voice as gentle as you used to, his gaze on you as kind and protective as it was. As if he had left only yesterday.
You, on the other hand, were not showing the same warmth. The wound of his departure had never truly healed, and the fact that the phone calls between Colombia and Laredo got rare quickly after he left, then fully stopped, hadn't helped.
“I’m not sure I’ll be able to call you in the coming weeks, cariño,” he had said. “I’m often out on a mission, between Bogota and Medellín. But don’t worry about me, ok? I’ll be fine.”
He never called back.
You can’t say you’d been surprised, though. You always saw him as a lone wolf, deep down. The only difference was that when you were children, then teenagers, then young adults, you thought you were allowed behind the walls he built around himself. The only one he let inside.
After he left, you weren’t so sure anymore, and a bitter taste stayed on your tongue since that day.
“Okay, that should do it,” Chucho interrupted you two, shaking his gloved hands, getting rid of the dust. “Come have lunch with us, Niña.”
Javi’s father was an anchor in your life, always had been, somehow having replaced your shitty, pathologically absent father throughout the years.
The three of you set the table, then Javi served the food, towel tossed over his shoulder, and you couldn’t help but ogle his forearms, the way his veins were working, how strong he seemed to be.
Seeing him there, in his father’s kitchen, felt almost surreal, even though his movements were so familiar.
You'd follow the news of the Medellín then Cali cartels being taken down on TV, but everybody knew it was a hopeless war. You wondered how long he would stay in Laredo before going back to his chase, and it really surprised you when he assured Chucho he was back for good. Time would tell if it was the case, but he clearly seemed emotionally exhausted. Drained. You couldn’t imagine what he had to face during all those years.
Sometimes Javi looked at you like he didn't quite know how to handle the situation. You didn’t know either, and mostly stayed quiet.
After the meal, Chucho settled on the sofa in front of the TV, and Javi suggested you two having coffee on the porch.
It was the first time you were alone together since the day he had told you he was leaving, nearly twenty years ago. You hated that the person who knew you best back then was now almost a stranger. You didn’t know anything about his life in Colombia, as he didn’t know anything about yours for the last decade.
“We have a lot of catching up to do,” he said, lighting up a cigarette. Then he casually threw his lighter on the table and sat with his ankle crossed over his knee.
“I guess,” you replied, getting closed off as your defense mechanism, nervously playing with the cup handle, your eyes set on the dark liquid.
“I know the way I left was a mess,” he stated, encouraging you to open up with a soft smile on his face.
“Yeah, we can say that,” you replied, accepting his cigarette and taking a drag.
“You started smoking again?”
“No,” you replied, and you both laughed, slightly easing the tension as a result. Javi brushed his lower lip with his tongue, the way he had used to do when he wasn’t sure about something, took the lighter, tapped it against the table and then finally said, “tell me, cariño.”
“Tell you what?”
He tilted his head to the side, and continued, “come on. Just tell me what’s on your mind. I can face it.” He looked so much like the Javi you had known right now. Direct. Honest. Brave.
You sighed, searching for the right words, not quite sure you were ready to dive into that conversation. Yet being aware that it had to happen at some point anyway, you decided to bite the bullet and be fully honest.
“I’m angry, Javi,” you dropped. “I’m happy you’re safe, of course, happy you’re back, but I’ve been mad at you since you left, for the way you left, for not staying in touch.” You paused, then added, “I’m angry with you because for years I had lived in fear of getting a call from Chucho with some bad news. I’m angry because I thought we were friends, best friends, and the way you dumped me so suddenly made me realize that maybe I was wrong all those years and we weren’t.”
Javi frowned, lowering his eyes, and then took another cigarette from the pack. He lit it and exhaled the smoke, searching for words.
“I left immediately after telling you because I wasn’t sure I’d do it if I discussed it with you, if I thought about it more. And… I don’t know,” he sighed. “I guess I needed to leave.”
“You’re not exactly helping your case by saying that,” you replied, slightly hurt.
“Probably. I’m sorry.”
“How long have you known? That you were gonna leave.”
“They offered me the job a few weeks before I left. A month, maybe? I kept wondering if I should take it, kept thinking about you…” he stopped talking and shook his head.
“I wouldn’t have asked you to stay if you’d told me you needed to leave,” you said coldly. “You just had to talk to me. I wouldn’t have been selfish, you should have known it. We were friends.”
Javi’s eyes filled with pain when you used the past tense, and you felt bad for being so harsh but couldn’t help it. You had never imagined what your reunion would be like, damn, you had never really been sure you’d see him again, but you certainly didn’t expect this. It all felt like a waste, and it made you sad.
“What about your eyes?” he asked after a long moment of silence, his voice barely audible, and you frowned in confusion, your gaze locked with his.
“My eyes? What do you mean?”
“Would they have asked me to stay?”
Your heart jumped in its ribcage. You weren’t ready to show such raw emotions. To be emotional in front of him. Not so fast, not now.
You looked at the cigarette between your fingers and its burning ashes, and stood up.
“I need some time, ok? Your return is sudden and part of me thinks that tomorrow, in a week or a month you're gonna leave again.”
“I won’t,” he replied, his brown eyes raised towards you. You shrugged and crushed your cigarette in the ashtray.
“See you later, Javi,” you said, before leaving him alone on the porch.
Javi
Of course, he noticed your reserve as soon as you looked at him near the fence. Moreover, he expected it. Just like in the morning, when the phone rang, he knew it was you, he felt it by the way his heart tightened. So he went to get his pack of cigarettes from the kitchen when his father answered the phone, to give himself some time.
When his father hung up Javi came back into the living room.
“She’s gonna help with the fence,” Chucho confirmed what Javi felt in his gut. “She always helps, Javi, you know? Always the same sweet girl she’s always been.”
“I know,” he sighed. “I know, ‘pa.” He knew his father never approved of the way he had left.
Javi lit a cigarette, thinking about the moment you’d meet again. He knew he hadn’t been fair to you, and that you didn’t deserve it after everything you shared together since you were 5 or 6 years old.
The truth was, Javi didn’t know how else to handle it. He figured a sudden break was probably best so you wouldn’t worry and wouldn’t think about him too much after some time. Even if deep down, he knew it was dumb. That he was acting like a coward. He always considered himself bad, with the way he expressed his emotions, but that really was the icing on the cake.
When Javi told you he was leaving the next day, your face couldn’t conceal your pain even though you tried to lock up your emotions. In the evening before his departure he hid in the shadows near your father's house. He stayed there, contemplating whether he should talk to you or not. He watched your silhouette pass by your bedroom window. Again and again.
He convinced himself that visiting you one last time would only make things worse.
He was afraid to take you in his arms, afraid to kiss you.
Afraid you’d kiss him back.
And then, what would he do?
That spark between you, which had never been discussed or even implied but that he was feeling deep down, couldn’t choose the worst moment to reveal itself.
Just like that morning when he was getting ready for his wedding, and realised he couldn’t keep lying to himself — Lorraine wasn’t the woman he wanted.
His eyes fixed on your window, he brushed his lip with his thumb, still hesitating.
“Goodbye, cariño,” he murmured in the end and left.
Javi called you a few times once in Colombia. But hearing your voice hurt him, made him miss you, prevented him from concentrating the way he needed to. He told you to not worry about him, then never called again, only getting news about you from Chucho.
One day he told his father he didn’t want to know more after learning that you were seeing someone, some guy who always tried to go out with you, but whom you'd always turned down. A guy he always referred to as “the prick”. Javi convinced himself you didn't need him anymore, and probably already forgot about him. He threw himself wholeheartedly into his job, and tried to forget about you.
It didn’t work, but his heart tightened when a few years later he realized he couldn’t recall the sound of your voice anymore. He never imagined your friendship would end like this, not when you solemnly promised to always be in each other's lives, as children. He forced himself to shrug it off, convincing himself that an end of a childhood friendship was one of the most commonplace things in the world.
“Todo Laredo está aquí” (All Laredo is here) Javi told his father when he came back for a few days to attend Danny's wedding.
But it wasn't true. You weren't there. He had prepared himself to finally see you, had thought about the words he’d tell you. Yet he wasn't ready for your absence there.
So he acted foolishly and talked to Lorraine. All he got in return was her bitterness.
There was a lone tree in the middle of a meadow, near Chucho’s ranch.
It became a meeting place for you and Javi when you were kids. You’d go there on your bikes after school and stayed there until the sun began to set. Years later, you kept visiting the place, hanging out in Chucho's truck, that time until the sun rose. It was your place, for the both of you.
“Somewhere only we know,” you called it.
When you were teenagers, that tree heard all your swearing and laughter, when Javi was lying with his head on your stomach. You always teased him that his head was too heavy and gave you a bellyache, anything to tease him, really, and both of you always laughed loudly.
As a young adult, you were usually the one with your head resting on his stomach, and sometimes he would brush a wildflower against your skin. You stopped looking at him when he did that, after you locked eyes once, and the depth and intensity of his gaze made you shiver. You were afraid that seeing his face lowered toward you would make you say something stupid. So instead you’d focus on how the leaves were swaying in the wind.
Moments of silence between you were never uncomfortable, neither of you ever felt obliged to fill them, and you were relieved that looking at the tree would never seem suspicious.
That was the spot where you found Javi, sitting under the lone tree in his wedding suit, smoking a cigarette, during the moment he should have said "I do" to Lorraine. He smiled when he saw you approach, as if he was waiting for you. You went there the second Chucho told you he had changed his mind about the marriage.
You had never really liked Lorraine. Not even now, when you ran into her in town with Randy and their kids, as she came to visit her parents. You hated that she knew a part of Javi you didn't. You couldn't say you were sad they didn't get married but you never expected him to leave her at the altar.
That day, you asked him why he changed his mind, but his answer had been evasive. You didn’t insist. You just wanted to be there for him.
Now
The tree was the place you went to on Sunday morning, a couple days after Javi came back from Colombia.
It had been a long time since you'd been there. You stopped going because it made you sad, because it seemed silly to go there as a grown-up, especially when that place didn’t have a reason to be special anymore.
The white fence surrounding the neighboring field had aged. Its color had faded, and the nails were rusted. In places, the wooden slats were half-loose. It tugged at your heartstrings to see this analogy of time passing.
As you walked toward the tree, you saw Javi sitting there, his back against the trunk, smoking a cigarette, his aviator sunglasses perched on his nose.
"I have something for you," he said when you reached him and handed you a bundle of envelopes tied together with an old-fashioned rubber band.
"What's this?" you asked when you took them.
"The letters I wrote to you when I was in Colombia," he said, exhaling the smoke.
“I… I don’t understand?”
“I never sent them.”
“But… why?”
“I didn’t want you to carry the weight of all this,” he shrugged. “What I was going through, what I was feeling. But I don’t want you to think I forgot about you while I was there. I never did. It’s just… it was hard.”
“Javi..” you sighed. “We were friends, I would have been here for you, no matter what.”
“I hope that one day you will stop using the past tense. I’m back, for good.”
You looked at the pile of envelopes. There were dozens of them.
“You don’t have to read them, if you don’t want to,” he said.
“I know. I will.”
You spent the night reading them.
Each letter was dated, handwritten and full of his thoughts as if he were confiding in you about his days and nights, as if he were right in front of you. Telling you about his missions, the shootings, the violence, without naming people.
He told you about his fears, and you had never sensed him being so vulnerable. So afraid, too. You could feel it in his handwriting, in the way the letters were formed.
Javi wrote about a woman he helped save from hell. It was the only person he named, kind of.
“H.”
You thought he must have cared about her a lot.
He wrote that Chucho had told him you’d been dating the guy he used to call “prick,” when you were teenagers and that’s how you realized he was talking about you with his father. Maybe he had asked him about you, despite what you thought. Despite what you kept repeating in your head, hurting yourself.
Several months later, he wrote “did you marry him?” A single sentence in that letter, as if he could only think about it that day.
He mentioned Randy's wedding too. The one you had chosen not to go, not being ready to see Javi again, to see him leave again.
"I wish you were here," he wrote. For the first time, a mixture of regret and guilt filled your heart for not going.
You pictured Javi in a room, in the dim light of a night, writing these letters. A cigarette in his left hand, or tucked behind his ear. A glass of whiskey on the table beside him.
A few times he ended his letters with “I miss you,” and your heart tightened. All those years, you thought he’d forgotten about you, and you realized how wrong you were. He was still your Javi, always had been, and you felt guilty for being unfair to him.
Finally, you opened the last letter.
"I'm coming back home tomorrow, and can't wait to see you, cariño. You're gonna give me a hard time, aren't you?"
It made you smile, as tears were streaming down your cheeks.
You drove straight to Chucho's place, without even waiting for sunrise, for a decent hour, and threw a pebble at Javi's bedroom window, like you'd done so many times before. You weren’t sure he was awake, but a few seconds later he opened the front door, as if he was waiting for you, and walked towards you.
"You're an asshole, Javier Peña, for leaving like that. I fucking missed you," you said before throwing yourself into his arms.
"Don't you dare doing anything like that to me ever again," you half laughed half cried, your arms wrapped around his shoulders. He chuckled in your ear, pulling you close. It was the sweetest sound you'd ever heard.
“Let's make up for lost time, cariño.”
Things became familiar again pretty quickly and old habits made their way back in your lives. Drinking beer in Javi’s truck, smoking on Chucho’s porch. Meeting under your tree.
Both of you changed after Javi left for Colombia and you were still getting to know each other again. Sometimes shyly, sometimes as if you were 15 years old once more. He didn't talk about his job often, and you didn't push him. He seemed tired, and at times, almost broken. He confessed how much working as a DEA agent changed him. Made him tough in a way he wasn't expecting. “I lost myself there,” he said. You hugged him close then, and he held you back even stronger.
Yet you quickly realized that beneath the thicker-than-ever shell he was wearing, your Javi was still there. All those qualities you had always loved about him didn’t disappear, they were just under the surface, ready to emerge after the slightest wave that was a little stronger than the others.
As a teenager, he was reckless. Always defending and stepping up for you, even if you never asked him to.
He’d always been reliable, and the coolest person you knew. He could have been the captain of the football team and had all the girls at his feet, but he never seemed to care.
Impulsive, too. Sensitive, caring.
Javi was there for you one night, picking you up when you drank too much, too young to buy your own booze, and he took you home to that empty house your father was increasingly avoiding.
He helped you up the stairs and into the bed, then lay down next to you.
"Who gave you the alcohol?" he asked.
"My friends," you replied, making him sigh.
"They're not your friends, cariño. They left you there alone. What kind of friends do that?”
"I know. You're my only friend."
You cuddled up against him, and he wrapped his arm around you, keeping you safe. You fell asleep, your head on his chest. When you woke up the next morning, he hadn't moved.
Some friends feel like home. They never ask you to be anything else other than yourself. Javi was your home, your warmth, your safety blanket.
And you wanted to be there for him as much as he was for you.
When his mother passed, you knew what it was like to lose a person who loved you most in the world. You had lost your mother many years ago, and it broke your heart to know what he was going through. How this would change him forever.
As you helped Javi with his tie before leaving for church, his look lost in the mirror, he asked if you would sit next to him there, and you hugged him, told him that, of course, you would be by his side.
During the service, you took his hand in yours. You weren't sure if he realized it until he intertwined his fingers with yours. You caressed his skin with your thumb and didn’t stop for a single moment, even when you felt his body tremble and heard sobs catch in his throat. You squeezed his hand a little harder, so he wouldn't forget you were there for him.
Before Javi left, one of your favorite things was watching movies together, him seated on the couch and you lying down, barefoot on his lap as he was massaging your feet.
With your friendship returning to its familiar and easy place, the idea of a movie night with pizza, popcorn and beers quickly appeared, so you rented two of your favorite films at the video store.
“Don't you like foot massages anymore, cariño?” Javi asked when you sat up next to him, instead of your usual place.
“I… Yes, I do, of course. Are you sure?”
“Yeah.”
In the past, he usually mixed massages with light tickles, and you’d laugh and shake your legs, before putting them back. A billion years ago, when you were teenagers, when you were in love with him but never showed it.
But tonight, his fingers were soft, as if he was getting used to touching you again. Feeling his hands on you quickly gave you goosebumps. If he noticed, he didn’t say anything.
“So… you and that prick. It didn’t work out?” he asked casually.
“No, it didn’t, as well as with the others," you replied.
Silence settled between you, and you weren’t really watching the movie anymore. You wondered if he wasn’t either, still gently massaging your feet, before he let out “why did we never date?”
Calmly. As if his words weren’t a bomb.
“Because I friendzoned you,” you replied, trying to keep your cool, and his lip curled up into a smile.
“Because you were my friend,” you added.
“Was I?”
“Were you what? My friend?”
“A good friend,” he specified, frowning as if he doubted he had ever been, and you felt guilty. It was probably your fault, after being so rough with him when he came back.
“You were the best friend possible. In your own way.”
“What does that mean?” he asked, turning his head toward you.
“I knew I could come to you with anything, if I needed to,” you answered, then lowered your gaze. You couldn't look at him, let him see what you’d been hiding for so long.
“But I wasn’t sure you’d always come to me if you needed it. You're a loner. Always have been. I knew you wouldn't stay. You wanted to see the world, and Laredo wasn’t enough for you.”
“Pa told me the same things, not so long ago,” Javi said, raising an eyebrow. Unaware of the storm that was ravaging your heart, making it sway between dark, gigantic waves that were terrifying you. Javi seemed to be caught up in his own storm.
“Of course, he did.”
“Several times I didn’t come to you when I needed it,” he said, and you frowned.
“Because you thought I couldn’t help?”
“Because I was afraid you didn’t want the same thing as me.”
“What are you talking about? What are you doing, Javi?” you asked, sitting down next to him, forcing yourself to face the TV even if you were unable to watch it.
“We’re not teenagers anymore,” he said. “I don’t wanna spend my life wondering “what if?”
You finally looked at him. He was close, far too close not to see the emotion in your eyes, and his gaze dropped to your mouth when you nervously bit your lip.
“Why has it never worked out with the men you’ve dated?”
“Javi…”
“Tell me, cariño.”
“I… I don’t know.”
“Ok. You wanna know why all of my relationships failed?”
“Yeah,” you whispered.
“Because of you.”
“Me?” you answered, still not sure of what was happening. It was so sudden, too sudden, after so many years knowing Javi, and even more years being in love with him. You were looking at him, a beautiful mix of confidence and fragility, and he smiled at you. His eyes and his smile were so soft that your heart melted.
“It was always you. You were the girl I was thinking about, and then the woman I was thinking about.”
You felt as if your mind went blank, hearing him say this, hearing his confession, as if time stopped while your heart, on the other hand, was beating faster than ever.
Your gaze dropped to his plush lips, the ones you'd longed to kiss so many times. Fantasizing about how they would feel against yours or linger on your skin. And each time you pushed the desire away, afraid of it ruining your friendship with Javi. Better to have him just as a friend than not to have him at all.
And maybe he felt that you were at a crossroads right now. Maybe he knew that a part of you was still afraid of risking what you had, because he added, “why were you averting your eyes each time I brushed a flower against your skin?”
You always thought you had managed to fool him, all those years ago, and realized you’d been wrong and underestimated his emotional intelligence.
And you sensed something switch in you, like it was finally time to let go of your fears.
“Why didn’t you marry Lorraine?” you asked back, and the way Javi looked at you, the way his gaze deepened, gave you the answer you needed, without him saying a word.
At that moment all your barriers and fears crumbled.
You straddled him, brushed his cheek with your thumb and tucked a stray strand of hair behind his ear, the gesture all at once so familiar and so new. Mind blowing.
His gaze on you was dark and intense, and when he placed his hands on your waist perfectly covering your curves as if they were made for him, as if you were his, you shivered. He was exhaling sensuality, overwhelming your five senses, just by looking at you, touching you. Just by existing.
You fully gave up, leaned towards him and pressed your lips to his, which were as soft as you always imagined. You felt his warmth running through your entire body and a moan escaped your lips muffled by his. Your hands framed his face then moved to the hair at the back of his neck, finally free to feel every inch of him. His tongue brushed your lips, as if tasting them or asking permission to go further, or teasing you, you weren’t really sure, and you took a long breath before parting your lips slightly, inviting him. You moved your hips forward close to his bulge as your tongues mingled and a wave of desire coursed through your body when you felt his cock shift and swell beneath you.
You grinded slowly against him, trying to ease the tension in your core, and Javi groaned.
“Cariño, you’re driving me crazy,” he breathed, kissing you, teasing you with his lips, his tongue, his hands on your waist keeping you pressed against his crotch, then they moved to your asscheeks, cupping them with his large hands, and you trembled. You needed more, needed to feel his bare skin against yours, needed to feel his hands on you without any restraints.
Your forehead pressed against his, you told him to follow you, but as soon as you got up from the sofa you were kissing again, unable to stay away from each other, almost desperate in your movements.
You walked down the hall glued to each other, his mouth on your neck leaving kisses there before crushing against your lips, his hands roaming your curves, your arms wrapped around his shoulders, waves of desire running through your body.
Neither of you broke the kiss when your back hit your bedroom door. You searched for the handle, pushed the door open hastily and tugged on Javi’s t-shirt to pull him in. Then you took it off him and let it fall to the floor. Out of breath, you placed your hands on his chest, feeling his pecs and nipples hardening under your touch, and you thought back to the times you saw him in a pair of swim trunks and tried to not fall for him even more, tried to ignore the perfection of his body, his slim waist and broad shoulders. Now he was facing you, shirtless, his body reacting to your hands placed on him. It still seemed unreal.
“I don’t wanna lose you… I can’t lose you,” you admitted, anxiety pulling you under its shadows again, and he circled your wrists with his hands, keeping you against his torso. His gaze full of certainty locked with yours. “You won’t,” he said. “I promise.”
Javi squeezed your wrists lightly then released them and reached for the first button of your blouse. His eyes were fixed on your skin while he was unbuttoning it, attentive to the way you were reacting to his touch, to your chest rising up and down. He moved down to the next button, then the next, so slowly that time seemed to stand still again, and he was savoring every moment of calm before the storm that you could already sense, as if your bodies longed to deepen your connection, exceed your friendship, amplify it and make it grow.
Javi’s gaze turned obsidian as he parted the two pieces of fabric and his hands slid underneath to pull the blouse off your shoulders, his touch on you so sensual.
Your hands reached behind your back and you unhooked your bra before letting it fall.
“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, mesmerized by the sight of you. He raised his hands to your breasts and gently caressed your hard nipples with his thumbs, so lightly, like a summer breeze. His Adam's apple bobbed when you shivered under his touch. He seized your waist, pulled you towards him and kissed you again, your bare chests pressed together, then slowly guided you towards the bed.
When the back of your knees reached it you both lay down on it and your lips met. Your breaths were ragged, your hands on his neck, his caressing your sides. You could feel his hard-on against your hip, wondering what it would be like to finally feel him inside you.
“Baby,” you whimpered, and he stopped for a second, trying to catch his breath against your mouth.
“Say it again,” he grumbled, his dominance making your mind go blank and your knees shake.
“Baby…” you murmured, and he growled.
“Wanna touch you and kiss you everywhere,” he said between kisses. “Wanna feel you shiver and see your toes curl.”
He peppered kisses down your neck, your collarbone, to your breasts, taking his time. He took one of your tits in his mouth, lips circled around it and sucked, played with his tongue before moving to the other, then went down to your lower stomach, his soft moustache brushing your skin, his fingers reaching for your zipper. He knelt between your legs to remove your garment, leaving you in your panties and watched the way you were breathing while his fingers were lingering on your skin. The way he was taking his time, touching you slowly and sensually, was so overwhelming that you were relieved to be on the bed because you weren't sure your legs could have supported you. His thumb followed the elastic of your panties, from one hip to the other, and your legs parted a little wider under his touch. You could have sworn you saw his lips tremble before his fingers slid down, brushing your covered folds, feeling the wetness of your underwear.
Javi grasped the sides of your panties and slid them down your legs slowly, then kneeled on the floor by the bed and seized your hips to position you the way he wanted, legs bent and feet at the edge of the bed.
“I’ve thought about this so many times,” he said, his dark eyes peering up at you while his tongue traced a line along your folds, making your stomach hollow, your fists clenching the sheets. He placed your thighs on his shoulders, and his tongue licked and lapped, from your cunt to your clit, making a whimpering mess out of you. When his tongue was moving down your hole, his prominent nose was brushing against your clit, the double pressure quickly started to build a ball of warmth in your stomach. He probably felt you shiver under his tongue and hands, and buried his tongue deep inside you, drinking in every last drop of your arousal. You could hear him groan, as he was making out with your cunt, and your hips rolled toward him, pressing yourself to him and feeling him even more, right where you needed him the most.
Javi slid his hand from your thigh to your entrance, just beneath his tongue, brushed the tip of his fingers there slightly before pushing a digit inside along with his tongue. He caressed your soft spot with his finger curled upwards, and moved his lips towards your bundle of nerves. He circled it and sucked, swirled it under his tongue, then added a second finger in your cunt. You felt yourself drool down to your ass and then the sheets, wet sounds filling the room.
“Javi… I’m gonna come… Fuck, you’re gonna make me come.”
Your body started to shake, sheets were rustling under your feet, and you came, hands clasping his hair, holding him against you as you were unraveling long and hard, mewling, until the wave subsided completely, leaving you breathless.
Javi placed soft kisses on your inner thighs, giving you time to recover.
“Shit,” you murmured, lowering your gaze to look at him between your legs, his chin glistening with your wetness.
“Wanna taste you, too,” you said as you sat up, reaching the edge of the bed before grasping his jeans and unzipping him, pulling them down to let his cock spring free.
“Fuck… you’re… fuck..” you said, when your eyes landed on his thick cock for the first time. You spread the drops of precum over the tip with your thumb and sucked your digit, eyes fixed on Javi, then leaned forward and licked his shaft, tracing a line to the tip, along a large vein there. Your tongue played with its slit and his precum flowed into your throat. His fist grabbed your hair as he let out “fuck.”
You gave yourself time to get used to his girth, letting saliva run down the shaft until you were able to suck him off a little deeper, bobbing your head up and down. You looked up at him, lips wrapped around his cock, his fingers still in your hair, and he twitched when your eyes met.
“You feel so good, fuck,” he murmured in his husky voice. “I need to feel you,” he pleaded. “I can’t… can’t wait anymore.”
“I need to feel you too,” you replied, your breath caught in your throat when he laid down on you, seized his cock and slid the tip between your folds, coating it with your wetness. He nestled himself at your entrance, pushed in just the tip, and "oh god" escaped your lips. He released his cock, his gaze traveling over your body as his fingers brushed against your skin before gently taking a hold of your wrists and keeping them with one hand above your head.
Javi thrust gently, the crease between his eyebrows deepening as he felt your pussy tighten around him.
“I’ve thought about you so many times, lying down in my bed,” you said, letting him open up your pussy to let him in. He smiled, then said, “Yeah? You touched yourself thinking of me?”
“Yeah…” you replied, biting your lip as he pushed in a little further.
“You came, thinking about it?”
“Yeah, fuck… yeah,” you answered, feeling your walls being spread out by his thick tip.
“Me, too…I’ve ruined my sheets so many times thinking about you,” he added, gently kissing your forehead and rolling his hips softly. “Thinking about your neck, the delicate skin right here,” he said, kissing just below your ear. “Thinking about your fingers,” he kept talking, bringing them to his mouth and sucking them so sensually that you felt yourself squeeze him inside you.
“About your skin, how soft I knew you were.” He traced it with his fingertips.
“About your pussy,” he muttered, rolling inside you so slowly and sensually, brushing his crotch against your clit, making you moan.
“I thought about the little moans you’d make, too. I imagined them, but they’re even sweeter than I thought,” he finally said, bottoming out, making you feel unbelievably full.
“I’m right here,” he murmured, his hand on your belly. “Fuck, I’m right here, baby.”
His cock was rubbing exactly where you needed, in and out, slowly, perfectly. You felt a second wave coming, and it was almost too much, something you had never felt before. You were in love with him, had been for a long time, and the way your bodies were reacting so perfectly, as if they were made for each other, was overwhelming. A dream coming to life.
“I’m gonna come again…” you whined.
“Please, cariño,” he begged. “I wanna feel you come on my cock… You feel so good, baby…”
You pulsed around him, his forehead resting against yours. “Shit, I’m not gonna last. Where do you want it?”
“Inside, inside please.”
“Ok… Ok, fuck, baby… I’m gonna… Oh fuck, I’m…”
His words turned into moans, and you felt him shudder before he covered your walls in long, hot spurts of cum, filling your pussy until you milked him dry, shuttering around him, again and again.
He breathed heavily in the hollow of your neck then kissed it and lay on his side.
“Come here, baby,” he said, raising his arm.
You snuggled up against him, your hand resting on his chest, the beating of his heart resonating against your temple.
“Wow,” you finally said, and he laughed, pressing you even closer to him.
“Yeah, wow. I always thought it gets better with practice. But it was already so good...”
“Have we been idiots all these years?” you asked.
“Probably. I can’t even remember when I fell for you.”
You sat up when you heard him, looking into his eyes. “Say it again.”
“I fell for you. Hard. A long time ago.”
Your best friend was back and here with you. You didn't want to think that you had wasted all those years. You chose to tell yourself that you had found each other at the right time, and with all the time in the world to get to know each other fully. You lay down next to him, your hand sliding from his stomach to his side. Javi was your home, your warmth, your safety blanket.
He was your happy place, even more than before.
Soulmates aren’t just lovers, after all. Sometimes they come as friends too.
Javi p masterlist
Thank you for reading 🙏
Comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated ❤️
Follow @millafics and turn notifications on for fics updates
@littlemisspascal @pascalsanctuary @ess-evo
npt: tagging those who showed interest in the wip ❤️
This is a really beautiful friends to lovers story! I always think that Javi may be a womanizer, but he’s also very loyal and protective and able to love with his whole heart. My favourite part are the letters! Imagining him writing them and thinking about her and missing her - so good!
