Omg! I can’t wait for ALL of these WIPs but I gotta know more about these three:
Rare—Harry Castillo
Adult Programming—Joel Miller
LA Velvet Crown—Dieter Bravo (a one shot from one of my FAVORITE SERIES!) I’m screaming!
Thank you for the ask! 💞
Rare is canon compliant with Materialists— after their breakup Lucy sets Harry up with a beautiful wealthy woman with a mysterious past.
Adult programming is pure pwp 😅 the reader gets a chance to finally hook up with her stepdad when her mom divorces him
Velvet crown LA (I have it shortened to VCLA but I doubt people would understand what it means 😅) is about the one woman who doesn’t want to sleep with Dieter. After many failed attempts at seducing you he flees to the velvet crown hotel and goes on a binge. You’re tasked with finding him and getting him sober to complete filming
t.w.: Soft Dark, Smut, Dub-con, breeding/pregnancy kink, Reader is pregnant, fingering, kidnapping, forced pregnancy, hints of Stockholm Syndrome, barely proofread (forgive me)
a/n: Please read all warnings before interacting with any of my works. 18+ Only!!!
Love at First Sight Masterlist
He’s been conditioning you. He revels in the way your thighs clench together whenever his hands wander over your body.
At first, he let you isolate yourself, keeping yourself in the bunk as he piloted the ship, letting you take the cot every night. He didn't even try to interact with you, keeping himself busy with the child, his bounties and credit collection.
He would allow you outside of the ship, trusting you to be completely alone with Grogu. He was surprised by how you never once triggered the tracker embedded on your bracelet. He didn't know you knew that he had modified a cattle tracker into a shiny golden pendant.
You'd woken up with it your first morning in the Razor Crest. The soft hum of it was hard to locate at first. You lacked the tools to deactivate them. You were as sharp as a whip with technology.
A skill you wouldn’t use in a long time since you were taken.
He had plans. He wanted to find a home planet. Preferably somewhere adequate to raise his children and continue his life with you. The holopad he conspicuously left out in the hull while he was out one evening was full of data files on hundreds of mid-rim planets.
Most of the planets he landed on were among those in the holos. They were safe, quiet, and isolated. Once you had found the pad, he checked which images you would stare at the longest, which descriptions you would read with rapt attention.
He shakes his head remembering the first thing you did with the holopad. Immediately locating the communications feature and finding it disabled, the transmitter chip at the back of the device thoughtfully missing.
He would watch as you would glance outside of the ship, your stare would wander often when the ramp was open. You clearly had a preference. Your eyes would glimmer in regions with cooler temperatures, lots of trees, deciduous and changing with the seasons.
You dozed off to the soft sounds of animal chirps and rainfall when he would leave for a bounty.
By the fifth month of your Razor Crest residency, he lost his patience. He thought finding a planet would come easier. Some were perfect but the people were too hostile. For some, the people were peaceful but the planet was too unpredictable.
He was tired of your lack of communication. The moment you were alone with him, the room grew deadly silent. The only sounds that would react to him were of Grogu, coincidentally the only person you willingly interacted with.
Despite this, you were still pliant. Your pregnancy had made you sick early on. He’d make you food, soothe your back, bring you ginger tea and other higher quality rations he’d use extra credits on to make sure you were comfortable.
He started to condition you to get used to his presence; the way he could make you feel. If only you would give him easier leverage.
You would often hear him pleasuring himself, murmuring about how you looked so beautiful carrying his child. How you would look so pretty all cock-dumb and fucked out over his bed in a real home.
You would try to sleep after, but you couldn’t help but think of the way wetness dampened your underwear and how a part of you thinks back on how he pleased you back in your home. Before you realized his plan to take you.
You’d stare half awake at the panels above you. Shifting uncomfortably against the small bunk that only seemed to get smaller as your belly grew.
He broke the silence one day as he was making portions. He stated how he had enough credits to buy an isolated cottage near farmland, of which planet, he didn’t say. Sleeping Grogu was taken out of your arms and tucked into his metal bassinet. With a press of a button it was closed shut, leaving you alone with 'Din'.
You'd spoken directly to him a couple of times since your kidnapping. He revealed his name to you the day you had woken up. Despite your anger, the fear, and the desperation to be free, you often caught yourself thinking of it.
Who would have known a bounty hunter to have such a simple name. You loathe the fact you would have chuckled in any other circumstance.
You blinked up at him in confusion as the baby's pram closed shut. He sighs wistfully. As he sat down on the blankets and pillows he set up on the floor as a makeshift common area in the Crest, he reached for your hand.
You let him pull you down against him. He’s strong enough so that he could position you any way he wants without your assistance. He pulls his helmet off, the magnetic connection between it and his flightsuit hisses as it deactivates. He motions for you to pick up the plate of food he set on the small wooden tea table he had found in a market somewhere.
“We’ll be home soon,” he soothes as you eat slowly in his lap, pieces of his armor digging into your body. His cuirass was cold behind you, making you shiver.
You look back at him, eyes blank. He just smiles and caresses your cheek briefly with a swipe of his thumb, a slight chuckle escaping him at your ‘pout’. His hands skim over your tunic and stop on the swell of your belly, lightly tracing it up and down with the tips of his fingers.
He cups the underside of the bump, his nose pressing against the side of your neck.
Your defeat was present from the beginning. You never fought back, barely argued. Things couldn't have gotten much worse than life in your village, barely able to make it through a work shift without passing out from dehydration or starvation.
Chills run down your spine and goosebumps start to rise. He holds you against his chest for a couple of minutes, urging you to continue eating. Breathing in the scent of your hair and lightly caressing your belly.
Then his hands move further down to caress over your mound, you shiver. A shot of pleasure goes up your spine. He continues to ‘accidentally’ rub against you in between his praises of how well of a mother you’ve been, especially to Grogu, whenever he was gone.
You were throbbing by the time you were done with the portions, mumbling that you were full to excuse yourself away from the table.
That prompted him to ask you to feed him spoonfuls in return. He didn’t want to put anything to waste. It felt very intimate, especially with the way he loudly chewed next to your ear and groaned as if he were eating something gourmet, almost mimicking the sounds he made when he last had you in your bedroom back in your home planet, his mouth to your cunt.
The baby gave a sudden cry in his pram, you were grateful for the respite, especially as Din was starting to graze over your inner thighs to spread them. You excuse yourself to the restroom and curse yourself. It was the hormones, it had to be. You shouldn’t be this affected by his gentle touches otherwise.
He’s been doing the same technique for a little over a month afterwards. Grazing over your ass as he walked by, ‘accidentally' cupping your breasts and lightly squeezing as he mewled over your bump. Having you sit over his erection whenever you ate 'together' and the baby was napping in his soundproofed pod.
You hate the way your body responds to a simple touch on the shoulder and jumps to imagining him thrusting into you against the side of the hull.
It gets worse when you are finally 'home'. He was able to get his hands on a small cottage. It was far from the other housing units in the town, not quite secluded but not as neighborly. Despite the isolation, he didn’t allow you to even step outside the door. He said it was too dangerous.
You questioned him, considering you were a long way from other people. He never answered. Instead, he would hold you close to him and reassure you that it was safer for you and the baby.
Grogu was off to school, taken by his father almost every day. He wasn’t fussing constantly over him.
The one positive from being stuck ‘home’ was that he was barely there. You rarely had moments where he would make you want to rip his armor off and feel his skin on yours like the months before.
You had more time for yourself. To acclimate to the sudden shift in your center of gravity as your seventh month of your unexpected pregnancy began.
He was often away to earn credits working odd jobs. He'd leave you with the promise that soon, if you complied instead of ignoring all of his advances at becoming a family, you too would accompany him out one day.
He didn’t like the idea of keeping you as if you were a nanny to his children. Just a doll he could stare at and fondle. It was unbecoming of him and yourself.
But because you were currently pregnant and you didn’t reciprocate his kisses and affection, he thought it was best to keep you where you were. You had enough time alone to think about ways to escape, but with your growing condition the thought was dissipating quickly. You felt tired, nauseous, heavy. Your feet were swollen and even thinking of the months to come made you dread even thinking of being alone. In some sick way the bastard has debilitated you in this form.
Though that didn’t stop him from praising you. He likes to watch as you start to waddle around, chasing after his son, now yours, and play with him. Pride surges in his chest when he watches Grogu pat your stomach in question and you softly explain how there was a tiny person growing inside.
“The villagers have been asking for you,” he says one night, his shoulder leaning against the doorway to the restroom as you apply cream to your face in front of the mirror above the sink.
You hum absentmindedly, looking anywhere but the reflection as he steps closer behind, wrapping his arms around you.
“Is that so?” you question sarcastically. He ignores your tone.
“Mm.” He slumps over you, resting his head on top of yours. His eyes lower to your stomach and his brows furrow.
Skimming past your third trimester you outgrew all of your old clothes, including those of the man behind you. His stare made you fidget. You feel embarrassed as you try to tug the tunic as far down as it can go. A sliver of your skin still peaks through.
Tears well and blur your vision, you try to look away from his now worried gaze. Your hands move to cover your face as sudden emotion floods through your body, an unstoppable wobble from your lips gives you away. He stops your hands from hiding your face quickly, asking you what was wrong.
“My clothes don’t fit,” you whine. You think of how stupid you must sound. The way you could be thinking of many other worse things that he’s done to you, and you think to complain about this.
“I’m so big. I'm just so...,” you sigh weakly, hands fluttering over your body in an exasperated gesture. His grip tightens on your hands reassuringly and he presses a kiss to the side of your head.
He’s always liked his women with meat on their bones. He liked the thought that your body was changing because of him. Seeing you now, insinuating that you're not the most beautiful creation the maker has ever made, made his eyes twitch in irritation. Not at you, of course, but of the way you view yourself, of how people may have led you to believe.
In his culture women are respected as if they were goddesses. They are the foundations of their kind. Seeing you now look at yourself in disdain made him feel like a failure. He failed to take care of you as a spouse should.
All because he never touched you properly, fully and with his full intentions, he thinks. He's teased you for months, never going farther than a few raunchy touches.
He kisses up your neck and you freeze. His hands wander downward, under your stretchy maternity pants and underwear. His hand was so large that you could see it straining the seams of your pajamas.
“You’re beautiful,” he says as he flicks his wrist to palm over your mound, grinding it against you. You gasp as he continues, watching over you through the mirror as you twitch and lean your back further into his chest.
You sigh shakily as he inserts a thick finger inside of you. Then another as your eyes close shut tightly. The sound of your slick cunt resounds around the small room, your hand makes its way behind his head, pushing his mouth against your neck and shoulder.
He nips and sucks, groaning as he feels your walls squeeze around him. His palm grinds down harder, a quicker rhythm that makes his hand sticky with your arousal. He presses his pelvis forward, allowing you to feel the outline of his cock against the plushness of your ass.
He brings you to climax easily. Your legs threaten to collapse but he catches you.
The rest of the night he praised your body, your caring personality. Often mentioning how you would be such a caring mother to your next child and children.
You were barely awake and on the verge of passing out. You felt as if you exerted yourself trying to keep up with his burning touches. You don’t think you’ve ever been cared for as much as you have been with him.
“Tomorrow we’re going into town to get tunics.”
He presses himself against your back maneuvering a pillow under your body which lays on its side.
He finally presses a kiss to your lips as he pushes a strand of hair from your face. He smiles as he sees you respond back weakly, your eyes closed and lips slack in a light pucker.
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I'll upload parts every Wednesday! Next one will have actual full-length smut. I'm a tease, I suppose.
Summary: Joel breaks you heart when you confess your love for him. You get into trouble whilst on patrol, causing Joel to accept his feelings and leave in a desperate search for you.
I’m breaking my somewhat vacation semi hiatus to share a little something that’s been on my mind for the past weeks. I’ve been gaining some new followers and mostly attention to my Din fics, which is, of course, very nice. But I’ve also noticed the pattern of many likes and almost no comments or reblogs.
I don’t want to sound whiny and I also understand that some might be new to this place and fandom, brought here by the Mandalorian movie. I once was like you and didn’t know better. But after reading a post about it I changed my ways, so if this reaches at least one person and helps them change their way of consuming then I’ll take it as a win. If you read a fic, appreciate an art, are delighted by gifs, REBLOG IT. At the the very least leave a comment to express that you enjoyed it. Doesn’t even have to be a long comment. Just a ‘♥️’ works fine, or a little ‘Loved this!’. I can assure you, it will make the creator feel giddy with joy. Because when you only like it, well we don’t know if you read our fic.
On my last Din fic I have 378 notes, 18 are comments and 56 are reblogs. And for my little blog this is a lot. But you can half that because I try to answer every one of them. So for me people 37 read it. The 308 who liked it don’t count. Because I have no way of knowing if they’ve read it or not. It might just be a bookmark, or someone liking it without real intention, like you would on an instagram post. But understand this, this place doesn’t have an algorithm. So the only way a fic can get more attention is if you reblog it. And if you don’t reblog for whatever reason, at least leave a comment to let the artist know it was appreciated. Because in the end, people will stop creating, thinking what they do is not worth any attention.
That’s all for me. I really do hope at least one person will read this and think about it.
If you’ve read this all the way, here is your little treat
Chapter Summary: Started out with a kiss…how did it end up like this? The reader and Joel are having a rocky time. This was a hard one to write…and it may be a little soap opera-y. 🫣 PS I'm sorry for anyone named Roxie!
Thank you for all the love and support! If anyone else wants to be tagged, let me know!
Two Years Earlier:
It was pitch black outside of the Washington DC QZ, Charlotte and Max crouched low behind a broken down truck riddled with bullet holes. They had been at a safe house in Maryland for a month, until deciding to come back to rescue you, but word had quickly spread of their escape and Fedra were on the hunt.
Henry was ready with his team of men scouting the perimeter and metro tunnels, capturing and torturing anyone for information. A major reward was offered to anyone that would find the pair. Soldiers were everywhere, aiming their rifles at the slightest sound heard in the shadows.
A rustling in the trees caused Charlotte to gasp loudly. Max looked at her in panic.
“Who’s there?!” shouted a nearby soldier. The rustle sounded again and he immediately shot his gun. The bullet barely missed Charlotte’s head, she could feel her hair move from its speed.
“Hey!” another voice shouted. “Easy on the bullets. Remember Henry wants these two apprehended alive.”
The soldier that had shot his gun laughed and crept closer towards the origin of the rustling sound. “Come out, come out, wherever you are.”
Max pulled Charlotte closer to him and held a finger up to his lips, signaling for her to be silent, although he was sure the man could hear their rapidly beating hearts.
The soldier was a mere few inches away from them. They were right within his grasp when all of a sudden from beyond the dark trees a possum emerged from the woods, screeching.
“Stupid fucking animal,” the soldier mumbled before walking away. “It’s ok. False alarm!”
Charlotte and Max breathed a unified sigh of relief and stayed in the shadows for several more minutes until Max was sure the coast was clear. “We have to move, Charlie,” he whispered.
Charlotte wouldn’t budge. “No! Not without my sister! We told her that we would come back. She needs us.”
Max shook his head. “This place is crawling with Fedra and they’re all looking for us. It’s not safe for anyone, including your sister.”
“But—”
“Charlotte, look at me.” He cupped her face and stared into her tear-filled eyes. “I love your sister with all my heart and I swore to her that I would keep you safe. Trust me, we will get her back. I don’t intend on just giving up on the woman I love.”
“That’s so corny, but I trust you.”
Max smiled and took your sister’s hand. “Ok then, let’s go.”
Present Day:
The tension in the dining hall was so thick, you could cut it with a knife. The glances and hushed whispers directed to your table was further proof of word spreading fast around Jackson. Everyone knew about your surprise reunion.
You on the other hand were completely oblivious, sipping coffee and explaining to Max and Charlotte how you ended up in Jackson with Joel.
“We came back for you,” your sister said between bites of her pie. “But Fedra was everywhere.”
“I know. Henry must have ordered a search within a 30 mile radius of DC for weeks until he finally gave up. I’m so glad you both got away,” you said, your eyes shiny with unshed tears.
Max reached across the table and placed his hand on top of yours. “Hey, I promised I would keep her safe for you.”
A shaky breath escaped your lips and you squeezed his hand in return. “Thank you. I’m so happy you’re both here.”
Joel shifted in his seat, clearing his throat. At the sound, you withdrew your hand. Throughout dinner, he had hardly said a word, glowering at your childhood sweetheart the whole evening.
By the time everyone had eaten their fill, Maria declared it too late to get Max and Charlotte set up in a house so it was decided they would stay with you and Joel for the time being. The trek back to your house was as awkward as dinner with Joel silently leading your small group back to the house.
“Joel’s not much of a talker, is he?” Charlotte whispered to you.
“He’s quiet,” you reassured her. “Trust me underneath that tough exterior, Joel is a total softie.”
Joel opened the front door, allowing you and Charlotte to enter first. It took every ounce of restraint on his part not to slam the door right in Max’s face.
Charlotte looked around the foyer, taking in the cozy atmosphere and cheery fire. “Your house is beautiful, Joel.”
At your sister’s compliment, the barest hint of a smile emerged on Joel’s face. “Thank you. Come on, I’ll show you to your room.” As he headed up the steps, Joel called your name. “Why don’t you tend to our other guest. They can sleep on the sofa,” he grumbled.
Charlotte cringed and hugged you goodnight. Her ponytail swished as she followed Joel. It was a sight you never thought you would see again. You and your sister, safe and under the same roof.
With a sigh, you headed to the linen closet to grab an extra pillow and blankets. Upon returning to the living room, you found Max sitting in your comfy recliner with a book in his lap.
“You have a nice set up here,” he said.
“Thanks. Joel set all that up for me so I could have my own little space to read and relax. He even made the shelves.” Max nodded and dragged his hands across the dark wood where your books were neatly organized.
You began to set up the sofa into a makeshift bed, sensing his eyes on you.
“You’re so beautiful,” he said, his voice soft, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear.
You swerved and laughed a little. “Sorry, this is all we have now, but I’ve taken many naps on this couch and I can personally vouch for its comfortability."
“I’ve been sleeping on the ground for months. This is paradise.” Max slowly sauntered over to you and gently took hold of your wrist, pulling you closer. Ever so gently, he reached up and brushed his knuckles against your cheek, just like he used to all those years ago. The reflection of the fire in his blue eyes took your breath away. Muscle memory seemed to take over and you couldn’t help but lean into his touch.
For a brief moment, all of the horrible memories–Henry, losing your sister, surviving in the harsh wilderness for months– all vanished and you were young again in Max’s arms. Everything you had endured, led you to where you are now. It led you to Joel. Joel! A pop from the fire brought reality back and you leapt back from Max’s touch.
“I’m sorry. I can’t.” You shook your head.
Max scoffed and shook his head in disbelief .“So you and Joel are together?” he sneered.
You swallowed hard, unsure why it was so hard to speak at that moment. “Yes, we are. Of course we are. What did you think?”
“That you would have waited for me, like I waited for you.” His voice came out thick, threatening to crack under the heartache.
You stared at the floor, studying your feet, trying to bury the shame that was overpowering your body. “I don’t want to get into this now. It's late. Why don’t you get some sleep. I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Night,” Max mumbled.
When you walked into your bedroom, the lights were off. Joel was already in bed, his back to you. “Joel?” you whispered. “Joel?” He made no indication that he had heard you. Tentatively, you reached out to touch his arm before thinking better of it.
Emotionally drained, you decided to leave Joel alone and slipped under the covers, curling onto your side. The distance between you had never felt so far.
It was still dark when Joel got up the next morning. He had hardly slept, his mind reeling over the turn of events. It’s not like Joel was unaware of Max. You had told Joel how Max was an integral part of your life. The reason you were running away from the DC QZ in the first place.
Joel would be lying if he said he hadn’t felt a pang of jealousy over how you had spoken about your old boyfriend with such reverence and admiration. But you had always reassured him that Max was part of the past. Unfortunately, Joel hadn’t planned on your past to show up at your doorstep.
Doubt began to seep in through the cracks of Joel’s mind. Would you choose to go back to Max?
From an outsider’s perspective it made sense. Max was younger than Joel. You had a shared history. Perhaps he could give you things that Joel couldn’t. Would you really want to spend your life taking care of an old man? Suddenly the idea of settling down with you seemed like an absolute joke.
Joel knew what some of the folks thought when they saw you as a couple. Several of the older women gave disapproving stares while you walked hand in hand down the street.
“Hmmmph I guess we were just too mature for him.”
“Jesus, even in the middle of an apocalypse, a man will still go for a hot young piece of ass.”
He was also aware of the sly winks some of the men would give him.
It made his skin crawl. Although you were in your mid-30s which is hardly considered a sugar baby, there was still a considerable age gap. Every ache in his body seemed to remind him of the years between you.
But then you would look up at him with an easy smile and those beautiful eyes that bared your soul, and all those thoughts, the people, the world melted away. Then it was only you and him, until yesterday.
With a cup of coffee in his hands, he made his way out to the porch, surprised to discover that Charlotte was already awake and sitting on the front step, with a blanket wrapped around her small frame.
“Hey, there,” Joel softly said.
“I’m sorry. I hope I didn’t wake you.”
“Nah, I’m used to getting up early.” Joel sat down next to your sister and took a sip of his coffee. The pair sat in silence while the sky transformed from indigo and violet to the delicate apricot and orange hues of a summer morning. Up close, Joel could see the similarities between you–the same eye color, the same nose, even the way you twirled your hair with your finger when you were lost in thought.
Charlotte broke the silence and held up the picture of herself standing in front of a waterfall, smiling. The picture that had kept you going for years as you clung to life. “I found this. Did you make the frame?”
“I did.”
“You do good work.” She nodded and thoughtfully ran her fingers across the edges.“I can’t believe she kept this.”
Joel thought back to your first few days in Jackson. You were exhausted, sleeping for 18 hours straight, the picture of your sister, almost always in your hand as if it was a security blanket. The photo had creases from where you had held it tight. “Your sister loves you very much.”
“Did she.. I mean do you know….what happened in DC?” she whispered.
Joel nodded, swallowing down the lump that had formed in his throat. He could still remember your screams from the nightmares you had. Seeing you in such agony nearly broke him. “Yeah, she did.”
Charlotte shivered and focused on a fraying thread on the blanket. “No matter how old I was, she was always looking out for me. When I was little, I was her shadow. Following her everywhere. Crying and throwing a fit when I couldn’t come along. Then life changed. We lost our parents, our grandmother, but through it all she took care of me. Even though she was hurting just as much as me. Maybe more. Henry was a monster. She sacrificed herself and her happiness for me. I never thought I would ever see her again.” She locked eyes with Joel, her face wrought with worry and guilt. “Tell me, how is she?”
“She’s….” Joel dragged his thumb across the rim of his mug, trying to think of how to describe you. How to share the overwhelming emotions that he felt for you. “...wonderful.”
“She is?”
“Yeah. I mean it took a little time to heal, but she just blossomed. Everyone in Jackson loves her. If she’s not cooking or baking for folks, she’s tending to the animals, looking out for the little ones. She can shoot better than anyone I know. Has read God knows how many books. She’s the best thing that ever happened to this place.”
“And to you.” Charlotte nudged him, a smile spread across her lips.
It took a lot for Joel to get flustered, but he couldn’t help the blush creeping up on his cheeks under the knowing gaze of your little sister. “Oh, well I…”
“It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to see how much you both care about each other. I know my sister and if she’s with you, then you must be a pretty amazing guy.” With a wink, she stood up and made her way to the door.
Joel turned and called out, “Charlotte.” Your sister stopped in her tracks. “I am happy you’re here. You’re welcome in this house for as long as you need.”
“Thank you, Joel,” she said before closing the door behind her.
It had been a whirlwind of a month since your sister and Max arrived in Jackson. Maria had been able to find a new place for Max, but Charlotte opted to stay with you and Joel.
Even though he wasn’t under your roof, you still did everything humanly possible to make Max feel welcome to Jackson. That brief conversation from his first night still lingered fresh in your mind.
Word had gotten out that Max was ex-Fedra from DC, making it especially difficult for him. Although he never terrorized the community as other members took such glee in doing so, it was still hard for other DC refugees to accept one of the “enemy.” With a lot of help from you, Max was starting to find his footing, proving useful in the stables and on the wall as a lookout.
For Charlotte, it was much easier. Over a cup of tea one evening, she explained how she had found a book on plants in an abandoned house, quickly becoming an expert at foraging the woods to make various salves and ointments. It had saved her and Max’s lives in some instances.
You introduced her to the head of nursing at the health center. With limited staff and supplies, the doctors and nurses were desperate to pass on their knowledge as best they could. Charlotte proved to be an asset, a quick learner with an impeccable bedside manner. She wouldn’t be performing open heart surgery, but could take care of those everyday aches and pains that comes with living without some modern conveniences.
You were grateful to be busy. Your work helped keep your mind off of Joel who had barely spoken to you. By the time you were up in the morning, he was already out of the house, not returning until late in the night, when you were asleep.
The first two weeks you had tried to reach out to him–stopping by his office with his favorite meal, switching duties so you could do patrols with him. But in some form or another, he always dismissed you. Either he was busy with his crew or basically ignoring you on patrol. It was evident you were getting the silent treatment. Punished for trying to welcome Max into the community.
By the third week, tired of staring at Joel’s back while he slept, you decided to sleep in the same bed as your sister. Joel never even questioned it, just watched as you grabbed your pillow and walked across the hall.
Sleeping in the same bed as your sister reminded you of when you were younger and things seemed so much simpler. Hidden under the covers, knees pressed together, whispering and giggling.
One evening the conversation turned serious, you were in utter despair over Joel and Max. Your body felt as if it was being torn in two, slowly and painfully. “Joel has barely uttered a word to me. The man can’t stand to even sit with me.”
“Give him time. Joel strikes me as someone who needs to get used to change.”
“It’s been a month! How much time does the man need?! Max isn’t even in the house anymore.”
Your sister bit her bottom lip, hesitantly asking the inevitable question. “Do you still have feelings for Max?”
“Yes…no.” You sighed and hid your face behind your hands. “I don’t know. It's complicated. I don’t want anyone to get hurt.”
Charlotte gently pulled your hands away and held them in her own. “Let’s try this. Clear your head and forget about hurting anyone’s feelings. Take a deep breath.” She breathed deeply in and out, encouraging you to do the same. “Listen to your intuition. What do you want? Who is that someone that you can’t live without.”
“Max was my childhood love. He kept you safe for me. I can never repay him for that kindness. But I know that no matter what I feel for Max, it’s nothing compared to how I feel for Joel. I just need time. I need to find the right words to let them both know how I feel.”
“Then tell that to Joel. Maybe he needs some reassurance?”
“I would if I could get near him. He’s just walking around being all broody like a character from a gothic romance novel.”
“Well, you did always have a thing for Mr. Rochester,” your sister teased.
“Mr. Rochester may be a bit too moody for me. I always thought Joel was more like Colonel Brandon from Sense and Sensibility.”
“Well you did watch that Sense and Sensibility movie like a thousand times, but I thought it was cause you had a crush on Alan Rickman.”
“Well that too.” You both giggled and talked deep into the night until your eyelids began to get heavy.
Charlotte brushed your hair back and booped the tip of your nose. “Don’t worry, big sis. Everything will work itself out in the end.”
Later, you snuck out of bed, careful not to wake your sister and crept across the hall. The door to Joel’s bedroom was closed. The irony of you being emotionally and now physically shut out was not lost on you. You leaned your head against the wood frame and closed your eyes. “I love you,” you whispered. “Come back to me, please.”
After the talk with your sister, you wanted to have private conversations with Joel and Max, but you just didn’t have the energy. If you weren’t working, then you were in bed sleeping. You hadn’t felt like yourself for days–stomach roiling, exhausted, and thoroughly stressed.
Seth watched you like a hawk in the kitchen, taking in the bags under your eyes and the pallor of your skin. “If you’re sick and working right now, I’m gonna–”
“For the hundredth time, I’m not sick!” you snapped. “Why would I want to work when I’m sick? Trust me I would rather be in bed right now but I’m here so let’s just get this shift over with.”
Seth raised his brows in shock. You had never gotten upset with him before. In fact you both were quite fond of each other.
“I’m sorry. I just haven’t had a chance to eat today.”
Seth grabbed a steak sandwich, usually reserved for folks going on patrol, and handed it to you. “Go. Sit. Eat.” He motioned you out to the dining area. “Take a break and come back less hangry.”
“Thanks, Seth. I’m sorry.”
Seth winked and ruffled your hair. “I’m worried about you, kid.”
You sat at an empty table, the smell of the steak made you gag, but you tried to force it down. While picking at your sandwich, you heard a familiar deep rough voice followed by a flirty laugh. Glancing up, there was Joel finishing up his lunch with Sophie’s mom. You watched as she hung on to his every word. She threw her head back and laughed again, even though from your perspective it didn’t look like Joel said anything funny.
When she placed her hand on his forearm, you saw red. Smoke was practically coming out of your ears. You abruptly stood up, abandoning your sandwich, and made a beeline towards their table.
You stood right in front of them and cleared your throat, announcing your present. “Joel, may I speak to you,” you said with a tight smile before turning your gaze towards Sophie’s mom. “In private.”
Joel wiped his mouth and leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. “Can it wait till later? I’m about to head out with Roxie.” He motioned over to Sophie’s mom.
“No.” You arched your brow, staring him down. “It can’t.”
Roxie’s eyes bounced between you both as if watching a tennis match. Joel finally relented and turned to Roxie. “Five minutes tops. I’ll meet you at the house.”
You headed out of the dining hall with Joel trudging behind, not stopping until you were at the side of the building where there was some privacy. Joel stood there, hands on his hips, expectantly waiting for you to say something.
“What are you doing?” you finally blurted out.
“What does it look like I’m doing?”
You scoffed. “Well right now it looks like you’re in the middle of a date.”
Joel rolled his eyes. “Jesus, it’s not a date. I’m just helping out Roxie. She came up to my table while I was eating.”
You made a face at what was ,in your opinion, the dumbest name you had ever heard. “Roxie? Really?”
“She asked me to work on a project for Sophie.”
“A project… such bull shit,” you muttered while kicking a rock with the toe of your shoe.
“Excuse me?!” Joel barked, a prominent vein in his neck throbbing.
You took a step closer until you were toe to toe with him. “Is that why you’ve been avoiding me? Is she the reason why you’re coming home late?”
“You’re overreacting,” he snarled.
“What do you expect Joel when you don’t speak to me, won’t come near me. I guess I’m supposed to just let you go off and fuck anyone that bats their lashes at you!” you retorted.
Joel shook his head, his jaw clenched, the expression on his face a grim mixture of disappointment and sadness.“I’m not gonna talk to you when you’re like this. I have things to do.”
“Fine,” you shouted to his back as he walked away, the tears you had been holding in, finally spilling over. “Don’t let me get in the way with all your projects!”
You choked out a sob and ran, needing a moment to compose yourself before stepping back into the kitchen. Not wanting to cause a scene in front of everyone, you kept your head down, trying to quell your tears. You were just about to enter the stables, petting the horses always made you feel better, when you abruptly bumped into a large warm muscular body.
“Hey!” Max smiled. “I was just looking for you.” He stopped upon noticing your bloodshot eyes and quivering lip. “What’s wrong?” Your face crumpled and you collapsed into him, wrapping your arms around his shoulders. Everything that you had held in over the past several weeks came spilling out with no way to stop.
Your tears wetted the front of Max’s shirt as he led you into the stables. “Shhhh, it’s gonna be ok.” He enveloped you in a hug, rubbing your back in soothing circles.
“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” you wailed, near hysterics, only able to get a few words out between your tears. “Joel…Roxie..Dumb name…Projects…Joel!”
Max held you in his arms until you began to calm down. “Maybe this is for the best,” he murmured in your ear.
A record scratched in your brain and you pulled away from his touch. “What?” you sniffled.
“I know what you said about being with Joel, but maybe this is a sign. A sign that we could…that we should pick up where we left off. I want to be with you.” Max tried to pull you into another embrace but you pulled away.
“Oh Max…I’m sorry…I can’t.”
“So you’d rather shack up with some old man that doesn’t even appreciate you?!”
“Don’t say that about Joel! It’s not like that. We’re just–”
“Do you love me?”
You were silent. For days you had been planning exactly how you were going to let Max down. Now that the time had come, you were quickly losing the nerve to follow through. Confrontation was never your strong suit.
“Do you love me? Or was everything we went through in DC just a lie.”
“You’re my dearest friend,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.
Max ran a hand through his dark curly hair, exasperated. “A friend?!”
“Max, please. I love you. You know I do. It’s just–”
“So why can’t we be together!?”
“Because it's different. I’m different. I….” You took a deep breath with finality. “I love Joel.”
Unable to bear the pain in Max’s face, you stepped away, focusing on the horses instead. “It was us.” He stepped closer and gently cupped your face, his eyes pleading for you to understand. “It was always supposed to be us. You and me.”
You blinked back the tears quickly forming behind your eyes. “Max, you’re breaking my heart.”
“No. You’re breaking mine.” His face inched closer and closer to yours until you could feel his warm breath on your skin. Your heart hammered in your chest. Ever so gently, he placed a kiss on the corner of your mouth.
“Max, no,” you whispered.
But he ignored it and kissed your cheek. “No,” you mouthed. Every “no” was followed by a kiss–your nose, your forehead, the spot right below your ear.
Your body was frozen. Your brain was screaming to get out. To push him away but your feet felt like they were stuck in cement. Max’s soft touch. Joel pushing you away. It all made for a deadly cocktail.
Finally he traced your bottom lip with his thumb. “No, you breathed, but when he kissed you, you kissed back.
It was only 3 seconds…maybe 5, enough time for the damage to be done. The stable door swung open, revealing Joel. You and Max immediately separated. Joel’s face was in utter anguish before he quickly regained his composure. Silent and resigned, he simply turned on his heel and walked away.
“Joel, wait!” You ran outside after him.
Max called out your name and tried to grab your arm, only this time when you shouted “No” you meant it and he backed away.
Your eyes wildly searched among the crowd of people in the town square until you spied his broad back. “Joel! Please!” Your shouts were futile. You might as well have been screaming at a brick wall. Joel ignored your pleas and walked away.
You would have followed him had it not been for Seth calling out your name. “I told you to take a break, not half the day off. Let’s go. We gotta clean up after the lunch rush,” Seth said.
As soon as your shift ended, you went in search of Joel. You looked everywhere–the construction sites, his office, even Tommy and Maria hadn’t seen him. The last place to search was the house.
“Hello! Anyone here?” you shouted, going from room to room. “Joel? Charlie?” But you were only greeted with silence. A note on the kitchen counter from Charlotte told you she was working the night shift at the health center and wouldn’t be back until tomorrow morning. And Joel? He was probably seeking comfort in the arms of Roxie. Who could blame him after what he had witnessed.
You were left alone with your thoughts. Thoughts that ate away at you piece by piece. Your hypocrisy. Your selfishness. Why did you even do it? It was a moment of weakness. A moment when you needed to cling to something or someone familiar. Something that would ground you. But that comfort was a facade. It tricked you and sent you tumbling to the ground.
Now more than ever you knew it was Joel. It was always Joel. Max was your past and you would always have a deep and true love for him but it paled in comparison to how you felt about Joel.
Joel had pulled you out of the ashes, loved you in a way that you had never experienced before. Your heart, every fiber of your being was tied to him. Max saw you as the girl you once were, but Joel saw you as the woman you are now.
Now it was time to own up to your mistake. You were determined to speak to Joel that night. You camped out on the porch for hours, the full moon high in the sky, rocking back and forth in the rocking chair. Sipping on a cup of coffee in the hopes that it would keep you awake. If it took all night until Joel came home then so be it.
Finally, the familiar footsteps came up the driveway. Joel had his head down, his shoulders hunched as if the whole world was being balanced on top of him. As he came up the steps, you noticed how weary he looked. Were those dried tear tracks on his cheeks? You abruptly stood up and blocked the door, effectively halting him in his tracks.
“Please, we need to talk.”
“Alright, let’s hear it.”
Tag List: @ashleyfilm @littlemisspascal @orcasoul @smvtwitchmiller @apenny4thots
A/N: I’m going to be taking a breather from posting to catch up with myself so the next part will be posted on Thursday 11th June 🥰
Part One/Part Two/Part Three/Part Four/Part Five/Part Six
Din Masterlist
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You wake alone.
That’s the first wrongness. You went to sleep against him and slept the long, heavy sleep that has become, in the last three weeks, your default condition. You expect to wake the same way you went down – warm, his thumb still moving against your stomach, perhaps, or stopped in sleep, but the hand still there.
The bunk is cool on his side. You lay your palm against the place where his hip has been and realise that he’s been up for hours.
You sit up, pulling the blanket around your shoulders, your bare feet on the cool deck plating and listen, the way you’ve learned to listen on this ship, for where he is. The cockpit hum is steady – no jump prep, no manoeuvring. The faint scrape from the hold is him at the workbench, or near it and you hear the small clink of a stylus against a datapad.
Standing up, you pull on your sleep shirt and trousers and pad through into the warm light of the hold, stopping at the edge of the bunk alcove to look at him.
He’s moved the small fold-out table from where it lives against the bulkhead to the middle of the hold and pulled the bench around to face it. On the table, he has three datapads, a stylus, and a small open notebook.
The visor turns when he senses you.
"Morning, cyar'ika."
"Morning.”
"Sit. I made you something."
As you come around the table, you see he’s made you a plate of flatbread with the nut paste from the market three planets ago accompanied by a neat row of dried fruit and, beside it, a tin cup of water with a slice of something pale-yellow floating in it that you don’t recognise.
"What is the…?"
"Ginger root. From Pakuuni. I’ve read that it helps with the nausea. At least, some women say it helps. It's worth trying."
You sit down slowly on the bench, pick up the flatbread and eat a piece. It tastes good and the water with the ginger root is, against every odd, exactly the thing your stomach has been wanting but not known to ask for.
You close your eyes a moment against the warm spread of it down your throat, then open them again to see him watching you through the visor with the careful attention of a man who’s just successfully treated a wound and is waiting to see if his work will hold.
"It's good," you say.
The visor eases. "Good."
He picks up the stylus again and angles the leftmost datapad toward you.
"I’ve made some lists."
You slowly set down the flatbread.
"You’ve made some lists?"
"Yes."
"Din. It’s…" you look at the chrono on the bulkhead, “it’s the fourth hour of the day cycle."
"I know."
"I went to sleep at the eleventh hour of the night cycle."
"I know, cyar'ika. I let you sleep because you needed it."
"But you didn’t sleep.”
"I slept some."
"Din…."
"Cyar'ika, I’m alright. Look at the list."
When you look, you see that the list is thorough, the kind of thorough that you’ve seen him bring to a bounty briefing and to a weapons inventory and to the careful planning of a job, and you understand, looking at it, that he’s transferred the whole of that competence in one seamless overnight motion to the baby inside you.
The leftmost datapad is a list of medics.
Nevarro sits top of the list, with the comm channel and a note in his small precise hand - commed 02:14, no answer, message left, awaiting return.
Below that, a midwife that Karga had apparently mentioned once, two years ago, that he’s filed away in the precise inventory of his head against the possibility of a day exactly like this one.
Below that, a Twi'lek obstetrician on Ryloth whose name he’s somehow obtained during the night.
Below that, a backup.
Below that, a backup to the backup.
The middle datapad is a list of foods.
The column entitled tolerated contains the dried fruit, the flatbread, the nut paste, water and the ginger root.
Refused or causes nausea is a longer column, with the caf at the top, and the ration bars, and the meat from Akkadua, and a list of small specific things he’s been quietly cataloguing for three weeks while you’ve been thinking he wasn’t paying attention.
To procure at next port is a third column, longer than the other two, containing more dried fruit, more flatbread flour, more ginger root, more nut paste, bone broth (gentle stomach), unprocessed grains, fresh greens (iron), citrus (folate), and three or four other things in the small precise notation of a man who’s spent some of the small hours of the night cycle reading the small online medical reference library on the subject of pregnancy.
The rightmost datapad is a list of threats.
You stop at that one because it’s a list of things that can go wrong on a ship like the Crest during a pregnancy, and the list is long, organised by trimester, and each item has a small precise notation beside it in his hand.
Hold ventilation – filter due for change, prioritise.
Bunk – too small for late-term sleeping comfort, consider modifications.
No medbay – nearest equipped facility Nevarro 4-day jump, must remain within 6-day jump radius by month seven.
Rifle cleaning solvents – fumes, relocate cleaning to airlock or post-jump.
Gravity plating in hold – uneven near ladder, mark and pad.
Combat –
You stop reading and sit back. He’s watching you, the visor angled at your face.
"Din…how long have you been awake."
He pauses before answering. "Since the second hour."
"You went to sleep at the eleventh."
"Yes."
"So, you’ve slept for three hours."
"Yes."
"And in five hours you’ve…" you gesture at the three datapads, “you’ve done this."
"Yes."
You sit with the knowledge for a long careful moment, because two things are happening in your chest at once, and you need to understand which one of them is going to come out of your mouth first.
The first thing is a great, warm wave of love so unexpected and undefended that it brings the prick of tears to the corners of your eyes.
He’s stayed up the small hours of the night cycle, read the medical library, made you a plate with a slice of ginger root in the water and has built – in five hours, on three hours of sleep, in the warm dim of the hold with the woman he loves asleep in the bunk – a careful, comprehensive scaffolding of practical preparation around the baby inside you that’s not even, yet, the size of anything.
He’s done it because he loves you and the baby already, sight unseen, certainty unconfirmed, with the same practical, absolute love he brings to every other thing he’s ever loved. He’s done it because he’s a man who loves by doing, and he’s been given a thing to do.
The second thing is that you want to throw the datapad at his head.
You want to throw the datapad at his head because you gave him this thing six hours ago with your hand laid flat across his on your stomach and you said tonight, we have the three of us and you’d meant it. You’d meant one night. You’d meant let us be inside the having of it for the space of one night before we’re organising lists.
And he’d said yes, then waited until you were asleep, gotten up and spent the small hours of his night organising it into lists.
You set the datapad down and pick up the cup of water, drinking it slowly, letting the warm spread of it down your throat steady you. You look at him across the table to where the visor is very still.
"Din."
“Yes?”
"I…” you take a breath. “I love you so much, right now, for what is on those datapads and I want you to hear that first because what I’m about to say is going to sound, on the surface, as if I don’t love you and I do, okay?”
He pauses. “Okay.”
“But I asked you, last night, for one night with just the three of us, and you said yes. And then I went to sleep, and you didn’t."
The visor holds very still.
"Cyar'ika…"
"I’m not angry, I’m just…I’m two things at once. I love you for the lists and I’m also a little hurt about the lists. The lists are the morning conversation, Din. The lists are the thing you and I were supposed to sit down over breakfast and start making together. And instead, I wake up and you’ve made them already without me."
He doesn’t answer.
"I’m not saying the lists aren’t good because they are. The lists are good. The lists are…" you laugh a little, in spite of yourself, “the lists are the kind of lists I couldn’t made if I’d stayed up for a week. The medic on Nevarro, the Twi'lek on Ryloth, the ginger root… I wouldn’t have thought of the ginger root, Din. I would’ve spent six months throwing up over the basin in the cycler thinking it’s a thing I have to endure. You’ve spared me that, so I’m grateful for the lists."
"I…"
"But the making of the lists was supposed to be ours. That was what I was looking forward to about the morning. Sitting on this bench with you and saying, alright, where do we start? And then starting together. The two of us, with our heads bent over the same datapad, working it out. And instead, you’ve done it and I’m a little…lonely, Din. A little lonely about it."
The vocoder catches and the visor angles down at the table. The gloved hand on his thigh flexes once, very slightly, and stills.
"I couldn’t sleep," he says finally.
"I figured."
"I tried, cyar'ika. I lay there with you, and I tried for an hour. And then it was as if…as if every small thing that can go wrong with the Crest between now and the day this foundling is born walked into my head and sat down. All of it. The carbonite chamber, the ventilation, the gravity plating by the ladder, the bunk…”
He pauses.
“The bunk is going to be too small. You’re going to be too big to sleep on your back in that bunk by the seventh month, and we’ll need to widen it, and widening it means cutting into the bulkhead, and cutting into the bulkhead is a job that needs to be done in a hangar, not in flight, and we don’t have a hangar booked anywhere in the next four months, and I…"
He stops again, the vocoder catching a small, uneven breath.
"I got up and I’m sorry. I got up because lying still with all of it sitting on my chest wasn’t a thing I could do. I came out here, I sat down and I started writing. I told myself I would write down one list, the medics list, just so I could put it out of my head and go back to bed. And then the medics list was done, and I started the food list. And then the food list was done. And then…"
"Then the threats list."
"Yes."
"And then it was the second hour and then the third."
"Yes."
You reach across and place your hand on his bracer.
"Din, I understand."
The visor lifts and finds your face.
"I do. The thing that you did last night is a thing I would’ve done too, if I were you. If I were the kind of man you are. It’s the way you love, Din. It’s the way you’ve always loved. You love by building. You love me, and half the things you’ve ever done for me have been by building. The chair lift in the cycler. The padding on the copilot's seat for the long jumps, the small shelf in the bunk for my datapad… you love by hands. I know that and I’ve known that for over a year. And the moment I told you about the baby, it became the next thing you were going to build for, and you couldn’t sleep until you’d started doing that.”
You flex your hand against his bracer.
"But I love by sitting, and the two are going to have to learn to live together, on this ship, for the next eight months. Because if you build everything by yourself in the small hours of every night while I’m sleeping, I’m going to wake up in the seventh month inside something that I had no hand in building. And whilst I’ll be grateful, I’ll also feel lonely, and I don’t want that. I want eight months of us. I want to sit at this table with you and write the lists with you, slowly, over weeks. And I want some of the items on the list to be mine and some of them to be yours and I want to argue with you about the ones that overlap. I want the building of it to be ours, not just the finished thing."
He doesn’t answer.
"Do you understand?"
"Yes, I understand.”
"Are you angry?"
"No, cyar'ika,” he says, the visor turning to you. “I’m never angry with you.”
"Are you sad?"
"Perhaps a little."
“Tell me why.”
"I don’t know how to do the sitting. I…I don’t know how, cyar'ika. I’ve not had practice. The Creed teaches the building, not the sitting. When the people I loved were in danger, I built. When the people I loved were hurt, I built. I don’t know how to sit with a thing. I don’t know how to lie in the dark beside you with my hand on your stomach, knowing that my foundling is growing inside you, and not get up and start the lists. But I’ll learn. I’ll learn, if you teach me."
You sit with his words for a long careful moment, because the thing he’s just set down is a thing that matters, and you’re not going to answer it cheaply. Then you draw him toward you and he bends, allowing you to lay your forehead against the brow of the visor and close your eyes a moment, because it helps you think.
"I’ll teach you," you say softly. "I will, but I need you to understand that the sitting isn’t the absence of the building. The sitting is the building done together. Last night I wasn’t saying don’t build. I was saying build with me. The building is good. The doing-it-alone-in-the-dark is the problem.”
You stroke the side of the helmet.
"I know you’re scared."
You feel him tense slightly.
"You’re scared, Din. That’s what last night was and that’s what the three datapads and the lists are. You’re scared and you’ve spent your whole life turning fear into building because the building is the only place the fear has to go. I want you to know that I see it, that it’s alright to be scared.”
"But I’m supposed to be…"
“You’re about to be a father and that’s a scary prospect. I’m scared too and I’m asking you to do the being-scared with me. Not in the dark by yourself at the second hour, but with me. Wake me up, even if it’s the second hour. Shake my shoulder and say cyar'ika, I’m scared, and I’ll wake up, and I’ll sit at this table with you, and we’ll be scared together and we’ll make one list, slowly, between us, and then we’ll go back to bed. That’s the deal I’m offering."
The visor presses harder to your forehead.
"Yes.”
“You’ll wake me?”
He pauses. "Yes, I’ll wake you."
"Good."
You hold him for a long quiet moment, the brow of the visor against your forehead, the warm faint smell of the leather of his gloves, the sharp clean of the oil on his armour and the faint trace of the ginger root in the cup beside you on the table.
"Din, you should eat something.”
“I’m fine.”
"You’ve been up since the second hour. Have a piece of the flatbread. I won't be able to eat all of it anyway. Eat with me."
He hesitates then picks up a piece of flatbread, turns the visor away from you the careful practiced few degrees that’s the privacy he’s built around eating in your presence, lifts the bottom of the helmet just enough and eats the flatbread in three small efficient bites. He’s done it a thousand times. You’ve watched him do it a thousand times and have loved him for it a thousand times. You love him for it now.
He drinks water from the cup and sets it down then turns the visor back to you.
"Better?"
"Yes."
"Good."
You lay your hand over his bracer again.
"Alright, show me the lists."
He blinks – you don’t see it, but you know from the small held pause that he’s blinked.
"Cyar'ika…"
"Show me, Din. I want to see them properly this time. Walk me through them. We’re going to go through them together, all three, and I’m going to tell you what I think, and we’re going to add things you’ve missed, because there will absolutely be things you’ve missed because you don’t know everything about what this is going to be, Mandalorian. And you’re going to listen to me, and we’re going to do this together, the way we should’ve done it this morning, yes?"
The vocoder catches the small modulated almost-laugh.
"Yes, cyar'ika."
"Good. Start with the medics."
He starts with the medics, reading each name and the precise notation under each. The comm channel, the location, the jump radius, the cost. You listen and ask questions. You add a question of your own that he hasn’t thought to ask.
“Does the midwife on Nevarro take payment in credits or in trade? If we’re going to be docked there long enough for a birth we’re going to need to know what the cantina runs the room rates at.”
He nods, picks up the stylus and adds a small careful note beside the midwife's entry, and you feel, watching it, the small warm satisfaction of a thing being built together.
You go to the food list and cross off two items he’s put in the wrong column then add three he hasn’t thought of. You laugh at him for putting citrus in the column without specifying which kind, because he’d once eaten a yellow citrus from a market on Florrum that he’d assumed was sweet, but which had turned out to be the sourest thing either of you had ever put in your mouth. He’d spent the rest of the day insisting it was fine, you’d laughed at him then and you laugh at him now, and the vocoder catches the small modulated almost-laugh underneath.
You go to the threats list and sit with it for a long careful moment. You read it slowly, without stopping, all the way to the bottom. You read every small precise notation and understand that what you’re reading isn’t a list at all but a careful inventory of love, the kind a man writes when he’s trying to put words to the shape of what he’s afraid of losing.
You lay your hand over his on the table.
"Din, this one we’re going to take slowly, one a week. We pick one item, we figure out what we’re going to do about it, we put a note next to it, and we move on. Not all at once. Not all this morning. We have eight months."
"One a week?"
"Yes."
"Cyar'ika, that’s very slow."
"It is very slow, Din, but that’s the point. Slow is the gift I’m giving you. Slow is the way you learn to sit with a thing instead of building around it in the dark. We’re going to take this very slow and you’re going to hate it for the first month, and by the second month you’re going to find that you can sleep through the night. And by the third month you’re going to find that the baby in here…" you lay your hand low on your stomach, “hasn’t, in fact, come to any harm because we paced ourselves, yes?"
“Yes.”
"Good."
You squeeze his hand and sit back. You look at the three datapads on the table and at the man in beskar beside you with his hand laced through yours on the table, and you understand that this is the thing you had wanted last night when you asked for one night with just the three of us.
You’ve not wanted, you understand now, the absence of the lists. You want this. You want the soft hour at the table with the lists half-made between you, the arguing about citrus, the bare hand laced through yours, the careful pace of two people deciding together what shape the next eight months are going to take.
You have it now.
You have it now because you’ve asked for it, he’s heard you, and because he’s a man who, when the woman he loves tells him in plain words what she needs, does the work of giving it to her – even when the work means setting down the careful comprehensive building he’s spent the night on and starting it over, slower, with her.
"Din, you did well."
The vocoder catches.
"You did. The lists are good and I love you for them. I love you for staying up and I love you for the ginger root because I didn’t think of it. You did well and we’ll do better, together, from here."
He bends and presses the brow of the visor to your temple.
"I love you, cyar'ika."
"I love you too, Din."
His hand on the table tightens, once, around your fingers.
It’s a small beginning, but one that the two of you have made together.
You pick up another piece of flatbread as your stomach suddenly grumbles. “Alright, what’s next?”
He picks up the stylus. “I was thinking about the cradle."
"Tell me."
He tells you and the two of you begin – together, slowly, the way you’re going to be doing everything from now on – to build.
Plot summary: In 1870s Texas, Joel Miller loses his wife and son in childbirth, leaving him to raise his five year old daughter Sarah alone. Faced with losing her to his wife's grieving parents, or being forced into marrying her younger sister, he turns to you - the town's thirty-something spinster - and asks for your hand in a marriage of convenience.
Chapter summary: You and Joel enjoy one another.
Warnings: 18+only due to eventual explicit smut. Also references death and grieving.
A/N: Taking a breather next week so the next part will be posted on 12th June 🥰
Masterlist
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You drift.
The drumming warmth of his chest beneath your cheek and the heavy weight of his arm beneath your shoulders holds you in a hazy place between waking and sleeping. The amber light of the bedroom begins its slow shift toward rose, the long, gold seams of late afternoon sun creeping slowly over the floor.
A deep, tender ache throbs slow between your thighs in counter-rhythm to the drum of your heart against his chest.
He stirs first, the hand, which has been tracing slow, lazy circles against your bare upper arm, stilling. His beard, which has been pressed warm against the crown of your damp hair, lifts, and the drum of his heart beneath your cheek picks up a fresh, deeper rhythm. You feel the slow, patient gaze of his eyes settle possessively across the bare length of you draped warm against his chest.
You don’t open your eyes as you feel him bend his head.
His mouth presses a long, warm kiss against your head reverently and entirely without hurry, and the press of his lips draws a soft breath out of your throat against the warm hollow of his throat. He doesn’t speak as he kisses lower, lips moving over your temple then your eyelid and the corner of your closed eye where the long lashes lie damp.
You open your eyes slowly and see his, soft and dark and entirely undone. His mouth meets yours, the kiss warm and entirely wordless. He parts your mouth, drags his tongue against yours and you close your eyes again and kiss him back.
Drawing back, he looks at you again, one thumb reaching to slowly trace your cheek. Then he presses a further kiss against your chin, and another against your jaw, and another at the soft pulse of your throat.
The soft pulse answers him and he kisses lower, his mouth travelling downwards to your collarbone and into the warm hollow there, dragging slow and warm, a soft sound escaping your throat. You raise your hand and lay it against the back of his head, sliding into his hair as he continues to kiss you lower.
His mouth travels across the slope of your collarbone, pressing against every inch of the bone before pausing and moving back along the slope on the opposite side, and you watch his head bowed against your upper chest in the deepening rose light with a drowning tenderness that closes your throat.
He kisses down your arm where the skin lies against the rumpled sheets, drawing sensations you’ve not known your arm could feel from a kiss, then moves lower down your forearm to the inside of your wrist and across your palm. Then he pulls each of your fingers in turn into the warmth of his mouth before retracing his steps, back up your bare arm and across your chest. He pauses to gaze at the drawn peaks of your nipples before lowering his mouth and kissing the soft underswell of one breast, down to where it meets the slope of your ribs. Then he moves up the outer swell where it meets your collarbone, mapping the entirety of you.
You arch, your fingers tightening in his hair, and he pulls back, offers you a lazy smile then bends once more, lips closing around one tender bud.
You gasp as he suckles you slowly and deeply, the drag of his tongue sending sparks down through your stomach to the tender ache between your thighs. He draws your nipple into his mouth and holds it there, tongue working patiently, teeth grazing carefully, before letting it slip back into the air and moving to the other.
Rising, he kisses your mouth again, causing you to whimper as his tongue sweeps inside, before moving back down your body over your ribs, then your stomach, pausing at your naval to dip his tongue into the crevice before continuing. He moves to your hips, his hands settling there and sliding down your outer thighs as you part them instinctively, the swollen wet bloom of you exposed.
He presses a kiss against the inside of one knee, then the other, pausing briefly before dropping his mouth.
“Joel…”
You groan and arch towards him again, as he slowly circles your clitoris, the sparks spreading upwards now, back through your stomach to your breasts. Then he draws the small bundle of nerves into his mouth.
You wail this time. There’s no other word for the sound that tears out of your throat as your hand flies back into his hair and your hips buck helplessly against his mouth. His hands slide up beneath you, cupping the curve of your rear and lifting, giving himself better access.
When it comes, the wave breaks slowly, your body locking helplessly tight around nothing at all, clenching around the empty, stretched ache he left there earlier, and your thighs tremble against his shoulders. Unconcerned, he rides you through the wave, his tongue plunging inside you, drinking the wet of what he’s made of you.
You sob as the second wave rolls over you, his tongue burying deep as you peak and then descend, and he finally draws back to look at you, his beard glistening.
“Oh…Joel…”
He crawls slowly up the wrecked bloom of your body and kisses you again, letting you taste yourself, and you open your mouth and lick deep into his without a single moment of hesitation. Then he gathers you to him, chests flush with one another, limbs entangled and you lay your hand against the scruff of his jaw.
“Beautiful,” he murmurs, turning his mouth into your palm and kissing it. “I love watchin’ you come apart for me, darlin’.”
“I love coming apart for you,” you sigh in return, closing your eyes.
You lie together that way for a while until you feel a dryness in your throat and ease yourself upwards. His arm tightens instantly and you lean down to press a gentle kiss against his lips.
“Water,” you whisper before slipping out from under him, rising from the bed and walking across the floor to where the pitcher and cup sit on the dresser.
You pour water into the cup and drink, the cool of it against your throat a blessing, then you set it back down and stretch your arms above your head, lengthening your ribs and your waist and your back, before gazing at yourself in the mirror above the dresser.
You don’t entirely recognise yourself. The woman looking back at you has loosened hair falling in heavy waves and breasts swelling in the light, nipples flushed and tender from her husband's mouth, and her skin glows in a way you’ve never seen on yourself before.
You look at her and she looks back.
Behind you in the glass, the light falls across the bed, and you see Joel rising up on one elbow to look at you. You meet his gaze in the mirror and, for some reason, choose not to lower your arms.
For a long, suspended moment, neither of you move. The breath stills in your throat as you watch his gaze travel slowly and possessively down your shoulders, your breasts, your waist, the curve of your hips, the soft flare of your thighs, and return to your face.
He swings his legs over the side of the bed, rises and crosses the room towards you, the heavy length of him already thickening visibly with every step. You hold his gaze in the glass as he comes up behind you and settles his hands gently on your hips.
Leaning down, he presses his jaw against your shoulder, and you lower your arms, your hands settling of their own accord against the top of the dresser. His hands slide round and over your stomach, fingers spreading warm, the pads of his thumbs brushing the underswell of your breasts, the hot length of him pressing against the small of your bare back, fully hard. You feel the wet head of him leaving a smear against your spine as he settles his hips against yours.
His hands move to cup your breasts, thumbs grazing over your nipples and rolling them, and you groan and press back, your hips meeting the hot weight of him riding the small of your back. He grunts softly, his thumb pinching the tender peak of one breast and rolling it slow and hard until your breath breaks and your hands tighten on the dresser.
Instinctively, you press back harder, and his hands slide back down to your hips, pushing you gently forwards until you’re bent over the dresser, your breasts resting against the top. The porcelain pitcher rattles against its saucer and the cup trembles as your hands flatten on either side of your reflection.
Behind you in the glass, you watch his hand leave your hip and stroke himself slowly through the smear he’s left on your spine whilst the other pushes between your shoulder blade, flattening you against the top of the dresser, your rear arching higher, your thighs spreading open, exposing you to the light.
You feel him drag the hot head of him through the slick of you from behind, coating himself in you, and you moan, his eyes meeting yours in the glass before he drives inside you.
It takes one stroke, hilt-deep, to fill the raw aching heat of you from an angle that strikes on the very first inch of seating, the deep place inside you. Your knees buckle and only his hand on the small of your back and the dresser beneath your hips hold you up as he begins to move.
The high, broken cry that tears out of your throat rings in the empty bedroom as he claims you, his hips slapping against the curve of you on the down stroke, dragging the slick of you up the polished length of him on the withdrawal.
The dresser rocks hard, the pitcher rattles and the mirror shakes faintly against the wall behind it, distorting your reflections. Your hair spills forward with every stroke, your breasts drag hot and damp against the wood and your mouth holds in a steady, broken keening of high, open moans you can’t stop, don’t want to stop and have no part of yourself left to stop.
His eyes hold yours in the glass as the hand at your back drags up your spine, catches the heavy fall of your loosened hair at the nape of your neck and winds it around his fist.
He pulls, not hard enough to hurt but enough to drag your face from the top of the dresser, your back curving beneath his fist. The new angle drives the hot length of him into the deep place inside you so flush on the next stroke that you sob openly, a long, wet, broken sound.
“Mine,” he says breathlessly. “Mine, darlin’…all mine…”
The image of yourself in the mirror is one that should scandalise you. Your face arched, mouth open, eyes wet and black with want, your hair drawn back taut in his fist, your breasts swinging heavy with the rhythm beneath you, nipples flushed dark and tight.
But it doesn’t.
And your husband behind you, broad and scarred and entirely undone, sweat running in beads down his chest, his eyes burning at your reflection, his hips driving into the curve of your rear in a wet relentless slap of skin on skin, only causes the sweet ache between your thighs to pulse harder.
You watch him in the glass, watch the muscle of his arm flex with every drive of his hips, the dark flush bloom up his neck and across the slick line of his collarbone, his eyes burning at you with a worship that has nothing careful left in it.
You hold his gaze and arch into the pull of his fist in your hair. He growls low, the sound guttural, wordless, the sound of something feral riding the bloom of his wife on her own dresser in her own bedroom. His fist in your hair tightens, his hand at your hip locks and the rhythm breaks open.
The dresser slams the wall on every stroke. The pitcher tips and rolls across the top, water spilling in a wide cool pool, and your hands scrabble wet against the wood for any purchase at all but find none.
The heat low in your belly draws tight and you slide your eyes to watch yourself in the glass as you shatter.
This time, it’s harder. Release tears through every inch of you with a devastating force that wrenches the strength out of every limb, and a scream rings through the house, as you clench helplessly tight around the hot fullness of him deep inside you and milk him in a hot rolling pulse of wet contractions.
The breath breaks ragged out of his chest as he bends over you but doesn’t stop. He drives you slow and hard through the rolling wave and holds you there, the hot length of him hammering the deep, raw place inside you on every stroke through the rolling shudders, and the wave that should have broken once breaks again. You clench around him in a long, shuddering aftershock that rolls up out of the first without pause and the deep place inside you, raw and overstimulated and wanting, draws the second wave bigger than the first.
You sob as his hand leaves your hip and snakes beneath you, slick with the sweat of you both, the heel of his palm pressing hard between your thighs, his middle finger finding your clitoris and circling it in counter-rhythm to the hammering claim of him deep inside you.
The third wave breaks before you’ve finished riding the second and you scream again as his teeth catch your shoulder, marking what he doesn’t have the words for. His hand leaves your hair, and both now settle at your waist, pulling you back hard against him – three, four, five slamming strokes that drive the dresser into the wall with such force that the mirror jumps on its hook.
He buries himself in you to the hilt and holds there and you feel the hot pulse of him inside you, thicker than before, harder and deeper though you almost can’t believe it’s possible. The hot flood of him spills into the very heart of you in slow, heavy pulses, his hips jerking helplessly forward into yours with every movement, the wet of him and the wet of you mixing slick around the base of him where his hips press flush against the curve of your rear.
“Yes darlin’…God…!” he exclaims, collapsing against you, his beard scraping warm against your shoulder, his mouth pressing a warm kiss where his teeth have been.
You can’t speak.
He draws slowly out of you, pulling one last broken whimper from your throat. You feel the hot wet of him slip down the inside of your bare thigh, and his hand comes around between your thighs and catches the slow trickle on his palm before it can reach your knee. Then he smears the wet of him against the curve of your hip, marking you with himself, and you watch in the glass, riveted with fascination.
After a moment, he rises behind you, drawing you up from the dresser, allowing you to flatten your hands against the damp wood for balance before turning you in his arms and laying his forehead gently against yours.
“Did I frighten you?” he asks softly.
“No,” you pant. “No, Joel, not for one moment…”
“I love you.”
“I love you too,” you reply, closing your eyes and, for a long, suspended moment, you simply stand there, his breath hot against your mouth, his heart drumming against yours.
Then he moves and kisses you again, slow and soft, allowing you to wind your arms around his neck and for him to lift you and carry you back over to the bed. After he lays you down, he watches you for a moment with a soft smile, then crosses back to the dresser, returning with a cotton cloth. He cleans you slowly and when he’s finished, you rest your palm against his jaw again, stroking your thumb along his cheekbone.
“I don’t know what to say,” you manage after a moment.
He chuckles and kisses the end of your nose. “Which did you like best?”
“All of them.”
“Hmm…I’ll remember that.”
Sighing heavily, he closes his eyes and rubs his face slowly against your palm, occasionally turning to drag his lips across the skin.
You lie there just watching him – your husband – and you feel a pull in your chest that makes you want to bury yourself against him and not move for the rest of your life. You’ve never felt more secure, more safe or more loved – in a way that you never thought you would.
“Is this how you loved Tess?”
The words are out before you can think on the wisdom of them and you feel him still slightly under your hand. The contended smile slips fractionally from his lips, and his eyes open just a little, as though he’s not sure he’s heard you right.
“Sorry,” you say immediately. “I shouldn’t have asked, I…”
“No, it ain’t…” he shifts slightly and you drop your hand back to the bed. “It ain’t wrong to ask darlin’, it’s just…” he takes a breath. “It was different.”
“Different?”
“Wasn’t the same man when I married Tess as I am now. I loved her dearly, but back then, I had no idea what it would be like to love someone like that and then lose ‘em. Makin’ love with you like this…I do know and that…that just makes it different.”
“I understand,” you nod.
“No, you don’t, and I don’t expect you to,” he says kindly. “Just want you to know that…it’s different. And if you’re askin’ me if I was thinkin’ ‘bout her whilst I was inside you…”
“Oh, no,” you say hurriedly, feeling heat crawl into your face. “No, I wasn’t thinking about that. I would never…”
“It’s alright.” He cups your face with his hand. “The answer is no. I wasn’t thinkin’ ‘bout her or makin’ any comparison or anythin’ like that. I was just enjoyin’ you.”
You feel the flush spread and he smiles, eyes crinkling at the corners.
“Look at my wife, all embarrassed at the thought that her husband might enjoy bein’ in bed with her.”
“I’m not embarrassed.”
“Yes, you are.”
“I’m not!” You turn your back mockingly on him and he laughs and immediately pulls you back against him, burying his face in the crook of your neck. “But I suppose if you’re going to continue to enjoy me, perhaps we should speak about what might happen.”
“Darlin’, I don’t wanna talk about the damn Reverend or the trial or ‘bout anythin’ like that right now,” he mumbles. “I gotta good feelin’ about that lawyer of yours. He seems to know what he’s talkin’ ‘bout and I also reckon you did a good job of puttin’ the fear of the Lord into Doc Cooper, so we don’t know yet…”
“I’m not talking about that. I’m talking about the…well, the consequences of a husband and wife, freely…” You feel your face burn again. “I have no idea if I’m…capable…and…”
“Capable of what?” he asks, nuzzling into you again. “Drivin’ your husband crazy?”
“No, capable of conceiving.”
He stills again, although this time you feel the difference in him. The stilling isn’t gentle or fleeting, rather it’s immediate and hard, and even though your bodies are still warm from one another, you feel a cold sensation travel between you.
“Conceivin’?”
The word comes out quietly and you turn over again to face him.
“Yes. I’m thirty-four, thirty-five this Fall, but that doesn’t mean…”
You break off as you take in the look on his face. It’s not confusion or concern or even anger – it’s pure horror.
“Joel?”
He opens his mouth and closes it again, then pulls hurriedly away from you, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and sitting hunched forwards, his entire body seeming to sag under the weight of the words you’ve just spoken. Suddenly, you feel naked in more ways than one, and you take hold of the throw at the foot of the bed and pull it over yourself.
“Did I say something wrong?”
“No. But that…it ain’t…” he lets out a long breath. “I can’t…can’t give you that – a child. I can’t.”
You frown. “But…you have Sarah and Tess was…” He rises suddenly, the action startling you, and starts reaching for his discarded clothes. “Joel?”
Once fully redressed, he turns back around to face you, his face drawn in a way that you haven’t seen in a long time.
“Darlin’, I…”
The sound of wagon wheels and the high whinny of an approaching horse interrupts whatever he was about to say, and he moves over to the window, pulls back the curtains and looks outside.
“It’s Doc Cooper.”
A mixture of panic and anticipation rushes through you. No-one on the Miller ranch is ill any longer, so there can be only one reason for such a visit.
“The town council must have decided what they’re going to do,” you say, scrambling off the bed and picking up your garments. “Joel, my dress…”
“Stay here,” he says, crossing the room to the door.
“No, wait…”
“I said, stay here. I can handle this darlin’. Whatever he’s got to say it’s gonna be about me, so I oughta be the one to hear it. You stay here, listen from the window.”
“But Joel, you can’t…”
“I ain’t gonna do anythin’ to him, darlin’, I promise. Ain’t nothin’ in this world gonna make me do anythin’ that could keep me away from you longer than I already have been.” He crosses back towards you and kisses you gently. “Please, just stay here.”
Then he moves to the bedroom door, opens it, and disappears down the hallway.
a shy man with a big cock who guides it into you with his hand, softly moaning as you squeeze around him. stays inside of you for a moment, unmoving, because he is so grateful to be in you. thanks you and proceeds to fuck you like a feral animal
imagine feeling frankie’s laboured breathing and soft moans warming your skin while he is mumbling nearly incoherent breathless thank yous into your lips. imagine feeling his wild heartbeat thrumming inside his chest as frankie is pressing you into the bed with his full body weight. imagine witnessing his soft lovesick and needy eyes peering down at you just as frankie nods to himself and proceeds to wreck you.
