Here you will find daily reblogs of fics for 30 different Pedro Pascal fictional characters (no RPF). There is smut here, so minors begone. 🔞
Reblogs can revive interest in a fic long after it’s been posted, and this blog aims to give just as much love to older fics as to the newly written ones spilling across our dashes right now. Also, great fics can sometimes go unnoticed for a variety of reasons, so I’ll always showcase any hidden gems I find.
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BY CHARACTER:
Clint Flood (Freaky Tales)
Comandante Veracruz (Burn Notice: The Fall of Sam Axe)
Dave York (The Equalizer 2)
Dieter Bravo (The Bubble)
Din Djarin (The Mandalorian, The Book of Boba Fett, The Mandalorian and Grogu) – I am in love with this man, so his fic recs are over on my main blog, which is 99% dedicated to him (plus 1% tag games)
Shane ‘Dio’ Morrissey (NYPD Blue)
Ezra (Prospect)
Francisco ‘Catfish’ Morales (Triple Frontier)
Harry Castillo (Materialists)
Jack ‘Whiskey’ Daniels (Kingsman: The Golden Circle)
Javi Gutierrez (The Unbearable Weight of Massive Talent)
Javier Peña (Narcos)
Joel Miller (The Last of Us)
Lucien Flores (The Uninvited)
Marcus Acacius (Gladiator II)
Marcus Moreno (We Can Be Heroes)
Marcus Pike (The Mentalist)
Max Phillips (Bloodsucking Bastards)
Maxwell Lord (Wonder Woman 1984)
Mr Ben (SNL: Fancam Assembly)
Nathan Landry (The Good Wife)
Nico (House Comes With a Bird)
Oberyn Martell (Game of Thrones)
Pero Tovar (The Great Wall)
Reed Richards (The Fantastic Four: First Steps)
Silva (Strange Way of Life)
Ted Garcia (Eddington)
The Thief (Casillero del Diablo)
Tim Rockford (Merge Mansion)
Zach Wellison (Brothers & Sisters)
ADDITIONAL TAGS:
You can also search specifically for explicit content by adding the word ‘smut’ after the character name listed above, e.g. #joel miller smut.
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MY FAVOURITES:
These fics in particular have left a lasting impression on me. They just have something extra special about them, and I urge you to appreciate them, too! I’ve been part of the Pedro fandom for several years now, so I hope you’ll consider my endorsements reliable.
BY THE WAY:
Yes, I read everything I reblog. I use a variety of fic-hunting methods, and I do thorough research to find the best stories (I have spreadsheets and everything). That said, most fics here are on the shorter side because I also work a full-time job and I’m a writer myself, which sadly limits my reading time.
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pairing: concubine!marcus acacius x queen!f!reader
summary: in war, you either win or lose. and this time, acacius lost it all—his station, his army, his power, his free will. in a desperate attempt to save his life, he offers his body to you, to do with him as you please. and while the deal he strikes was not in your plans, you jump at the opportunity of subduing a man that once had it all.
a/n: i apologise in advance for the utter filth this is. i don’t really know what happened or how this came to be, but here we are. i hope you enjoy reading it as much as i did writing it <3
tags/tw: 18+, mdni. dark themes. marcus is injured/bleeding. he becomes your concubine/sex slave. power imbalance. exhibitionism/public sex. sex work. coercion, manipulation & descriptions of being held hostage and conditioned through starvation, punishment and reward. capture-bonding/stockholm syndrome. toxic relationship. cheating & cuckolding. brief mention of orgies. a hella lot of filthy smut (degradation & praise, f!oral, handjob, blowjob, piv, creampie, hair pulling). brief mention of girl dad!marcus. time jumps. dual pov. no physical descriptors of reader, no use of y/n.
w/c: ~8.3k
divider by @\saradika-graphics
“It’d be such a waste to behead him. He’s a pretty war spoil though,” you lounged back on your seat, scanning him from head to toe.
The man was bathed in blood—your people’s, most probably. Crimson creased his weathered, fierce features; his heavy-lidded eyes glittered under the torches like ambers from Hell itself, and a stream of ruby dripped down his nose and onto his lips. His armour had seen better days, pierced and dishevelled from the battle.
Prostrated on his knees, now he didn’t look so fearsome—the Great General of Rome reduced to a broken, almost pitiful version of himself. He carried his posture as if he thought he was actually important here, as if he meant something.
But he didn’t.
“I don’t have any use for him,” you declared, waving your hand at the men standing guard behind the General. “Don’t think he’s even worth any coin in such a state. Make it quick and painless.”
One of the knights reached for his sword, the dull metal screeching.
The General’s head snapped towards you, squaring his frame and lifting up his chin, infusing his stance with a flaky determination.
“I may not be worth much to my Empire, but I am sure I can make myself useful to you, domina mea (my lady),” the delivery of his words, honeyed and husky, caught your attention straight away.
“Oh, you are that sure, right, Acacius?” you grinned, sitting up on your chair. He’d definitely captured your straying curiosity. “And how, exactly, would you do that, may I ask?”
“I can show you.”
The inflexion in his tone made your head tilt inquisitively. His words carried a lecherous promise, one that swirled in the dark bark of his eyes, the prominent brows shadowing them. It was impossible to mistake his proposition for anything else—Acacius spoke every word exactly as he intended, openly and plainly.
He was offering himself up for you to enjoy as you saw fit, shamelessly in front of your guard. To be your lover, to satiate your lust, to have him at your disposal whenever you needed of his services.
And while you had no need for a concubine, the General’s deal was hard to ignore. He was built like a bear, paws for hands and a stern attitude characteristic of a predator. Even with the torn armour on, you had already undressed him with the eyes of your imagination—burly and manly, but with a soft tummy product of the passage of time. And right underneath, between the thick, dark curls…
Your mouth watered.
“Then show me now,” you declared defiantly.
You saw the shock fogging his eyes, as if Acacius had not expected you accept his lewd bid.
“Now?” he whispered between gritted teeth, jaw ticking and glancing at the two knights behind him, who stood impassively with a firm grasp on the pommel of their swords.
“What? The Great General suffers from stage freight like a novice jester?” you cocked a brow at him, then rolled your eyes when he didn’t budge. “Your choice, Acacius. I don’t have all the time in the world for you though, so make up your mind quickly before I get bored.”
Still on his knees, the Roman assessed the situation. You could see he didn’t enjoy having a public to perform to, but in your case, you couldn’t care less. If he was to be true to his pledge, then Acacius had to learn to let go of control. This was your territory, your rules. And if you wanted him to show you how he could make himself useful to you, then this was the right time and place.
A conceited smile spread across your mouth when Acacius crawled towards your throne, dragging his broken leg and leaving a bloody trail behind. He tried to hide the agonising pain it caused him, his jaw completely engaged and his eyes bloodshot, groaning under his breath.
When he reached you, when Acacius was kneeling right in front of you, you coaxed your legs apart, still covered by the long skirt you wore.
“Show me how the best General of Rome makes himself useful to me, Acacius,” you uttered with a smirk, leaning back on your throne.
You both held each other’s gaze for a minute that felt like an eternity—Acacius sizing your resolution, looking for a fracture in your façade, and you studying him intently, trying to decipher the limits of a man you had just conquered in the battlefield.
Was he bluffing? Did he really think that you wouldn’t accept the trade? Was he just buying time because he thought someone was coming to his rescue? None of his men had survived your wrath; he was completely alone. Rome had deserted him too—the rearguard from the other General in command he so desperately relied on had retreated and fled by boat.
Or did he think that because you were a woman, you were above indulging in sex work? Perhaps in Rome your actions would be frowned upon, but this wasn’t Rome. This was your kingdom, a matriarchal society that had survived the fist of those who attempted to dominate your people. You’d faced Empires more powerful than Rome, men more influential than Acacius. None of them had weathered your troops—Acacius was the first highborn whose life you’d considered to spare. Only if you got something in return.
“As you wish, milady,” he reluctantly agreed, eyes burning hot and his nose still dripping blood.
His hands wrapped around your ankles, cold, rough and calloused, and slowly rode your skirt up your shins until it bunched up on top of your upper thighs. Your skin bristled at the contact, but his warm breath near your knee soothed the coldness of the stone room.
His darkened eyes found yours in the midst of seduction, a muted question hanging off his lips—but you didn’t care about the state of him, his bruises or the blood.
“Shall I…?” he ventured, but you shook your head and lifted your chin up, an unspoken invitation to continue.
Acacius nodded, almost as if convincing himself that this was actually happening. It wouldn’t had he shut up and accepted the painless death you’d offered, this was all his own doing. It wasn’t your fault that you’d been keen to test his resolve.
Leaning in, he pressed a kiss to the inside of your knee, his tongue driving up your inner thigh unhurriedly, building up the expectation. His meaty fingers squeezed your left calf and locked your leg in place, preventing you from closing them as he approached the core of your desire.
Your heart raced faster when the skirt rolled all the way up to your waist, exposing your glistening pussy to his undivided attention—he seemed to have forgotten about the audience, fleetingly mesmerised as he was by the sight in front of him, but you hadn’t.
Your two guards were standing right in front of you, ready to spring into action if Acacius dared to do something stupid. One of them was looking to a vague point right behind you, while the younger one couldn’t rein in his own curiosity and tracked the General’s movements between your legs, undoubtedly trying to catch a glance of your cunt.
You smiled at the knight, who momentarily looked flustered before fixing his gaze on the same spot as the other one, to then return your heed to the man nicely slotted between your legs. His broad shoulders took up all the space, your legs straining around his sturdy frame.
Acacius glanced up at you, silently checking in, when one of his massive hands hovered near your groin. It almost seemed like the poor man needed some reassurance, so in a moment of weakness, you stroked the thick, silverly curls of his crown. The gesture was enough to prompt his thumb, which raked through the unruly curls on your mound before it dipped in your slit in search of treasure.
The first contact was electrifying enough for you to sigh and lounge back, eyes fluttering close. His pad was coarse on your clit, but the gentle, deep circles he drew softened your nub. His mouth trailed bloodied pecks on your inner thigh, your attention divided between his lips and his thumb.
His wrist twisted, thumb still flicking your clit, for his ring and middle fingers to ghost over your entrance. Your folds had just begun to harbour dampness, but Acacius would need to work you more and better if he was to bring you to the heavens, if he wanted to keep his head on his shoulders.
The General must have noticed that he had to persevere, that a couple of brushes on your pussy and a few licks on your inner thighs were not going to be enough to pardon his life. And once he realised that, a spark of resolution ignited his eyes. Acacius straightened his back, still on his knees, and swallowed a tormented whimper when his full weight pressed down on his broken leg.
He towered to your height, his sight at your level now.
“Painful, huh?” you mocked him with a wavering smile when he thumbed at your clit harsher and faster, as if he was trying to punish you for the ridicule.
He didn’t reply, just held your gaze with defiance, a hint of hatred glittering. Your hands grasped the armrests of the cushioned chair when his fingers stalked your hole but didn’t penetrate.
“You like this, don’t you? Having control over me, over my life; making me do this with your guards right there,” he husked out, his pads gently rubbing your entire slit from top to bottom, sliding on the soft inner skin of your pussy lips. “I owe you and you own me, that’s the deal, right?”
“Mhm, yes,” you muttered, breath hitching now that his fingers alternated between skidding on your cunt and smothering your burning clit. “And don’t worry about them. They won’t join unless you don’t do your job.”
His stare clouded with a dark passion that wasn’t there before—the challenge spurring something in him. You did mean it: if he didn’t make you come, one of the knights would and Acacius would lose his head. You didn’t need a concubine that didn’t know his way around your body.
His eyes dropped from your lips down to your bosom. You were only wearing a thin linen dress, so thin your perked up nipples were greeting him. Acacius tilted forward and his tongue darted out to lick one of your excited peaks over the textile. Just a testing dash, but when you sighed and your head lolled back, the General cracked a devilish grin—he’d found your weak spot.
He latched onto your breast, wetting the fabric with his blood and spit as he sucked your nipple into his mouth. Acacius rolled it between his teeth and pulled gently, enough for your back to arch and your pussy to gush on his tantalising fingers. Your heart bounced around in your ribcage with every lap of his tongue and every stroke on your now pulsing clit.
Your cunt was finally drenched, could feel threads of slick sticking to Acacius’ fingers every time he tapped your bundle of nerves before rolling deep circular motions on it. The Roman’s digits orbited your dripping entrance, his eyes shooting up to yours with pride when he found you ready to take his fingers.
“Seems like I can do my job after all, domina,” he mumbled, kissing your nipple one last time. “You are soaking wet, so your guardsmen’s services won’t be required tonight.”
His cockiness was in stark contrast to his demeanour a few minutes ago, when he was helplessly dragging himself across the room towards you. Both versions of him were appealing, the lame one and the overconfident one.
You chuckled, but the laugh got stuck at the back of your throat when two of his fingers plunged into your hole in one sweet, smooth motion, burying them down to the knuckles. The half-chortle quickly mutated into a high-pitched moan when Acacius hooked his fingers inside you, pressing on that perfect spongy spot that not many men knew how to find.
“You aren’t laughing now, are you?” he pressed his luck, and you looked down at him with heavy-lidded eyes.
“Shut up and put your mouth to work before I change my mind,” you threatened, grabbing a fistful of his hair and pushing him down your frame.
Acacius stopped at your chest again, but you clicked your tongue in a negative and forced him even further down.
“I want you to eat me out. Suck my clit while you finger me good and deep. Fuck me with your tongue and lick me clean after I come in your mouth,” you shamelessly demanded of him.
Your request shocked him again, eyes widened and pupils blown, probably because he wasn’t used to women being direct about what they wanted. You were no unexperienced girl, no Roman highborn that would get rattled with crude words. You were a grown-up, seasoned woman who knew exactly her preferences in bed and outside of it and had no shame in expressing them out loud.
Acacius didn’t move—his fingers plugging you while his jaw hung open.
“Didn’t I make myself clear, Acacius? Or have you never eaten pussy before?”
“I—uh…” he stuttered, neither confirming nor denying.
You had an inkling that if he had, he didn’t do it often. Going down on a woman was considered dirty and even sordid in other cultures, but here it was the highest praise one could give to a partner.
You rolled your eyes, tugging at his greying hair.
“You better learn quickly then if you want to live,” you warned him, shoving his face between your legs. “Eat me out like your life depends on it. Because it does.”
Acacius didn’t need to pronounce any words because his eyes spoke for him—disobedience and survival dancing around in the brown of his irises. The imagery was enough to send you into orbit: the praised General of Rome knelt before you with a bruised face, a broken nose dripping blood, a leg in urgent need of being mended before it caused long term damage and a fractured ego. And while he wasn’t blindly obedient yet, there he was, following your command—stripped of power, of autonomy, reduced to a recalcitrant sex worker.
He peered up at you with the fiercest look when you pushed his head and mouth closer to your cunt, eager for him to start. His warm breath fanned your curls, his fingers deeply wedged into you.
A sense of rewarding victory washed over you when his tongue sticked out, a mute surrender on his part, marking the beginning of his end—of the fall of Rome to your feet. You had to suppress an excited giggle when Acacius finally lapped at the surface of your valley, all the while maintaining eye contact.
His free fingers pried your pussy lips open, exposing your beating clit to the cool air of the room. But that sore coldness was soon replaced by the heat of his tongue—first a gentle, measured kitten lick before the tip flicked your nub while his fingers withdrew from your insides to hammer back in.
“Oh, Gods,” you whimpered in relief, head canted back as your eyes shut in delight.
Acacius surprised you by sucking on your bud, a proper open-mouth kiss that had your legs quivering around him, squeezing his shoulders so he wouldn’t go anywhere—this was exactly where he belonged, worshipping your cunt. His tongue flattened and dragged along your labia while fingering you relentlessly, pumping in and out so fast it was making you dizzy.
“Fuck, such a good boy you are,” you whined as your knees began quaking, your hands hurting as you grabbed onto the armrests with even more strength, afraid you might fall off the throne if you didn’t steady yourself. “You’re doing so well, Acacius.”
He grunted in reply, eyes closed and his forehead resting on your mound as he buried the bottom half of his face into your crotch.
A little praise could go a long way, especially when the man wasn’t particularly eager to give head. The Roman was really putting in the work now, his tongue rippling against your clit and his lips pressing around it. He paused to catch his breath, panting heavily while the tip of his aquiline nose brushed your sensitive clit and his fingers scissored inside you. And then feverishly latched onto the centre of your pleasure again.
That was almost your undoing, deafening desire ringing in your ears and your body almost transcending into the immortal plane. Your hands shot to your breasts, pinching your nipples as you moaned out loud. You could feel your pussy clutching around the intrusion, palpitating with the anticipation of release.
You were dying to come crushing down. But not on his fingers, no.
“Stop,” you cried out, reining in the desperation taking a hold of your being.
Acacius glanced up at you, pussy-drunk and confused. His tongue was still glued to your clit, but his digits eased out of you.
“I want to come in your mouth,” it was an order that was almost formulated as a plea. “Fuck me with your tongue, Acacius. Show me how much you want to live.”
Without needing any more directions, the General’s mouth travelled down until his lips lined up with yours. The tip of his tongue circled your leaking opening a couple of times before diving in, finding refuge in your core.
You shuddered, a shiver running up your spine while Acacius’ tongue plunged in and out with astonishing ease. His hands were completely splayed on your inner thighs, keeping your legs spread open for him. The incessant stimulation, coupled with you playing with your breasts, was enough to send you into oblivion.
After what felt like the longest eating out session, a mind-shattering orgasm hit you with the strength of a godsent army. Your pleasure had been building up so much, you squirted into his mouth as a scream ripped your lungs and throat. Acacius stayed put between your legs—drinking from your fountain, reaping the benefits of his hard work.
When your whole body slackened and your breathing calmed down, Acacius emerged from in between your legs. His nose had stopped bleeding, but his cheeks, chin and facial hair were smeared with dried blood and your slick.
“What a pretty picture,” you laughed, completely relaxed. Then stole a glance at your core. “Clean me up, can’t leave me with this mess.”
Acacius didn’t say a word, either too stunned or fighting his own urges. He wasn’t going to find relief with you, not today. He was most probably rock hard under the armoured groin protection, but if he was to be a good concubine, he’d have to learn that his relief was yours to dispense.
He bowed down and diligently did as told, lapping at your inner thighs and every crevice in your pussy. Licked all the bloodied trails, all the silken wetness clinging onto your tender skin thoroughly. He then readjusted your skirt, which cascaded down your legs again as if nothing had happened.
When Acacius was done, he sat back on his heels but was soon reminded of his broken tibia. He groaned in blinding pain before manoeuvring his own leg out from under his body.
Silence reigned as you sized each other.
He would be a great addition to your personal life, that was undeniable. A quick, eager learner that would do anything for you. You just had to train him well so he wouldn’t forget who he belonged to.
“Yeah, I’ll keep you,” you declared with a smirk.
The crow’s feet around his eyes softened, a sigh of relief stuck at the back of his throat.
Your attention returned to the two guardsmen in the room behind the General. In the heat of the moment, you had completely forgotten about the public witnessing Acacius’ descent. The older one hadn’t moved an inch, being used to this kind of open sexual displays and even being part of them when you required it. The younger one, however, was sweating and sporting a very obvious wet spot on the front of his wool trousers—he’d come watching Acacius eating you out.
Poor thing, you couldn’t blame him. You waved at him, who awkwardly stepped forward, avoiding your eye contact.
“Show Acacius to his new chamber in the basement,” you ordered as the younger knight helped him up. “And get a healer for this man, clean and feed him so he’s presentable at all times.”
“Basement?” the Roman retorted back, a bite of surprise in his tone.
“I wasn’t planning on taking you hostage. That’s the best I can offer right now. Who knows, if you do well in your new role, I might upgrade your living quarters.”
You could tell he wasn’t happy at all. You couldn’t care less. He was in no position to negotiate—he’d already offered his body, the man had nothing else to give.
“You’re always on call, Acacius. Remember that,” you raised your voice just enough for him to hear while the knight dragged him out of the gallery.
One year later
Marcus wrapped his hand around the opposite wrist, rubbing the open, oozing wound the shackles had imprinted on his skin.
He’d lived in darkness for so long, adapted to it, any source of light always made his eyes prickle uncomfortably now. It didn’t matter for how long he was above ground when one of your guards dragged him out of the dungeon, it just hurt and never got better.
Some days Marcus wished he’d taken the easy way out, wished you hadn’t listened to him and beheaded him instead. Death was more sheltered than this life he was living now—pacing around the tiny room he’d called home for over a year, waiting for your call, for anything to distract him.
The first time he fought back against the handcuffs, a small army was sent to restrain him and carry him upstairs. But you recompensed him like a stray dog searching for leftovers, fed him yourself and had a medic look at his shin and nose. Told him that everything was going to be alright, that you’d do everything necessary so he could keep his leg intact. And with his belly full and a weak sense of tranquillity, you threw him back into the dungeon.
For a while it was a vicious circle: he resisted and you punished him, depriving him of sunlight, food and water for days. Would strip him naked, leaving him completely exposed in the cold dungeon until Marcus couldn’t take it anymore and would beg for some clothes, a dirty blanket, anything to protect his skin from the biting cold. He’d learned that if he behaved well, was polite and did everything you asked, then you would throw him some clothes to cover himself and warm up. And he would thank you every fucking time, grateful for your charity.
When his stoicism would falter, you’d reward him. And only when he’d be at his lowest, you would require of his services. Only when he felt broken inside, a debilitating desperation consuming him, you’d order him to fuck you.
Marcus felt disgustingly used, a puppet whose strings you expertly played. But at some point, that desperate feeling morphed. He would be in his cell, boredom and despair competing for his attention, and a tiny inside voice would whisper in his ear that he just needed a distraction to keep his mind off things. And miraculously, you’d ask for him, a momentary relief in being outside of that cage for whatever period of time you deemed.
And over time, he’d found himself dragging your pleasure, edging you for as long as possible. Because the longer Marcus was in your bed, satisfying all your kinks and darkest desires, the less time he would have to spend in the humid dungeon. The longer he made himself useful to you—the more times he made you come on his mouth, fingers or cock—the less time his brain would blame him for being in the position he’d chosen.
It was strange how much he hated you and needed you equally—how his mind rejected the very notion of you, but his heart softened around the edges, clinging onto whatever chink of comfort you could offer him. Being at your mercy was a daily mental struggle, but a small, illogical part of him sought the breadcrumbs of your approval.
It had become hard to tell reality and emotions apart—the contradictions between his actions and feelings nagged at him every waking hour. And when the voices in his head were too loud, you vanished them for him, bossing him around. Having no choice in where his life was headed was strangely comforting for a man who used to make decisions all the time.
“Acacius?” you redirected his straying attention. “Don’t make me repeat myself again.”
So lost he’d been in his head, Marcus hadn’t caught what you said a few seconds earlier. But by the way your hungry eyes stared at his naked form, his lap in particular, he could deduce what you had asked of him.
Already half hard, Marcus seized his cock with a tight grip and stroked himself all the way from the base to the tip. A low grumble hiked up his throat with every pump. Your eagerness incited him—the sooner his dick steeled to a full erection, the sooner he could find refuge in you.
You huffed and Marcus’ eyes shot to yours, not understanding why you were displeased with his actions. Slowly, you closed the distance, walking towards him completely bare. The once General of Rome couldn’t help himself but admire the delicate, delicious curves of your body. He couldn’t deny that the sensuality of the tilt of your hips as you approached him.
His manhood reacted to the simple sight of you—a Pavlovian response he should be ashamed of.
“I said, I want to do it myself today,” you mumbled once your mouth was dangerously close to his—a mouth he’d never tasted. One hand pressed to his chest, and the other wrapping around the back of his, guiding the pumps on his cock. “I’m feeling generous.”
Your petition shocked him—you’d never touched his dick, never masturbated him. You always had him do it while you played with yourself, as if it was some sort of sick game. Because it wasn’t about his pleasure, but yours. Countless times he’d daydreamed about it, about how your warm, soft palm would feel gripping him tight, jerking him off.
Holding your gaze, Marcus unsheathed his erection, his arms falling aimlessly to his sides. Wetting your lips, you winked at him before squeezing him hard. He grizzled at the contact and when the first pump was delivered, Marcus almost lost his goddamn mind.
His palms felt itchy while you worked him hard, so to keep them busy, he half-hugged you to grasp your ass cheeks and knead them. You imposed a maddeningly slow rhythm, your strokes firm but deliberately unhurried. And as the pace built up, as you pumped him faster, Marcus sighed and bent over slightly to bury his face in the curve of your neck.
These were the rewards that kept him sane, kept him going. He was fully aware of what you were doing, of how you were training him to be your perfect sex slave, but it had gotten to a point where he just didn’t care anymore. He was yours, in mind and body.
Still standing, you paused suddenly, leaving him reeling for more. And then you tapped his leaky knob on your pussy a few times.
“Oh, you are ready. Such a needy boy, already throbbing with just a few pumps?” you mocked him, taking a step back.
His Adam’s apple bobbed at your sinful smirk, your hand intertwined with his as you led him towards one of the futons in the room. The walls were decorated with vivid tapestries in red and black, only lighted by a few torches on the exposed stone. At first glance, it just looked like a private room to receive guests, but the reality was much different—this was where you indulged in sex, where you would host orgies for the noblemen and noblewomen in your court.
Not that he had participated in any, because as you once said, “You’re mine and mine only to enjoy. I want you all for myself, Acacius.”
Marcus sat on the futon when you pushed him down. Towering above him, you reached for him, caressing his cheek, while you ushered his other hand to your cunt. His fingers dipped in your slit, a testing touch—you were already wet, your pussy tacky enough for him to assume that you had already engaged in sex before sending for him.
“You know, I should punish you,” you whispered, his finger gently rubbing your clit. “Just had two men dicking me down and neither of them made me finish. No one makes me come anymore, not like you do.”
Acacius should be sickened, and while a pang of jealousy rooted in his belly, his chest swelled with pride. A sense of achievement warmed his tummy—he was convinced you needed him as much as he needed you.
“Punish me if you must, domina, but I take pride in that,” he cooed back, a half-grin curving his lips.
You laughed, then shook your head as you climbed on top of him. “You’re proud? Well, you should be. But I’ve got to say, I take credit for that though. I’ve trained you well, haven’t I?”
Marcus nodded with the right dose of submission. “You have.”
Your eyes searched his for a moment too long—so long Acacius thought you were going to kiss him. But it was a fleeting mirage, because a second later you were straddling him backwards.
Marcus reclined a little and held himself half up by placing his palms against the futon, as he watched you lining your pussy up with his cock, lifting your butt up at the perfect angle. From here, he could see your lips glistening with another man’s seed, and the reminder made his teeth grit. He would make sure you would forget all about the others, make sure it was only his name you would moan—that only his name would echo between these walls.
Tilting your waist back, your puffy lips hugged his pearly cockhead. The rolling of your hips had him completely locked in—how his glans would kiss your dripping entrance, going partially in to then come out with a pop. It was diabolical of you to provoke him like this, when the only thing he wanted—needed—was to bury himself in you.
You must have read his mind, because your palms squeezed his knees for support and then you plummeted down on him. Marcus watched his full length disappear into your greedy pussy with awe. You always took him so well, despite of how big and girthy he was. Always hugged him so tight, your walls fluttering around him as he cracked you open.
His shaft slid in and out of you with ease, slowly and beautifully. Almost theatrically, you waved your hips, arching your back to bury him as deeply as possible. You took your time, rolling on him over and over again until both of you were breathless. And only then, you began riding him properly, upping the pace with every push of your knees.
You straightened your back, bouncing on him and holding your breasts. You craned your neck and then moaned loudly.
“Oh, God, Acacius—” you choked back another wail, your whole presence a sight to behold. “I love how you fuck me, baby. You pry me open so good and wide it almost hurts.”
Marcus’ head spun with your compliments, mesmerised with how sweat ran down your spine. He hadn’t had anything to drink, but it surely felt like he’d had too much wine.
In the heat of the moment, when you were both near release, a knock on the door momentarily drowned your sobs and his grunts. It didn’t faze either of you though, used as he was to have a public by now. You had made him fuck you through interruptions several times, this wasn’t something new.
“Come—” your tone went an octave too high when his cockhead hit your cervix. “Come in.”
Marcus heard the door creak open. He couldn’t see who it was but recognised the voice of the guard.
“Milady, he’s arrived.”
“Se—Oh, fuck,” you whined, completely sat on his throbbing cock and rolling your hips. “Send him in.”
You had stopped jumping on him but continued to roll your hips to keep the momentum going. He was balls deep into your pussy, your inner walls contracting around him with maddening pressure. Marcus was so focused on how you clenched, he didn’t pay attention to the new presence in the room until you spoke.
“Take a seat, my dear husband.”
Marcus sat right up, his hands anchoring to either side of your waist and his head peeking above your shoulder to look at the man you’d called husband—instant resentment poisoning his chest.
The other man looked just as confused as he was, his jaw ticking at the scene in front of him—his wife, you, riding another man, riding him.
“What the fuck is going on?” Your husband spoke between gritted teeth, sitting down on the futon directly across from where you both laid. “This is not what was agreed.”
Your sweaty palms covered the back of Marcus’ hands, holding him there as you hoisted your hips up. The wet slide of your cunt around his length made him dizzy and just when his crying glans was about to slip out of your warmth, you impaled yourself again, pressing down on him with such force, Marcus couldn’t stop the groan that rumbled through his chest.
“We agreed to merge our lands through marriage,” you bit back—Marcus could even imagine how your brows would be bunching up right now, exasperated at the defiance. “And that was it. What I do, who I fuck, is none of your business.”
“It is. You are my wife. We are married now. A woman should—”
“A woman should take the pleasure offered to her. And Acacius here, he is always willing to offer me a good time, right, sweetheart?” You glanced at him over your shoulder, a grin curling the corners of your lips as your cunt squeezed around him, prompting him to talk.
“Yes,” was his automatic response.
You clutched around him again—his reward for the right answer.
Marcus’ head was spinning with the new information. When did you marry? Who was this man? Why hadn’t you said anything before? What would be of him if you now had a husband? Would you discard him? Would you get rid of him?
The unanswered questions sent him into a panic. You couldn’t get rid of him, not that easily—not when he obeyed your every order now, not when you’d broken him past the possibility of mending. You had stripped him of everything, even of his free will, and replaced the parts of him that he’d lost with the qualities you desired in a man.
You playfully winked at him for his response, gave his hands a reassuring pat before your attention returned to your husband. Determined to safeguard what he had left of a life he never thought for himself, Acacius looked at the man, a dangerous darkness swirling in his pupils—a silent threat to back off, to not even think about destroying the little hope he had left. Because if your husband did, if he dared to even try to make you discard him, he’d kill him with his bare hands.
“I don’t care—” the man began to retort back, standing up.
“Sit down,” your voice went up, so adamant your husband just did as told, taken aback by your acritude. “You have a few things to learn now that your land has become mine. We do things differently here.”
As you continued talking, so did your riding. You rocked your hips on Marcus’ lap one more time before bobbing up and down on his thudding cock. Marcus’ mind was spiralling so much, he barely registered you talking about how your husband would hold no royal title in your kingdom, how he wasn’t any more important than any other man in your territory. About the adhesion of land and collection of taxes from your new subjects, about how everything your husband thought his, was no longer because it belonged to you. You’d played him, just like you had played Marcus a year ago.
It really amazed him how you could discuss intricate topics while fucking yourself on his dick. Because not even once did you falter, your pace constant as your cunt sheathed his cock; how your inner walls squeezed when he was buried down to the hilt, his loaded, now painful balls kissing your most intimate lips.
Only from time to time you’d be out of breath, would bite your bottom lip trying to stop a pleasure cry when his cockhead would drag along your anterior wall, pressing on that perfect, heavenly spot inside you.
But as lust built up inside both of you, the rhythm of your plunges became more erratic, your cunt stuttering around him with impending release. And knowing the map of your body as he did, Marcus pressed his forehead against your sweaty back, jaw locked when your pussy fluttered beautifully around his girth.
His hands splayed on your waist helped ground you, but Marcus spared one to press it onto your lower belly. Applied the right amount of pressure so you could feel his cock parting your insides, taking up all the damp space in your womb. Your fingernails dug in the skin of his knees, leaving bloody crescents behind, when that same hand trailed down, raking through your curls until Marcus found your clit.
“Hope you’re learning a thing or two from Acacius, dear husband. F-fuck,” you uttered breathless, whining aloud when Marcus drew tight circles on your throbbing nub—he could feel your heartbeat on his rough pads now, choking his manhood too. “Fuck, Acacius. Yeah, oh, Gods. I’m coming. Fill me up to the brim, baby, give it all to me.”
At your command, Marcus finally let go, draining his pleasure and frustration right into your quivering pussy, still kneading your clit as you rode your own climax out. Claiming you for himself, he felt his dick unload for minutes, stuffing your cunt full of his warm, white seed. Your walls constricted his girth with inhumane strength, announcing another orgasm that washed over you so intensely, you leaned back on him for support, heaving like a manic, milking him dry of every last drop he had to offer.
His ears rang with the crash-out—it almost felt like tripping near a cliff and falling over into the void. The sweet release you let Marcus find in your core was the best gift for a shattered man like him. Deep down, he was grateful to be yours. For letting him have this, have you. And Marcus wouldn’t allow any other man, husband or not, to endanger the only reprieve he could experience.
“Thank you, sweetheart. I knew you wouldn’t disappoint me. I can always count on you to make me come,” you flattered him, a warm sensation spreading over his body as his cock softened inside you.
You kneaded his testicles almost lovingly, as if making sure he had nothing left to give, and then got off his lap, standing up to your full height, his limp dick abandoning your insides with a squelch.
Marcus leaned back on the futon, spent and tired, and watched you walked completely naked towards your husband. The light from the torches glittered on your skin, his cum dripping down your inner thighs in spurts. When you approached the other man, Marcus realised that your husband had been watching the whole scene develop reluctantly, with a hate in his eyes that didn’t quite reach his cock—the other man was hard, his trousers tented.
“The sooner you learn your place, dear husband, the easier it will be. Acacius can attest to that, right?”
“Yes,” he replied submissively, bowing his head down.
Marcus believed his own answer to be the truth. Because it was.
Five years later
While you loved being in complete control, over the last few years you had learnt to let go of it in some rare occasions—to let Acacius take control while your brain emptied of all the worry that came with running and defending a kingdom from the grasp of your enemies. Just in small doses, so he’d remember his place in your life, but enough to create a false sense of authority.
You’d made the decision shortly after your marriage, when you started noticing how Acacius was becoming numb to his own existence, bitter to the presence of your husband. Allowing him to take charge of some aspects of his life was enough to bring back the defiant spark in his eyes that had captivated you the first time you met.
In the span of time, Acacius had learnt all your tells—when you were not in the mood at all, when you needed to be in full dominion and when you needed him to take over and just fuck you stupid until your brain was desensitized.
Just like a loyal lap dog you’d trained him, always awaiting the orders of his owner. You had grown fond of him—cherished him in a pathological, toxic way. Accepting his deal six years ago was probably the smartest choice, because you had enjoyed every damn second. It had taken a lot of blood, sweat and even tears, but finally Marcus was exactly the man you needed him to be—blindly devoted, keen to please you whenever and wherever you asked, and fierce in how he’d protected you in the battlefield and outside of it.
And you had rewarded him finely for it. Gave him purpose by knighting him, promoting him to be a commander in your army and the head of your own personal guard. And most of all, you had bestowed upon him the heaviest, most important title a man could have in your land: being the father of your only child, heiress to the throne.
Marcus was a great, present father; your daughter had him completely wrapped around her little finger. Even though you would never admit it out loud, your heart melted a little every time you’d see them together—playing around on the grounds of the castle, dusting off her knees and kissing her tears away when she’d fall or teaching her how to hold a toy bow when she was old enough.
There had never been rumours floating around in your court. Your daughter had an uncanny resemblance to her father, so much Marcus’ parenthood was never questioned. Even your poor husband knew it and had to live with the situation. It wasn’t your fault that he was a prune and mediocre at best in bed—couldn’t make a woman come even if his life depended on it. What a disappointment of a man he’d been, but at least his dowry was worth the pantomime.
And while your husband was still the one warming your bed to save some appearance, most nights you would sneak out to the spartan adjacent room where Marcus slept now. Just like tonight.
You were bent over the wooden frame at the foot of the bed, Marcus holding your hips up while you were on your tiptoes. He was railing you so hard, the whole bed shook under the strength of his thrusts. The wooden headboard rattled against the wall shared with your bedroom, where your husband was pretending to sleep.
A moan tore your throat, unable as you were to not be vocal about the passion you both shared. His a trained one, yours a natural one.
“Harder. Fuck me harder, Marcus,” you cooed, a thread of spit hanging off your parted lips, your walls hugging him tight. “Just like that. Yes, harder, deeper! Destroy me, break me.”
Your pleas only spurred his resolution, one of his hands flying to the nape of your neck and grabbing a fistful of your hair. He pulled your head back, your back arching off. Your pussy made the most beautiful squelching sounds every time he thrusted in, the lewd cacophony of flesh meeting ricocheting in the room.
Marcus was still haunted by the memory of your wet, warm mouth around his weeping glans. How you suckled on his tip, sucking his whole length in and gagging on it like a slut. How your tongue had played with his slit, grazing it gently with your teeth before you swallowed his entire cock again. How your fingers had massaged his testicles while your saliva and his precum cascaded down and dampened his lap.
It had been the first time in six years that you had given him head—his fine reward for preventing an attempt on your life earlier that morning by a scorned nobleman. The intense pleasure spiked so high in his system, Marcus had come unannounced in your mouth, like a rookie concubine. Seeing you gulping down his spend and smiling almost made him lose his mind. “I can’t waste it,” you had purred in his ear.
And that memory, along with your cries, were what fuelled him to pound into your heat with renewed vigour. The promise of another orgasm was enough for his cock to harden under your diligent touch—you’d trained him well for minimal downtime and maximum playtime.
“I feel you in my guts, right here,” your honeyed voice brought him back to the present.
You guided his hand from one of your hips to your tummy, right above your mound, and he noticed his own cock pushing in and out of you. Marcus felt like a wild animal in heat every time you were so crude, so open about what you needed of him.
“Want me to rearrange them for you, domina?” he rasped out, unforgivingly rutting into you.
“Yes, please,” and that little concession, that whispered please he had never heard before, sent him over the edge.
His hips snapped harshly against your ass and letting go of your hair, Marcus grabbed both of your ass cheeks, easing them apart to catch a glance of literal heaven. Creamy rings wrapped around his girth, your desire evident and slick on his cock. Watching himself piston into you, how his length got swallowed up to then reappear with even more beautiful ivory bands around himself, made him pant behind you.
Marcus waited on your signal, your permission to unload into your core. And when your pussy started shuddering around him arrhythmically, he knew that was his cue. Fucked into you harder, hypnotised as he was seeing his whole shaft disappear into you, to then finally empty his balls at the same time you came on his cock.
It took him a couple of minutes to catch his breath, your legs still quaking with the aftermath of your own frenzy. When Marcus regained control of his own body, he gently pulled out of your dripping heat and watched in awe how his semen oozed out of your cunt, white pearls clinging onto your clit and inner labia while the rest of it trickled down to the floor.
Marcus reached between your legs, gathering his cum and your sweet release to push it back inside your mouthing hole. He fucked his seed back into you with his fingers, bending down and licking the salt off your back at the same time.
You whimpered, overstimulated, and your pussy clutched again, gifting him with another beautiful orgasm as you came on his fingers.
“I’d kill for you, my queen.”
He truly meant it. Perhaps it was wrong—how down bad he was for you after you had ripped him apart. How you had destroyed his ego to then build it back up to your likeness.
The only thing Marcus knew was that he owed you his life, and you owned him. And that made him feel safe. That had always been the deal he struck, and he was extremely content with it now.
“I know, Marcus,” you keened, turning around in his embrace with a beaming smile and draping your arms around his neck. “I know that I can ask anything of you, and you will do it for me like the good guard dog you are.”
And suddenly, you tilted forward, pressing your mouth to his in a kiss that soon got deep, wet and needy. The first kiss he’d ever tasted from your lips, sweeter than he could have ever imagined. So damn sweet, he felt lightheaded as your tongue wrestled his for a dominance he quickly surrendered.
Yes. Marcus Acacius, the once feared and decorated General of Rome, would do absolutely anything for you.
regni rerumque oblite tuarum? - Aeneid by Virgil
(Mercury to Aeneas: you forget your kingdom and destiny?)
|| MDNI 18+ smut, angst, fluff, oh my! Marcus Acacius x reader, secret relationship, marcus is not married, so much latin but I have a study guide beneath the cut for you, hurt/comfort, arguments, man handling, kissing, praise, dirty talk, riding, f!receiving oral, pinv, marcus is a large man, creampie, breeding kink, no y/n, no daddy kink, domestic dirty talk lol ||
a/n I: Mercury is one of the Roman gods and is known for delivering divine messages between worlds. I took Latin in highschool so my knowledge is finally being used but still I am dependent on google for many things so please forgive any inaccuracies!
a/n II: this is my submission for @pedroscurls's ppcu dialogue challenge. my dialogue was "you can't, or you won't?" tysm!! x
wc: 6.5k
roman vocab (oh, dr c if you could see me now)
domine: lord, master, a title meant for respect
nuntia: messenger, female
mea cara: my beloved
Kalends of Iunius: first of June
filia mercurii: daughter of mercury
Augusti: plurual of Augustus, which was the title of emporers
fututores: fuckers
vir meus: my husband
It is far too hot to be traveling.
Although it is nearly evening, sweat runs down the bare column of your neck, stinging where the sun pressed for hours against your topmost vertebrae before falling down the length of your spine.
It does not matter. You know this plainly. It does not matter if the tender flesh between your toes rubs raw against dry leather, nor if your shoulders burn beneath Sol’s temper on this early spring day, his bright chariot riding closer than it should as it dragged the sun too near to the earth. Perhaps the God has taken offense to the season prior—winter was harsh, spring slow yet eager to bloom, fields finally thin with green, but mostly thick and swampy with mud and muck. Perhaps it is punishment for some forgotten slight. The gods have long memories, after all.
It makes little difference. As Sol shows no mercy to the road, the Augusti show none to the general who must ride it.
At last you see it in the distance.
At last.
You take in cream colored linen tents, risen from earth like ant hills, dirtied with mud and blood from many months of rain and storms and fighting. They stand raised by wooden poles as their horses graze nearby in half made paddocks where the grass has already been turned to mud by hooves and soldiers’ boots.
It takes some time to find him.
He is not seated within some grand pavilion at the heart of the encampment. There are no guards planted stiffly at any of the entrances, no noise of revelry spilling out into the early evening air. No drunken laughter rolling between the tents, no clatter of cups or men grown loud and foolish on too much wine.
Instead there is the quieter life about the camp.
You hear the light clatter of dishes somewhere within the rows of tents as soldiers settle down for evening rations. There is a slow rasp of iron on stone as one draws their blade along a whetstone. You see a few with wrapped linen and gauze around wounds. Some around an arm or a leg, one covering a bloodied eye. Here and there small cookfires burn low, men crouched beside them writing letters in the fading light of day, heads bent over wax tablets or scraps of parchment that you will carry back across the empire.
You draw your tote closer to your side as you pass and a few of them look up.
Curiosity follows you down the narrow lane between the tents. It is not often someone like you walks through a legionary camp. And the of a woman besides. You know it is more skin than most of them have seen in months, perhaps longer. You halfheartedly assess your own clothing, obscenely aware of how short your tunic is, how much skin you are showing, originally only to keep yourself cool but now seems egregiously unsafe. Your shoulders and arms, supple but reddened by the road, catch their eyes as you move. You quicken your pace.
A soldier’s encampment is not known for gentleness, nor patience, and certainly not for manners.
The tent you seek blends in with the others, set just behind the line of command tents where the officers take their counsel. Larger than the rest, though not ostentatious, its linen walls are marked with the same dust and weather as every other shelter in the camp. A vexillum has been driven into the earth beside it, a square Roman battle flag bearing the general’s insignia that stirs lazily in the warm breeze.
You step inside with little ceremony to see three men standing around a wooden table, the dim interior lit by oil lamps that flicker at your intrusion.
To his left—a soldier, hardened, wearing a cuirass across his chest and a hand resting near his hilt of his gladius. Habit, surely, would not allow it far from reach.
To his right, a young officer or clerk, ink-stained fingers clutching a wax tablet, a stylus poised in the air where he had been taking down orders.
And in the middle, the man you seek. Taller and broader than either of those beside him, dark curls fallen loose across a battle-worn brow. He fills the space entirely as your eyes find him before you can force them elsewhere.
All three of them look up the moment you enter.
“Domine,” you greet, bowing your head. “I bring word.”
The general, immense in his stillness, studies you in silence. You can't see it, but you can feel the slow weight of his gaze travel from your swollen feet to your sunburnt cheekbones and the frazzled crown of braids atop your head.
“Leave us,” he commands.
The men do not question him. They wouldn't dare. The faint stir of air from their passing brushes your skin as they slip past you and out of the tent into the evening.
You keep your head bent out of respect, avoiding his eye, and your hand is clenching the leather strap of your bag hard as you wait for his next command.
"The city sends nuntia into war now? In the state we are in?" he asks, though you're not entirely sure if you're meant to answer.
He exhales through his nose and drops the small stone marker he had been holding between his fingers. Several more lie scattered across the campaign map spread over the table, marking roads, river crossings, and the positions of men.
"Come." he commands, and you dare not disobey.
You move around the table and stop before him. Slowly you lift your chin, first to his chest, then to his face. You take in the unshaven line of his strong jaw, the aquiline nose carved hard against the last of the sunlight bathing the tent, oil lamps already lit around you. There are cuts on his face, and you count them while you wait for his next order. Some of them are earned over the long, grinding months of war, others fresh enough that the skin around them is angry red.
But you do not look in his eyes.
You see the movement before you feel him— a shift of his shoulder as you keep your gaze averted, and a quiet breath leaves him as he steps closer. Then the rough pads of his fingers find your face. He catches your chin between his thumb and forefinger and lifts, carefully forcing your gaze up to meet his.
The moment your eyes find his, you feel a thick lump rise in your throat. They are dark as honey left too long in the sun, warm and brown and far gentler than a man like him ought to possess as they look down upon you.
"You should not be here," he whispers.
Your shoulders fall, a deep lungful leaving your chest that you didn't realize you'd been holding. "Domine—"
“You should not be here,” he says again, firmer now, the voice of a formidable general growling out his demands, even when the words are meant only for you. His brows draw together as he looks down at you, the line of his jaw tightening. “We stand on the brink of another attack and I cannot—”
He stops himself, shaking his head once as if the rest of the thought is not meant to be spoken, and drops his hand from your face. Your skin still burns where his fingers had rested, the ghost of his touch seared there even as it disappears.
“I bring word, Domine,” you tell him again, steady despite the painful tightness gathering in your throat. “That is all.”
"That is all." he echoes in disbelief, a scoff forced from his lips. “If that is all, why not wait until I return to Roman soil? Why come here, where I am commanded to bring war to people who do not deserve it? Why must you come here, where I am unable to keep you safe?”
"It cannot wait, Domine—"
“Please,” he says, cutting you off. His voice softens, though the frustration still sits in it. “Do not call me that, mea cara.”
Your lips press tightly together, the muscles of your face drawing taut, and he turns away from you then, dragging a rough hand across his own face, thick fingers scarred and hardened from long years spent beside Mars himself.
You hesitate.
But at last you reach into your leather satchel, and even you cannot ignore how badly your hand trembles as you retrieve the scroll sealed shut with violent red wax.
“This order comes from the twin Augusti,” you say at last, though it is more of a croak, and you hold it out to him behind his back.
The general turns only slightly, glancing toward you over the breadth of his shoulder, and it is only then you realize he is still wearing portions of his armor. The plates gleam faintly in the dimming room, light warming the already golden cast of his skin.
"Read it to me."
You lick your dried lips. You're not sure you have such courage.
But in the end, you obey, and break the seal.
The wax cracks beneath your thumb, loud in the quiet of the tent, and you unroll the parchment with careful hands, forcing your voice steady as you begin to read.
“By command of the divine Augusti, guardians of Rome and fathers of the empire,” you begin, the formal language already turning bitter on your tongue, “let it be known that Marcus Acacius, General of Rome, who has long served the will of the empire with sword and discipline, is hereby ordered to secure the continuance of his bloodline for the strength and stability of the state.”
The words feel heavier the further you go.
“The Senate and the Augusti alike have deemed it necessary that the house of Acacius not fall barren. Therefore the general is commanded to take lawful wife before the Kalends of Iunius, and to produce an heir worthy of Rome.”
You swallow.
“The names of suitable brides of noble Roman houses have been prepared and await the general’s choosing upon his return to the capital.”
Your finger grow weak, your voice even weaker, shaky now, as the parchment shakes in your hands, and you barely can make out the last words.
“This decree is issued in the interest of Rome, whose strength rests not only upon conquest, but upon the endurance of those who carry her name forward.”
His head hangs heavy as he stares down at the campaign table before him. He has turned, and both of his hands come to rest upon it as though he must brace himself there, his gaze fixed upon the map spread beneath his palms, the small stones marking the positions of his men staring back at him with indifference.
“They send me across the empire to spill blood for them,” he mutters finally, the bitterness in his voice low and restrained. “And now they would have me breed for them as well.”
He lifts one of the stones between his fingers, turning it slowly before letting it fall back onto the board with a dull clatter.
“And they sent you to carry this message to me.”
“I was ordered to.”
“Yes,” he replies quietly, his eyes still fixed upon the map. “You always are.”
You shift your weight as you set down the letter on his table. The leather of your sandals creaks softly against the packed earth as you gather the last of your courage.
"One of the women picked for you is the daughter of Senator Gracchus and she…" you clear your throat, "I hear she is blessed by Venus in her looks. She would make a good wife."
Somewhere during your speaking he has crossed the space between you.
He stands before you now like a shadow fallen over the room, his broad shoulders and unruly hair cutting the light from the oil lamps until you feel swallowed by his presence.
His hands find your hips as if it had not been weeks since your last meeting, but as easily as though they had never forgotten the place they belong. And though there is a faint, infuriating grin upon his mouth, his touch is warm and welcome through the thin fabric of your tunic, resting against the leather cord at your waist as he draws you nearer by a fraction.
You were used to this: the rough country of his hands, wide and cracked and certain upon your waist. This, you see, was commonplace for the two of you. You would come to deliver his letters to his expansive villa—usually orders of the next country to march upon or plans for a day of leave—and he would shoo away his servants so he could take you into his hands and bend you over the nearest lectus to fuck you utterly spent. He would feed you Rome's best wine and cheese, take you a time or two more, and send you back on your way with his reply.
But this was nothing like those times. The memories only burn as you think of them now.
“Gracchus,” he repeats, the faintest curl of amusement pulling at the corner of his mouth. “That miserable old slug.”
Your hands come up at once against his chest, pushing lightly at the hard plates of armor.
“Domine, don't—”
“And this daughter of his,” he continues, paying no mind to your protest as his thumbs press idly against your hip bones, “she is very beautiful, you say?"
“Yes,” you answer stiffly, still trying to push him away. “That is what I hear.”
He studies you with dark eyes moving slowly over your face as though the answer to his riddle rests somewhere upon it.
“I see,” he murmurs, leaning down into you.
Your palms press harder against his armor.
“Stop this jest,” you insist, your voice tightening despite your effort to remain composed. “You must treat the matter with the gravity it demands. They require an answer.”
His smile widens enough to show his teeth.
“Why…” he asks quietly, his lips moving though his words are scarcely above a whisper, “should I trouble myself with the spoiled daughter of a Senator…”
His fingers tighten in your tunic, drawing you even nearer still until there is scarcely any space left between you. His hips press flush against yours, his warmth insistent through the fabric and plated steel keeping you apart.
“…when I already have the most beautiful woman standing in my tent?”
"Enough of this, do not be so insolent." you finally shove him away, and he lets you go. His hands fall, but his gaze does not.
"I have no need for one of their hand picked maidens, cara, for you are the only woman I desire." His voice is low again, "So take my hand, my name, take everything I am and be my wife."
Your hand flies up to strike him before you have time to think of his proposition. The smack of your palm meeting his face cracks in the stillness of the quiet.
And yet, he is unmoved by this.
His eyes do not widen, his body does not flinch. But you see the infinitesimal clench of his jaw, the line of his brow deepening like a crack in the earth as his smile vanishes.
You move to strike again, but he catches you, his large, meaty palm wrapping around your wrist. He has the grip of a man who has spent half his life with a sword in it, which now swallows the delicate bones of your joint instead of the metal of a handle.
You fight in his grip, but he does not let go. It flits across your mind that he could easily break your bones, if he wished. He would have the right to it, for the way you struck him.
"Unhand me, Domine—" you seethe.
"Say my name."
You wrench again at his grasp, but his hand holds fast, immovable as iron. The thick knot in your throat burns hotter with every passing second, swelling until it chokes the words before they can leave you.
"Say my name, cara—"
"Unhand me!" You hiss. "I cannot marry you and you know it well!"
Your resistance only brings you closer, his hand dragging you forward as if inviting you into some sort of silly dance, your breasts now pressed hard against the armor that is gilded across his torso. The metal is warm from the heat of his body beneath it, and he leans down over you then, baring his teeth slightly with each syllable he forces out.
"Cant or won't?"
There is an aching, seething silence that stretches. Your ire burns as hot as coals behind your eyes as they narrow up at him. You hate him, you must. You must tell yourself this again and again, because the truth would be unbearable when the day comes that he is to wed to another.
“Have you lost your damned mind, Domine?” you snap, anger flashing hotter than the tears threatening behind your eyes. “You dishonor yourself speaking such madness—raging like a rabid hound.”
His other hand slides to wrap around your waist and down onto your lower back, pressing gently into your tail bone so your hips flush against his, and you can only just feel his growing member beneath the thick cotton tunic he wears.
“Madness?” he repeats, his voice low and dangerous now.
When you refuse to answer, he simply looks at you as though you are the one who has lost sense.
"I am to take a wife of my choosing," he says, each word slow and carefully chosen, "to lay my seed so our Divine Emperors may sleep easily knowing my blood will carry on their vanities—"
His jaw shifts, and he drops your hand to pull a piece of your hair that has fallen from the braid, curling it around his thick finger, “—and yet when I offer my hand to the one woman who knows me better than my own soldiers, the one who has shared my bed and my counsels…she strikes me."
Your face, you realize suddenly, is damp. And he sees it at once.
Something in him softens then, and the look he gives you holds both tenderness and hunger, the two mingling together like honey stirred into warm tea.
He leans closer, brushing his lips once against the corner of your eye where the tear has gathered.
“Why do you weep, mea cara?” he murmurs, the words warm against your skin before his mouth touches your temple, then the edge of your cheek. “Why do you fight me so?”
“I—”
Your breath shudders as you try to gather the words that refuse to come.
“Marcus,” you sigh at last, the name slipping from you despite yourself as you close your eyes. “I am no one.”
His mouth stills against your cheek.
“You are everything," he answers quietly, and you can feel his breath against the shell of your ear.
You shake your head at once, desperate, your hands pressing against his chest again though the strength has gone from them.
“No,” you insist, the word breaking. “You are a general of Rome. Marrying me would gain you nothing. It would not strengthen your house, it would not please the Senate, it would not satisfy the Augusti—”
“I do not care for any of that.”
“But you must,” you whisper, the tears coming faster now despite your effort to stop them. “I will not allow you to throw away your destiny for the sake of someone like me.”
He draws back just enough to look at you, his brow knitting as though the thought itself offends him.
"Someone like you," he repeats softly, licking the pearl of a tear from the top of his lip.
Your voice shakes so badly you hardly believe he can understand you, "I carry orders for Rome, I am nothing but a messenger of the Gods will, they speak through The Twins and so you must take it seriously—"
"My patience is at an end with them."
“You must not speak so,” you whisper sharply, your glossy eyes darting toward the walls of the tent.
The general takes both of your hands in his then, lifting them beneath his chin like something precious, and presses a kiss to your knuckles.
“I know who you are, my love,” he murmurs. “You are blessed with Mercury’s favor. For years you have come to me with the will of Gods and Emperors alike. You bring me their messages… and you bring me yourself.”
His thumbs move slowly across the backs of your hands.
“And I would have that forever. I would have you forever, mea cara.”
“But Rome—your armies—you could never—”
“Then we shall leave it behind,” he says quietly. "I will gladly send my men back to their families where they belong, rather than ripping apart the ones we conquer."
You stare at him.
“You wish to leave?”
“Yes, mea cara,” he answers, his voice low but steady now, the idea clearly not new to him. “Let Rome keep her wars and their decrees. Let the Senate drown in its own blood. We will go where the hand of the Augusti does not reach.”
Your heart stutters painfully.
“Marcus…”
“There are lands yet untouched by them,” he continues, his gaze never leaving yours. “We could live quietly. A farm, perhaps. A stretch of earth and sky that belongs to no emperor.”
You shake your head even as the image threatens to take root inside you.
“You cannot mean that.”
“It is the only thing I have meant in years.”
“Marcus, if anyone heard you speak so—”
“Let them hear. I tire of the will of those fututores, swaddled in their perfume and silk—”
“Marcus!” you hiss, clapping both hands over his mouth before the words can grow more dangerous.
He only smiles against your palms, the warmth of it startling you, and presses a soft kiss to the heart of your palm, the wiry hair of his mustache tickling you.
“Is that a yes, my love?” he says, muffled.
“You truly have gone mad.” you whisper, leaning your forehead against the back of your hand where it still rests on his mouth.
And when he it away, you straighten, allowing him to guide both of your hands to his own will, placing them at the back of his neck while his fall once more to your hips, adjusting you until you are perfectly flush against him again, where you belong.
“An answer is all I desire, filia Mercurii.”
Your breath falters.
“Yes, Marcus.”
And suddenly he is kissing you, and it is as if heat sparks across your lips, Jupiter's lightning striking through you and pulling a gasp from your throat in his hold. He tastes of salt and musk and wine. Groaning deeply, the sound rough with want, his hands slide lower to the lush weight of your bum as he draws you closer still. Your back bends against the heavy press of him as he pushes into you, the strength of his body undeniable. There is no question of how fiercely this man wants you, how deeply he needs you, how long he has yearned for you. You can hear it in his moans, can feel it in the weight of his grasp.
He is turning the two of you quickly, the meat of his hands gripping you hard enough that you hope to find the crescent marks of his fingers there later. His tongue pushes past your lips, tasting at your mouth, licking behind your teeth before drawing your top lip between his in a slow, hungry pull. You think, for a moment, that you taste something else there beneath the heat of it— a loneliness that has left a hollow ache settled into him during these long months away from home. And you kiss him back with equal hunger, your tongue pressing into his mouth like a salve, as though you might soothe that wound with it.
But then, outside the tent you hear the roar of men laughing, voices carrying easily through the warm evening air, and suddenly you remember you are not alone in his villa this time.
“Oh, Marcus, not here, please, not—”
“I don’t give a damn,” he growls. “I will take you how I want, where I want, for the rest of my life.”
Something in the tone of his voice sends heat racing through your body, a flush blooming low in your belly that makes your breath catch. Your knees buckle at the ferocity of his need, wetness pooling between them for it.
He lifts you onto the table with startling ease, spreading your legs so he can step between them. Leaning over you, he sweeps the table clear in a single impatient motion, scattering the carved stone markers of battle across the tent floor as they clatter and slide into the shadows. He lays you back against the wood, grinning at the sight of you as his hand fists the tunic covering your body.
He pushes it roughly upward, baring you to himself, the fabric bunching under your neck haphazardly.
“There is nothing like this,” he murmurs, his voice lower now. “Nothing like seeing you as the Gods made you.”
His eyes move slowly over your figure, drinking you in.
“You are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.”
“You speak such foolishness, Marcus,” you swoon, stretching your arms above your head as you watch him unburden the armor from his chest and let it clatter to the floor before folding himself over you.
“I would sooner have my tongue cut than ever speak a lie of you,” he says softly before his mouth closes over your breast, taking the nipple between his lips as a low groan escapes him at the heat of your skin.
"You are so warm, so soft—" he says between your gasps of pleasure—" I have not felt such things in so long, it is like a dream."
You take him in as his long, thick lashes flutter shut. Your hands thread delicately through his hair, nails scraping lightly against his scalp. He whimpers at your touch, mouth unlatching from one breast only to nuzzle the other, kissing and licking at your supple skin.
He is the fierce, violent commander of Rome’s legions—but that is only sometimes. For most of the moments you have spent with him, in his villa in the city, he is this: gentle, kind, passionate, and utterly confident in his want. As though this is the truest version of himself, the man beneath the armor, without the smoke and mirror of war that paints him as a brutal leader.
His tongue laves at your pert nipple, now pebbled and tender from his attention. His hands, thick and wide, span the narrowest part of your waist, his thumbs nearly touching over your navel he is so much larger than you. He draws you closer, shifting you to the edge of the table so his eager cock slots between the lips of your core.
You let out a soft whine at the barrier of his tunic between you.
“Patience,” he breathes, though it is not without the roughness of restraint. The heat of his mouth ghosts over your skin as he kisses your clavicle, then slowly up the column of your throat and along the line of your jaw. “Let me enjoy this. It has been too long.”
“And what if I say take me now and enjoy the smaller pleasures later?” you murmur, your fingers curling into the hair at the back of his head. “I wish to feel you inside me.”
A low sound escapes him at that, half laugh and half groan.
“My needy woman,” he says against your skin. “It is like music to my ears. But if I were to give you everything you wished the moment you asked for it, you would be as spoiled as those who grow pale behind palace walls.”
Your brow lifts faintly at that.
“Marcus Acacius,” you whisper, breath brushing his ear, “you speak as though you are not the one who has ruined me.”
A rough sound escapes him at that.
“That is because it is you who has ruined me, cara,” he groans, his teeth catching lightly at the line of your jaw before he presses a hard thrust of his hips against your swollen center, drawing an involuntary arch from your back. “If I were to take you as I wish, this would not last nearly as long as I would like.”
"Don't care," you murmured, your hands fisting into his hair harder now, making him wince and groan at once. His eyes flicker up to yours at that, dark and bright with something dangerously pleased.
"Promise me you'll stay the night, then? Let me eat your sweet cunt for dinner, and again for breakfast and midday."
You smile widely at that, "And you say it is me who is spoiled,"
"Promise it."
"I swear, Marcus." you say, planting a chaste kiss to his lips. "I will stay as long as you wish. Now please, for the love of Jupiter and all the gods—fuck me."
He leans back, and you are forced to drop your hands from his hair as he straightens, though you drag them slowly down his chest, your fingertips brushing the linen of his tunic. The fabric clings where your arousal has stained it, darkened over the tenting of his throbbing cock beneath. He lifts the hem and tucks it beneath his chin, and finally you see him fully—scars crossing the broad plane of his chest, the softness of his belly, the dark trail of hair that gathers beneath his navel and travels downward to frame his bobbing member, flushed deep red with want.
For a moment he simply looks, breathing deeply. He seems distracted by the sight of you, the way you glisten beneath the lanterlight of the tent. A heat of humilation blooms across your cheeks as his gaze lingers on the slick folds of you spread before him.
And then he is bending suddenly, forgetting himself and diving for you.
His mouth opens, greedy and unrestrained, as he kisses you there. His lips part wide against you, wet and hungry as he eats at you. You hear a rough groan spill from his throat as his hands close around the meat of your thighs, gripping hard to still the undulating roll of your hips.
It is obscene to watch.
Your wet cunt sliding against his wet tongue, the sounds he makes as he tastes you. Your soft sighs and breathless little cries only seem to make him more ravenous, his tongue cupping your sex as though it were a basin meant to hold the nectar gathering there. Up and down, then down and up again, he works at you with relentless hunger before his nose presses against your clit and the slick muscle of his tongue pushes inside you.
And then your back is bending, nearly lifting you from the table as he fucks you with his tongue. The pressure builds too quickly to bear, your body tightening before it breaks, and you gush over his face with a cry, trembling beneath his mouth as he purrs with pleasure.
When the tension finally leaves your limbs and your body goes soft and boneless, he is already moving you again. He handles you easily, turning and shifting you where he wants you, those big hands working with a single vision in mind.
"You will ride me." he demands.
You know that tone of voice. The sweet, sensual man who kissed you moments ago has stepped aside, and something harder has taken his place. The beast of him. The commander who draws blood from his enemies, who takes what he wants without hesitation, who fucks with the certainty of a man used to victory.
You barely have time to catch your breath before he lifts you from the table, one thick arm wrapping around your torso while the other hooks your thigh high around his hip. Your body drags against him as he moves, and you feel the heavy bob of his cock between your soaked folds. The sensation pulls a needy sound from your throat and you grind down instinctively, searching for more of him, pressing harder and harder. You feel his mouth on your neck just as his teeth close on your artery, biting you into submission. You cry out for him, but you only feel his cock twitching in response.
By the time he drops into the lounging chaise behind him, he is guiding you down with him, forcing your hips to widen to settle around the breadth of his lap.
“I want to watch you,” he says, voice thick, his eyes gone black with hunger. “Get this off.” His hands make quick work of your tunic, finally pulling it the rest of the way from your body.
The moment your arms come down again you are reaching for him in return, tugging impatiently at the linen still clinging to his shoulders. You push the fabric from him, eager to feel the heat of his skin beneath your palms. He groans when you lean forward, your arms slipping around his neck as your mouth finds his again. You taste yourself on his tongue, musk of sweat and sweet honey of arousal, and your hips move without thought. They slide against the thick length of him, wetting the shaft of his cock as you grind your clit against him. The heavy weight of his sac tightens in anticipation, brushing against your cunt as roll against him again and again. Your tongue slips deeper into his mouth as you pull at his with greedy little sucks.
He has quite enough of your teasing as his hand catches your face, pushing you upright with a deep growl of impatience. The other guides himself between your legs, angling his cock until the blunt head presses firmly at your entrance.
You both gasp at the first push—the stretch always too much at first. Always intoxicating. Like Cupid himself has driven some poisoned arrow through your heart, turning your thoughts to useless haze as your body opens for him.
“There she is,” Marcus breathes, his lips parted around a rough gasp. “What a good girl you are. That’s it… slow, cara. Nice and slow.”
You slide down onto him inch by inch, your eyes rolling back as a long, helpless moan spills from your throat. His hand comes quickly over your mouth—you know you are being far too loud—but how can you help it? He is thick and perfect inside you, your velvet walls drawing him in greedily until you are seated fully atop him, your wet cunt sealed around his cock, slicking the dark thicket of hair at his base.
"Oh—Domine—" you sigh, muffled behind his hand.
“Marcus,” he corrects softly, breath shuddering through him. “My love. Only Marcus to you.”
“But you are my everything,” you gasp, nimble fingers coming up to circle his wrist. His hand is so big it spreads over the entirety of the lower half of your face. “My lord, my master, my—my husband—”
“Yes,” he groans, his eyes burning into you. “Say it again.”
“Domin—”
“No.” His voice drops to a growl. The hand that covers your mouth slides down to grip your jaw, forcing you to look at him as he jostles you slightly.
“H-husband?”
He thrusts his hips upward sharply, the movement stealing the breath from your lungs.
“Say it again.”
“Vir meus,” you moan.
“Yes—yes, that’s it,” he groans, his head falling back against the chaise, mouth agape and his breath short. “That’s it, girl. Ride my cock. Tell me you are mine.”
Your head falls back as he thrusts higher into you, the motion forcing a broken cry from your throat as you chant it over and over. Vir meus, vir meus, vir meus. You can no longer hold yourself upright as his hand falls, and you brace yourself over him, planting your knees on either side of his hips as you begin to lift and drop over him, suddenly drunk on the poison of Cupid and your own rising pleasure. He does not seem to care about your volume anymore. The sounds leave you unbottled and wild, helpless. Like some creature in heat. His hands grip the flesh of your hips harder once again, guiding the rhythm, forcing your body to ride and fall at his pace.
“Shall I give the Augusti what they want?” he pants against your ear, licking the shell of it. “Breed my sweet little wife and fill her with my seed?”
The thought had never crossed your mind before. The two of you had always been careful in your previous meetings, always finishing elsewhere—your mouth, your breasts—but…now…
"Promise we will never go back to Rome again," you beg against his throat between moans, rocking your hips slower now. "Promise me we will have a home by the ocean, where we will watch the sun rise and set with no cares of the twins, only us—only our family—and I will bear your children, as many as you wish."
“I promise, mea cara,” he groans, his hands tightening on you. “Oh—fuck—to see you round with my child, I’m—I’m going to—”
“Give me your seed,” you breathe. “Vir meus.”
You feel his body seize beneath you, struck through with the crash of pleasure. His mouth falls open on a broken breath as you tighten around him, both of you gasping against one another while your body clenches down, drawing him deeper still. The feeling of his spend filling you in thick warmth pulls a cry from your throat, the sensation cresting through you like a breaking wave until you are both trembling breathlessly together.
You sag over him, sweaty chest against sweaty chest, and hands stay on you, but they change, sliding from the rough hold of your hips to settle at the small of your back, keeping you against him as the two of you come down slowly from the height of your orgasms. You feel his chest lift hard beneath yours as he drags in deep lungfuls, your breath matching in tandem, hearts beating together until they settle.
You and Marcus leave that night.
He gives his orders quietly to the only two men he trusts to carry them. The legion will return home. No more men will die at his command. Word will travel back to Rome, where senators continue their shouting and scheming without the spilling the blood of any more soldiers.
But by the time those messages arrive, you are already gone.
Summary: When a hunt goes wrong and you're drugged with an aphrodisiac, Din goes to extreme lengths to keep you safe before giving you what you need. [5K]
Warnings: 18+. Dub con due to the nature of sex pollen but both people do consent. Drink spiking. Mild gore. Murder. Semi-public sex. Fingering. Piv. Multiple orgasms. Porn with feelings.
This isn’t how he had pictured it.
All the times he lay alone in his cot and envisioned how soft you would be beneath him, the warmth of your skin flushed with pleasure as he stretched you open on his fingers–as his mouth determinedly worked you towards delirium, ready for the slow slide of his cock sinking to the hilt.
He thought it would be sweet. That despite everything he was, all of his sharp edges and brute strength, he could make the memory of the first time he took you one that was untouched by pain and violence and all the other harsh things that came with being hunters.
But then this job had landed in their laps and they had been too damn quick following the first lead to the mark they got instead of doing some real digging on the guy like you usually insisted.
I don’t like surprises, you would usually tell him but this time exhaustion held your caution behind your teeth. The result of running on the fumes from too many hunts and barely any time to take breaks until all of that ragged bone-deep weariness had begun to creep in, leaving you itching to get this job out of the way so you could finally rest.
And of course, in the end, it bit you in the ass.
You had entered the club with only the knowledge that your mark frequented the place and it had all gone to shit almost ridiculously fast.
The drink that had been brought to your table, the server announcing cheerfully that first ones of the night are always on the house, had been laced. The effects taking hold of you the moment the last drop passed your lips.
And Din had watched, confused, as your eyes had become glazed. Lids heavy and gaze transfixed on the writhing bodies that crowded the glittering dancefloor.
He had asked you a question, 'any sign of the bounty?', and it was like you couldn’t hear him, like he was calling to you through water when he raised his voice to say your name.
Instead, you’d remained rooted in place at the edge of your seat– white-knuckling the smooth leather until he hesitantly placed his hand on your knee and then you had jerked. Snapping out of a trance like he’d burned you, a gasp caught in your throat and your chest heaving whilst you blinked at him.
“What–what is it?” You had demanded breathlessly and if he hadn’t been suspicious that something wasn’t right before, he certainly was then. There was a tremor to your voice he had never heard before and where his gloved hand still remained curved around your knee, heat seared through the worn leather and scorched his palm.
"Are you okay?" He'd asked, his gaze raking over you in a way he'd previously refused to allow himself.
You were wrapped in a silky little dress the colour of the midnight sky. The neckline dipping to reveal the swell of your breasts and the hemline short enough that the bare skin of your legs had seemed endless when you'd first sauntered towards him as he'd waited for you outside the crest.
Din hadn't been able to look at you for more than a few seconds at a time because he knew if he took any longer he wouldn't be able to think clearly.
He wouldn't have been able to concentrate on the job with the image of those legs wrapped around his waist blaring through his skull–that lipstick-stained mouth parted around a moan of his name as he imagined rutting into you.
But he let himself stare then– shoving down those thoughts so he could assess the situation properly. His heart dropping to his stomach as he took in the sweat that beaded at your hairline, the weak tremble of you hand as you lifted it to your forehead in an attempt to swipe the moisture away.
You glanced at him nervously as you did so, chewing your lip. “I don’t feel right, Mando.” You murmured. “Everything feels too tight, like I’m about to burst.”
He had scooted closer then, slid right along the plush seat of the booth to fit himself to your side as his thumb rubbed small circles over the flesh of your knee.
It was supposed to be a comfort, an unspoken gesture that he was there–that you were safe.
But instead you had groaned like he’d shoved his hand through your chest and gripped something vital, the sound of it nearly making him choke on his damn tongue as he thanked the maker that his helmet hid the way he’d had to sink his teeth into his lip to bite back a moan.
“Don’t stop please.” You begged, pressing your own hands over his when he went to remove it. “It hurts when you’re not touching me.”
His eyes had narrowed at that.
It sounded familiar– wisps of old tales floating around in his head before he remembered one about a poison that made you crave others, that made your blood boil beneath your skin until you found someone to offer the pleasure necessary to sate the all-encompassing need.
But how?
You hadn’t been out of his sight all day. You hadn’t ingested anything the two of you hadn’t personally made, except…
His gaze snapped to the glass you had recently drained, remnants of the shimmering liquid still clinging to the edges and he can smell it as he takes it in his hand to inspect it closer. That sickly-sweet smell, the strong blend of fruit and something synthetically syrupy.
He could suddenly feel eyes on him and when he looked up the server that gave you the drink is staring at him with wide, terrified eyes– face paling as Din’s suspicion brewed to a blinding fury that gathered around his head like a storm.
It had been intentional then. No doubt the bounty had caught wind that they were on his take and had taken measures to slow them down.
He would kill them for it–both of them. Would rip them apart and leave the mark of his violence behind in the mess of their insides as a warning should anyone else even think of coming for them in the future.
No one touched her and lived.
His vision had seeped red. His blood spitting in his veins before it surged with panic as your hand flew to your stomach and your expression crumpled into something agonised.
“Fuck.” He hissed when you hunched over beside him with a sharp cry of pain. “I need to get you out of here, now.”
“What about the bounty?” You panted, looking up at him through the fringe of your lashes that were wet with unshed tears.
You had looked so small in that moment– a far cry from the ruthless hunter people would whisper about after you had swept through their town. It made his chest ache, briefly drowning out that insatiable temper of his as he gathered you to his chest and raised a hand to cup your cheek.
“What’s happening to me, Mando?”
“Your drink was laced with an aphrodisiac, he probably knew we were following him.” He said as gently as he could, thumb stroking the swell of your flushed cheek as alarm rippled across your features. “I don’t think it’s lethal but I need to get you back to the ship before the effects get any worse. Can you stand?”
Instead of an answer you fucking whimpered. The needy sound of it shooting heat straight through his gut as your eyes grew dark beneath the flutter of your lashes and your fingers curled tight into his cowl.
Was it his touch or his voice that had prompted such a reaction?
Whichever it was you suddenly looked like you wanted to devour him and Din had to swallow down the fierce sweep of desire that urged him to let you.
To drag you onto his lap and lay himself at your mercy, the words 'use me, take what you need, whatever you want it’s yours' clawing savagely up his throat whilst he grit his teeth and wrenched his face away from yours to scan their surroundings.
They would have to exit through the back. The club was too crowded, with too many bodies between them and the main entrance, all packed tight, and when Din had stood to get a better look, another sight had stopped him dead.
Guards at the door.
One’s that definitely hadn’t been there when you both entered and he’s almost certain are slyly watching every move he makes as he quickly tugged you to your feet and bundled you into his side.
He wanted desperately to believe it was paranoia.
That it was in no way related to the poison working its way through your systemn, that the two of you were going to get outside and be able to make your way to the ship without an issue.
He’d never wanted to believe something so much in his life.
**
It was a trap.
Deep down, Din had known it as they’d stumbled into the quiet of dark corridors– the lingering thump of the music pulsing beneath his boots.
He’d known it when your legs had buckled and he’d scooped you up in his arms, cradling you to his chest like a newborn babe before he’d broke out into a run and nearly kicked the door of its hinges as they’d reached it.
But he hadn’t truly allowed himself to acknowledge it until he’d come face to face with the steel fence chained shut and the sound of a dozen footsteps descending upon them.
When he'd heard the door shut, the decisive click of the lock, and his rage had soared. You were sick and though he was sure it wasn’t lethal he couldn’t shake the feeling like he was running out of time to get you help.
And they were stood in his way.
So he lowered you carefully to the ground, his lungs tightening when a weak groan rattled from your throat as you sank back against the fence and hugged your knees to your chest.
“Did you really think you could take me down in my own club, Mandalorian?”
He needed to swallow down all that burning anger and think, needed to focus on the best way he could take them all out without letting a single one near you.
But then the bounty had made the mistake of looking past the vengeful mass of him to where you were curled up on the ground and any thoughts of a quick and calculated fight were snatched right out of his head.
“Pretty partner you’ve got there.” He’d leered, dragging his tongue over his lip. “She must be dying for someone to fuck her right about now. Maybe after I've killed you, I'll keep her as my whore and fuck that pretty pussy right next to your corpse.”
A terrifying sound had followed–something dark and ragged, drenched in a murderous brand of fury, and then Din’s vision swam black.
Just as the saber ignited in his hand.
**
When he came to, he was panting.
And in the aftermath, there was a mass of bodies, slack mouths and bulging, glassy eyes caught in the horror of their final moments. The air stained with the stench of singed flesh and the metallic tang of blood.
He stared at the carnage he created in a daze until you croaked his name and his gaze shot to where you're sat, wide eyed and trembling, staring at him in disbelief.
Or maybe it was fear.
He had totally lost his head after all, had been absolutely unhinged in the way he took them apart, piece by piece– limb by limb.
Maybe you wouldn’t be able to look at him the same now that he’d discovered what he was truly capable of when it came to you, the darkness that lay in wait ready to gorge itself on violence and spilled blood.
He approached you slowly with hands splayed wide in front of him, hesitation etched in every rigid line of him, as if one wrong move would send you scurrying away. But then, to his utter surprise, your lips quirked–voice cracking with a rasping chuckle.
“I’m not scared of you, Din.”
When he knelt before you, you reached for him easily. Lacing your fingers through his and pressing his gloved hand to the dewy skin of your cheek. “I was scared for you. I've never felt so fucking useless but then you– you did that and I–fuck–”
His voice went low before he could stop it, thick honey over gravel, a wicked flare of heat licking through his belly as your eyes suddenly burned dark. The black of your pupils drowning out their colour. “You what? Tell me.”
There was a second where you simply stared at him, lip drawn between your teeth and the admission weighing on your tongue as the space between you began to crackle and spark.
But then you took a long, shuddering breath and–
“I couldn’t take my eyes off you.” You whispered. “Seeing the way you ripped them apart for me, I liked it.”
Fuck.
He clenched his jaw, his free hand, his entire goddamn body. Everything he could to remain from lunging at you and burying himself inside you right there. It had to be the drug talking– it had to be.
At least that's what he was painstakingly trying to convince himself.
Because there were still remnants of that hungered energy within him, desperate for somewhere to go, and there you were telling him you had liked it, that you enjoyed him killing for you, when he was trying his best to be fucking honourable.
He tried to say your name, tried to curl his tongue around the letters in a way that wasn’t dripping want, but then you’d gasped and your heated expression dissolved into something frighteningly pained, tears springing into your eyes as you folded in on yourself.
His arms were around you in a second, his tone bleeding panic as he frantically scooped you up “We need to get you to the ship now.”
“It’s too late.” You sobbed as your body convulsed, arching and bending until he had no choice but to set you on your feet. His body pinning yours to the fence and his hands clamped around the curves of your hips to hold you up. “It hurts so much– please, Din–"
"We can make it. Let me carry you–I'll run and we'll get you the help you need. Some medicine or something."
"No, I can't wait that long." You whimpered. "I can't–I need you–I need you to touch me."
There was something close to defeat in the way he held himself as your hands came to cup the cheeks of his helmet, the gentle touch pleading. He didn't want it to have to be this way but stars, he didn't think he could handle you being in pain much longer either.
He should have protected you better, moved faster, fought harder.
He should have got you back to the ship the moment he realised something wasn't right, and then maybe you wouldn't have had to beg a man you had no interest in to violate you.
“This isn’t what you want, sweet girl.” He sighed, guilt bitter in his chest. “Trust me, as soon as the effects fade you'll regret what you are asking of me.”
You frowned then, sweat-damp brow wrinkling in a way that made Din ache to smooth out with his thumb as you peered up at his visor. “You think this is just the drug?” You murmured. “That I don’t know my own mind? Stars, Din, I’ve wanted you to fuck me from the moment I saw you.”
His hands spasmed at that, clamping tight as a startled groan slipped from throat before he could choke it back. Were you trying to kill him? Did tou not have any idea how close his restraint felt to snapping from that confession alone.
“Fuck–you can’t just say something like that.”
But you were too far gone, pushing up against his armour and curling a hand around the nape of his neck to wrench him down so you can whisper in his ear.
“I think about it all the time, think about how good you’d feel.” Your fingers brushed over the fabric covering his swelling cock and he jolted. “Wondering how you’d fuck me, if you’d make me come on your cock over and over until I was ruined mess.”
Shit.
His brain had turned to liquid, he was sure of it.
He caught your wandering hand, grunting as you palmed at him before he could drag it away and pin it to the fence at the side of your head. Your breath hitched softly as his other hand drifted down, ghosting past the edge of your dress, the scrape of worn leather on your bare thighs making your hips jump against his hand.
He could fucking smell your arousal and it was driving him insane–his mouth watering as he parted your thighs with one of his own.
“Pretty little thing, is that what you want?” Din asked, voice hoarse. “You want me to ruin you?”
His fingers dared to slip further, dipping past the soaked material of your underwear and when he slid a knuckle through your folds, you gasped.
“Yes.”
**
It was all too overwhelming the moment he broke.
The second your simple yes cracked him open and his breath hitched before he was burying you further into the fence. His fingers grazing the peak of your clit whilst obscene noises burst from your throat, wild and desperate.
If felt so fucking good that you were almost blind with it. All that heat and need swirling to a central point in your belly that could explode at any moment, burning brighter with every rough stroke of Din's fingers and the low rasp of his voice in your ear.
"That's it, mesh’la– let me help you."
You didn't know any words after that– none other than his name at least and the gasping chant of don't stop don't stop don't stop.
When he snatched his hands away you thought you would actually cry, a devastated wail brewed from the depths of your lungs before he hushed you gently. The cold kiss of his beskar soothing against your sweat-slick face as he nuzzled you before a different sensation against your thighs startled you.
Skin. Calloused and warm and completely bare.
In the midst of your babbled pleading you had missed him tearing the gloves from his hands and if you had thought the contact had been electric before then this was something else entirely.
His skin against yours felt cataclysmic. The moan you made when he hitched your leg over his hip and sunk those thick fingers deep inside you, unhinged.
"I want to be able to feel you when you come for me." He told you lowly, purred it in your ear, and you choked as he pressed his thumb to your clit in the most maddeningly perfect circles until you spasmed. Soaking his hand as the tension in your lower stomach snapped violently.
You were lost then.
Boneless against him whilst he curved himself over you and continued stroking your pulsing walls so all of that swirling pleasure became flame again, burning hot and wild enough that it made you let loose a desperate sob. Burying your nails in his neck, the other hand fisted around his cloak as another climax slammed through the dying breaths of the first.
“Oh maker, Din.” You cried out, hips jerking into his hand, thighs trembling whilst he eased you through it. His touch gentler this time, sweet, like he could sense anything harsher would fray you apart at the seams.
There was the cool press of his helmet touching your temple, a calming gesture that clashed with the rapid rise and fall of both of your chests. “That's it,” he murmured, pride equal parts soft and heated on his tongue, “good girl.”
You could hear when he removed his fingers from inside you. The liquid slip that would have made your cheeks flame under normal circumstances but only made you burn for completely different reasons then.
Your own fingers darting out to circle his wrist before leading the slick digits to the tempting plush of your mouth.
He made a low, feral noise–the sound of your name rumbling from deep within his chest as you let the tips of his fingers rest against your lips. Waiting for him to take the next step which he did without hesitation, pressing down until your mouth parted for him and he slid his fingers into soft, wet heat.
You were still aching, still throbbing like a raw, open wound, but it was slightly more bearable now. The orgasms that Din drew from you taking the edge off just enough for you to have this indulgence. A hint of worship.
The slow lave of your tongue against his skin as he shivered. Hips rocking into the cradle of your pelvis, making you whine around his fingers when his clothed cock caught you just right.
He dragged his fingers from your mouth with a hissed curse, rubbing the spit-shine of your lip in a daze whilst the hand on your thigh flexed and tightened its grip.
“We shouldn’t, not here.” Din muttered, swearing under his breath when you deliberately rolled your hips. “You deserve better than this and it isn't safe.”
But you heard what he left unspoken.
We shouldn’t but I will if you want it. If you don't tell me to stop, I’ll fuck you right here– surrounded by the bodies I killed for you and regardless of who might come looking.
You would die before you asked him to stop.
Even if you weren’t beginning to tremble again, your heartbeat picking up to a gallop and cunt fluttering around nothing as each nudge of his cock against your sex swept a blistering need through your veins.
Even if the reminder of the lengths he was willing to go to keep you safe didn’t make you maddeningly desperate for him.
“I don’t care.” You breathed as your stomach clenched. “Please don’t make me wait that long, I need you inside me.”
He inhaled sharply then, his broad chest heaving whilst he cupped your chin and peered down at you. A split-second hesitation before he gave in yet again.
“You’re going to be the death of me begging like that,” He groaned and then his large hands were skimming over your belly. Stroking down until he reached your underwear and tore it from your body with a brutal yank before wrenching you against him as the remains fluttered to the ground.
You made a soft noise of surprise and he chuckled, rough and deep and utterly addictive. The sound of it making heat swell beneath your skin and between your thighs, your head going dizzy.
The desire you had for him was an unhinged thing. Even without the drug you knew that you would still feel like this, like he could unravel you completely with the simplest touch or glance. Your hands shaking as you fumbled with his belt whilst he watched intently.
He let you stroke him, once then twice. His length hot in your palm, throbbing beneath your fingers when the pad of your thumb dragged over the weeping head.
It stole a rough moan from somewhere deep in his chest and then he was on you. Hands wrapping around your thighs to lift you against the fence, thin metal biting into your back but any hint of pain drifts from your mind like smoke as his tip caught at your entrance.
He took it slow at first. Let you feel every inch of him stretching you open as he bit back a wrecked noise, your cunt gripping him like a hot, slick fist, until he sunk to the hilt and your eyes rolled back.
Oh. Oh fuck.
It was a lot.
It was so much that it felt like he’d reached something devastating. That when he drew his hips back to drive into you again, you screamed– back arching violently as your vision turned white.
You nearly bit through your tongue whilst he continued to move. Each bruising snap of his hips punching you further up the fence, fucking you into it, the shrill sound of metal ringing through the night air as it shook beneath Din's strength.
You had practically begged him to ruin you and he was without even trying.
You would feel him for days after this.
Maybe weeks.
You would feel him in the marks his nails would no doubt leave on your thighs from his unrelenting grip, the hard edges of his armour that were embedded in your softness as you wound yourself around him. The way he was carving you open with each frantic thrust, creating a space inside you that only he could ever fill.
The tendrils of pain that had began creeping through your system from the drug snapped to pleasure immediately. You could feel it coiling unbearably tight, growing molten, white hot sparks making your blood catch and your stomach twist in knots.
“Fuck.” You sobbed. Nails scraping down his back, desperately trying to find some kind of purchase as your head falls to his shoulder. “Din, I think–”
“I know, baby.” He grit, shifting slightly until the harsh spear of his cock suddenly hit something catastrophic over and over and over. Your breasts bouncing with every thrust and his body shuddering as your cunt tightened around him. “Come for me, that’s it. Shit–let me feel it.”
You fell apart with a ragged cry. Bursting hot and wet around him as his pace slowed to a hint of something less punishing so he could stare, dazed, at the place where you’re joined. His skin and his armour that was dripping with your release.
For a moment there was only the strained sound of his breathing through the vocoder and then he groaned. Low and filthy.
"You're so fucking perfect." He praised hoarsely, the rough scrape of his voice making you even more boneless as you trembled in his arms. "Maker. I want to taste you. After I'm done fucking you I'm going to carry you back to the ship and taste every inch of you, clean you up with my mouth, and then I'm going to fuck you again."
That scorched you. It made something in your belly stir again despite how sated you had felt only seconds ago, made you clench helplessly around him and Din choked at the feel of it. “Would you like that?” He asked, breathless. “Think you can give me another?”
His cock pulsed inside you and you found yourself wholly incapable of response, beyond words and thoughts and anything that wasn't trembling moans as his pace turned brutal. The wet squelch of your cunt taking him deep, almost embarrassingly loud in your ears.
He bore down on that place inside you that made stars burst behind your eyes with a savage focus and all too soon there was lightning snapping in your blood. The sensation of it flaring hot and sharp, gathering into something furious and terrifying as his name bubbled up past your lips in a weak chant.
“I can’t–fuck–Din, I need–”
He slid his helmet along your cheek, tipped his head down until his forehead rested on yours. The skin of his neck felt just as flushed as your own when you gripped it to hold him there against you. The dark curls that escaped his helmet tickling your fingers.
“Touch yourself, mesh’la. Come for me again and I’ll give you anything you want.”
You shakily dropped your hand between you, spreading your fingers around the place where his cock was punching up into you before your fingers slid up to brush over the crest of your sex.
Stars, you were soaked.
All swollen and slippery and the moment you circle your clit you snapped. Bursts of energy crashing through your body so violently that your head spun with it, your lungs squeezing achingly tight, and your nails sinking in his neck as you cried out.
It made Din go rigid–a wild noise tearing through his throat as you yanked him brutally into his own release. His vision faltering and hips stuttering before they fused against your own whilst he spilled deep inside you.
**
You were exhausted– beyond spent and over-stimulated as the burn of the drug died down enough that you could feel the ache of every muscle creeping in and the kind of sleepiness that would see you comatose for days.
Your eyes were in fact already beginning drooping when Din carefully set you back on your feet. His hands warm and clasped gently around your arms, holding you up so he could peer at you whilst you were trying your hardest to sway back into the comfort of his broad chest.
“Are you okay?” He murmured, concerned. “I didn’t go too hard did I?”
You blinked up at him stunned, silent for a beat as you recognised the flicker of nervousness in the way he spoke, the way he held himself.
You cradled his face then, or where the helmet sat above his cheeks, and pulled his forehead down to yours. “No, it was perfect.” You reassured him and he let out a soft breath before melting against you ever so slightly.
“There is a slight problem though.” You laughed quietly, thumbs absentmindedly stroking over smooth beskar as Din tilted his head.” We’re locked out here and there’s no way I can climb that fence. I can barely feel my legs.”
He chuckled then–the sound of it brushed smug as his fingers stroked down your arms. “Leave it to me, sweet girl.”
He rest you gently back against the fence and your eyes slipped closed almost immediately before popping back open when you heard a loud thrum followed by the short screech of tearing metal. Chains hitting the ground with a clinking thud.
Your breath stuttered as you watched him stalk back towards you, saber in his hand, gleaming beneath the haunting light of it.
It made him look even more powerful than he already was. And the memory of what he did for you with that weapon, the evidence of it still strewn across the dirt, slammed to the forefront of your mind and made your mouth run dry. A weak flutter stirring in your belly despite your exhaustion, that he in no way helped by pulling you into him and swinging you up in his arms.
You made a soft noise of surprise and it only encouraged him to hold you tighter. Sealing every inch of you against him that he could as he carried you back to the ship– his voice brimming with promise as he murmured,
“You’re safe, cyar’ika. I’m going to take care of you.”
Chapter summary: The ramifications of Din removing his helmet hit harder than you expect.
Warnings: 18+only. Smut with feelings. This chapter gets a little bit darker.
A/N: Hoping I’ve kept this on the right side of consent. Thanks for all the kind comments! 🥰
Part One/Part Two/Part Three/Part Four
Din Masterlist
Read on A03
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The thing about giving him something he can’t have again, you understand later, is that you’ve not thought about what it’ll cost him to give it back.
You’ve thought about a great many things, in the long warm afterglow of that night. You’ve thought about the shape of his face under your fingertips, the unfiltered laugh, low and surprised, and the warm, hoarse, human voice underneath the modulation, and the soft warm patient slide of him with nothing in the way. You’ve carried all of it, in the days after, like a small bright stone in a pocket, taking it out in the quiet moments and turning it over in your hands.
You’ve not thought about him taking it out in the quiet moments and turning it over in his.
You should have. You should have known. He’s a man who takes things out and turns them over in his hands – that’s the whole architecture of him, that’s how he’s built every interior room of himself. You’ve given him a thing to turn over, and he’s begun to wear it smooth.
The first week is very good.
He’s quieter in a way that’s not withdrawn but settled, the way a man who’s been given something that has rearranged his small interior furniture and is taking the time to learn the new layout is quiet He sits closer to you in the cockpit. He touches you more in small, absent ways and calls you cyar'ika more often. He says it through the modulator, and you hear, every time, the human voice underneath, because you’ve been given it once and you’ll never not hear it underneath now.
The second week is where it begins.
It begins so small you almost don’t notice and you only do because you’ve now spent a year learning to notice small things about him.
You’re in the bunk with the lights out. He comes down from the cockpit and strips his armour, piece by piece, laying it aside in the careful ritual he’s built around the night cycle. He climbs in behind you in his undershirt and his trousers with the helmet still on, pulls you back against his chest and splays his hand across your stomach, his thumb beginning the small, slow, absent, familiar circle of your skin.
And then his hand stops a second too long.
You feel him hold his breath and feel the helmet press, very lightly, to the top of your head. Then you feel the small involuntary tightening of his fingers against your stomach, as if he’s been about to do something and stopped himself.
Then the thumb resumes, the breath is let out and the helmet stays. You don’t say anything. You just close your eyes, let him hold you and tell yourself it’s nothing.
It happens again, three nights later. He bends to press the brow of the visor to your forehead, and you feel him pause, the cool beskar a hair's breadth from your skin, and you feel the small held breath of him through the modulator. Then the visor presses down and he pulls back.
You look up at him in the half-dark.
"Din, are you alright?”
"Yes."
He’s not alright, but you don’t push, instinct telling you that he’s not ready to look at whatever it is yet.
You let it lie and it gets worse.
He starts to take longer to settle in the bunk. He starts to lie behind you with his hand on your stomach and not move at all, to hold so still it’s like he’s teaching himself not to. When he takes you in the dark, he starts to keep one hand always braced against the bulkhead beside your head, as if he needs the anchor of something cold and unyielding to remind him of where the discipline is supposed to live.
He starts to fuck you, in those nights, with a small, new, desperate edge underneath the old patience. Not rough, just…wanting. You feel it every time in the small involuntary catch in his breath when he buries himself in you, the small held-back sound he makes through the modulator when he comes, the way his hand tightens on your hip and then deliberately eases, the way you can feel him pulling against some invisible leash.
You know what the leash is and yet you don’t say, because you also know that the thing he’s leashed against is a thing he can’t be allowed off the leash for again. Maybe not ever. The Creed has given him one negotiated night because you built him an argument he could climb through, and the same argument doesn’t climb twice. You both understand that and asking him for it again will be asking him to break the thing the night only carefully bent.
So, you let him stay leashed. You hold him afterwards, tell him you love him and feel, every time, the small flinch of him hearing it whilst you pretend, every time, you don’t.
But it doesn’t work.
The third week is when you have to start admitting it’s not working.
This is when he starts to pace again. Not the wide easy pacing of a man with nervous energy to spend, but the small, contained pacing of a man who’s holding something down with his hands and can’t quite manage to hold it down with the rest of him. He paces the cockpit between jumps, he paces the hold at night, he strips his rifle and reassembles it twice in one evening, which is something he hasn’t done since the first month of you living on the Crest, when you were still learning to read him and he was still learning to be read.
You try twice to talk to him. The first time is in the cockpit, where you lay your hand on his bare forearm and stroke the skin there gently.
"Din?"
"Mm."
"Talk to me."
He doesn’t turn his head.
"There's nothing to talk about, cyar'ika."
"There is."
"There's not."
"Din…"
"There is nothing."
His voice through the modulator is very level and so you take your hand off his forearm and nod as though he’s given you an acceptable answer.
"All right," you say softly.
The second time is in the bunk. He takes you from on top this time, the way he sometimes does when he wants to watch you – your hands braced on his shoulders, your weight in his lap, his hands at your hips guiding the rhythm. He finishes with the small held-back sound through the modulator and then lifts you off him with the careful competence he always brings to it, laying you down beside him, and beginning the slow absent stroking of your stomach with his thumb that means he’s settling toward sleep.
You lay your hand over his. "Din."
The thumb stops.
"I miss it too," you say, very quietly. "I do. But I have it in my head, and it’s enough. It’s more than enough. We don't have to chase it. We don't have to…to keep looking back over our shoulders at it. It’ll still be there in a year, or five, or twenty. We don’t have to chase it."
The thumb doesn’t resume and he remains silent for a long time before responding.
"I’m not chasing it."
"Din…"
"I'm not, cyar'ika. It was a gift. I know what it was. I'm not…" the vocoder cuts on a small uneven breath, “I'm not the kind of man who chases gifts."
"I didn't say you were."
"Then don't worry about it."
“I only…"
"Sleep, cyar'ika, please."
You sleep or at least pretend to. Behind you, in the dark, his hand stays splayed across your stomach without moving, and you understand, lying there with your eyes closed, that you’ve pushed and he’s pushed back, and that’s the end of the conversation for tonight, and possibly for longer.
The third week ends and the fourth week is Helvista.
It’s a long bounty, seven days of hard tracking on a swamp moon, a quarry who moves at night and sleeps in trees, a stretch of work that leaves you both filthy, underfed and tired down to the small bones of your wrists. You eat ration bars on the bounty's last night without speaking, haul the carbonite slab into the hold at dawn and shower, one at a time, the way you always do.
You come out into the warm dim of the night cycle with your hair damp and your skin warm and find him sitting on the bench by the carbonite chamber with the helmet on and nothing else and a look about him that you’ve not seen in a month.
His visor turns and he watches you cross the hold.
You don’t stop in front of him, moving past him to the bunk, because you understand, from the small set of his shoulders and the careful angle of his helmet, what he wants, and that the bench is not where he’s going to take it.
He follows, his hand coming around your waist from behind and pulling you back against the warm heat of him, the visor pressing to the side of your throat with the small hungry edge of a man who’s been holding something down for a long time and is, tonight, going to let himself stop.
"Cyar'ika."
"I'm here."
He turns you, pressing your back to the bulkhead, then he kisses you through the helmet as his hands go under the loose sleep shirt you’ve pulled on after the shower, finds your breasts and palms them.
You should have stopped him then, but you don’t.
You want him too. You’ve wanted him for a week of swamp moon and longer than that of small held-back hands on your hip and a leash neither of you is talking about. You want him and so you turn your face up to the visor, let him push the shirt up over your head, and guide you into the bunk.
He bends you forward over the edge and that’s the first place it goes wrong, only you don’t realise it at the time.
He’s taken you from behind before many times. There’s nothing wrong, in itself, with him bending you forward over the edge of the bunk, pulling your hips back against him and pressing the visor to the back of your neck while his hands run the small inventory down your sides.
But you understand, with a small far slow part of your mind, that he’s chosen this position because he can’t see your face from it and that he’s choosing it because tonight, he doesn’t want to have to remember whose face it is.
You set the thought aside, because you want him.
He presses against you, hard, the blunt heat of him sliding through the wet of you, and the small, low sound he makes through the modulator is rougher than the small, low sound he made through the modulator a week ago. He sheathes himself in you in one long stroke, you cry out against the mattress, and he presses the visor to the base of your skull, beginning, with very little patience at all, to fuck you.
It’s not the rhythm of any night in the bunk before.
It’s hard, harder than he’s been before. This is a man who’s been holding something down for four weeks and who’s decided, somewhere on the swamp moon or in the shower or on the bench, that he’s going to stop holding it down for the next ten minutes, and that the way he’s going to stop holding it down is through you.
His hands grip your hips tighter than usual. You felt the small involuntary pulse of pressure where his thumbs dig into the soft place above your hipbones, where you register, dimly, that there will be bruises tomorrow. He pulls you back against him on every stroke, using you as the anchor he’s been bracing against the bulkhead for. The small, hoarse sounds through the modulator are not the warm, low, pleased ones you know. They’re rougher, the sounds of a man working at something. The sounds of a man trying.
"Din."
"Mm."
"Din, slow…"
He doesn’t slow. The visor presses harder to the base of your skull. The hand on your right hip slides up your back, fists in your hair, and tips your head back. Not gently, not the careful tipping he’s used before, but a harder tipping. A tipping that pulls, that hurts a small clean line down your scalp, and you make a sound that’s not entirely pleasure.
He doesn’t seem to hear you.
He keeps going, the pace never breaking. The pressure of his hand in your hair doesn’t ease and the other hand on your hip pulls you back harder. The visor presses to the side of your neck and the modulator catches a small, rough sound that’s almost a growl. You feel him driving toward something, chasing something, and the small, far, slow part of your mind finally understands.
He’s chasing the feeling of having no helmet between him and you.
He can’t have it. The helmet is on, the Creed is on, the leash is on, he can’t get it off, and he’s trying, in the only way left to him, to fuck through it.
You know you can’t let him – can’t let him chase a thing through you that you’re not going to be the chase for.
"Din."
He doesn’t slow.
"Din."
The visor presses harder, the hand in your hair tightening.
"Stop."
The word comes out small. You don’t even know, at first, that you’ve said it. You haven’t said stop to him before. There have been times when you’ve asked him to slow, to wait, to give you a moment, but you’ve never, not since this all started, said the word stop.
He doesn’t hear you and you say it again, louder.
"Stop, Din. Stop."
He stops so completely it’s as if a thing has been switched off inside him. The hand in your hair releases. The hand at your hip releases. The visor lifts from the back of your neck and the rhythm breaks. He holds inside you a long, shocked moment, breathing through the modulator, and you feel the long uneven shake of him.
Then he pulls out, fast, and steps back. You hear him stumble with the small, uncharacteristic ungainliness of a man whose body is no longer obeying him. You straighten up off the edge of the bunk, slowly, and turn to look at him.
He’s standing in the half-dark of the bunk alcove. The visor’s angled at you, but only barely, the rest of him angled away, shoulders set, hands at his sides, the breath through the modulator coming in small, uneven bursts. He looks, you think, the way a man looks who’s just watched himself do something he doesn’t believe he’s capable of and is, in the space afterward, deciding what kind of man he’s going to be on the other side of having seen it.
"Cyar'ika…"
"Din, it’s alright."
"I…”
"Come here, it's alright. I'm all right.”
You reach for him, but he flinches back, a half-step, no more, and you feel it in your own chest like a blow.
"Cyar'ika…"
"Din, stay, please."
But he doesn’t stay.
He turns and goes across the hold, lifting his discarded flight suit and clumsily pulling it on over his naked form before heading for the ladder. You watch as he climbs it, then hear the small bang as the cockpit hatch closes, the lock engaging.
You stand naked in the bunk alcove in the half-dark with the warm wet ache of him still inside you, listening to him moving above, then sit down on the edge of the bunk and lay both your hands flat against your thighs, breathing slowly, the way he’s taught you to breathe when you’ve come back too hot from a fight and can’t bring yourself down. You take the breaths, count them and let your shoulders come down.
Your hips hurts and when you look down, you can already see, in the small backwash of light from the hold, the dark beginnings of bruises above the bones. You press one with your fingertip and the small, bright ache of it is almost a relief.
You scout the floor for your trousers, pull your sleep shirt back on and think, first, about whether you’re alright.
You are – you know you are. Your hips are bruised and your scalp feels tender and there’s a small soreness inside you that’s nothing you’ve not had before. You’re alright. You said stop and he stopped, the way you knew he would. He stopped completely.
The Creed is a discipline, and the discipline has held, even at the end, even with him chasing something through you that he can’t have.
You sit there a long time wondering if you might cry and quickly realising that you won’t. What comes instead is a long, slow, steady clarity telling you, firstly, that he’s not alright and secondly that he’s not going to be alright by himself.
The third thing the clarity tells you is that you’re going to have to go up there after you’ve given him some time to be alone with the thing he’s just discovered about himself, the way an animal that has been caught in a snare needs a stretch of being alone with the snare before it’ll let anyone near to take it off.
But you know the stretch can’t not be too long, because you know the decision a man like Din Djarin is capable of making about himself, when he’s just hurt the woman he loves and it’s not a decision you’re going to let him reach unattended.
Standing up, you move slowly, around the hold, making yourself useful. You fold the blanket that has slipped off the bench. You pick up the scarf from where it migrated days ago to the small shelf beside the bunk, fold it and put it back. You drink a glass of water and stand in front of the small mirror in the cycler looking at your reflection.
Your hair is wild from his hand and there’s a small flush along your throat. Your eyes look tired, but not frightened, and you don’t look, when you turn at the waist to check, like a woman who’s been hurt past mending. The bruises on your hip are already coming up dark, and you trace one with your fingertip, thinking about how you’re going to tell him about them and deciding you’re going to tell him the truth, because the truth is the only thing that’s going to be useful to him tonight.
You wait fifteen minutes and then walk to the foot of the ladder, laying your hand on the rung.
"Din?"
The cockpit hatch doesn’t open, not that you expect it to. You stand at the foot of the ladder with your hand on the rung and speak up the shaft just loud enough that he can catch your voice through the hatch.
"Din, I'm coming up in a minute. I just want you to know that."
You’re met with silence and you stand there a moment longer, stroking the cool metal of the rung with your thumb the way he strokes your stomach, and you breathe.
"I'm alright," you say quietly. "I want you to hear me say that.”
The cockpit hatch doesn’t open and he doesn’t answer.
You wait two more minutes and then begin to climb. At the top of the ladder, you lay your hand against the hatch.
"I'm at the hatch. I'm not going to open it because I want you to open it when you're ready. I'm just going to sit here on the ladder and wait."
Sitting down on the top rung, you lean your back against the bulkhead beside the hatch, fold your arms across your knees, lay the side of your head against the cool metal, close your eyes and wait.
You don’t how long you wait for but, eventually, the lock disengages. You don’t sit up or push the hatch open. Rather, you wait for him to open it.
The hatch slides open from the inside and when you open your eyes and look up, you see him sitting in the pilot’s chair, turned to face the hatch, with the helmet on, the visor angled at the deck plating between his feet.
He doesn’t look up as you climb the last two rungs and sit down on the lip of the hatch, your legs dangling into the shaft, your hands folded loose in your lap.
"Hi.”
"Cyar'ika...I…"
His voice through the modulator is the voice of a man who’s been crying. You don’t know how you know that because, in all the time you’ve flown with him, you’ve never heard him cry, never even been entirely sure he’s capable of it. But the small uneven catch in his breath and the slight thickness in the way the modulator handles the word tells you that he has and is.
"Can I come in?" you ask softly. “Or do you need me to stay here?"
He doesn’t answer right away.
"Come in," he says, eventually.
You don’t go to him. Instead, you go to the copilot's chair and sit down in it sideways, so that you’re facing him, your bare feet tucked up under you, your hands still folded loose in your lap. You look at the dash, at the dim glow of the navigation readouts, at the small steady spin of the proximity scanner, so that he doesn’t have the weight of your eyes.
He doesn’t look up, the visor remaining angled at the deck.
"Din, I need to tell you some things, okay?"
"Yes."
"Firstly, I’m physically alright. I’ve got two bruises on my hip from where your hands were and my scalp is a little tender from where you pulled my hair, but that's all.”
He doesn’t answer and the visor stays angled at the deck. You watch, very faintly, the small involuntary shake of his shoulders under the flight suit.
"Secondly, I'm going to tell you that I love you and I want you to hear me say that now, before I say anything else. I love you, Din. I’m not any less in love with you tonight than I was this morning.”
The vocoder catches a small broken sound that’s almost a word and also not. You sit with him while he takes in what you’ve said and let him have whatever time he needs.
"Alright," he says quietly.
"Good. Now I'm going to tell you the third thing. And I'm going to say it once, and then we're not going to talk about it tonight again, because tonight isn’t the night to talk about it. We’re going to talk about it tomorrow, or the day after, or when you’re ready. But I want you to hear it once tonight, because I want you to carry it into whatever you’re about to do with yourself in your own head, and I want it to be in there with you."
The visor doesn’t move.
"You were chasing it, weren't you?"
He doesn’t answer.
"You were chasing the way it was that night, and you’ve been chasing it for four weeks. I’ve watched you chase it and I haven’t said anything because I didn’t know how to say it without taking something away from you that I’ve got no business taking. But tonight you chased it harder than you’ve chased it before, and tonight I felt it, Din. I felt you trying to get through the helmet at me with your body because you can’t get through it any other way."
The vocoder catches a small, wrecked sound.
"I’m not angry," you say. "I want you to hear that. I’m not angry, Din, because I understand why. We had something that was real, and it’s not something a man can put down easily after he’s had it. I should’ve understood that better than I did. I should’ve asked you, the morning after about how you were going to carry it and I didn't, and for that I’m sorry.”
You uncurl your hands and lay one palm flat on the armrest of the copilot's chair, facing up, as an offering.
"But you can’t chase it through me, Din. Not because you hurt me, but because if you chase it through me, you’re not being true to yourself. You’re not letting us be what we are to each other. I don’t want to be a thing you have to fight your way through your armour to reach. I want to be the thing inside the armour with you."
You let out a long breath, and still, he says nothing.
"That's all I wanted to say. “
You sit there watching the proximity scanner until he finally speaks and, when he does, the voice through the modulator is very small. The voice he keeps for the things that hurt him.
"Cyar'ika."
"Yes?"
"I…I didn’t know that I was. I thought…I thought I had it under control. I thought I had…I had set it down the morning after. I had taken it out and I had looked at it, and I had set it down. I told myself I had."
"I know."
"I told myself I had every morning. Every morning I would pick it up and look at it and set it back down, and I told myself the setting down was the work. I told myself I was doing the work. I…"
The vocoder catches.
"But I wasn’t doing the work," he says. "I was wearing it smooth."
"I know, Din. I saw you do it."
He bends forward in the chair and lays his hands across the visor of the helmet, the way a man holds his head in his hands when he’s trying to keep something inside it.
"I hurt you."
"Not badly."
"I hurt you."
"Alright, you did, a little. And I said stop, and you stopped. I want you to hear that part – you stopped. You stopped completely, Din, the second I said it. You heard me and you stopped."
"That’s not…that’s not the bar, cyar'ika. That’s not the bar I want to meet."
"I know it isn't."
"I don’t want to be a man who has to be told to stop. I don’t want to be a man who…who chases a thing through the woman he…" the vocoder cuts on the word.
"I know, Din."
He doesn’t say anything for a long time, his hands remaining flat against the brow of the visor. You don’t move from the copilot's chair, but you keep your palm up on the armrest, letting it be a thing he can come to if he wants.
"I’m afraid."
The vocoder almost strips the word, but you hear it anyway.
"Afraid of what?"
"I’m afraid that I’ve…I’ve learned a thing about myself I didn’t know was in there. That there’s a man in here who…who wants past the Creed. Who wants past it badly enough to put his hands on you and pull. And I don’t…I don’t know what to do with knowing that cyar'ika. I’ve built my… my whole self on top of the Creed. The Creed is the floor. If I’m the kind of man who…who pulls against it through you, then I don’t know what the floor is."
You sit with his words for a long careful moment, because the thing he’s setting down between you is a thing that matters, and you’re not going to answer it cheaply.
"Din, will you come over here? I’m not going to ask you anything. I just want you over here because you’re too far away, please.”
He doesn’t move and the hands stay on the visor.
"Din, please."
Finally, he stands slowly and crosses the small space between the chairs. He doesn’t look at you or sit. He stands in front of the copilot's chair with the visor angled at the deck and his hands hanging useless at his sides.
You reach up and take both his hands in yours, gently drawing him down to you. He comes down to his knees in front of the chair, kneeling between your feet on the deck plating of the cockpit, and you cradle his hands in yours and turn them, slowly, so the palms are up, and you lay your own palms flat on them, and hold him there.
"Listen to me."
The visor remains angled at the deck.
"Look up, Din."
He looks up slowly.
"There’s no man in there who wants past the Creed. There’s a man in there who loves a woman and wants to be close to her. That’s all that is. You’ve built your whole self on top of the Creed, and the Creed is the floor, and the floor is fine. The floor is not cracked. The floor held. You said yes to a negotiated night, took it, and then you tried, for four weeks, to carry it without telling me you were having trouble, and that’s the only place anything went wrong tonight. You should’ve told me. The next time you have trouble carrying something, you need to tell me. Yes?"
The visor is very still. "Yes.”
"Good."
You stroke his hands with your thumbs.
“The night in the hold was a gift, we both said so. But a gift isn’t a debt or a thing you have to chase. A gift is a thing you get to have once, and the having of it doesn’t require any more havings to stay real. The night in the hold is real, it will stay real and it will be real in a year, and in five, and in twenty. I’m not going anywhere, Din, and the night in the hold is going to be one of the things I take with me to whatever is on the other side of a long life on this ship with you. It doesn’t need to happen again to stay real. Do you hear me?"
"Yes," he replies, softly. “I hear you."
You sit there with his hands in yours and after a long moment, you feel the long shudder of a breath go out of him through the modulator that you understand, with a small flat clarity, is the first whole breath he’s taken since the bunk.
"I’m sorry, cyar'ika."
"I know."
"I won’t…"
"I know."
He lays his forehead against your knee and you place one hand against the back of the helmet and hold him there, stroking, very slowly, with the pad of your thumb, the small place where the lip of the helmet meets the collar of his flight suit, the small bare strip of skin you’ve touched a thousand times.
"I'm going to ask you something now, Din, and I want you to answer it honestly.”
"Alright."
"Do you need a stretch of nights where we don't do anything at all? Just…nothing but sleeping.? Just my back against your chest and your hand on my stomach and the helmet on and nothing else? Would that help?"
You feel the small careful stillness of him at your knee, the slow consideration of a man who is, for the first time in four weeks, letting himself actually look at what he needs instead of what he’s supposed to be capable of.
"Yes."
The word comes out small.
"Yes, I think…I think I do. I think I need that."
"Then we'll have that."
"Cyar'ika…"
"We'll have that, Din. As long as you want it. You tell me when you’re sitting with it clean, when you’ve stopped chasing it, when you’re settled. And then we can go back to the way it was before, the way I love, Din, the way I love…"
Your voice catches small and unexpectedly, and you steady it quickly.
“And we won’t be chasing anything. We’ll just be having what we have, alright?"
"Alright."
You stroke the back of his helmet.
"And we’re not going to talk about doing the other thing again. Not for a long time, maybe not ever. I’m not going to come to you in six months or a year and ask you to take the helmet off. The night in the hold is not a thing I’m going to ask you to give me again. If it ever happens again, it’ll be because you, the man inside the armour decides that you want it, and not before.”
The vocoder catches a long uneven breath and the helmet nods slowly.
"And if that night never comes, I won’t be wanting for anything. I have the one night here." You lay your free hand flat to your sternum. "I have the shape of your face under my fingertips, and I have the sound of your voice without the modulator, and I have the feel of your mouth on me and I’m full of it, Din. I don’t need another helping. I want you to never, ever again be lying behind me in the bunk wondering if I’m wanting more than I have because I won’t.”
He doesn’t answer and you feel, against your knee, the small uneven shake of him. You sit like that a long time, letting the time be a thing that happens around you until he eventually lifts his head, the T shape of the visor finding your face.
"Cyar'ika, will you let me see the bruises?"
You don’t flinch at the request. Instead, you stand, gently drawing him up, take his hand and lead him down the ladder, across the hold and into the bunk.
You sit on the edge and ease the waistband of your trousers down, slowly, so he can see. The dark shapes above your hipbones have come up in the last half hour to a deep blue-purple, the kind of bruise that will be ugly tomorrow and uglier the day after and will, by the end of a week, be a soft greenish-yellow.
He looks at them for a long time.
“I’m sorry.”
He kneels slowly and lays both hands very lightly on you, cradling the curve of your hips, his thumbs not pressing, just settling near.
"May I?"
"Yes."
He bends, the brow of the helmet pressing, very lightly, to each bruise in turn, holding there a long moment, breathing through the modulator, his thumbs stroking once across the soft skin above the bones.
Then he moves and climbs into the bunk behind you, pulling you back against his chest with the helmet at the top of your head and his bare hand splayed warm across your stomach.
His thumb begins the small, slow, absent circle, and you close your eyes, feeling the warm familiar weight of him. You feel the visor against your hair, the bare hand on your stomach, the thumb in its small slow rhythm, the bare arm warm along the underside of your breasts.
The helmet is on. The Creed is on. The bruises on your hip ache, dully, against the warm length of his thigh behind yours, and the small, clean ache of it is, somehow, against every odd, a comfort – a thing you can feel, a thing that proves you’re both still inside your bodies. A thing that will, in a week, be greenish-yellow and then nothing at all.
"Thank you," he says softly.
"You’re welcome."
"I love you."
The vocoder catches a little on the words, and you hear, underneath, the human warmth of the voice you’ve been given once and will not be given again, and the hearing of it underneath is not a thing that hurts – it’s a thing you have.
You lay your hand over his on your stomach and lace your fingers through his.
"I love you too, Din."
His thumb resumes its small, slow, absent circle against your skin.
You don’t know yet how many nights of just-this it’ll take. You don’t know if there will be a slow careful return to the long, patient rhythm of how it has been, or whether something between you will have to be built newly out of the rubble of tonight, piece by piece, the way the covert he lost is a thing that can perhaps, in some long quiet future, be rebuilt out of the materials at hand.
You don’t know if there will be other nights when he’ll need to lay his bruised wanting at your knee and have you hold it, or whether the work of tonight will be enough.
But you know that you’re both here.
Closing your eyes, you let the warmth of him be the thing your body settles into. You let the small slow circle of his thumb be the metronome your breath organises itself around as you sleep.
When you wake, in the small blue hour before the Crest's day cycle comes up, his bare hand is still splayed across your stomach, and his helmet is still pressed to your hair, and the long warm length of him is still against your back.
He’s still here and the work in front of you both is work that two people who love each other can do.
You lay your free hand over his on your stomach and close your eyes again, sleeping another hour, against him, in the small, warm, blue dim, before the day asks anything of either of you.
A skilled bounty hunter whose identity is based on never showing his face. Power. Restraint. Conflict. With him it's always complicated and intense, it feels gooood, it hurts. Dare I say, Din could have been made for intimate fanfiction. I've tracked down some "kinky" or dark smut fics because deep and dark just seems to suit him also, no? Most fics listed here are Din x female reader except where marked - that's what I could find. I note (variations on or deviations from this pairing), [why the fic made the cut if it's not obvious] and [if the author tagged as dddne - dead dove do not eat - explained here].
A Close Call cowboykylo69 on ao3 [rough sex]
Beg @amanitacowboy [edging]
Beyond My Skin, Deep In My Bones @djarins-wife [breeding kink, rough sex, spanking]
Bleed For Me series @saradika (mand’alor!vampire!din x f reader)
Beskar Doll series JustAGalWhoWrites on ao3 (brat tamer! Din x f reader)
Best Kept Secret Chapter Six: Torment series @lincolndjarin "din djarin is a little shit, helmet stays on" (bodyguard! Din x f reader)
Close Quarters cptnbvcks on ao3 (dom! Din x f reader)
Colosseum Capers @beefrobeefcal (Din x Dieter Bravo x f reader)
Darkness Trilogy series @queenofslowburn (demon! Din x witch! reader)
Despoliation Of The Flesh series @djarinmuse (possessed! Din) [dddne]
Din's Kitten @honeybunnyale ["darkish! fic"]
Deep Into The Wilderness mandoinevarro on ao3 [sex pollen]
Fifteen series @whocaresstillthelouvre (Din x cam girl reader au)
Grip mandoandyodito on ao3 [dry humping, wet dream]
Heresy @kewwrites (demon! Din x f reader) [dddne]
How To Touch @petalsinblood ["Din has nipple piercings"]
Hyperspace Nights series @jedijesi (rough Din! x f reader)
In A Perfect World, You Love Me @theidiotwhowritesthings [forced drug, hallucinations]
In The Dead Of Night @kedsandtubesocks (creature cowboy! Din x f reader)
Interlude: Burn in My Bloodstream @prolix-yuy (Din x f reader, Din x Xi'an)
Ignite @withmyloveasyourgarden [sex pollen]
Kinktober Day 2: Din Djarin - deep throating, rope play with Din Djarin @paulyenvol6
Kinktober Day 3: dark!din djarin x fem!reader @darkuselesssomebody [sex pollen, dddne]
Kinktober Day 11: Din Djarin October 11 – punishment, spanking with Din Djarin @paulyenvol6
Kinktober 14 – somnophilia with Din Djarin @paulyenvol6
Kinktober Day 23: Din Djarin October 23 – boot licking, cock worship with Din Djarin @paulyenvol6
Leading Blindly @pascalispretty (virgin! Din x sex worker f reader)
Limitless | D.D. @honeybunnyale ["t.w. : Dark fic, Smut (with a robot that looks like Dinny Din Din >:)), Breeding Kink, Angst, Din and reader are both insane for each other"]
Like A Moth To The Flame series @the-scandalorian (monster! Din x f reader)
Mand'alor Cabur nautilicious on ao3 (Din x Boba Fett)
Mandalorian's Mercy // bonus content: din's poc series @silver-pieces (alpha!Din x omega!cis!woman!reader)
Mutual @the-scandalorian (sex worker!Din x f reader)
Prisoner - Part 1 @almostempty (Din x f bounty hunter reader)
Quarry series AK_Vintage on ao3 (Din x f prisoner reader)
Riduur in Training @absurdthirst [sexual grooming, training]
Rule Maker, Rule Breaker mandoinevarro on ao3 [bondage, face fucking, etc.]
Rough Day series no-droids on ao3 ["Summary: When you woke up this morning, you didn’t really think it would be a 'fixing Mando’s knife wound and then giving him a handjob' kind of day"]
Secrets @absurdthirst (virgin! Din x f reader)
Shadows @burntheedges (monster! Din x f reader)
Sorgan Girls Are Easy- Solo Din Djarin murder-wife-deactivated20250628
Silent Genesis @sp00kymulderr [light choking]
Take Me To Church series on ao3 @frannyzooey is reworking to republish on Tumblr ["set in a brothel in the 1800s in the Wild West", Threesome F/F/M]
Take Your Time @ghostofaboy (Din x Cobb Vanth)
That Time Again @orcasoul [fluff but periods]
The Apostate Ch 1 series murder-wife-deactivated20250628 (fallen angel! Din, later chapters x ofc)
The Might Of The Realm @604to647 [bath sex]
The Way To A Great Wide Somewhere @myownwholewildworld (beast! Din x f reader)
The Throne @absurdthirst [pregnancy kink, breeding kink]
The Visitor Part 1 @whocaresstillthelouvre (husband din x omc! Jedi Kalel x f reader)
The Storm @frannyzooey (Ezra x Frankie Morales x Din Djarin x f!reader)
This Is The Tea @yespolkadotkitty [sex pollen]
Tight @frannyzooey [“'I don’t want you to wear anything but this when you sleep in my bed, okay?'”]
Told Before and Told Again @kiwisbell [sex pollen, "fuck or die"]
Torment series @djarinmuse ["They are both trapped and their captor has dark plans for them"]
Unexpectedly Mated @absurdthirst (alpha!Din x f!omega!Reader) [knotting]
Unfettered @the-scandalorian [sex pollen, use of restraints, "sex-pollened!Mando gets scary"]
Unrestrained @the-scandalorian [sex pollen]
Untitled or response to ask "A din that hasnt seen tits since he was 25, let alone TOUCHED THEM" @here-briefly
Untitled or "inspired by time for a haircut, king" @djarinmuse [masturbation] (Din x GN reader)
Welcome Home | D.D. @honeybunnyale ["Dark-fic!...Jealous, Possessive, implied crazy Din"]
Whispers In The Dark 2.0 series @kewwrites (dark! Din x f reader) [dddne]
You Were Marked series @handspunyarns (Din x *reverse age gap* *plus-sized* *fem* *afab* O/C) [dddne]
Dividers by @saradika-graphics
I listened to My Din YT Playlist while making this and had the best time.
Disclaimer: I haven't read all of these yet, I'm just feeling the vibes. Thank you to the authors - I tried to tag only once but Tumblr's not cooperating - if you'd rather not have your work mentioned please let me know. Din won't mind ;-P
Summary: Din Djarin, General to your father’s army, finds himself in the gladiator arena of a foreign planet fighting for the success of your diplomatic mission.
Warnings: 18+ Content (MDNI please). Established secret relationship (they are stupid in love), Mando'a nicknames (mesh'la, cyar'ika, cyare), the helmet comes off but reader is blindfolded, bath sex, fingering, unprotected PiV (Star Wars is made up and in space, so we pretend it's fine). A wee bit of angst if you squint.
A/N: Written for @beefrobeefcal's The Glandolorian challenge! This is the same AU that I imagined for my Kiss It Better drabble, with the same Princess!reader: set post Season 3, Carson Teva has dispatched Din to a New Republic stronghold planet to train and strengthen their armies; he becomes their General and falls in love with the realm's princess. I imagine this story to take place before Kiss It Better, when they are still sneaking around 🥰.
Many moons before another General (🤭) came on the scene, I outlined a long story for this AU that I'm not sure I'll ever write, so kindly forgive my self indulgent word count - I really took advantage of this challenge for a chance to write these two 🥰 Struggled a bit with the Dieter Bravo reference, but I think I found something that works (Thank you to @morallyinept for your invaluable character dialogue database!) Also got inspired by someone's Gladiator II premier look and snuck in one (1) The Princess Bride reference 🤭 / Dividers by @saradika-graphics / EDIT: OOPS IT A SERIES NOW
“No.”
“Princess, it will be fine.”
“I said ‘no’, Din. We came to pay our respects to the new rule and to affirm that our established trade routes through Flavin 5’s space will remain intact. We did not come to be participate in some archaic gladiatorial fighting match to assert dominance.”
Even through the blankness of Din’s visor you can tell he’s amused by your hiss of a retort but is holding back his reaction. His stoic and impassive demeanor normally reserved for others, you know that if he’s being less than fully direct with you it’s for one of two reasons: 1) he doesn’t want to lie or 2) he doesn’t want to risk your ire. You suppose it’s the latter in this case, and that thought alone is reason enough for you to calm your emotional response to this predicament and reassess.
Taking a deep breath, you rest one hand on your hip and mimic a stance you’ve seen your fearsome General make many times; with your other you gesture at Din to present his argument for voluntarily sending your guard, the top lieutenants of the army he commands, into a battle arena on foreign soil.
“Mesh’la, I know your instinct is to protect your people, but you know as well as I that our troops, and especially the men who have been deemed fit to accompany you on this diplomatic mission, are more than capable of handling themselves in any combat situation.”
Din almost chuckles at the way you tilt your pretty head ready to interrupt, his feisty cyar’ika; he continues hurriedly, but with the calm confidence he knows you respond to, “You diligently studied Flavian traditions and history before embarking on this trip – you yourself taught me all I know of these people. Despite the new ruling family’s decision to resurrect this ancient custom, what is your sense of these people? Do they seem barbaric? Cruel for cruelty’s sake? This isn’t the Petranaki arena on Geonosis.”
You would roll your eyes at Din’s perfectly level-headed analysis, if you didn’t consider his strategic and tactical mind one of his most attractive qualities; Din’s shrewd ability to consider all angles of any situation is one of your army’s greatest strengths, and one that never fails to weaken you at the knees. He’s taking this situation as seriously as you need him to, and so, you consider your answer carefully - working through your thoughts out aloud, “No, they are not a cruel people – and you’re right, these gladiatorial games were never about execution or spectacle like they were on Geonosis. The ancient Flavian events were meant to bring the people, no matter class or station, together to be entertained, usually in celebration.”
“Do you think that tradition is being respected? Or do you suspect some hidden agenda?”
You remunerate on this, thinking back to the new Flavian royal family you met earlier today, “No. I believe them to be sincere. Their purpose in resurrecting this historic custom is, I think, to build a connection with their people. Participating in the gladiator match would be a show a respect for the Flavian people and a celebration of the new royal family.” You take a deep breath, “So, we should participate.”
“I agree completely, Princess.”
This time you do roll your eyes at Din, but there’s no arrogance in your expression, “Fine. But Din, just because there’s no ill intent does not mean there isn’t risk. We don’t know what to expect from such a fight – there hasn’t been one like it held in centuries. Who knows what opponents our men would face in the arena?”
“No matter who or what our troops are pitted against tomorrow, Princess, there is no doubt in my mind that they will be able to handle it.”
Nodding thoughtfully, you have to agree, Din did train them himself after all, “I believe it. Especially since they will have their fearless General there to lead them.”
“No.”
“Din, it will be fine.”
“I said ‘no’, mesh’la. I cannot leave you unprotected and without guard in the Royal Box,” huffs Din.
Stepping into Din’s space, you lay your hands on the shiny beskar that sits across his expansive chest, swearing you can feel it vibrate beneath your gentle palm from his thundering heartbeat; tipping yourself towards the great warrior before you, you feel his big, gloved hands move to your waist to steady you just as you knew they would. Giving Din your most innocuous expression, you coo, “There is no need for me to have a protective guard if we deem the Flavian royals to be of honourable intent; if it is safe enough for our soldiers to participate in the gladiatorial games, then it is safe enough for me to be alone in the Royal Box.”
Din’s smile at your cleverness and persuasive tactics is hidden beneath his helmet, but he’s yet not ready to show you he’s given in so he remains as silent and cold as the armour he wears.
You use this opportunity to loop one arm around your hulking General’s neck to bring him closer to you still, your free hand takes one of his from your waist and brings it up to his helmet in a silent request. The familiar click of Din’s helmet unlocking is the only invitation you need - using your nose to lift the brim of his helmet slightly above his strong jaw so you can find his plush lips with your own, you feel the hint of a smile against your pout before you deepen the kiss. Opening to let Din lick into your mouth, you melt against the hard metal that represents everything he is to you: extraordinary, flawless, indestructible.
And such a good kisser, letting loose a soft whimper you nearly miss Din chuckle something against your lips.
“What’s that, General?” you sigh dreamily.
“I said, Princess, I saw what you did there, and that was NOT the way,” chastising with no actual bite, Din lowers and relocks his helmet.
“I’m not sure what you mean,” flashing him that breathtaking smile of yours that always makes him forget himself, “I’m only following the logic you already agreed to. Grogu and I will be fine watching you showcase the might of our realm from the safety of our spectator seats tomorrow.”
“Grogu will be with me in the fighting area.”
“No.”
“Cyar’ika, he will be fine.”
“He’s just a baby, Din!”
“And a Mandalorian apprentice. You’ve seen what a formidable fighter he’s already grown to be.”
And so on, and so forth – the two of you, the General and his Princess, spiritedly discussing and debating matters that affect your realm. The thought crosses your mind, not for the first time, that when you ascend the throne after your father you will need a ruling partner who challenges you like this: one who makes you wiser and forces you to expand your horizons, but trusts your compassion and tender heart, and who you trust to keep you and your kingdom safe. And as you always do when this thought naturally lends itself to an image of Din by your side, tall and proud as your King consort, you push it away as far as you can. It hurts too much to imagine something that seems to materialize so clearly and happily, as if it could actually become a reality, when you know it could never be.
The crowd in the arena is deafening. Already amped from the opening entertainment acts, they’re now cheering loud, calling for the main event.
Sitting front row in the Royal Box, you scan over the floor of the arena – knowing that it’s unlikely, but still hoping for a flash of silver beskar from behind one of the gates that line the sides of the arena floor, behind which lay the holding areas for the gladiator fighters selected for today’s match. Once or twice, you think you spy the sunlight catch something shiny from beneath the stands, but before you can look more closely, someone from the Flavian royal family will engage your attention. Though your mind never strays far from Din and his, your men, you cannot forget yourself or your role - your purpose for being in this arena today: you’re here to secure the continued prosperity your kingdom and strengthen your realm’s relationship with a long-standing ally.
If you’re honest, despite the trepidation that sits heavily atop your heart, you cannot help but be affected by the electricity of your environment. The stadium thrums and pulses with the excitement of thousands of Flavian citizens who have come out in the hot sun to partake in today’s festivities – you see children of all ages waving noisemakers and colourful flags, men and women young and old already cheering for who they anticipate to be today’s victors. Based on the chatter in your tent, the news of your General fighting today has spread like wildfire through the city – very few Flavians have ever seen a Mandalorian, never mind have the privilege of seeing one fight; today was going to be a day they remember for the rest of their lives. As for your companions in the Royal Box, you’re happy to see that your and Din’s assessment had been accurate – there is no underlying bloodlust or malevolent show of power associated with these fights, everything is only in good fun; your royal cohorts are all in splendid moods, showing genuine enthusiasm akin to the original spirit of the same games put on by their ancestors.
You’re just chatting amiably with the new Flavian king about having some of the wonderful Flavian wine and fruit you’ve enjoyed in the tent sent up to your room later, when a fanfare of trumpets echoes throughout the stadium announcing the start of today’s fight. The crowd quiets to a soft buzzing as the amphitheatre’s speakers announce the entrance of your fighters; the volume rises again as the audience goes wild when the might of your realm runs in through the gladiator’s entrance. You can’t help but beam, chest bursting with pride at the impression they make on the Flavian crowd – a big, broad Mandalorian General, towering in his stance and intimidating in his majestic armour, flanked by your guard: five of the strongest, most formidable soldiers from your father’s army.
You spy Grogu before the Flavian royals do, but it’s only because you know where to look. A perch for him has been attached to the side of his father’s jet pack so he can remain secure at Din’s shoulder during combat, but have the flexibility to jump off and join the fray if needed. The instant the Flavian prince spots him, he excitedly points him out to the others – and you take great pleasure in informing your hosts that they, in fact, have the honour of seeing two Mandalorians today.
With only a few moments before their opponents arrive in the arena, you take a closer look at your fighting contingent – they have been outfitted with Flavian weapons (swords, blasters, electro shields), the standard issue armament of your kingdom they normally carry nowhere in sight; the only exception is of course Din, who carries the gladiatorial weapons like the others and all of his usual weaponry – you chuckle to yourself, imagining the poor Flavian weapons master who tried to strip a Mandalorian of his religion.
A loud voice announcing the incoming fighters for Flavin 5 jerks you back to the scene before you. The crowd thunders as a squadron of battle droids nearly a hundred strong marches into the arena, each carrying varying sized blasters or blaster rifles in addition to their own swords, a few wielding double ended electro staffs. You barely have time to fret over how outnumbered Din and your troops are before the king is rising in his seat and giving the ceremonial hand gesture for the fight to begin.
You hear your General shout quick, decisive commands and his trusty men move swiftly into the desired formation, electro shields lit up and expanded in one coordinated movement. They advance as a team, strong and sure, every aim of their blasters true – each man practiced at covering the comrades at their sides as the droids begin shooting back.
When your men are close enough to the front line of the remaining droids, the intimidating battle cry you hear emanating from Din’s helmet is repeated in response at tenfold the volume by his men, a signal to shift fluidly into a tiered offensive formation that you recognize from watching their training on the palace grounds at home.
The legion moves with precision and speed, the crouched soldiers providing the impenetrable shielding needed by the men who stand tall as a precision sniper team that can’t be touched; your Mandalorian the tallest, unphased by the droid fire that bounces harmlessly off his beskar armour.
The formation is far more effective than the static positions of the droids and in almost no time at all, your fighters have driven the remaining thirty or so droids back towards the entrance gate. Answering another roared order, your contingent springs apart with an unrivalled ferocity to attack the remaining droids via direct combat.
Din cuts down mechanical fighter after mechanical fighter, mowing through the defensive lines of the Flavian droids that have none of his agility and lighting quick reflexes, bolstered by his trusted troops at his back who move with the confidence of men who have been trained by the best, used to fighting with the best.
Grogu has left his father, jumping from his perch onto and over droids with lightening speed - they shoot at him with their blasters only to miss their fast-moving green target every time and take each other out instead.
You watch their every move with bated breath – every bolt that connects with your realm’s armour quickens your breath, the clashing sounds of weapon on weapon too loud in your ears, and each hit or wound sustained by one of your men jolts a phantom pain through your own body.
When the last droid soldier falls, your men, your man, stand victorious at the epicenter of the arena; bloodied, exhausted to the point that the heaving of their chest plates can be seen from the Royal Box… but all standing.
You can hardly believe it - your heart exploding with pride, tears nearly springing from your eyes in relief. Looking to your hosts, you half expect them to congratulate you and acknowledge the victory of your fighters, but instead, you see them still engaged with the scene before them, eyes trained on the arena floor.
They smile with genuine excitement and anticipation, and your eyes snap back to Din and your soldiers at the sound of the brassy, melodic fanfare now being played throughout the stadium. The crowd rises to its feet with an ear-splitting roar as the orchestral horns continue to crescendo, announcing the coming of something.
You glance at the Flavian prince, his face alight with boyish joy – he’s excited in an almost childish way and when he sees you looking at him, he beams and points to one of the gates that’s now opening, voice elated, “Cliff beasts!”
Cliff beasts?!? You stand from your seat and rush to the edge of the balcony, gripping the railing and leaning as far as you can so you can see what new challenger is about to enter the arena. You gasp when you see it – a woolly beast larger than Din and his men combined, trotting out into the arena on four stubby but powerful legs. A magnificent horn, the length of which must span at least half of the creature’s massive body protrudes from its snout, thick and battle ready.
A mudhorn?? Of all the beasts to have entered the arena, what where the chances it would be the beast of Din’s clan signet? For a moment, you’re alarmed that maybe there have been unseen machinations at play and you’ve been blind to it all – that you’ve somehow failed in your diplomatic duties, failing your kingdom, your men, Din.
You study the Flavian prince who’s now proclaiming to his father, the king, “These cliff beasts are so large!” The two of them are enthusiastically waving and gesturing to the other attendees in the Royal Box, their chatter is of wonderment and genuine amazement at the sight of this creature that they’ve never before beheld on their planet - you conclude, with relief, that it has to be a coincidence. Wait, what did he mean – these?
Peering down into the arena again you see a second, smaller mudhorn ambling behind the first. A parent and its child! Your heart tightens, imagining how scared the two creatures have to be and how fiercely the adult will fight in order to protect its young. You catch Din’s visor pointed up at you from the arena floor and you know that he understands the distressed expression of your face perfectly.
Immediately, your General gathers his men and lays out his strategy – unknowable to the crowds of the arena, but you can read Din clear as day: he won’t cause harm to another living creature if he doesn’t have to.
Din and his soldiers slowly fan out, purposefully ignoring the young calf while surrounding the adult mudhorn. As expected, the mudhorn charges in attack. Trying to blink as little as possible for fear of missing anything, you watch wide-eyed as your men deftly leap and roll out of the path of the stampeding animal. When the mudhorn stops and turns back towards the perceived threat to its young, the soldiers surround it again – rocking on the balls of their feet ready to evade its charge again. They aren’t always as lucky or fast enough – you cry out in anguish whenever the Mudhorn makes contact, sending your guard flying, landing with a sickening thud on the arena floor from the force of the impact. The crowd gasps in worry, cheering louder than ever when your men get up to rejoin their brethren in repeating the same maneuver over and over.
Din’s plan is working, the mudhorn is getting tired.
Part of you is relieved, the other hopes that its fatigue doesn’t make the creature desperate; though your men are still standing, you don’t know if any of them can sustain more injury to their bodies – an increasing danger that only grows as Din and your soldiers begin tightening the proverbial noose. You spy Din protracting his fibercord whip from his vambrace by hand only seconds before he does what you suddenly realize he’s going to do. The mudhorn is pawing at the ground, exhausted and angry while your men surround it, now each only about an arm’s length away, when Din uses a jetpack blast to leap onto its back - throwing the whipcord around its horn and pulling back on his makeshift reins. The other men scatter and the crowd screams as your General rides the wildly bucking animal around the arena. At their General’s direction, your men are now divided between two tasks: half shoot at the galloping beast that unwillingly bears their fearless leader and his son, their blaster bolts a distraction but doing little to the mudhorn’s tough hide; the remaining men tasked with capturing and restraining the calf – the seemingly easier task.
Heart nearly in your throat, you watch as Grogu climbs down the front of his father’s arm and onto the mudhorn, quickly crawling to the top of its head where the massive horn joins the creature’s skull. With one of his little green hands holding onto the cord his father holds taut and the other placed directly on the mudhorn’s woolly head, you see Grogu close his eyes in concentration. Gradually, the mudhorn’s steps slow and its movements around the arena become unsteady, then wobbly, before it finally teeters and crashes onto its side fast asleep. Din jumps off just in time to avoid being crushed by the animal’s huge body - Grogu does a dramatic flip into the air at the same time and lands perfectly in his father’s waiting arms. The crowd roars its approval.
The Flavian royals next to you are on their feet, clapping and cheering with astonishment and admiration – congratulating you on the victory of your men and thanking you for the fantastic show you’ve provided them today. Clasping your hands in appreciation, they heartedly assure you that the documents confirming your planet’s trade routes will be completed and delivered to you tomorrow.
You express your appreciation before turning your attention back towards the arena, heart full - relieved and proud of the men still on the fighting floor. You have to admit they make quite the sight waving to the cheering crowds while standing next to a sleeping mudhorn, two of your lieutenants holding a makeshift leash with a smaller mudhorn standing docile at its end. To the admiring masses, the large beast was subdued by these men, the might of your realm, but you know the truth. You blow a little kiss to Grogu who pretends to catch it in his little hand before waving back, happy but somewhat tired.
Even with his helmet on you can read Din’s expression as he looks up to the Royal Box. Where is my kiss, mesh’la?
You smile back a playful smirk just for the unseen eyes behind the dark T-visor. Later.
You pace in the large, ornamental suite that your hosts have graciously provided – it’s beautiful, a true testament to Flavian luxury and craftsmanship, but you have no attention to spare for its finery. Not when you’re straining your ears to listen for footsteps coming down the hall, eyes continuing to dart towards your door as if for some reason you may have missed hearing them come.
“Princess…”
Your lady’s maids, Olivia and Serine, pace right along with you, following your tracks around the grand room. They’re as exhausted as you are, but you know their hearts to be as determined as your own; you give them the most indulgent look you can muster and any plea to ask you to rest dies on their lips. The three of you continue to take turns listening intently for the telltale sounds of a soldiers’ march.
Finally, you hear something. Faint but purposeful footsteps walking in synchronicity – the herald of well-trained soldiers with an intended destination. Perked, you look to your faithful companions with renewed vigor and sprint to your door, flinging it open without grace and hurrying into the dimly lit hallway.
They’re still far enough down the hall that you have some time, even with your hastened steps, to study how your men appear to be faring; you know that when you ask, they will insist they are fine so not to worry you.
Two of your country’s finest are limping slightly, one of your lieutenants and a captain. Your other lieutenant is walking fine, but he has a nasty gash on his forearm, dripped, half dried blood wrapping around his wrist like a terrible bracelet. The armour of your realm that the legion proudly wears has taken a beating, covered in evidence of today’s bout – marked, dirty and bloodied, but none of the men themselves appear to be grievously injured.
But it’s the man at the front of the pack that you study the most sincerely. Din’s gait is not too unfamiliar for you to suspect he’s hiding any serious injury - he would know better than that. After the battle on the Fields of Planoor he had learned not to conceal his injuries from you, that you were so familiar with his body and the way it moves, you would know something was wrong without a single word from him. As Din stalks towards your group, you can feel the hot gaze from behind his visor assessing you just as you assess him; your General holds himself a bit straighter, his massive frame puffing in pride. He bears no sign of serious injury, a little sigh of relief escapes your lips as you continue to run down the hall, Olivia and Serine hot on your heels. But his back is probably killing him.
The men stop to a coordinated halt as you reach them; their weapons sheathed, they each raise their left fists to their chests and bow, “Princess.”
You wave your hands in a graceful but frantic manner, dismissing this need for formality, “Please. Are you okay? Is everyone alright?”
Reaching for Grogu, your heart settles a little when he climbs down from his secured perch on his father’s shoulder and leaps into your arms. Fussing over him, you check his fuzzy green ears and sweet face for injuries; when you run your hands over his limbs and body to do the same, he coos and giggles as if being tickled. Resting your palm against the security of the beskar rondel he wears beneath his tunic, you exhale in contented relief and place a long kiss to his head. He’s okay.
Those same words are now being echoed out loud in the low modulated rasp of the voice you trust most in this galaxy, “He’s okay, Princess. Not a scratch on him, the little womp rat. The Lieutenant could do with some fresh dressings for his arm, but the rest of us are fine – a bit banged up and tired, but nothing a warm bath and a good night’s rest can’t fix.”
Knowing that Din’s helmet will give nothing away, you study the faces of your countrymen, trying to ascertain if their beloved General is downplaying the damage for your sake. Finding no deception in their eyes, and knowing that they know you would know, you relent, “Have you eaten?”
“We were given sustenance after our victory.”
You raise your eyebrow at this, suspecting that Din’s words answer only for his men, but not necessarily himself. Nodding, you give your final charge for the evening, “Olivia, Serine, please kindly see our brave soldiers to their rooms, run their baths and tend to them as needed.”
Your ladies-in-waiting curtsey in assent at your words and intuitively, Olivia extends her arms for Grogu – there are no secrets between you and your closest companions. Din nods at her and she takes her favourite little green playmate into her arms, happy to help clean him and put him to bed tonight while his father is otherwise occupied.
Din turns to face his men – similarly, there are no secrets between the General and his most trusted squadron, men who love their princess with an unyielding loyalty that rivals only his own. Your father’s soldiers salute their esteemed leader, bidding their Princess and General goodnight before following Olivia and Serine to their assigned quarters.
Silently, you take Din’s hand and lead him back down the hallway to your room, careful not to hurry should he be much battered and sore, though the urgency in your chest is nearly bubbling over. Your concern appears to have been unfounded because as soon as the door to your room shuts, Din sweeps you into his arms with a force that takes your breath away - crushing you to his chest so tightly that you can feel him deflate beneath the hard beskar as he exhales his own long held sigh of relief.
You chuckle, “You would have thought that I was the one fighting cliff beasts in the arena today.”
“Cliff beasts?” Din tilts his head quizzically at you.
“I’ll tell you later. Right now, let’s get you out of your armour,” your fingers slide under his pauldrons, feeling for the familiar release mechanism.
“Cyar’ika, if you wanted to have your way with me, you only had to ask - you didn’t need to send me into a fight arena with a mudhorn,” jokes Din, wincing slightly from the stretch of his muscles as they contract and relax with the weight of his armour being lifted from his aching body.
You cluck your tongue in playful disapproval, even as you continue to make quick work of removing the rest of Din’s armour. With now practiced precision, you lift off his chest plates and the attachment frame, unhook his jetpack, unclip his cape, slide off his vambraces, unstrap his thigh plates, unlace his boots, unbuckle his belt, unzip his flight suit. The ceremony of this process is one you will never tire of, nor is its significance lost on you.
Din, a Mandalorian, willingly lets you touch his armour and remove it from his body – trusting your delicate hands with his most precious property: the physical embodiment of his honour and creed, the very symbol of his people. Not only that, but he allows you to strip him of protection and reveal his vulnerability to you, exposing him and his softness – he exists as the man beneath the beskar for you and you only. You’re the most privileged being in the galaxy – the weight of Din’s trust in you is something you will never take for granted.
When Din stands before you in only his boxers and helmet, you begin your study of his body in earnest. Dancing your fingers across his hard and tanned chest, you trace old scars in order to separate them from new marks; palming his torso and checking his thick arms with the same careful hands. Rounding your warrior, you continue your roaming examination over his muscular back and listen intently for any change in Din’s breathing when you press down on his tense shoulders – relieved when you hear him groan in satisfaction instead of pain. As you’re lightly scraping your nails over his wide thighs you hear the telltale unclicking of Din’s helmet – he beckons you.
Rising to meet his lowering face, you use your thumbs to lift the brim of Din’s helmet slightly, always keeping your eyes closed so you don’t see any of his face – not for the world would you betray Din’s trust. Mouth finding his easily, you kiss Din gingerly – unsure of what injuries he may have sustained beneath his helmet; lightly pecking his soft pout and pressing restrained affection to the corner of his mouth.
“I’m not going to break, cyare,” Din grins as if he’s reading your mind.
Snapping down his helmet with a bit more force than necessary, you peer up into the black horizonal stripe of his visor and sniffle, “I can see some big bruises starting to form over your abdomen and on the back of your thighs. And the muscles of your arms and back are overstrained and need to loosen or you’re going to be more sore tomorrow than you already will be.” The emotions you held in all day now start to spill over your lash line; dropping your head, you cry softly at the toll today’s events have taken on your strong man’s body and how he bears it without complaint. Contrite and indebted that he sustained these injuries at the behest of your kingdom - your behest, for you.
Din gathers you in his arms and pulls you flush to his chest, tilting back his helmet again he kisses you lovingly, devotedly – with every stroke of his tongue, every nibble of your lips, he reminds you that it is not only his duty, but his honour to serve your kingdom, to serve you. He would do anything for you, without you ever having to bid it. It is not in him to deny you anything, his heart’s desire is to give you everything.
“I love you, Princess.”
“I love you, General.”
Not without some difficulty, you pull yourself out of Din’s embrace and lead him to the suite’s fresher, running the taps of the large tub and scenting the water with fragrant, healing oils.
“I can do that, mesh’la,” one of Din’s large meaty hands covers yours as you test the temperature of the water.
Shaking your head shyly, you bring that hand up to your lips and kiss its calloused knuckles, “Please. Let me serve you, Din.”
“That is not befitting of a princess.”
“I am not like other princesses.”
Tilting your chin up with two of his thick fingers, you can feel the smile behind Din’s next words, “No, you are not. There is no one like you in the galaxy.”
“And I’m yours.”
The helmet, never having been relocked, is lifted again and Din sweeps you into a passionate, hungry kiss, different than the reassuring and devoted kisses of earlier – deeper, greedier.
“Get in the tub, Din,” you murmur against his lips while you can, before you forget your task and give yourself over to him completely.
Chuckling, Din can only acquiesce whenever he hears a direct request from your mouth – he never hears you command him as his sovereign, only ever as his love. No matter – he would obey either way. Stripping off his boxers, helmet still on, Din slips into the steamy water of the deep soaker tub, letting out a heady groan at the way all his muscles relax in reaction to the sudden heat against his rough skin.
With a soft footedness that still surprises Din, so used to picking up every little sound with his helmet’s acoustic sensors, you reappear suddenly with a small tray table bearing various Flavian fruits and wine for Din and a thin silk scarf for you.
“I know you didn’t eat after the match,” you say matter-of-factly when Din tilts his helmet in question. Neither did you.
“Will you join me, cyar’ika?”
“Of course, my love,” you begin to disrobe, perfectly understanding the double meaning of your General’s question.
Though he’s seen and worshipped your naked form more times that you can count, there’s always something about being unable to see the eyes that devour you which makes you shy. Able to detect the rise in temperature of your face, your bashfulness amuses Din to no end – if only you could see his own expression; every time Din sees you bare before him is like the first time, he thinks you might even laugh at the slack jawed, awestruck expression hidden by his helmet – if Mandalorians were to believe in a literal afterlife, then Din could well be deemed a heretic for he’s sure he’s already seen heaven.
Stepping in the tub, careful not to trip over Din’s strong legs, you settle on your knees in the water near his feet; taking the wash towel from the side of the tub, you lather it up with your own luxurious cleanser, the scent of which you know Din loves and begin to wash his body. With great care and affection, you wash and massage Din’s feet, calves and thick thighs, the two of you quietly chatting about your individual perspectives on what transpired in the arena today as you move up his body with your loving touch.
Din groans when you wash his groin area, and you smirk and pretend to throw him a look of disapproval even as you stroke his fast-hardening cock with the washcloth.
“Cyare…” he strains.
“Hmmmm?” Humming, you shimmy to straddle his lap and innocently begin to wash his hard chest and tree trunk arms.
“You’re teasing…”
“Not at all, I’m cleaning,” you giggle. Rising onto your knees, you lean over Din’s mountainous shoulder to clean his back, dangling your wet, supple breasts right at helmet visor level. Definitely teasing.
Two can play at this game. Din’s modulator muffles his snicker as he makes sure you’re entirely engrossed in your task of scrubbing his back, concentrating adorably so that you don’t notice when his big paws reach for your chest, groping and kneading the pillowy flesh with hardly any warning.
You squeal and grind down on Din’s cock - in retaliation he zeros in on your already pert nipples, rough fingers roll and pinch, flick and tug your pretty peaks until you forget your work and bury your face into his shoulder, completely lost to the pleasure that only the General can give you.
“Din,” your voice a soft whimper, needy yet still regal and melodic, “… you have to…”
“What do I have to do, Princess?”
His teasing tone makes you gush; this man knows exactly what he’s doing – you try to claw back some semblance of control over the situation, “You need to let me tend to any injuries you may have sustained under your helmet. And let me wash your hair.”
“Oh, do I?”
Nodding in earnest with your eyebrows raised, “Yes, and then you have to rest. Your body needs it.”
“My body needs you, mesh’la.”
Leaning back, your eyes follow the trail of your fingers as they rake down the smooth skin of Din’s broad chest, slowing over the various long-healed scars whose tales of origin you know by heart, you prepare yourself to argue your way. But the truth is, you don’t want your way – you need Din, too. Here on Flavin 5, there is no fear of getting caught, no need for hurried kisses or fleeting touches – the two of you have time. Time to enjoy one another. Time to let your hearts run rampant with affection and want.
Tomorrow morning is the last morning you can wake lazily in Din’s arms, like any other couple waking to just another day in the rest of your lives together. Tomorrow you will return home and your love for your steady warrior will once again need to be tucked away close to your heart, safe from the prying eyes of the kingdom.
So, you don’t argue.
“Injuries first, General.”
“I have none, Princess.” You can feel Din’s shit eating grin radiating from behind the beskar.
Grinding down a little on Din’s hardening length as a warning, “I should like to see for myself, thanks.”
“Of course, mesh’la. I would see you satisfied.” Though still smirking, it’s with enormous feeling that Din picks up the scarf from the side table and with his practiced hand, covers your eyes; wrapping the silk around your head twice before tying it securely. He doesn’t ask you if you can see, knowing that if you could you would volunteer it. Sitting prettily with your hands clasped together, you wait for the welcomed sound of Din’s helmet being lifted and set down where you scarf previously lay.
Heart full, your hands reach out to gently touch Din’s face, fingers tracing over the most intimate part of the man you love. His jaw relaxes as you stroke though his facial hair and his plush lips curl as your thumb brushes over them. Din’s strong nose feels unbroken, thank goodness – your gentle kiss to the tip earns you a breathy chuckle that tickles your throat. Mapping the strong lines of his forehead, you discover your first wound at Din’s hairline – the soft curls of his brown (or so you’re told) hair already matted and sticking with dried blood. When your fingers caress Din’s temple, you find a small superficial cut by his left eye, and your heart tightens further upon feeling a nastier slice on the apple of his cheek. Even without seeing and Din giving away no hint of tenderness at your touch, you’re sure there are bruises starting to form on the face you love.
Though you’ve never seen it, you know Din’s face – positive that you could pick it out of a crowd as surely as you could your own in a mirror. It’s the face of the strongest warrior you’ve ever known, one whose honour and integrity is as unbreakable as the beskar armour that covers his body. A protector who fights without fail to defend the weak, uphold justice, and push back against tyranny and corruption – no matter how hard something may be or the risk to his own self, the man who bears this face will never back down, always standing up for what’s right. It’s the face of a man who loves fiercely – loves his Creed, his people, his duty, his son, his woman. You. You know the face of this man, the man who owns your heart, your body, your soul - wholly and completely.
You wash this face, carefully cleaning your discoveries. Then, before you wash his hair, you cradle Din’s head delicately and check for bumps and scrapes, sighing in relief when you find none. Lathering up a generous amount of your shampoo, you distribute it through Din’s curls, massaging his scalp as he groans in approval. Your smile at the sound could melt even the steeliest warrior’s heart, Din is sure – it melts his.
When his hair is rinsed and face pat dry, salve applied to his wounds, you attempt to get Din to eat from the food on the tray.
“After, Princess,” Din’s voice somehow lower than when it’s filtered through his modulator.
“After what?” you pretend to be confused.
“After I have what I’m truly hungry for,” you can feel the sides of his face lift beneath your hands as the curve of his mouth pulls up into a wicked grin.
You flash him what you think is a mirroring smirk, “And what is that, General?”
Din takes an excruciating long time trailing his fingers featherlike down the column of your throat as an answer. His massive hand skate over your naked breasts, pinky pretending to be caught on your pert nipple before catching up with its brethren that have moved on to tickling your soft tummy. When his hand finally dips below the water, it’s no more hurried, no less teasing – knuckling down the front of you, his hand so big and wide, his thumb and baby finger stretch to slowly stroke along the apex of your thighs at the same time with no additional effort at all. You quiver at your warrior’s languid and gentle touch – that these same hands are trained for weapons and brutality is not lost on you; how lucky are you to be able to feel them as they are now, so close to where you need them, reverent and worshipful. Hands meant for building up and protecting, instead of tearing down and destroying - and yet you know them capable of both - and moreover, that they can and will do both to you.
Leaning forward to press your lips tenderly to Din’s, you whisper, “Promise you’ll eat after?”
He knows the condition of the ask is empty - you need him as much as he does you, both of you hungry for more than the food your empty stomachs growl for. The worry you felt for your Mandalorian every second he was in the arena today has morphed into a blazing desire now that you have him secure once again in your loving arms; even when he was facing blaster fire or the murderous glare of a mudhorn today, Din’s thoughts never strayed far from the moment he could return to your warm embrace.
But he plays along, because he knows you need to hear it, “I promise, cyare.” And then, because your well being is always as much on the forefront of his mind as his is yours, Din adds, “As long as you eat with me.”
“Promise. Now touch me please, Din,” you’re trembling, not just from want but need, a need for the reassurance that he’s here safe, that the violence you saw in the arena did not touch him.
Even if he had not pledged his fealty to your kingdom, Din would submit to your request, to you – if it were up to him, he would spend the remainder of his days catering to your every whim, carrying out your will, doing anything and everything necessary to ensure your happiness.
He parts your folds with his fingers, finding you slick and ready for him. As Din glides his thick digits along your seam, your soft moans fill the steamy room, “Ohhh Din, yes right there, please.”
“Such a polite little princess, isn’t she?” hums Din, loving how responsive you always are for him. He kisses down your neck, nipping at your shoulder as you come to a rest against his chest. You’re shuddering from the way he’s stroking your pussy, swirling infuriatingly at your needy hole but never dipping inside, teasing you with long broad swipes up to your clit.
Pressing his thumb against your already slippery nub, Din takes advantage of your lack of sight and surprises you by dipping his head down to take one of your breasts in his mouth at the same time – you cry out from this sudden double attack, body trying to run.
The old bounty hunter in him activated, Din chuckles and increases the pressure of his hand on your pulsing clit, and with his free hand, he holds you firm by the nape of your neck - face now buried deep in your cleavage, biting and sucking every bit of soft flesh his mouth can find. Rolling your pert nipple between his teeth, he seals his lips over the sensitive peak and murmurs, “I got you, mesh’la. Let me make you feel good.”
At his sure words, you immediately relax and willingly giving yourself over to your warrior, sighing in surrender as he worships you with his fingers and his mouth. This is the only time that you allow yourself to be covetous of what is not rightfully yours – Din’s face you may know without having ever seen, but the lascivious sight of what he looks like when he loses himself in your pleasure remains a mystery. You secretly long to see it – wishing to know how dark his eyes burn, how his lips wet and plump, how his brow might furrow or relax in reaction to your whines and whimpers.
If you were his riduur – no. No, you can’t let yourself go down that path of longing, it only ends in heartbreak.
As if he can sense that your mind has started to wander, Din slips two of his thick fingers deep in your heat and curls them, beckoning you back to him. You fly right back into the moment and to the space of devotion that he holds just for you, gasping for air at the stretch of his welcomed intrusion.
“Need to get you ready for my cock, cyare,” purrs your Mandalorian, bringing you back fully and binding your heart to his in the here and now.
Nodding almost mindlessly, you crash your mouth to Din’s. The kiss is desperate, needy for so many reasons – your tongues licking and chasing, dancing to the song of perfect pleasure that strums along the electric current that connects you. Din feverishly conducts the symphony of your body – grand upward motions of his fingers in your cunt send waves of bliss that crescendo through your core; the sweeping of his lips against yours keeps you in tempo with his own urgency; his rolling downward gestures on your clit coils the band below your belly tighter and tighter.
No one can play you like Din can – beneath the beskar armour he’s a master musician, lover. Like the weapons he so deftly wields and handles, your body is an instrument he knows intimately – every shift, slight change or tensing is noted and adjusted for so he can optimize performance, maximize your pleasure. Din knows you’re going to come before you do by the key in which your breath hitches, the cadence of your fluttering walls.
“Come for me, Princess,” he growls, biting down on your plush bottom lip. Now it’s your turn to obey – you come with an arch of your back and a chorus sung to your General’s name, Din, Din, Din, Din.
Here you can be as loud for as long as you want and Din can fuck you through your high for as long as you need, withdrawing his fingers and licking them clean only when your cunt is complacent enough to release him, “Always taste so sweet, cyar’ika.” You sigh at the filthy sounds of another forbidden sight you long, lust for.
Lips finding his again, you taste yourself on Din’s tongue and tease, “I thought we were eating after.”
This time it’s Din’s turn to act coy, repeating your question from earlier with a knowing smirk against your pout, “After what?”
In response, you reach between your bodies and even without the benefit of sight, easily find Din’s hard, throbbing cock. Stroking his length with your delicate hands, you lift to line him up with your entrance and wordlessly sink down, “After you come, General.”
“As you wish, Princess,” Din groans at the way your pussy hugs him. When you feel him shift beneath you to plant his feet on the bottom of the tub, you stop Din with a hand on his wide chest and shake your head, “You’re tired and your body needs rest, my love. Let me do the work.”
Big, loving hands come up to cradle your head and a playful but reverent tone accompanies Din’s protest, “A General’s duty is to serve his Princess.” You tilt into his paw and nuzzle; your Mandalorian’s affectionate touch and the feeling of fullness combine in making you compliant. Leaning in close you ghost over Din’s lips, “Together then.”
Half awestruck, half groaning in agreement, Din slides his hands back down your soft body to come to a rest on your waist, holding you gentle and secure, “Together.”
It’s easy to find the perfect rhythm, your bodies already so in tune with one another. Din’s slow upward thrusts meet your lighter bounces halfway, causing the water of your bath to ripple and splash against the sides of the tub. It’s tender and patient until it isn’t – with no communication other than your soft whinnying and Din’s grunts and heavy breathing, your tempo and intensity remain matched, building together.
Always together. How you love being together with your Mandalorian. How you love him.
You press yourself to Din, the rise and fall of his chest grounding you as your hips work in tandem with his. Arms snaking around his neck, you cling to the General as your joint movements become more fervent and passionate, the water now choppy from your lovemaking.
Together. Everything is better when you’re together. You were able to get through today, together.
Love, relief and gratitude flood your pleasure wracked body as you crawl up Din’s broad mountain frame to find his lips. Latching your mouth to your Mandalorian’s, you kiss him heady and desperate. Every press of your plush and swollen pout thankful for his survival, of today’s fight and of all the fights that came before today so that he could come into your life. A thank you to maybe that same mystical force that gives Grogu his unexplainable powers, for making the man that fills you so full at the moment the warrior, the father, the man is. Thankful that he loves you. For all of him.
Din meets every brush of your lips with the same devotion, somehow able to read the emotion behind your eyes without seeing them - the same way you’re able to read him even when he’s hidden behind his helmet. He himself grateful for bringing his son and your countrymen back to you safe, for being the one to give you what you needed for the success of your mission. A thank you to that same power than runs in his son’s veins and makes him a warrior far stronger than Din could ever be, for bringing him to you. Grateful that a woman as regal, compassionate, and kind as you saw past his hard armoured exterior to the man beneath and holds him in your esteem. And in your heart.
“Ni kar'tayl gar darasuum,” Din growls with a deep rumble of his chest that echoes off the walls. I love you.
“Ni kar'tayl gar darasuum,” you cry back in the perfect pronunciation that Din taught you. I love you.
Neither of you able to hold back your love for one another nor the crest of your bodies any longer – coming together, lyrical song sung loud and shameless. The Princess and the General have nothing to hide here, tonight.
Later, after you’ve each eaten and drank your fill of Flavian fruits and wine, and you’ve massaged and kneaded Din’s sore muscles until you’re satisfied with the way his aches have melted away, Din guides you, still blindfolded, out of the cooled bath to the bed.
With Din protectively hovering over your naked body ready to take you again, you realize that as thankful as you’ve been feeling, you haven’t actually acknowledged those sentiments out loud to the man to whom you owe everything, “Thank you, Din. Thank you for being the might of the realm.”
Though he knows you cannot see them, Din’s eyes fill with a love he hopes he can properly convey in other ways, “No need to thank me, cyar’ika, it will always be my honour to fight for you. You must know - you are the might of the realm. The realm prospers and remains strong because its Princess is brave, smart, good. You’re everything, mesh’la. You’re my might – I can only do the things I can because I do them for you. I would do anything for you.”
You feel the scarf you wear across your eyes dampen as it absorbs your tears, “I know, Din.” Happy, content, you welcome your General between your legs once more; and with the rare luxury of time and freedom that the two of you have been gifted tonight, you know it won’t be the last time.
That's What You Get for Waking Up in Vegas (Complete)
summary: Having just lost your job you agree to a trip to Las Vegas with your best friend, her boyfriend and his grumpy brother. How you end up with a ring on your finger and a marriage certificate you have no recollection of signing is beyond you.
Or, a What Happens in Vegas AU.
rating: 18+, MDNI
tags: Accidental Marriage, Forced Proximity, Eventual Smut, Drinking and Alcohol, Age Gap (reader is 30-ish and Joel is however old you want him to be really but I wrote him as mid 50s <3), Grumpy Joel, Romance, Miscommunication, Enemies to Lovers vibes (sort of)
a/n: i've been thinking about this fic for a while now and have an outline for all 3 parts. i have a good chunk of part 1 done and hope to have it up by the end of this week. i also don't usually make a fic post before posting the fic but really wanted a post to organize the chapters because i hate how i've organized my other multi-part fics. if you'd like to be tagged, feel free to let me know <3
Your relationship with Joel grows more serious. A previous one of yours resurfaces.
Jackson!Joel Miller x Pregnant!Reader
Word count: 3,836
Content warnings: pregnancy, smut, mentions of murder/death, mentions of violence against women but nothing happens
Author's note: If you want to be added to the taglist for "Choice", just leave a comment asking! Enjoy!
—
After alerting the rest of the town council of the situation, Tommy walks Maria back to their place, then heads over to yours to talk to Joel.
Joel leaves you safe and comfortable in bed when he opens the door for his brother.
“It’s a guy who registered here as Daryl,” Tommy says, not wasting any time as he walks through the door. “We talked to him. Didn’t deny sayin’ that shit, said Jackson citizens oughta know who they’re lettin’ inside the walls. Maria asked him how a woman fatigued from the first trimester would be able to overpower an entire family. He said ‘hormones.’ And just as we were leavin’, Maria called him Danny, not Daryl, and he didn’t flinch.”
Joel’s seething again. He wants to knock on doors until he finds Danny’s house and beat him bloody.
“How the fuck did I not know there was such a shitty lie about her?” Joel grumbles to himself, feeling defeated that he wasn't able to protect you from the repercussions of this cruel lie.
Tommy shrugs. “I mean, you’re not the most approachable in general, Joel,” he murmurs, scratching the back of his neck to distract himself from how uncomfortable this situation is. “What are the odds anyone gossips with you?”
Joel shrugs too. He’s not the most approachable, so people don't often gossip with him.
Fine.
But Danny lied about you and got the whole town to turn against you, ironically isolating you in this otherwise tight-knit and welcoming community.
He has a problem with that.
“So what the fuck do we do?” Joel asks, trying not to get too loud.
“There’s gotta be a trial. Council agrees we don’t let people who kill kids in here.”
Joel nods. It makes him sick. Joel and Tommy were once really terrible people, killing anything and anyone in their way, but they drew the line at kids. They could never stomach seeing another dead child in front of them.
“When’s the trial gonna be?” he asks.
Tommy sighs and scrubs a hand over his face. “That’s the problem. Your girl’s havin’ this baby by the end of the month, if her calculations are right. But if she goes into labor in the next two weeks due to stress, the baby’ll be too early. Maria doesn’t wanna stress her out, so she wants to hold the trial sometime in February after she’s recovered from the birth.”
Joel groans and pinches the bridge of his nose. “What, she’s supposed to go the rest of her pregnancy livin’ in fear, feelin’ rejected from everyone?”
Tommy sighs again and drops his shoulders. “Jesus, fuck. I don’t know. I mean, he hasn’t done anythin’ yet, but after today, I guess he’s more unpredictable. We can excuse you from working until she has the baby, so you can keep an eye on her. How’s that?”
“Would that cut into my paternity leave?” Joel asks softly, a little anxious.
Tommy shakes his head. “No. Absolutely not.”
Joel nods and lets out a shaky breath. “Okay. But seriously, put someone on him, too. Don’t want him near her. I swear, I’ll kill him.”
Tommy nods. He knows Joel isn’t joking.
“Got it. Alright, good night. Give her my love.”
Joel nods. “Yeah. Also, will you check on Ellie? I just did an hour ago, but…”
Tommy nods again, then leaves, shutting the door behind him.
With that, Joel turns off all the lights downstairs, then heads up to the bedroom, where you’re curled up, reading a book on labor and delivery.
Joel gently pries the book out of your hands as he kneels in front of you on the floor.
“You’re safe, baby,” he whispers. “Tommy’s givin’ me extra paternity leave startin’ right now. I ain’t gonna leave your side for a second, I swear.”
You nod and reach your hand out from under the covers, gently stroking Joel’s hair.
“Can I ask you somethin’?” he asks softly.
“Mhm.”
“What if you moved in with me? Wouldn’t have to be forever, but Tommy and I can take the crib back to my place, and I’ll take all your clothes and stuff over to my place. Just until everything’s cleared up. I wanna keep an eye on you and Ellie, and I don’t wanna ask her to move here.”
“Okay,” you murmur softly, much to Joel’s surprise. He thought that at this stage of your pregnancy, you wouldn’t want to move. And he’d make it work for you and Ellie, but it’d be hard on him.
Joel nods. “Okay. We’ll do it tomorrow.”
You smile softly, tiredly. “Am I gonna have an eviction notice?”
He shakes his head, smiling back at you. “No. You stay as long as you want. Maybe even forever; although, I gotta check with Ellie.”
There’s a soft beat of silence as you take in Joel’s plan.
Then:
“I love you,” you whisper. And it sounds abrupt, but it doesn’t feel that way to either of you.
Joel’s heart starts pounding in his chest. For a moment, he doesn’t say anything. Then, he says it back.
“I love you, too.”
You give him a watery smile and gently pull him closer to you, your lips meeting in a soft, gentle kiss.
“I love you, and I love our baby,” you mumble against his lips.
Joel whines. You’ve implied it a few times, but you’ve never said ‘our’, never explicitly given Joel the verbal connection to the baby. He stands from his knees and kicks his boots off, then crawls up the bed, hovering over you.
“That’s right. That’s our baby in there. Mine and yours,” he says, almost growling.
His words and tone of voice send a shiver up your spine.
As he starts kissing your neck, you push the covers down, desperately trying to get closer.
“I need you,” you whimper, your hands buried in Joel’s hair as he kisses beneath your jaw.
“Baby,” he moans, pulling back to look at you. “You sure? I don’t wanna hurt you.”
“Mhm, I’m sure. Please. Wanna know what you feel like, Joel.”
You’re desperate beneath Joel, and he’s trying not to let it go to his head. You’re emotional and hormonal. Then again, you just said you love him, so maybe he really is worth all this.
He nods and goes for his belt, and you pull off your sweatshirt, revealing your swollen breasts.
Joel groans, and the sound is so deep, it’s almost lewd.
“Jesus, honey,” he whines, going for the button on his jeans. “I don’t wanna sound like a jerk, but your tits… God, baby, they’re perfect.”
You grin, ever receptive to his praise. Joel shucks his jeans and boxers off, revealing his completely hard cock, the tip red and dripping pre-cum.
You pull your sweatpants down, revealing your swollen, needy cunt.
“That,” he says, fingers grazing your swollen labia, “is a work of art if I ever saw one.”
Joel kisses your lips, then kisses all the way down your body, kissing each sensitive nipple, smothering your bump in kisses, then finally giving your clit a peck.
“Jesus, you’re so wet,” he mumbles.
“Need you,” you moan, hips bucking up into his face. “Now. Please.”
“Baby, I don’t wanna hurt you.”
You shake your head. “You won’t. I’m throbbing. Please, Joel,” you beg, whining.
Joel sighs and kisses your cunt one more time before straightening up. He grabs a pillow and shoves it under your hips. He takes your legs and drapes them over either of his thighs.
“Tell me if you get uncomfortable, baby. Promise.”
You nod. “I promise.”
With that, Joel lines himself up with your already weeping cunt and carefully sinks in, inch by inch.
You’re both panting, getting accustomed to what this feels like together for the first time.
“You’re so full of me,” Joel says, rubbing your belly.
You moan and nod. It takes you a moment to realize he’s talking about your cunt being full of his cock, not your womb being full of his baby, but it doesn’t put a damper on your mood for long, because you can feel him deep inside, the tip brushing against your cervix.
“You’re so big,” you moan, out of breath from simply having him inside of you. “It’s so good.”
“Can I move?” he asks, his voice raspy.
You nod, and Joel sets a moderate pace, but it’s clear neither of you will last very long.
“Jesus, this is better than I thought, Joel,” you moan, head arching back.
“Yeah? You thought about this?”
“Obviously,” you chuckle breathlessly.
Joel smirks and keeps rolling his hips into yours, gently but consistently thrusting. “I’m gonna keep you happy, y’know that? Fed, bathed, clothed, and fucked, darlin’. You’re gonna want for nothin’. I swear.”
You moan again and clench around him. “Mhm. I know. Gonna be spoiled rotten.”
“Damn right, baby.”
His thrusts are getting erratic. One hand is on your right breast, the thumb swirling your nipple, the other thumb rubbing your clit.
“Wanna see you come for me, baby. Show me how good I’m makin’ you feel.”
Joel’s thrusts pick up, and his hands grow more desperate. With a choked whimper, you throw your head back and clamp down hard on Joel’s cock, triggering his own orgasm.
He fucks you both through it until he can’t anymore. He sits there, on his haunches, his hands gently stroking the tops of your thighs.
“I love you so much,” he says again, breathless, his chest rapidly rising and falling.
“I love you, too,” you whisper.
Joel gently pulls out of you, then pads into the bathroom for a washcloth. He comes back and carefully starts cleaning you up, then himself. He tosses the washcloth into your laundry hamper, then crawls into bed next to you.
He kisses your temple, then leans down, kissing your belly.
“Love you, baby,” he whispers.
You almost cry, but Joel kisses you again before you can.
“Get some rest, baby.”
//
The next day, Joel heads back to his house. He finds Ellie in the living room and offers to make breakfast. He stands behind the island as she sits and eats.
“Kiddo, I gotta talk to you about somethin’,” he says when she’s halfway through her meal.
“This about your girlfriend?” she asks teasingly.
Joel rolls his eyes, but can’t hide his smile.
“Listen, I know Tommy filled you in last night, so I’m not gonna say anythin’ else. I just need to know how you’d feel if…she moved in with us?”
Ellie puts her fork down and shrugs. “I don’t know. I mean, I guess you’re whipped and everything now, huh?”
Joel rolls his eyes again and leans his palms on the counter. “I guess that’s one way to say it.”
“I think she’s alright. I don’t want anything bad to happen to her or her baby.”
Joel raises his eyebrows hopefully. “So you’re okay?”
Ellie nods.
Joel sighs in relief. “Oh, thank you, kiddo. You’re amazin’, y’know that?”
Ellie nods again, smirking this time as she picks her fork back up.
“Just don’t fuck her too loud when I’m home,” she says before bringing her fork to her mouth.
Joel goes red in the face, and with a mumbled “Sure thing,” he leaves the kitchen.
Later that afternoon, Tommy and Joel haul the crib from your house back to his, setting it in Joel’s room even though there’s a third bedroom. You just mentioned wanting the baby closer, and Joel doesn’t mind moving it a third time if you decide you want the baby in their own room.
Joel hauls the rest of your stuff back himself. He doesn’t let you carry a thing. He makes you lie down in his bed while he goes back and forth between houses for the next hour.
Finally, he drops the last load of things you cared to bring to Joel’s house on top of the dresser to deal with later, then he gets this look on his face that says he just remembered something.
“Joel?”
He doesn’t answer right away. He heads into his closet, then comes back with two bras in his hands. From the look of them, you have the feeling they might actually fit you, or at least better than your current bras do.
Joel noticed the indents on your skin every time he took your bra off, and he made a mental note to look for bigger bras while on patrol. They may not be perfect, but they should hopefully be a step up in terms of comfort.
“Joel…”
You gasp when he hands you the bras and look up at him with wonder in your eyes.
“You can try ‘em on later. I just kept forgettin’ to give ‘em to you, and now you’re here, and I just remembered, and–”
“Thank you,” you say, smiling so big that Joel’s worried your cheeks might start to hurt.
He leans down and gives you a kiss, then takes the bras and puts them in your side of the dresser, then finally plops down on the bed next to you.
Lying on his stomach, with his head facing you and his hand atop the highest point of your belly.
“Thank you for moving me in here,” you murmur softly. “Means a lot.”
Joel mumbles something, his eyes shutting. He’s tired, and he looks so cute.
“I love you,” you whisper.
You swear you hear him mumble it back, and then his breathing gets deeper. You shut your eyes, too, content to just nap.
//
A week later, after seven days of pure domestic bliss, including setting up a nursery in the third bedroom, cooking for more than just yourself, and truly nesting, Joel gets pulled away.
Tommy doesn’t want to have to pull Joel away from you during this time, but the hospital roof is falling apart on the opposite side this time.
You insist it’s okay, that you’ll stay inside, safe and sound.
Joel promises it’ll only take a week and that he’ll be back in time for dinner with you and Ellie every night.
Halfway through the week, you’re sick of cooking. Your back also aches from all the lying down you've been doing lately, so you decide to take a walk to the café for a scone.
You sit down at one of the far tables, content to be around people, even if they think you’re a terrible person. Halfway through your snack, someone sits down in front of you. You move your gaze from people watching out the window to the man sitting in front of you: Danny.
Your heart stops beating for a moment, and your hands start shaking.
“Hey, little bird,” he coos, and he’s so sinister, you think you might throw up. “Didn’t think I’d find you, did you?”
You don’t say anything, so he keeps talking.
“To your credit, it actually did take me a while. In fact, I didn’t find you until the day Maria found you. I kept my distance, didn’t wanna screw things up for me. Then she and her group found you, took you in. It was so easy. I knew I could get them to do the same for me.”
He rolls his sleeve back and reveals a jagged scar. It’s deep and ugly, barely healed. It only adds to your nausea.
“Yeah, I did that,” he whispers, taking pleasure in your discomfort. “Dragged my forearm across a log, wandered just close enough to the gates so that they’d find me, but make them think I just happened to be nearby. Smart, huh?”
Danny chuckles and pulls his sleeve back down.
“Anyway, I gave them a fake name, just in case you’d hear about me coming into town. Didn’t wanna set off any alarms before I made my move. See, I found the pregnancy test on the floor the morning you left. What kinda mother are you that you’d deny our baby the right to know their father?” he asks, disgust in his face and his tone.
“They know their father,” you say, your voice small and unconfident.
Danny scoffs. “What, Joel? Please. The guy probably just has a fetish. You’re gonna be kicked to the curb once he can’t fuck you because youre ‘healing and recovering’,” he snorts, rolling his eyes.
“Now, when you have that baby, I'd better know. Better yet, I wanna be in the room. I’m taking what’s mine. You’ll just be a glorified wet nurse,” he threatens, his voice low.
If only you had known how dangerous Danny was the day you met him. You quickly learned, but not quickly enough.
“You’re a terrible person, and an unfit mother," he continues. “That’s why I switched that tragic jerky incident on you. People wouldn’t sympathize with me if they knew the truth. I had to turn them against you. That baby in your belly is mine, not yours and certainly not Joel’s, no matter how many times he kisses your belly.”
He stands and straightens his jacket collar, then leans down and whispers in your ear, “Tell anyone about this, and I’ll cut that baby outta you.”
And then he’s gone, leaving you shaking in your seat.
You stand up as calmly as you can and toss your scone in the garbage. You make your way home as quickly as you can, tears silently streaming down your face.
When you finally cross the threshold of the front door, you slump to the floor, your back to the door. You bury your face in your hands, and your body is wracked with sobs.
You believe Danny. You believe that if you say anything to anyone, he’ll cut your baby out of you. You’ve never felt more sick in your life. All you want is for Joel to come home and never leave you by yourself again.
Once the pain in your back from sitting on the floor is too much, you maneuver yourself into a standing position and head up the stairs. You strip your clothes and start a bath. Once inside, the warm water eases your physical pain.
The bathtub is really nice, nicer than the one in your old house. It’s free-standing and really spacious. It might be a nice option for either labor or delivery when the time comes.
You sit there in the tub until the water is tepid, but still you don’t get out. Your entire body is swallowed by the water, and you’re comfortable. You feel as if you leave this bathtub, something bad might happen.
You’re stuck in your trance until Joel knocks on the bathroom door.
“Baby? Can I come in?”
“Yeah,” you call out, your voice hoarse from how long you’ve been sitting here silently.
Joel comes in and crouches in front of the tub. “Hi, honey. Doin’ okay?”
You shrug, and the water ripples with your movement.
“I’m about to make dinner. Gonna make a bunch of grilled cheeses,” he says softly, reaching out to stroke your cheek with the back of his hand.
“Sounds good,” you whisper.
“You need to talk about anythin’?”
You look at Joel and sigh. Here he is: sweet, caring Joel. Danny can’t be right. Joel isn’t interested in you because you’re pregnant. He loves you, the person.
“I’m okay.”
You can tell Joel doesn’t really believe it, but doesn’t want to push just yet.
“You want me to bring your dinner in here, or do you want help gettin’ out?” he asks softly, his hand gently cradling the back of your neck.
“I guess I should get out,” you reply.
Joel stands up straight and holds his hand out. He helps you stand, then wraps a towel around you.
He reaches his hand inside the deep tub and drains the water.
Once you’ve dried yourself off, Joel reaches for all the homemade skincare. Maria gave you the recipe for the body butter she made when she was pregnant, meant to help ease your stretching skin, and inadvertently minimizes the appearance of any stretch marks.
Joel takes a glob from the jar and starts rubbing it on your belly, careful not to press down too hard, but making sure it’s completely rubbed into your skin for the best effect.
He puts more on your hips, then rubs it into your thighs and your lower legs as he leans down. He stands back up and massages the butter into your back, then your breasts. He takes care not to do it in a sexual way; he’s trying to help you with skincare, not cop a feel, even if it’s happening incidentally. He finishes by rubbing it into your arms, then dragging it over your hands, squeezing as he lets go.
He gently places his hands on your hips and presses a kiss to your temple.
“Missed you and the little one today,” he murmurs against your skin.
“We missed you, too,” you mumble in response.
Joel leads you back into the bedroom, where he pulls out his sweatpants and a hoodie that says ‘Montana’ on it. Probably a college sweatshirt he found on one of his travels.
“Wanna lie in bed or come to the kitchen with us?” he asks softly once you have the clothes on.
“Yeah, I’ll join you guys. Sorry, I just felt funny this afternoon.”
Joel shakes his head. “Don’t apologize.”
Down in the kitchen, you sit next to Ellie on the barstools behind the island while Joel cooks. Ellie tells you both about her day, telling story after story. You pipe in sometimes, but your mind’s too cloudy to really be an active participant in the conversation.
“Baby kicking a lot today or something?” Ellie asks as Joel finishes with dinner.
“Hm?”
“You’re just not talking as much as you usually do. Just want to make sure everything is okay,” she says, her brow furrowed just a bit out of concern.
“Oh, uh, I guess. Just having an off day, I suppose.”
Ellie shrugs. “Tomorrow will be better.”
After dinner and a guitar lesson for Joel and Ellie, the three of you head to bed. You wait in bed for Joel while he showers, desperately needing him as close as possible tonight.
When he finally crawls into bed with you, you shuffle closer to him, resting your head on his shoulder and your belly on his waist. His hands go to cradle your waist and rest on your belly. He kisses your forehead and sighs, completely content here with you, even though your mind is going a million miles a minute.
“You’d tell me if somethin’ was wrong, right?” Joel inquires, his voice giving away how tired he is.
“Mhm.”
“Good. Just havin’ an off day, then?”
“Guess so.”
“You’ll feel better tomorrow. I love you, darlin’.”
“Love you, too.”
Joel falls asleep easily, tired from all the physical labor.
It’s not so easy for you. Sleep doesn’t take mercy on you until you’ve spent hours imagining every way Danny might get the jump on you.
Content warning: part of the Gorgeous Nightmare universe, smut, pure smut, pinv, oral (both), unprotected sex, creampie, sub!javi.
Prompt: You and Javi take a day off from work, but everything he wants is to be dominated by you.
Word count: 1,9K
“No way, Rosa María is letting Leonardo leave like that!” you scream at the television, and Javier cracks up.
You and Javier had spent the whole day at home, the first day off you’ve gotten in a long time. The best decision was to stay watching telenovelas and eating whatever you want. You raise your head to face him, poking your tongue against your cheek.
“Don’t you think?” you ask.
“What?” he raises his eyebrow.
“That she shouldn’t let Leo go! He is the love of her life!” you are actually sounding like his defense lawyer.
“He fucked up” he shrugs “Maybe he has to lose her to actually stop taking her for granted.”
“Ooooh, Javier Peña, who would’ve thought you’d be the one to say something like that?” you giggle.
“Why?”
“Because you’re supposed to be an asshole and a womanizer” you bite your lip.
“Oh, was I?” his hand slides through the couch, reaching your calves. “Like, a very dirty womanizer?” he narrows his eyes with that stupid smirk.
“Yes…” he traces a line up your skin, and you bite your lips to hold a smile.
“Can I be your asshole?” Javier says it like a prayer, propping himself on his elbow, biting his lower lip, getting really close to you.
“If you want to be” you wink.
“Then come here” he sits again and watches as you drape one of your legs on his thigh and hop onto his lap, straddling, slowly biting your lower lip.
Your lips meet ferociously, it is heated, tongues playing around with each other. His fingers thread through your hair, pulling you even closer, something you thought was impossible. The movements of your lips are completely disorganized, and you continue to rock your hips, making Javier groan into your mouth, his cock getting hard.
He walks with you, tangled up with him the whole way to your bedroom, your mouths connected, tongues teasingly sliding and teeth grazing lips, pulling and letting go. Before he places you gently on the bed, he pulls back and looks into your eyes for a moment, only for his lips to find yours again - this time slowly. Javi’s hand fists your hair, pulling it back to have access to your neck, kissing and nibbling.
“I want to be your asshole” he mutters, voice muffled by your skin “Make me yours, use me.”
“Okay, then” you smirk with the corner of your mouth “On your knees, agent Peña” you command, voice filled with authority.
Javier doesn’t hesitate. Slowly, he drops to his knees, gaze locked to yours, your pulse races. You’ve never done this with him before, but now it looks so delicious and exciting that you question why you haven’t done this before.
“You’re a good man, agent Peña” you murmur, fingers threading through his thick, dark hair, tugging just hard enough to tilt his head back.
Leaning down, you capture his lips in a possessive kiss, your tongue invading his mouth as you claim every inch of him. Javier surrenders himself, groaning low.
“I have a better idea” you smile wickedly “Lay on the bed, take your shirt off.”
“Okay” he hesitates now, surprised.
But Javier obeys, he asked for it, and he wants this. You walk to your hidden bag, the one that you’re only supposed to use in emergencies, getting what you need. When you turn to him, his broad chest is bare, rising and falling with quick breaths.
“Hands up, pretty boy” you order, voice sharp.
Javier raises his wrists up to the headboard. You show him the handcuffs, licking and biting your lips. You hop on his lap again, straddling him before guiding his left arm through the gap of the headboard, the right one on the outside. The steel clicks shut around his wrists. He is secured firmly; he even tugs once, testing, but the restraint holds.
Your hands trail down his chest, nails scraping his soft, tanned skin. He arches slightly at your touch. Javi’s jeans are almost ripping from his growing cock, your mouth waters - God, how you love this man. His body is a view under you, now under your control.
“Look at you, agent” your finger trails down his sternum, and you see his hairs standing up “All mine to use.”
Javier nods, swallowing hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. You can feel his heartbeat racing under your palm.
“Yes, princesa” he rasps.
First, you straddle his chest, your nightgown hiking up, exposing your thighs, the heat and weight of your body pressing him into the sheets. You slide down, stopping at his erection, leaning down to kiss him; the kiss is bruising, rough, teeth nipping his lower lip until he gasps. You pull back, sliding upwards now, until your knees bracket his head.
“I want you to eat me out, agent Javier Peña” you demand “Make me cum on your tongue.”
You don’t let him answer, lowering yourself onto his face, panties still on, but already soaked. You grind your pussy against his open mouth. Javier inhales sharply, nose buried in the damp fabric, taking in every bit of your scent, his tongue pressing up, licking you through your panty. You yank it aside, exposing your wet folds directly to him.
Not wasting time, Javier opens his mouth eagerly, sealing his lips around your clit with desperate pulls that make you arch your back. You rock forward, smothering him, your hands gripping the headboard to ground yourself, his tongue working you well, diving inside you, thrusting deep and finding your spot. He growls into your pussy, his cock throbbing desperately. He tries to reach your hips, but the cuffs restrain him.
Your hips rock harder, you are chasing your orgasm, juices already coating his chin, cheeks, and nose as he licks you, nibbling your clit hungrily. His nose rubs against your clit with every roll of your hips.
“Fu-fuck, pretty boy” you groan “Just like that, you are so good.”
Your thighs quiver as the orgasm builds, he senses it, so his tongue doesn’t stop, it flickers relentlessly. Your body shudders when you come, waves of pleasure crashing over you hard. You ride his face through it, until you are spent.
You slide down his body, eyes capturing his swollen, glistening lips, then they roam his delicious body, finding the bulge in his jeans.
“You did great, pretty boy” you praise as you find the hem of his sweatpants, lowering them slowly and teasing.
His cock springs free as you shove his pants and boxers down to his knees. He is thick and leaking pre-cum for you, throbbing, begging for your attention. You make Javier wait, trailing kisses along his abdomen, pelvic bone, and hips, nipping the skin until he gasps. Javi has the instinct to try and grip your hair, but the cuffs are holding him firmly.
“Please, princesa” he begs.
You ignore him, wrapping your hand around the base, squeezing it before leaning in to him. Your lips part, tongue sticking out, and you tap your tongue against his cock, smirking as you do so, lips wrapping softly around his tip, licking teasingly around it. Slowly, your mouth slides down, tongue swirling as you do so.
Javi bucks, but the cuffs hold him back. That makes you suck even harder, your cheeks hollow as you go down further, inch by inch, until he hits the back of your throat, making you gag. Deliberately, you let your saliva drip down along his length as you bob your head, hand stroking what you can’t reach.
“Fu-fuck, princesa” he groans as his hips jerk “God, please-fuck-don’t stop”
His thigh tenses under your touch. Knowing him too well, you control your pace, slowing down, then getting faster. Javier is panting. You pull off with a pop once you feel he is reaching the edge, his cock all slick and twitching.
“No way” you mutter, smirking “Not yet”
You shed your nightgown and panties completely now. Only by looking at your man lying in bed, naked and ready, cuffed to the bed, you bite your lip as a shiver runs through your whole body. Straddling his hips, you position yourself over his big erection, only the head poking at your entrance.
“You want my pussy, agent Javier Peña?” you ask, sinking just so the tip enters you
“Yes, princesa- fuck me- I-I” he nods frantically, stuttering “I need you”
“Beg” you smirk
“Please, princesa. I beg you” he pleads “Give me all of you, make me your toy. Just fuck me”
With a satisfied grin, you drop down fully, his thick cock stretching you, filling you to the hilt. You both gasp at the sensation. There is a moment for you to get used to him inside of you before you start to ride him slowly, rolling your hips back and forth in deep circles. Clit grinding against his pelvic bone, sending sparks through your whole body.
Javier’s eyes roam your body, stopping at where you both are joined, watching as you go up and down, making his cock disappear into you over and over. He wants to touch you, cup your delicious breasts, grip your hips to make you go faster, but the handcuffs limit him. Not giving up on being part of the moment, he thrusts up as best as he can, meeting you with deep slams. You lean forward, holding onto his chest, nails digging into his skin as you bounce hard, picking up the pace, the bed creaking under the force.
“Kiss me, please, I beg you” his face is a mask of pleasure, sweat dripping from his forehead, groaning
You lean towards him, lips meeting, his tongue doesn’t wait, invading your mouth with desperation. He wants to thrust into you as you lean, you pull back the kiss when you notice his breath ragged.
“I’m gonna-” he pants
“Cum now, fill me up, pretty boy” you whisper into his ear, teeth grazing his earlobe, sucking it softly
“Fuck!” he screams out, with your name leaving in a growl
You continue bouncing as he groans, wanting to milk him dry. The feeling of him coming inside of you, his hot cum, the pulse of his cock, and his shallow thrusts push you to the edge, your pussy spasming around him as you continue to ride. Only stopping when he begs you to stop from the oversensitivity.
For a few minutes, you stay sitting on him, looking into his eyes. He tries to capture your lips, failing. And only when his cock starts to soften inside of you, you collapse onto him, panting, head on his chest, kissing up to his neck and jaw. The room smells of sex and sweat.
“Please, let me touch you, princess” he mutters, low
You laugh, getting the keys by the bedside table. You get on all fours to reach up and uncuff him, rubbing and kissing the red marks on his wrists’ skin. He’ll probably be bruised. Javier doesn’t care, he grips your waist and pulls you flush to him, kissing your shoulders, then your neck, making you giggle with his mustache scratching your skin.
“You’re everything, princesa” he bites your jaw “I’m all yours, always”
“And I’m yours, pretty boy.”
When you lie down by his side, Javier stands on his knees, touching your whole body, hands roaming slowly over every inch of you. Now he is free, he touches your pussy, one of his fingers entering you to mess with the mix of your releases. That was all he wanted, to touch you, to feel you with his hands.
“Come here, agent” you call him, and he lies by your side. You take his finger and suck it, tasting you both.
"You're so perfect" he pulls you into a deep kiss "I'll never be dumb as Leo" he smiles
"And I'll never let you go, like Rosa" you kiss him
Summary: You and Joel want to do things differently, and take things nice and slow.
Warnings: explicit content, 18+ only, mdni, mature themes, unprotected sex, p in v, nipple play, established relationship, soft Joel, orgasm, praise kink, dirty talk.
Word count: 1.4k
Authors note: hello everyone! Tag list is open for Pedro so don’t hesitate to ask, and my inbox is always open so feel free to message me! Reblogs and comments on my fics are always encouraged and highly appreciated! Thanks everyone for your continued support. Enjoy the view☁️
Tag list for Pedro: @meetmeatyourworst @lilacs97 @dreamedaboutitinthedark
The Clouds
"C'mere, baby." He murmurs his voice like gravel, as you listen to the soft patter of raindrops on the roof. "Nice and slow just like we said."
You nod once throat tight with anticipation more than nerve as you crawl forward on your knees. The sheets drag softly against your shins. When you're close enough, you brace one hand on his shoulder, the other on his chest, feeling the steady thud of his heart beneath coarse salt and pepper hair. He was always so warm.
He helps you swing one leg over his hips without ever breaking eye contact. The blunt head of him nudges your inner thigh first, then higher, painting a slow, wet line along your folds as you hover. You're soaked already and have been since he spent fifteen minutes between your legs on his back, beard scraping the insides of your thighs while his tongue worked lazy circles around your clit until you were shaking and begging into the pillow.
Joel's left hand slides up to cradle the back of your neck, thumb brushing the sensitive skin just below your ear. His touch was so intoxicating you felt like you couldn’t live without it.
"Easy.” He instructs you softly. "No rush baby let me feel you open up for me."
You exhale with a slight tremble and begin to sink. The stretch is immediate and exquisite. Just the head breaches you and your breath hitches with a sharp little sound you can't swallow. He's thick enough that even after all this time the first push still feels like too much and exactly enough at once. Your nails dig reflexively into his shoulders almost drawing blood.
"There you go.” He growls biting his lip. "That's it sweetheart. Just like that just a little more."
You roll your hips in a tiny testing motion as another inch slides in. Your walls flutter hard around him and he groans low in his throat, the sound vibrating through his chest into yours.
"Fuck you're tight tonight.” He mutters, almost to himself. His right hand leaves his cock and settles on your ass but not grabbing just simply cupping, steadying. "Relax that pretty cunt for me. Let me in deep where I belong."
You whimper forehead dropping to rest against his. The words hit you harder than they should. You've always loved how filthy his mouth gets when he's turned on, but tonight it's softer, slower and almost reverent.
Another slow roll and he's halfway buried. You pause there, breathing against his lips, feeling every thick inch of him splitting you open. The pressure is exquisite almost borderline overwhelming never having felt him like this before. Your clit throbs against his pubic bone but you don't grind down yet, you want to savor this part. Joel's hand on your neck slides into your hair, cradling your skull.
"Look at me.” He whispers affectionately.
You lift your lashes. His pupils are blown wide, but the expression on his face is tender almost pained with how much he's holding back.
"You feel that?" He flexes his hips just enough to nudge deeper without thrusting. "That's all you, darlin'. Takin' me so fuckin' good. So wet I can hear it."
A mortified little sound escapes you. He smiles with a small, crooked and devastating look. Joel knows exactly what he’s doing to you.
"Don't hide from it.” He murmurs. "I love that sound. Love knowin' how much you want this cock."
You sink another inch on a shaky exhale. Now he's deep enough that the head is kissing your cervix with a dull, sweet ache that makes your thighs quiver. You pause again, panting softly against his mouth.
"Good girl.” He praises you his thumb stroking your cheekbone. "You're doin' so good for me."
The praise sinks into your bones like warm honey. You lift up just an inch and then sink back down much slower this time, letting yourself feel every ridge, every vein. Joel's head tips back against the headboard with a low, guttural groan.
"Christ yeah, just like that. Ride me nice and slow, baby. Let me feel every little twitch."
You start a steady rhythm then it’s not fast and it’s not frantic. Just deep deliberate rolls of your hips lifting until only the head remains inside, then sinking all the way back down until your ass meets his thighs and he's seated to the root. Each descent drags a soft, broken moan from your throat.
Joel's hands roam now up your sides, over your ribs, cupping your breasts and thumbing your nipples without hurry. He watches the way they pebble under his touch, watches your face flush darker, watches the way your lips part every time he bottoms out.
"Look how pretty you are sittin' on me.” His voice deep, low and rough. "Tits bouncin' just a little. Face all soft and fucked-out already. You love this, don't you? Love feelin' me stretch you open slow like this."
You nod frantically the words slipping from your mind. All you can do is lift, sink and repeat. Joel had you right where he wanted you. And he wished he could take a picture.
He slides one hand down between you, thumb finding your clit with practiced ease. He doesn't rub fast circles the way he does when he's trying to make you come quick. Instead he presses firm, steady pressure and lets your own rhythm grind you against the pad of his thumb.
"Feel that?" He groans with encouragement. "Every time you take me deep, your little clit gets kissed right here. Gonna come just from ridin' me, aren't you?"
The thought alone makes you clench hard around him. He hisses through his teeth knowing his words were getting to you.
"Fuck baby do that again. Squeeze me just like that. Let me feel how close you are." You bear down on the next descent, walls fluttering and gripping, and Joel's hips jerk up involuntarily. Just once before he reins himself back in.
"Sorry.” He rasps almost laughing at himself. "You feel too goddamn good. Almost lost it."
You shake your head, lips brushing his. "Don't hold back, wanna feel you lose it."
"Not yet.” He says as his eyes darken at your words. "Not till you come all over me first. Then I'll fill you up. Deep as I can get."
The promise makes your next roll stutter. You're climbing fast now too slow a syrupy pleasure gathering low in your belly, tightening with every drag of his cock against your front wall. Every press of his thumb against your clit Joel definitely feels it.
"That's it.” He coaxes with a teasing voice. "Right there. You're gettin' so tight, sweetheart. Gonna come for me? Gonna soak my cock while I'm buried all the way inside you?"
You nod frantic little jerks of your head. Tears of pleasure and not pain prick the corners of your eyes. He cups your face with both hands now, thumbs brushing away the dampness.
"Look at me when you come.” He says voice low and commanding in the gentlest way possible. "Wanna see your eyes when that pretty cunt comes all over me."
You lock gazes with him and the intimacy of it is almost too much. His face so close you can feel his breath mingling, your bodies joined so deep there's no telling where you end and he begins.
Your rhythm falters and you grind down hard, clit crushed against his thumb, cock pressed right against that spot inside that makes stars burst behind your eyelids.
"Joel, oh god.” His name leaves you like a sob.
"I've got you.” He whispers soothingly and in a comforting way. "Let go baby I’m right here. Come on my cock. Let me feel it."
The orgasm rolls through you slow and devastating like thunder that takes forever to reach you and then shakes the whole sky. Your walls clamp down in long, pulsing waves. You cry out high, broken, and keep moving through it, riding him through every aftershock, drawing it out until you're trembling and oversensitive and still somehow greedy for more.
"Fuck I’m gonna come.” He grits out through his teeth.
"Inside me please Joel.” You gasp without even thinking, and he honestly can’t believe the words that came out of your mouth.
He growls low and feral and finally letting his hips snap up to meet yours. Once, twice and then he's grinding deep, holding you down by the hips as he empties inside you in thick hot pulses. You feel every twitch, every spurt, feel the way his cock kicks against your fluttering walls.
He buries his face in your neck, breathing hard, teeth grazing your skin without biting. You stay locked together for long minutes. Sweaty, trembling and your hearts beating in tandem. His arms come around you, pulling you flush against his chest so there's no space left between you. Eventually he kisses your temple, your cheek and then the corner of your mouth.
"Stay right here.” He mumbles against your lips. "Don't move yet, wanna feel you keep me warm a little longer."
Joel recalls his life before the ranch, beginning of his time at the ranch, and the days leading up to your arrival.
Chapter 3: Copperhead Road (Joel)
AO3 found here
sorry for long Sarah segment I think its important for Joels character (and later on)
this chapter took so long (a few hours, haha) but I hope you guys enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it:) can you tell I kinda gave up in the end?)
Copperhead Road - Steve Earle
The hospital lights were blinding.
Joel sat in a hospital waiting room, the stench of disinfectant filling his nose. The air was heavy and stale, making Joel's lungs feel heavy.
He leaned forward in his chair, hands clasped together.
Joel must've been there for hours. Days, maybe?
He didn't remember the last time he'd changed his clothes, or showered.
His gaze stayed on the ground, as he saw shoes enter his vision. Joel refused to raise his head. No, if he raised his head, then it meant getting news about his daughter. It meant getting an estimate of when she'd...
Despite the hesitation, another thought came across Joel's mind.
What if there was a possibility Sarah could survive? What if, in some way, the doctor came to inform him that Sarah, his little girl, is waiting patiently in her room to be discharged?That she could go home tonight? That they could forget that the cancer ever existed?
If his little girl got out of the hospital, he'd watch every Dawn of the Wolf, go to every birthday party, spend a fortune on soccer gear...
His breath began to come in violent gasps. All he wanted was for his little girl to get better. So, hesitantly raising his head, he was met with a doctor holding a clipboard.
"Sarah?" Joel spoke wide-eyed, his tone grasping desperation. His hands stayed clasped in front of his face, nervously biting the inside of the cheek as he awaited the doctor's answer.
The doctor swallows nervously, before moving to sit beside Joel.
Joel's ass ached. His back ached. His entire body ached, sitting in this dingy chair without moving for hours.
"Your daughter," the doctor began, turning the clipboard towards Joel, as if he could decipher the information written on it. "Her cancer cannot be completely eradicated. At this stage, we'd recommend..." but the doctor's words were cut out. Joel wasn't listening anymore. How could he? He was being told that Sarah wouldn't be able to...
Joel was violently shaking his head, running his hands over his face. "No, no..." he repeats, pleading to the doctor. "Please, please. You need to save her. Anything. I'll... I'll take out a loan." At this point, he was rambling, attempting to find a solution. "Is this about medical bills? I can pay for treatment, I'll find a way..."
The doctor attempted to explain further, but any words that were being spoken to him did not fully reach his ears.
"Please, let me see her. I need to see my daughter." Joel begged, standing up from his spot.
The doctor hesitated, before nodding. He led Joel out of the waiting room and down a hallway, the walls filled with cartoonish drawings. He was led to a door, and Joel didn't hesitate pushing through it.
He wasn't allowed to initially visit his daughter - but now he understood why. The sight nearly broke him.
Sarah was laying on the bed, her skin holding a yellowish tint and purple bruising covering her arms. Joel felt a sob rip through him. He quickly rushed to his daughter's bedside, a hand landing on her forehead, gently brushing away the hair from her forehead.
"Oh, baby girl..." Joel softly spoke, the grief completely evident on his face as Sarah turned her head to look at him.
"Daddy?" The girl quietly croaked out, causing a sharp exhale to leave Joel.
"Sarah, Sarah I'm so sorry, baby girl, I'm so sorry..." He mumbled, bowing his head to rest against his daughter's skinny shoulder.
He raised his head from Sarah's shoulder to look at his daughter. Her eyes were glazed over and sunken in, but still had a warmth to them. Using nearly all of her energy, the corner of her lips lifted upwards into a weak smile.
Joel attempted to return the smile, but it drops as quickly as it came. He continued to softly brush Sarah's baby hairs away from her forehead.
Sarah attempted to speak, but the words came out as weak whispers. Joel shook his head, pausing, brushing her forehead for a moment. "Shh, shh, Sarah. Baby, it's okay. You don't need to speak."
She nodded her head slowly at that, sinking further into the hospital bed, keeping a weak gaze on her father.
"I tried," Joel gulped, tears stinging his eyes. He didn't want his daughter to see him like this, so he quickly dropped his head. "I tried so hard, baby. I was in the waiting room..."
He trails off, knowing there was no excuse for not being able to see his daughter.
As time went on, Joel spoke softly to Sarah, continuing to gently brush her hair.
"I promise, when we leave this place, I'll watch all the 'dawn of the wolf' films with you." He spoke, seeing Sarah's eyes brighten.
Sarah attempted to speak, but the words came out in airy exhaled. Instead, she used the rest of her strength to give a weak, lopsided-grin, the excitement, even in her state, radiating.
Joel nodded enthusiastically. "Yup. A full movie night."
Sarah let out a hum of excitement.
Joel offered a small smile, happy that he was able to get his daughter's mind off of her illness.
"Get some rest, Sarah. I'll be here." He sat there on the ragged old chair beside his daughter's hospital bed, until he watched her droopy eyelids fall.
Eventually Joel got up from his spot, leaving the hospital room to seek a doctor. A doctor - any doctor.
It didn't take long until he found one. He stormed up to the older blond man, fists bundled at his side.
"Do you know my daughter? Sarah Miller?" Joel spoke, pointing over his shoulder at Sarah's hospital room.
The doctor nods, crossing his arms. "Yeah, the Miller girl-"
Joel's fist returns back to his side. "I've been refused multiple times when I've asked to see her," He spoke, stepping closer. "My daughter's been dying, and all the time I could've spent with her, I've been denied."
The doctor took a step back, beginning to raise his hands. "I understand the frustration, sir, but your daughter-"
"My daughter is dying!" Joel barked, his voice echoing down the sterile hall. A few nurses' glanced up from their station, before looking back at their computer screens.
He ran a hand through his hair, shaking his head.
"You kept me out of that room," Joel began, his voice breaking. "You told me to wait. You told me there were procedures, tests, schedules-" he gasps in a gulp of air. "But she's..."
Joel couldn't finish the sentence. Couldn't bring himself to come to the fact that Sarah, his little girl, is dying, and he can do absolutely nothing about it.
The doctor's expression softened slightly, and his hands dropped to his side.
"Mr. Miller," he began, keeping his voice low. "Your daughter has been placed in palliative care. We thought it would be easier for her to adjust without her father pres-"
Joel quickly cut him off. "Palliative?"
The doctor nodded, offering a small, half-assed smile of pity. "It means we're keeping her comfortable," the doctor explains gently. "Her body is unable to tolerate the cancer treatments. Continuing would only cause more pain,"
Joel stared at him, unmoving, before responding.
"Where was I when this conversation took place?" He spat out.
"The doctors decided-"
Joel shook his head. "Where was I?" The doctor sighed, shoulders tensing up slightly. "As I mentioned, we're keeping Sarah comfortable. It's the best possible solution during this point in her life..."
Comfortable. They're keeping Sarah comfortable as she dies. Joel's jaw tightens, his gaze drifting down the hallway towards Sarah's room.
"She's twelve," He began, whipping his gaze back to the doctor. "Twelve years old."
The doctor said nothing.
Joel's chest heaved as he struggled to breathe through the tightness of his lungs.
"You didn't think, at any point, that she wouldn't want to see me? My daughter..."
The doctor didn't respond. For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Finally, the doctor sighed.
"You should go back to her," he said softly. "Spend as much time as you can."
It took everything in Joel not to punch the doctor then and there. Instead, he nodded slowly, before turning to walk back to his daughter's room.
He sat back down on the chair, watching his daughter rest. Joel was eventually lulled to sleep by the hum of the machines around his daughter.
Joel was woken up by weak sun rays making their way through the blinds. Sarah was still sleeping.
After a few minutes, he heard the door open without a knock. Quickly turning around, he saw Tommy entering, carrying a coffee tray.
He clears his throat, moving to stand beside Joel. "How're ya doing?" Tommy asked, placing a reassuring hand on Joel's shoulder.
Joel turned his gaze back to Sarah. "How do you think I'm doing?"
Tommy was silent at that. He didn't respond, but instead took his hand off Joel's shoulder, grasping one of the coffees. He hands it to Joel.
"Came by to see you. Doc told me you were in here." Tommy explained, but Joel shook his head. He didn't want an explanation. He didn't care for an explanation.
Tommy watched his brother for a moment longer. "How's she doing?" He quietly questioned, giving a worried glance to his sleeping niece.
Joel was silent for a long moment. He placed the coffee cup down on the ground beside the chair, before burying his face in his hands.
"Dying."
When Sarah woke up, she was greeted by her uncle and father, both attempting to hide their pitiful expressions.
Joel took a moment to realize his daughter was awake. He straightened up in his chair, his hand returning to her forehead.
"Hey, baby, how're you feeling?" He spoke softly, but he didn't get a response.
Joel took that as an answer.
Tommy and Joel set up a chair on either side of Sarah's bed. The three decided on a movie to watch for the day. Joel and Tommy would bicker over what one to pick, offering Sarah a sense of home, even in her state.
After every suggestion, they'd glance over at the girl, waiting for a weak nod or shake of the head. Eventually, after a few suggestions, Joel thought of one that he knew Sarah would agree to.
"Dawn of the wolf?" He suggested with a sly smile, and the girl's ears perked up. Tommy was about to refuse, but Joel gave him a harsh glance, and he shut his mouth.
After finally coming to an agreement, the two men settled back down in their seats after putting the DVD into the player.
Joel glanced over at Sarah a few times during the movie. At some point, the two of them must've fallen asleep, leaving Tommy.
He sat up, walking around the foot of the hospital bed, gently shaking Joel's shoulder.
Joel woke up with a groggy gasp, eyes widening, then relaxing after Tommy's face came into view.
"M' gonna head out. You good to stay here on yer own?" Tommy questions, straightening up.
Joel nodded, letting out a mumbled goodbye.
A few hours after Tommy left, the nurses came by to drop off dinner. Joel sat back down beside Sarah, who was now half-awake.
"mashed potatoes or peas?" Joel questions, grimacing down at the hospital food. Sarah responded with a weak chuckle, which turns into a coughing fit.
He quickly stood up, placing the food onto the side table, reaching over to Sarah. He placed a hand onto her back, gently rubbing it. "You're alright, it's okay. Just breathe."
Sarah stayed hunched over for a long moment, before moving to lay back on her bed. Joel's hand slid up her back to rest on her shoulder.
Instead of speaking, he reached over to grab the small tray of food, scooping up a small forkful of mashed potatoes, and bringing it up to Sarah's lips. She didn't open her mouth to accept the forkful.
"Come on, baby, you need to eat." Joel softly encouraged, and Sarah finally opens her mouth, accepting the food.
He fed her slowly. When he was finished, he softly lulled her back to sleep, before finishing her scraps.
Joel spent another night sleeping in the uncomfortable chair beside his daughter's hospital bed.
In the morning, instead of being woken up by Tommy busting into the room again, he was woken up by soft knocking. Quickly turning around, he found a wide-eyed nurse, dropping off what he presumed to be breakfast.
The nurse gave him a polite smile, handing out a bowl of oatmeal and a plain bagel.
Joel glared down at the distasteful food as the nurse left. Turning back to Sarah, he caught her looking down at the breakfast with a similar grimace on her face.
A small chuckle left him. "This the breakfast that they been feeding you?" He spoke, shaking his head.
Sarah doesn't respond.
Joel stood up from his spot, placing the beige food onto the night stand. "I'll go get us something. Think I saw a bakery just down the street."
He was hesitant even thinking about it, but if Sarah was going to pass, he wanted her to at least enjoy herself. Even if that meant spending a fortune on breakfast.
She watched him as he walked around the room, collecting his jacket and keys. "I'll be right back, okay baby?"
Joel came to stand at her side, leaning down to press his lips against her forehead.
As he leaned away and began to walk to the door, Sarah weakly spoke. "I love you." She calls out, and Joel quickly turns around.
"I love you too, baby. I won't be too long, alright?" He gave her a nod of confirmation, to which she attempted to mirror dully.
Joel left the room for the first time in two days, and he left the hospital the first time in nearly a week. As he sat in his truck, his head came to rest on the wheel as a groan left him.
Tears began to escape.
He knew what was coming, knew the inevitable would soon arrive. Knew that in Sarah's condition, there was no surviving.
Silent tears soon turn to sobs, and he leans back, repeatedly hitting the wheel. He was angry - angry at himself, fucking raging at the doctors for not allowing him to see Sarah, and, selfishly enough, angry at Sarah.
Sarah isn't meant to die. Not for a long time. She's meant to live out her life.
Joel was hysterically sobbing now. His fingers pinched the bridge of his nose, underneath his brow, attempting to console himself. He eventually calms down enough to start the car, pull out of the parking lot, and drive down to the bakery.
Thirty minutes - thirty minutes is the max amount of time he'll be gone. Then he can return to Sarah, and they could eat their fancy food while they finish the rest of the movie.
He drove down the road to the bakery, parking his truck hazardously between two lines as he ran inside. There, he began to pick whatever he felt Sarah would like. Soon, he had an entire bag of assortments such as croissants, tarts, pastries, all with names he couldn't pronounce... and a hefty price tag. The bakery was selling a small bundle of flowers, too. He knew Sarah would like them.
Joel jumped back into the truck, racing to return to the hospital. He drove into the parking lot, quickly abandoning his truck as soon as he put it in park.
He practically skipped to the front of the hospital, his steps all giddy and excited as he imagined Sarah's expression as he brought all of these things to her.
His foot nervously tapped the elevator floor as he got in, pressing the button to Sarah's floor. When the elevator doors dragged open, however, he saw a small cluster of doctors rushing down the hall.
Joel didn't want to accept it. He prayed silently that the doctors would run past Sarah's room, but they didn't.
His brain was too far behind. His feet carried him to Sarah's room, pushing through the throng of doctors standing in the doorway.
He stopped. There, Sarah was laying on the bed, eyes glazed over and the monitor beside the bed humming softly. One of the doctors attempted to speak to Joel, but the words weren't coming through.
Joel quickly ran to his daughter's bedside, the pastries and flowers dropped and forgotten.
He sobbed, stroking his daughter's forehead, attempting to wake her up. He didn't want to come to terms with the fact that... that she...
Joel pleaded. Pleaded with Sarah, with God, with the doctors. Pleaded that someone do something, but the doctors just gave him that stupid look of pity they've been giving him for weeks, before turning around and leaving the room.
One doctor stayed behind. He cleared his throat, placing a hand on Joel's shoulder to gently ease him away from Sarah's corpse.
Joel's shoulder rolled, a quiet plea for the doctor to leave him alone. But she persists.
"Mr. Miller, we need to speak about..." Joel quickly whipped around, his fist coming in contact with the doctor's face.
God, he wanted to do that for so long.
The doctor stood there momentarily in a state of shock, his hands coming up to cup his bleeding nose. Before Joel could mutter an apology, they ran out of the room, yelling for security.
Joel paid no mind to the doctor. He turned back to his daughter, crawling onto her bed, scooping her up into his arms. He gently rocked back and forth, mimicking the same action he used to do for her as a small child. Joel sobbed quietly into his daughter's shoulder, her skin clammy beneath him.
He sobbed and sobbed, unable to come to terms with the fact that Sarah was gone.
Soon, a man in a navy uniform entered the room, tearing Joel away from his daughter. He fought back, punching and elbowing the security guard, clawing out of his grasp to get back to his daughter.
Joel was escorted out of the hospital in a police cruiser and brought to a police station. There, he was booked and processed, then thrown into a cell.
He didn't remember the rest of the time he spent in that holding cell. He just knows that a bond was set, and Tommy paid it.
Tommy didn't speak about Sarah.
He didn't speak about her while picking Joel up, or driving him home.
Joel stumbled into his house, immediately moving to the old leather couch, plopping down.
He was absolutely defeated.
Tommy moved to sit beside him, finally speaking.
"That was real stupid of you..." he grumbled, shaking his head. "Punching a doctor? Sarah's doctor?"
"Don't say her name." Joel spat.
Tommy was silent. He knew this wasn't a good time for a snide comment, or to even talk about Sarah at this point.
Instead, he stood up, moving to the front door.
"Talked to the doctor. Said we'll cremate her," Tommy spoke softly, ensuring Joel that he didn't need to deal with any of that at this point in time.
Tommy left Joel alone for a few days, beside the occasional drop-in for food.
Joel, however, rarely spent any time at home. He purposefully avoided Tommy and his mental-health checks, spending all of his time at the bar.
It was a daily routine. Wake up past noon, drive to the bar extremely hungover, drink until he yaks it all up in the grungy bathroom, get in a fist-fight, get sent home, and pass out in Sarah's bed. He was absolutely wallowing in self-pity.
This went on for months.
It went on until he saw an ad pinned onto the cork board at his most frequented bar. Drunk and stumbling around, he pocketed the paper, only remembering about it when he wakes up the next day.
Joel read it. Reread it, then read it again, considering if this was right for him. He wouldn't be able to work as a reputable contractor again, no, not after assaulting a doctor. This would be a good chance for him to start something new. A great chance.
This would be an opportunity for him.
He could leave Texas behind, and all of its memories. Could leave behind the house, Sarah...
But Sarah would never, truly, be left behind, would she? She would never be forgotten. Joel would make sure of that. As long as he's alive, so would Sarah's memory be.
Joel decided to call the number. An older man answered on the other line, and they had a long conversation, before the old man dropped a question Joel surely wasn't expecting.
Yer coming from Texas? How long'll take you to get here?Joel gave a rough estimate, but showed up days early. He hitchhiked all the way to the ranch, and was welcomed by the older man.
At this point, the ranch was much smaller than what it was today. There were a total of three ranch hands, not including him, who were all there working for the summer.
Marty and Joel got on well. They had both lost their daughters, in a way. Marty moved away, cut contact while Sarah...
He chose not to talk about Sarah, aside from the occasional slip-out while having a drink with Marty.
Joel proved himself worthy, and loyal. Ranch hands came and went, but he stayed on the ranch. This loyalty quickly allowed him to work his way up.
Marty also took in Tanya and her children around this time. The youngest was fifteen years old when he met him. Jace and Tyler, the two youngest, spent most of their time working to stay on the ranch, while the two worked to get off the ranch. He doesn't remember much about Tanya's older children.
He considered Tanya a... mother? A friend? Someone he could go to when the loss of Sarah hung particularly hard on him.
Tanya would wrap her arms around him, as if he were a child, and speak gentle words. Just as he did with Sarah.
Years passed on the ranch, and Joel grew closer to Marty; but although they were close, they still kept many things private. Marty never spoke about his granddaughter, but sometimes Joel could hear Marty drunkenly wailing about his daughter leaving.
Years of this passed. Of them keeping some things private. Until, one day, a switch flipped.
All Marty could speak about was his Granddaughter coming to visit. He ushered the ranch hands to complete all of their chores, and then some more. Ordered them to fix a fencepost near the back of their property, repaint the barn, wash and groom all of the horses, oil all of the tack... It was a complete endless supply of things they needed to do in order for the ranch to seem perfect to you, according to him.
Who were you, anyway? The only thing Joel has ever seen of you is old childhood photos. Marty would sometimes go on rants with the very limited information his daughter supplied him about his granddaughter. When you give someone an inch, they go a mile.
Joel's suspicions were right. You were a city slicker, one who is accustomed to things being accessible from your fingertips, rather than needing to work for it. He supposed, although this is the first thing he learned about you, is also the first thing he hated about you.
He'd conjured up all these little hateful things about you in his mind leading up to your arrival. Partly, because Marty had a second chance. Second chance at getting to know his granddaughter, while Joel knows he won't ever get a second chance for Sarah. And the other reason he hated you was because of all the things Marty had him and the other boys doing.
On the day you were supposed to arrive, he stood on the porch, leaning against one of the columns. Marty stood beside him, chattering his ear off, jumping from topic to topic. Joel understood why he and Tanya got along so well, initially.
Joel watched the old truck pull up the gravel driveway. He had to stop himself from rolling his eyes as Marty ordered a few of the ranch hands to help with your bags, all of them ushering down to the truck.
But all that hatred left him as he saw you exit the truck. He straightened up his posture, uncrossing his arms slightly. Joel watched as you walked to Marty with your arms outstretched and a big grin on your face. He had to physically stop himself from smiling just at the sight of you - of the happiness you radiated.
As you approach him with Tanya, Joel takes a deep breath, prepping himself to speak. He hasn't been this damn nervous since high school.
