summary: You and Jason broke up 2 years ago because of him constantly pushing you away. You see Jason on a date with a new girl whilst out on yet another date. Even after the date, when you're under your date in the back of his Cadillac, all you can think about is Jason.
pairing: Jason Todd x black!f!reader
warnings: Angst, arguments, messy breakups, bad coping mechanisms (sex and drinking), Jason is emotionally stunted, p in v, unprotected sex, creampie, car sex
note: Based off of the song Rhythm of Love by Cil
word count: 2,062
🎶 While I'm wasted in the back of a Cadillac
Under somebody, somebody, somebody
It makes me sick to watch you fall into the rhythm
And I'm nobody, nobody nobody 🎶
The leather of the Cadillac's back seat is cool against your bare thighs. The man above you —what was his name? Derek? Matt? — moves with a rhythm that should feel good, should pull you under, should drown everything out like it always does. His mouth trails down your neck, his fingers digging into your hip as he positions himself between your legs. The windows are fogged, the city lights bleeding through in smears of gold and red.
But your mind is somewhere else entirely.
You close your eyes, and instead of the weight of this stranger pressing you into the upholstery, you feel his weight.
Jason.
The memory of his hands, calloused and warm, sliding up your ribs. The way he used to whisper your name like it was a prayer and a curse all at once. Two years. It's been two years since you walked out of his apartment, since you told yourself you were done crying over a man who wouldn't let you in.
And yet here you are, lying in the back of a Cadillac, letting a man you barely know fuck you into the leather, pretending it's enough.
The date had started like all the others. A nice dinner at that Italian place downtown, the one with the dim lighting and the overpriced wine. Marcus — yes, Marcus has to be correct — had laughed at your jokes, held the door open, told you you were beautiful in a way that felt scripted but sincere enough. You wore that red dress, the one that clings to your curves like a second skin, the one that always makes you feel powerful. You sipped your Chianti and talked about your job, your hobbies, the way you'd always wanted to travel to Greece.
And then you saw him.
Jason Todd, sprawled in a booth across the restaurant, his arm draped over the shoulders of a woman with honey-blonde hair and a smile worthy of a toothpaste ad. She was laughing at something he said, her hand resting on his chest, and Jason — your Jason, the one who never let anyone touch him like that — was letting her. Leaning into it. Smiling that crooked smile you hadn't seen in two years.
Your chest caved in. You felt it, a physical collapse, like someone had reached inside you and pulled out your ribs. Marcus was still talking, something about his boat, but the words were underwater. All you could see was the way Jason's fingers traced lazy circles on the blonde's shoulder. The way he looked at her like she was the answer to a question he'd been asking forever.
You wanted to scream. You wanted to march over there and slap that smile off his face, or maybe slap yourself for still caring. Instead, you finished your wine, excused yourself to the bathroom, and stared at your reflection in the mirror until your hands stopped shaking.
You're on a date. You're moving on. You're fine.
But you weren't fine. You were never fine.
The first time you slept with someone after the breakup, it was a guy you met at a bar. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with a scruffy jaw that reminded you of Jason in the worst way. You took him home, let him fuck you against the headboard, and when it was over, you lay there staring at the ceiling, feeling nothing but a hollow ache where satisfaction should have been.
That became the pattern.
One-night stands.
Blind dates.
Friends with benefits.
You threw yourself into every bed that opened its doors, hoping that if you fucked enough people, you'd eventually fuck the memory of Jason out of your system. You told yourself it was liberation. This is what moving on looks like. But every time a man groaned your name, every time his hands grabbed your hips, every time he buried himself inside you, you found yourself comparing. He doesn't kiss like Jason. He doesn't hold me like Jason. He doesn't make me feel like I'm falling apart and coming together at the same time.
No one ever did.
After the restaurant, Marcus suggested a drive. "Got the old man's Cadillac," he said, grinning, his hand on the small of your back. "Plenty of room in the back seat."
You knew what that meant. You knew it the second he said it. And you agreed, because that's what you did. You said yes to the drinks, yes to the charm, yes to the sex that followed like a well-rehearsed script. You let him take you to the parking lot behind the restaurant, let him open the door for you, let him slide in beside you.
Now his mouth is on your collarbone, his hand sliding up your thigh, and you're staring at the ceiling of the Cadillac, counting the tiny perforations in the fabric. Twelve, thirteen, fourteen...
"Okay?" he murmurs against your skin.
"Mm-hmm."
He takes that as encouragement. His fingers find your cunt, and you gasp — not from pleasure, but from the shock of it, the intrusion. You're wet, because your body doesn't care about your heart. Your body is a traitor. It responds to touch the way it's been trained to, opening up, welcoming him in.
He pushes inside you, and you close your eyes.
And then you're gone.
You're back in Jason's apartment, the one in the Bowery with the busted radiator and the stack of books on the floor. It's late, maybe two in the morning, and you're straddling his lap on that worn-out couch, his hands gripping your ass, his mouth hot and hungry on yours.
"You're gonna be the death of me," he growls against your lips.
You laugh, breathless. "Good. Then I'll have you all to myself."
He flips you onto your back, pins you to the cushions, and looks down at you with those eyes — green and fierce and so full of want it makes your stomach flip. "I love you," he says, and he says it like it hurts. "I love you so goddamn much it scares me."
"Then don't push me away," you whisper, your fingers threading through his hair. "Let me in, Jay. Please."
He doesn't answer. He kisses you instead, deep and desperate, and you let him. You let him because you think that's enough, that his body can say what his mouth can't. He fucks you slow that night, like he's memorising the shape of you, every curve, every sound. When he comes, he buries his face in your neck and shudders, and you hold him, convinced that this time will be different.
It wasn't.
Marcus is moving faster now, his breath ragged, his grip tightening. "God, you feel good," he grunts.
But you always went. Because staying meant seeing the walls he built, night after night. It meant watching him shut down, push you away, lock himself in his own head. It meant loving someone who wouldn't let himself be loved.
But you don't feel it. You feel nothing except the ghost of Jason's hands, Jason's mouth, Jason's cock. You didn't mean to compare every guy to Jason, you tried not to.
You remember the way he used to take you from behind, one hand fisted in your hair, the other splayed across your stomach, pulling you back into him. You remember the way he'd whisper filthy things in your ear, things that made you blush and burn and come undone. You remember the way he'd hold you afterwards, his chest pressed against your back, his lips on your shoulder, his voice soft: Stay. Don't go. Please don't go.
So you left.
And you've been running ever since.
The breakup happened on a Tuesday. It was raining, because of course it was. You'd been fighting for a month straight — stupid things, really. He forgot to call. You were too clingy. He said you "deserved better." You said you didn't want better, you wanted him. But he wouldn't hear it. He'd already made up his mind, the same way he made up his mind about everything: alone, in the dark, without consulting anyone.
"Just go," he said, standing in the doorway, his jaw tight, his hands shoved in his pockets. "It's better this way."
"For who?" you wailed, tears streaming down your face. "For you? Because it sure as hell isn't better for me!"
He didn't answer. He just stood there, a statue carved from grief, and watched you walk away. You waited for him to call you back. You counted to ten, twenty, thirty. But the door clicked shut, and that was it.
Two years.
Two years of waking up alone. Two years of pretending you were fine. Two years of letting strangers fuck you into mattresses and back seats and kitchen counters, hoping that if you filled yourself with enough bodies, you'd forget what it felt like to be filled with him.
But you haven't forgotten. You'll never forget.
Marcus is close. You can tell by the way his rhythm turns frantic, the way his fingers dig into your hips. "I'm gonna... fuck..."
"Come inside me," you say, because that's what you're supposed to say. That's the script. The words fall out of your mouth like a reflex, hollow and rehearsed.
He groans, thrusts deep, and stills. You feel the warmth spread inside you, and you close your eyes, trying to feel something, anything, but there's only a cold, yawning void. He collapses on top of you, breathing hard, his weight pressing you deeper into the leather.
"Wow," he mutters after a moment. "That was..."
"Great," you finish for him. "Yeah."
He lifts his head, looks at you with that post-coital softness. "You okay?"
No. I'm not okay. I'm never okay. I'm lying in the back of a Cadillac, covered in a stranger's cum, and all I can think about is the man who broke my heart two years ago, and I hate myself for it.
"Yeah," you say, forcing a smile. "I'm good."
He kisses your forehead, and you let him. You let him pull you closer, let him whisper sweet nothings in your ear, let him pretend this means something. Because that's what you do. You let them pretend. You let yourself pretend. And when it's over, you go home, shower until your skin is raw, and start the cycle all over again.
But tonight, something is different. Tonight, the illusion cracked. You saw Jason with someone else, and it sliced you open in a way you didn't think was possible. You thought you'd numbed yourself enough. You thought the sex, the drinks, the constant motion had sanded down the edges of your grief.
But all it did was polish it. Make it shine brighter. Make it hurt more.
You slip out of the Cadillac an hour later, after Marcus has dressed and driven you back to your apartment. He kisses you goodbye, asks if he can call you again, and you say yes, because why not? Another name in your phone. Another body in your bed. Another night you'll forget by morning.
But when you get inside, when you're alone in the dark of your empty apartment, you don't head for the shower. You don't pour yourself a drink. You sink to the floor, back against the door, and let the tears come.
You cry for the girl you used to be, the one who believed in love, who thought that if she loved hard enough, she could break through anyone's walls. You cry for the woman you've become, the one who fucks strangers to feel whole, who smiles through the pain, who tells herself she's fine when she's falling apart. You cry for Jason, for the way he looked at that blonde, for the way he never looked at you like that in the end.
And you cry because you know, deep down, that you'd still take him back. Even after everything. Even after the years of silence, the hurt, the walls. You'd crawl back to him on your hands and knees if he asked.
But he won't ask. He never does.
The memories play in your head, over and over again. Like a movie premiere replaying the worst moments of your life on the big screen for your personal viewing displeasure.
You press your palms to your eyes and let the darkness swallow you.
Summary: After seven years away, Alastor tries then fails to convince you to come home with him. Good thing there's always the next day . . . and the day after that . . . and also the day after that . . . and the day after that as well . . . and the day after that . . . and the day after that, and the day after that one, and the day after that one as well. Listen, having to re-woo your ex-wife is a lot of work.
There’s something ominous lingering outside your window, almost like some kind of bad omen. You slide the curtains away . . . Ha.
Looks like you were correct. There was a bad omen, and he’s currently smudging his face into the glass of your window, eyes as wide as his smile. Alastor brightens his smile at the sight of you.
There’s this moment where he glances at the single rose into his hand, then presses it closer to the glass as if to offer it you.
You open the window, and snatch the flower from him. It’s stupid to accept this flower, stupid to soften your heart at the sight of his smile, when he left you. He doesn’t get to come back and pretend things have stayed the same.
“I was wondering where you went,” he says, before you could close the window on him. “It was quite a surprise to come home after seven long years, and find you missing! The house has turned dusty and miserable without anyone inside.”
. . . Funny.
You were wondering the same thing about him.
Alastor places his hands on the windowsill, ready to climb into your apartment.
You slam the window on his fingers, even if it shattered bones. “I didn’t say you could come in.”
“You’re still as beautifully cruel as ever, chérie.” Alastor’s smile widens, a look of absolute elation on his face. “Come home with me?”
You slide the curtains close.
Once again, you are left alone with nobody by your side. There’s a part of you that wants to throw the rose away. You place it into an empty vase instead.
Seven flowers.
Seven days.
Seven instances of Alastor pressing his face into the glass of your window. He never leaves until you’ve opened it to let him talk.
That is the only reason why you open the window tonight. At least, that’s the excuse you give yourself. Turns out, seven years isn’t long enough to move on from your ex-husband, not when you’ve been together for almost a hundred.
“The Hazhin Hotel was awfully dull without you,” he says, sitting cross legged on the fire escape. “It’s easy work to be the host of such a pathetic, little thing because there are no guests for me to host.”
You stay leaned against the wall, never really facing him. It’s easy to stay silent, never really responding to what he says. Alastor tells you the smallest details of his day anyway, telling you about everything except for the one thing you wanted to know.
Why?
Alastor’s ears flicker a bit when you lean out to glance at him. “I placed a whole new radio tower on the side of the hotel,” he says. “The princess was even generous enough to give me a room of my own. It wasn’t hard to drop a bayou. You would love it, chérie.”
Your words come out a little quiet. “Would I really?”
“No . . . Perhaps not,” Alastor says, a small but happy smile on him. “But you could always come home with me if you don’t like it.”
“Not today.”
Alastor’s ears shoot up. “But, one day?”
You close the window instead of responding. It’s difficult to keep looking at the small wobble on his smile, and much easier to close the curtain on him as well. He doesn’t get to make such a sad, sad expression, not when you couldn’t allow yourself to fix it.
That same ominous feeling is back, and right now, it prickles that back of your head.
The moment you turn, you see Alastor leaning on the windowsill, never fully going in. By now, he knows what would happen should he try to cross that line.
You sigh at him. “I didn’t think you’d be here tonight.”
“Yet,” he says, voice a little too giddy, “you window was open.”
There’s a part of you that wants to shut the window on his face. That would certainly pull a fun expression on his face. “You shouldn’t be here,” you say. “The extermination is in a few hours.”
“Exactly,” he says. “Go home, chérie.”
“You’re saying that awfully early.”
Alastor stares at you. “Go home.”
It’s insulting to hear him say those words.
There’s this moment where you try to shut the window, but Alastor pushes against you, forcing the window to stay open. “I don’t have to go anywhere,” you say, a little soft. “Not when I’ve spent years going to that house without you. This is my home now.”
Alastor says your name in such a soft way, that you almost invite him inside. “It’s not safe here.”
“I’ve survived the last seven years without you.” You lean against the wall, if only to physically remove him from your line of sight. “And I’m not the one currently about to fight Heaven’s army. You shouldn’t be worrying about me.”
“Then, can you worry about me?” Alastor breaks the rule, and sticks his hand through the window to present you a rose. “Even if it’s just a little.”
You take the rose from him. “I’ll think about coming home if you come back to me without a scratch.”
“Is that a promise?”
“Yes.”
Alastor’s smile widens. “Then, I’ll come back to you without a scratch.”
That fucking liar.
Alastor hasn’t come for you in almost a month now.
Yet, even as the news parades him as Vox’s hostage, you keep your window open for him anyway.
There are a handful of flowers in Alastor’s hand, some look a little burnt and some look just as bruised as he does now. If you count the flower, you’re sure it’ll be the exact number of the days he’s missed. Looking at the messy bouquet, it dawns on you just how many days he missed.
Alastor presents the bouquet of mismatched flowers to you. “I hope you don’t mind,” he says, looking just as tired as he sounds. “It seems my regular florist got caught up in that stupid TV’s death ray—Ha! Ha! So, I simply improvised.”
You shut the curtains on him, and curl into the heavy cloth. There’s a stupidly happy smile on you, and that pride of yours will take a hit if you allow him to see it.
“Oh, dearest!” Alastor says. “Now now., we made a promise. I promised to come back to you without a scratch, and you promised to come home with me.”
You slide the curtains open. “I said I would think about coming home,” you say, frowning a little. “Good Heavens, Alastor. You look like you thrown into multiple buildings.”
“That’s because I was.”
“I saw the news,” you say, rolling your eyes. “You shouldn’t be here. Go . . . Go rest up, or get treated.”
“Ah, ah, ah,” he says, wagging his fingers. “I promised to come back to you without a scratch, and I am currently scratch free. There was a little set-back to my plans, but I’ve taken care of it now.”
You tell yourself that it’s instinct to reach out for his face, cupping him into your hold. “You look tired,” you say. “I could have waited another day.”
“I couldn’t.” Alastor’s ears droop as he leans into your hand. “I don’t want you to wait any longer than you already have. I’ve already made you wait long enough.”
You swipe a thumb across his cheek. “There are rips on your suit, and some burn marks as well. You look like you’re about to pass out any second,” you say, laughing a little. “And you still stopped to pick me some flowers?”
“I did,” he says, a toothy grin on him “ . . . Will you come home with me?” A silence rises into the air, and Alastor sighs a little. “You won’t, will you?”
“I’m not ready to go back to that house just yet.”
Alastor takes a step back, a step away from you. “I understand, chérie.”
“Wait.” You grab his good arm. “Would . . . Would you like to come inside? Help me find a vase big enough for the bouquet.”
That sad, sad look disappears, replaced by a smile that could rival the Morningstar himself.
It will take a while, but everything will be alright again.
Your head is pressed against the pillow, but it does nothing to muffle your needy little whines and whimpers.Your knuckles turn white as you grip the sheets.
“Please- i can’t… it’s too much!”
Your sobs fall on deaf ears as he plunges his cock into you over and over again. It rubbed against every ridge on your soft, wet walls. He leans over, chest pressed against your back. His fingers tangled into your hair, pulling your head back a bit.
“Look at ya… poor thing…”
He kisses your cheek ever so sweetly, contrasting with his rough hands and the deep, fast thrusts of his cock. He brushes your sweat-damp hair away from your face.
“Just a little more,baby…”
His hand sneaks under you, rubbing your bud in small, tight circles. You squirm, letting out a strangled sound from the pure pleasure and overstimulation of it.
“N-no! ‘Ts too much… can’t”
He laughs deeply, and it melts into a groan as you clench down on him. He lets go of your hair, pulling back.
“You can… you can and will”
He resumes his beautifully torturous rhythm. He shifts his hips, the new angle has his tip kissing your cervix repeatedly. It sends shivers down your spine and your eyes roll back.
Your mouth falls open as this sends you over the edge, again. You sob, the sensation too much for you to handle, too intense, in a way that has your skin crawl and your cunt clench impossibly around him.
“There ya go…” He whispers, his hand slowing on your clit, finally stopping all movement. His hard cock stays lodged inside you.
You’re panting, spent, ready to call it quits. Your grip on the sheets loosens and your head rests on the pillow, eyes glazed over and unfocused.
Then he starts moving again, still not done with you. You let out a whine, a tear sliding down your cheek.
The following records are currently available for public access. Please note that the Department cannot guarantee emotional safety while reviewing archived materials
Proceed at your own risk.
Case file 001 — unavailable
“6 weeks of breathing clean air, I still miss the smoke. Were you making fun of me with some esoteric joke? Now I wanna sell my house, and set fire to all my clothes. And hire a priest to come and exorcise my demons. Even if I die screaming. And I hope you hear it.”
Case file 002 — Down bad
“For a moment I knew cosmic love…” and “cause fuck it, I was in love. So fuck you, if I can’t have us.”
Case file 003 — unavailable
“And you say I abandoned the ship, but I was going down with it. My white knuckle dying grip.”
Case file 004 — unavailable.
“I can fix him, no really I can… woah maybe I can’t.”
Case file 005 — LOML
“It was legendary. It was momentary. It was unnecessary, should’ve let it stay buried. Oh what a valiant roar. What a bland goodbye. The coward claimed he was a lion, and I’ll still see it, until I die. You’re the loss of my life.
Case file 006 — TSMWEL
“A message to the smallest man who ever lived… were you sent by someone, who wanted me dead? Did you sleep with a gun underneath our bed? Were you writing a book, were you a sleeper sell spy? In fifty years will all this be declassified?”
Case file 007 — The Bolter
“She’s been many places with many of many faces, first, they’re off to her races, and she’s laughing drawing aces, but none of it is changing that the chariot is waiting. Hearts are hers for the breaking. There’s escape in escaping.”
Case file 008 — How did it end?
“Our maladies were such, we could not cure them. And so a touch that was my birth right became foreign.”
Case file 009 — I Look In People’s Windows.
“I look in people’s windows, in case you’re at their window. I attend Christmas parties from outside.”
Case file 010 — fortnight
“I love you it’s ruining my life.”
Case file 011 — The Prophecy
“Please I’ve been on my knees, don’t want money, just someone who wants my company. Who do I have to speak to, about if they can redo the prophecy.”
Case file 012 — I can do it with a broken heart.
“Lights. Camera. Bitch smile. Even when you wanna die. He said he’d love me all his life. but that life was too short, breaking down I hit the floor, all the pieces of me shattered as the crowd was chanting more!”
Case file 013 — The Manuscript
“Every now and then I reread the manuscript, but the story isn’t mine anymore.”
Case file 014 — My Boy Only Breaks His Favorite Toys.
“Cause I knew too much. There was danger in the heat of my touch. He saw forever so he smashed it up. My boy only breaks his favorite toys. I’m queen of sand castles he destroyed.”
Case file 015 — The Tortured Poets Department.
“Who’s gonna hold you like me?”
End of Department Records.
Files with chances of revival: Guilty as sin, Fresh out the Slammer, but daddy I love him, so high school, the alchemy, cososom
He taps the head of his cock on your clit a few times, earning a whine from you. He has your ankles in one hand, pushing your legs back as you lie on the bed.
“Put it in already!”
You beg impatiently, squirming. He slaps the back of your thighs multiple times. “Behave.” He mutters, eyes too fixated on the movement of his cock between your pussy lips. Your slick trickles down to your other puckered hole, the sheets beneath you already getting wet.
He moves the length of his cock up and down, the head catching on your clit multiple times. Each time it goes down, he slips the tip in, then pulls it back out to repeat the cycle again. It was agonizing and frustrating.
“You’re a—“
He slaps your sopping cunt, right on your clit. “I’m a what, doll? Huh?” He teases. It’s a game to him. Seeing how far he’d push you before you start yelling or crying.
Today, it was the latter. He heard the sniffles first, and when he looked at you, a few tears of frustration were already falling down your cheeks. His cock twitches at the sight, a bead of precum falling right on your puffy clit. “Aw what is it, baby? Too much for you? Am i being too mean?”
You nod with another sniffle as he lets go of your ankles, letting each one rest on one of his shoulders. You can finally look at his face now, your eyes glossed over with tears and need. He leans over, pushing you into a mating press, and kisses you sloppily. His hand holds your jaw, pushing your head further against the pillows.
Then he finally slips it in, your mouth falling open as your back arches. You can feel him stretch you deliciously and that one prominent vein that runs along his length. He smiles at the filthy sounds escaping your lips— both lips actually. “Fuck… atta girl” He groans.
Hey all! I know I've been so slow to update this fic. I've really appreciated all your messages and comments of interest and enthusiasm. As I've mentioned, I have every intention of both continuing and finishing this fic. Life has just made it really hard to find time to work on it lately. To make up for the incredibly long wait, I wanted to post a little tidbit I've had in my drafts for a while. It's part of a prologue/flashback that I haven't been able to incorporate into any of my planned chapters yet. I hope y'all enjoy!
“Dragon!” Thorin’s voice boomed from across the halls of Erebor.
You drop the book you’re holding in alarm. Looking around as people start to scream and scatter in panic. Through the chaos, you can see Thorin, standing at the gates. Across the vast hall, your eyes meet. And even from this far away, you can see the fear in his eyes.
Never had you seen anything frighten your closest friend like the firedrake roaring outside the walls of Erebor. Your first instinct is to run to him, but the hordes of people clambering over each other block your path.
Getting to him now would be nearly impossible, especially when you and all your kin are minutes away from being set aflame.
No, Thorin is a very capable warrior, and has an entire dwarven army at his back. He’ll be alright. But your parents…
Hiking up your skirts, you take off down the vast hallways in a manner your mother would consider most unladylike. Shouldering past others looking for their own loved ones, you skid to a halt outside your family’s quarters.
“Ma!” you cry out, “da?”
Your mother rushes out of her bed chambers. “Darling,” she pants, “I heard the alarms. What’s wrong?”
“A dragon is coming; we have to get somewhere safe! Now!”
“Your father is in the library; we’ll go to him.” The library is even deeper within Erebor. If an attack truly is coming, it’s one of the safest places to hole up until danger passes. If it passes.
Never in the history of the dwarven kingdom have you ever heard of a dragon attack. No dwarven made weapon can defeat an enemy made of flames. And Thorin is about to take the beast head on.
Your mother heads for the crowded hallway, pulling you along behind.
“Wait!” You stop her. “You go to the library; I’ll meet you there.”
Your mother tilts her head at you with a knowing look, “Thorin will be fine, my love."
“And if he’s not?” You yank your arm from her grasp.
“What do you imagine you can do about it? You are no warrior, my child. You are a lady, and we have to go.”
“No!”
Your mother gives you an exasperated look. Of all the times for you to revisit this same argument.
“You could be killed!”
“Better to die unladylike than survive a coward. You go to father; I will meet the two of you there once the danger has passed.”
You pull out the dagger concealed in your skirts. Your mother’s eyes widen, not knowing of the blade's existence until then. It had been a gift from Thorin several years ago on your birthday. The intricately jeweled hilt he had forged himself, not that he would ever admit to it. But you’d recognize his handiwork anywhere, and the hilt fits into your palm so perfectly it could only have been made by someone who has spent years and years holding your hand to pull you down darkened corridors in secret.
Tightening your grip on the handle. Your mother looks between the secret weapon and the determined look on your face.
The cries of your kin continue outside, and your mother sighs, bringing up a hand to brush your hair out of your face. “I know that look,” she whispers, “you are every bit your father’s stubborn daughter.”
She reaches around and unclasps her necklace. The very necklace your father gifted her on their wedding day. She hadn’t removed it since.
“I know it is not in your nature,” she says, fastening the necklace around you, “but do try to be careful, my darling.” You nod silently, placing your hands over hers as she cups your face and gently kisses the top of your head.
“I’ll see you soon,” you whisper, giving her hand a gentle squeeze before hurrying out the door to Thorin’s aide.
fem!reader x Jason Todd (straight up smut + a little aftercare)
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It must have been one boring patrol. That's what you figure when jason comes home, still restless, needing to let somthing out.
Jason's always gentle with you, but with his muscles, it's not hard to hold you in place. His arms are holding your torso down so he can work. You tend to squirm, so this was his solution. You don't mind, knowing he'll stop if you tap his head. He lifts his head to speak, chin visiably wet.
"So fucking good, princess"
Your noises are like music to him as he sucks on your clit. Jason moans back at the feeling of hands running through his hair. He likes to prep you before he gives you what you really need, but he struggled to hold on. He humps the bed for friction and hopes you'll cum for the second time here soon.
His thick fingers find their way to your pussy and prove themselves useful. The feeling of his pointer and middle finger entering you pussy is satisfying. He makes out with your cunt while moving his fingers in a scissor motion.
"Please Jay..." you whimper.
Your thighs try to close, but he refuses to come up for air. You feel your body give in to the orgasm. Jason still hasn't stopped working his tongue so you tap his head.
His face is as much of a mess at your thighs. Kisses press to your thighs, to your stomach, to your breasts, and finally to your lips. He's on top of you, shirtless and sweaty and wanting more. Warm breath touches your neck and soft words hit your ears.
"You're so perfect, baby. Can I get some more please?"
Wanting to make him feel just as good as you, you reach for his belt. He's already leaking and desperate by the time you pull his cock out. He normally uses lube, but after the mess you made, he rubs his cock along your vulva and it slides in with ease.
You've gotten used to Jason's size by now. It's enough to be intimidating, but you grew to love it. He gives a few test thrusts before fixing your position.
"Comfy sweetheart?" He put a pillow under your hips for easier access.
"Mhm"
The man between your legs kisses your neck as he starts thrusting. He may not have much experience, but he surely knew what he was doing. If you could, you would thank the woman who taught him where the g spot is.
He hits it every fucking time. He holds you as he makes love to you. His big cock making it's way as deep as he can.you hold back onto hims, hands grasping at his muscular back.
"Jason..." you can barely talk.
"What? Got somethin' to say?" Oh he's playful tonight.
"I love it..."
"Yeah?" He's so clearly turned on by the praise. Oh is that man eager to please. "Tell me how you want it, baby. I'll give it to you."
"A little rougher"
He gently lifts you and puts you in a position you don't often use. Your arms can't hold you up, so you grab hold of a pillow. Your ass is right up against him. His cock kisses your cervix as he pushes back in. The thrusts feel even deeper.
You moan as he snaps his hips to yours. The feeling is glorious. Jason was a (selectively) ruthless man who had killed many and yet you had him desperate and panting.
His thrusts did not slow as he reached around to play with your clit. You weren't gonna last much longer like this. He's close too.
"Can you hold on just a little longer princess? I'm almost done."
Your cum coats his cock. But fuck, after you good he treated you? You can push through it. He pulls his hand away from your clit not wanting to overwhelm you too much. You feel his cock twitch deep inside.
"Fuck. Can I cum inside? I'll buy you plan b. I just-"
"Yes" you pant out.
He holds tighter onto you as his thrusts get shakier. Cum fills he and the thrusts come to a stop. He pulls out and lays you all the way down, moving next to you.
♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡
"You good?" Jason asks softly. Everytime it gets even a little rough, he's scared he hurt you. You nod.
"Shower with me?" You offer. "I need to clean off."
"Yeah. Go 'head. I'll be there in a minute."
You both sit up and he helps you to your feet. He changes the bedding while you get the shower started.
Jason comes in less than three minutes after you. The hot water feels good on both your skin. He washes your hair and you wash his back.
After you bathe, you find yourselves back in each others arms, this time in clean sheets. You cuddle up to his chest and rest your head by his neck, giving him a kiss there.
𑣲 SYNOPSIS. You're peacefully asleep with the Radio Demon in your bed. What could possibly go wrong?
𑣲 PAIRING. Alastor x AFAB/Female!Reader
𑣲 WORD COUNT. 1.9k
𑣲 CONTENT WARNINGS. Noncon, somnophilia, unconscious oral/cunnilingus, restraint, P-in-V penetration, internal ejaculation, possessive/objectifying language, predator/prey dynamics, torn clothing, bodily fluids, & romanticized abuse
𑣲 A/N. Based off of an anonymous request I received. You know who you are. >:) Enjoy the filth, sickos. ("Un Petit Morceau" means "a little bit," by the way!) MINORS DNI.
The Radio Demon sighed.
The warm rays from Hell's perpetual vermilion skies filtered in through the windows of your room, their slight variation in vibrancy the only indicator it was morning. It bathed the bedsheets and your slumbering, peaceful form aglow, washing out every other hue in favor of its signature redness—his favorite color. He had always thought it suited you; he'd imagine how it would look on you in different ways, from cocktail dresses to corsets that would flatter your frame, and how even the blood of those who'd wronged you both would adorn you.
You were ever the most darling sight to behold, even when unconscious—hair fanned out around you like a halo as if evidence of your unholy divinity, limbs tangled within an ocean of silk, lips parted slightly as your chest languidly heaved with every breath you took…
Alastor realized—with a tenderness that was once foreign—that he was staring, and you remained none the wiser.
A clawed hand reached out slowly before brushing delicately against your cheek. With a smile only ever reserved for you and for quiet moments such as these, he wondered what exactly he had done to deserve your presence in the afterlife. His gaze then dropped to your parted lips, at how pleasant they looked, at how inviting they were…
Shifting slightly reminded him of the throbbing and rather solid problem confined within his pajama pants.
Well.
He was certain you wouldn't have minded. After all, you were the picturesque toy for him to do with as he pleased; you with your unmarred innocence and pliant body, your enticing softness and supple flesh.
No, you wouldn't have minded at all if he had a little taste, now would you?
Carefully, so as to not rouse you from your sleep, Alastor shimmied out of his trousers slowly. His undergarments followed suit, ditched atop the heap of fabric on the floor.
With a hushed hiss escaping him, his tip met with the coolness of the room's air. Already his cock was weeping beads of precum—the pearlescent liquid trailing its way down his hardened length.
Oh, if only you knew the effect you had on him even when blissfully unaware, lips pursed and brow slightly furrowed as you dreamt away, your concentration clearly stolen elsewhere in a place he couldn't quite reach.
A minuscule, sleepy groan passed your lips unbidden just then. How adorable.
Alastor set about rearranging you almost as if you were a fragile doll made of the finest china, deliberately moving you until you were no longer in a curled up position.
Once he had laid you out carefully upon the bed, your sheer babydoll nightgown had ridden up, exposing your cotton panties that now unabashedly peeked out. It was an all-too-tantalizing sight; one that made his cock twitch with renewed intrigue. He ghosted his knuckles down your clothed slit, a voracious hunger in his eyes as he felt the way your entrance tightened reflexively at his featherlight touch. Almost knowingly. Almost as if it was imploring the monster to come inside and make a home for himself.
"Ma belle, the things you do to me," he whispered into the silence of the night that promised to keep his sins a secret—even the one he was about to commit—voice low and gravelly with desire that pooled deep into his gut.
He was now sat back on his haunches at the foot of the bed, head tilted to the side, looking every part the predator assessing his prey. Alastor openly admired you in all your relaxed glory for just a moment longer. So tranquil you were, still unaware of the unholiness he would soon devote in your name…
With startling ease, he then used his claws to slice cleanly through the pure cotton, the noise of it ripping the only other sound aside from your steady breathing and his more laborious breaths.
His breath almost caught in his throat at how your cunt was now presented bare before him. Alastor nearly cooed out loud at how you squirmed in your restful state, your body recognizing what had just happened while your mind remained obliviously caught in whatever scene your subconscious was playing for you.
Alastor wondered what you were dreaming of. Was it something from your past that you had not yet revealed to him? Your present, instead? Or perhaps your future—one where you undeniably and wholeheartedly belonged to him?
No matter what it was, the demon would see to it that he'd seep into the cracks of your dreams himself, especially if it meant bringing this saccharine cunt—and the rest of you—into his possession.
Positioning his mouth over your exposed clit, he gave it a quick and chaste kiss before nudging his tongue almost tentatively between your folds, your heady scent now more intense as it intoxicated him. At the slightest taste of you, a small groan emanated from deep within his chest while his eyes rolled back into his skull; you tasted every bit as divine as you looked.
Crimson eyes flickered upward towards your countenance that remained serene despite his ministrations. You were still so adorably oblivious to everything surrounding you.
"Bon appétit, ma chère," whispered Alastor as he gently spread your legs open and held them down with a possessive grip. Without further preamble, he delved his tongue once more betwixt your lower lips, the flesh there beginning to moisten with your essence as he earnestly ate you out like you were his last meal. Obscene slurping noises accompanied the way he undulated his tongue without shame—the muscle swirled around your clit a few times, then side-to-side, before it would go on to be joined with his lips as he suckled at the nub.
In doing so, you subconsciously jerked in his hold, brows furrowing as little gasps left you. His ears flicked in interest at the sound, but his focus did not stray from suctioning the pearl nestled at the apex of your thighs. After a few more seconds, his tongue traveled down towards your slick entrance before sliding inside. The appendage elongated within you slowly; its tip brushed against your cervix before retracting to roll up and down the walls of your inner canal, searching for the spot he knew would make your toes curl in your sleep.
Once he had found what he sought—evident by your increased squirming and soft whines rising in volume—he ensured all his attention would not leave it untouched. By now, you were lightly thrashing at the stimulation, yet he kept his attention fixated on it; his claws applied more pressure to your plush skin, effectively keeping your moving thighs from closing and clamping around his head.
Still fast asleep, your orgasm crashed down upon you, his tongue relentless as he wrung every last second of it out of you. With a satisfied grunt, Alastor pulled back from your drooling cunt—the motion causing a string of his saliva to stretch between his mouth and your labia.
He took a moment to admire the lewd display you unknowingly offered him while you sleepily murmured, your mind tarrying elsewhere.
You looked to be in a state of absolute ruination without even being aware of it. Your hair was tousled, sweat beaded along the alluring curve of your throat, and your expression had settled back into one of undisturbed blankness. At the sight, Alastor felt his cock become impossibly harder.
Well, now with you being sufficiently prepared…
The demon pushed your thighs to the sides of your head, their backs pressing into the pillow that your head rested against. One hand then guided his dripping length into your heat. The moment he felt himself encompassed entirely by you, he groaned out your name. It took him a fair amount of restraint to avoid cumming into you right then and there—yet his smile only widened.
He was going to make sure you felt him even in your dreams, even if they didn't involve him.
It was a languid pace he set, his hips lazily thrusting into you as he fondly looked down at your placid visage, gaze searching for any potential signs of stirring. When he found none, he began to piston into you with more purpose, but not with enough force to wake you.
Plap, plap, plap—the sound of his pelvis striking the backs of your thighs filled the room, which was now thick with the aroma of sex. His breathing became more ragged.
"Yes, take all of me," Alastor murmured though you could not hear him.
Your pussy continued to welcome him, squelching as your hole greedily accepted each and every thrust.
The beginnings of perspiration gathered on his pallid skin, yet this did nothing to deter him from chasing his release by using your pliable body. With each plunge into you, the bed creaked beneath the force; its noisiness joined the cacophony that was his breathing and the pleasured, tiny whimpers he elicited from you.
His once measured thrusts were gradually becoming more erratic, and the tension within his gut was growing more and more taut the longer his eyes drank in your disheveled form taking him so well, so obediently, so dutifully.
A low, condescending croon came from him. "You love it when I fuck you like this, don't you, my little sleepy doe? You're doing so well for me… Oh, yes you are!"
Your brow was set once more, and he would've thought you had heard him and responded by the way you softly whined next, if it weren't for how your eyes remained shut and your breathing stayed level.
"Hush now," the demon said in a subdued tone, as if placating a fussy child. "You are safe with me…"
His precum and your fluids coalesced into a shallow puddle, the combination dripping out of you onto the once-pristine bedsheets. He paid it no mind as he threw your legs over his shoulders and leaned in closer, forearms caging you in as his lips grazed your temple tenderly—or with as much tenderness as a monster like him could muster.
"You're mine."
The pleasure winding around his core tighter and tighter finally snapped in tandem with his equanimity. A guttural groan tore from him as his balls drew up before his hot, white cum was pumped into you. Alastor's hips stuttered, the last of his composure breaking.
"There we go," he cooed breathlessly, giving you a few final lazy thrusts, his spend thoroughly painting your inner canal. It was a claim upon your body that you would barely remember.
Finally, he pulled his cock out from your warmth, and a gasp nearly escaped him. His cum dribbled out of you, mingling with the mess beneath your ass; a view that was enough to make any man erect again. He gathered what leaked from you on one fingertip, privately deeming it an ungrateful waste, then pressed it back inside.
Delicately, Alastor returned you to your former position. He then rose and stepped back from the bed to admire his handiwork while retrieving the clothing he had discarded across the floorboards.
To anyone else, you remained the picture of innocence. Alastor knew better—or fancied that he did.
No, The Radio Demon mused to himself with a satiated hum, you surely wouldn't mind that you had let him have a taste—even without the mildest inkling of a clue in having done so.
#drabble.ᐟ ⸝⸝ condescending!JASON TODD ⸝⸝ bdsm ⸝⸝ p in v ⸝⸝ sadism & masochism ⸝⸝ MDNI ⸝⸝ fem!reader.
─── 〃★ dc masterlist ! for @mayhemi ily >_<
jason’s rough hands press down on your hips, pinning you down on the narrow safehouse cot while the mission’s adrenaline still hums under both your skins. you got clipped because you wouldn’t listen—ignored his barked orders over comms and took a hit that left a blooming bruise along your ribs. it’s not bad, just deep purple and tender, but you played it off with a smirk and pressed your body into his, whispering filthy things to distract him from the lecture you knew was coming.
he doesn’t forget. neither does he let you.
“trying to distract me, princess?” he murmurs, voice gravel-rough and dripping with that sex addled condescension as he shoves your thighs wider with his knee. his bare cock is already thick and heavy against you, sliding through your slick folds while one hand traces the edge of that bruise with deliberate pressure. “cute. real fucking cute. you get yourself banged up playing lone hero, then spread your legs like that’ll make me overlook how reckless you were. but i know you, baby. i know my masochistic little thing gets off on the sting, don’t you?”
you arch into him anyway, needy and insistent, but he chuckles softly and presses his thumb right into the bruise just enough to make the dull throb bloom hotter. not enough to truly harm—never that—but enough to mix the pain with the slick heat building between you. “doesn’t hurt, huh? that’s what you said out there. look at you now, dripping all over my cock while i press on this pretty mark you earned by not listening. such a tough girl until you’re whining under me, hm?”
he pushes in slow, stretching you open inch by thick agonizing inch, eyes locked on your face like he’s cataloging every gasp and flutter of your cunt around him. “fuck, you’re tight. greedy little cunt sucking me in even after you disobeyed. good girl—taking every inch like you were made for this. made for me to fuck some sense into you while i remind you exactly who keeps your reckless ass alive.”
his hips roll deep and steady, heavy thrusts that drag against every sensitive spot inside you. drawing out the prettiest sounds. one hand stays splayed over your bruised side, fingers tracing the mark in a way that bordered on possessive—like if he could get his hands on whoever did this it wouldn’t end well—pressing and stroking in time with each punishing snap forward. “should’ve listened to me. i told you to wait for my signal. but no—my stubborn, masochistic princess has to do it her way. now you’re gonna take what i give you and thank me for it, bruise and all.”
you whine, nails raking down his scarred back, legs locking around his waist. jason just leans heavier into you, grinding deep, mouth hovering over yours so you feel every mocking breath. “yeah, that’s it. cry for me. you were so mouthy earlier, arguing back like you run these streets. now look at you—shaking apart on my cock because you need me to ruin you. so needy. so fucking pathetic and perfect when you finally behave.”
he angles his hips, hitting that spot over and over while his thumb circles the bruise with mean affection, knowing full well how the sharp little sparks of pain make you clench tighter around him. “see this mark? this is what happens when you don’t listen. could’ve been worse. but you like it, don’t you? like me pressing right here while i fuck you stupid. my perverted girl getting wetter every time i remind you.”
the condescension burns hot and velvet-wrapped, each coo pushing you closer. “come on, sweetheart. give it to me. show me how sorry you are by coming all over the dick that keeps saving your ass. attagirl—just like that.”
pleasure coils vicious and tight until it snaps, your walls fluttering hard around him as you shatter with a broken moan. jason groans low, fucking you through it with deep, claiming strokes, chasing his own release while murmuring against your neck. “that’s my good little reckless idiot. next time you’ll listen… or i’ll just have to remind you again, yeah?”
he watches you with that sharp, satisfied gleam in his eyes as you nod dazedly, drool slipping down your chin while he gives your flushed cheek a light, patronizing pat. his thumb brushes the sweat-damp strands of hair from your forehead almost tenderly, a mocking contrast to the way he’s still buried balls deep inside you. “say you understand.”
“i…” the words dissolve on your tongue, your fuzzy and thoroughly fucked-out brain refusing to help you out.
“you?” he mocks, tilting his head with a low, broken chuckle as he stares down at your wrecked expression. “c’mon. you’re a big girl. use your words for me.”
“i understand,” you finally whimper, the sound barely coherent.
he hums approvingly, thumb stroking your cheek again. “that’s my girl.”
#drabble.ᐟ ⸝⸝ mean!dick grayson ⸝⸝ condescension ⸝⸝ p in v ⸝⸝ teasing&taunting ⸝⸝ mocking ⸝⸝ MDNI !
───〃★ dc masterlist ! ╱ heavily inspired by @honeysucklewatr ‘s drabble.
the sound of the safe house door clicking shut was all you needed to know you were fucked—literally. it had been a long night of you giving dick shit all throughout patrol and he was just about done with it. dick had you pinned against the wall in seconds, nightwing suit still on, that little smirk playing on his lips.
“you’ve been a real pain in the ass tonight,” he murmured, voice low and warm but dripping with that sexy amusement. “rubbing up against me on every rooftop, whispering how badly you needed my cock while i was trying to focus. thought you were so funny, huh?”
you grinned up at him, breathless. looking every part the woman that drove him mad during patrol earlier. you just loved working him up. “maybe i just like seeing you worked up, grayson.”
dick laughed softly, the sound low but riddled with want—no—need. he peeled your suit off with impatient hands until you were half-bare—panties bunched at your ankles along with your pants—he didn’t have the patience for properly stripping you tonight. then spun you around and bent you over the small table, foot kicking your legs apart.
“oh, i’m worked up alright.” he pulled his suit just low enough for his hard-on to spring out. he tapped the thick head of his cock against your soaked cunt, smacking it lightly against your swollen clit over and over until your hips jerked. “listen to how wet you are. pathetic, baby. you were so cocky earlier—now look at you, dripping down your thighs before i’ve even fucked you properly.”
he pushed in with one hard thrust, bottoming out deep and making you gasp sharply. you tried to shift forward, overwhelmed by the sudden stretch, but his hands gripped your hips roughly and yanked you back so that you were pressed right up against him. the material of his suit scraping against your back.
“nuh-uh. where do you think you’re going?” he chuckled, pulling you onto his cock again with a filthy slap of skin. “you begged for this all night. now you’re gonna take it.”
he started fucking you in deep, heavy strokes, hips snapping forward hard enough to make the table creak. every thrust punched the air out of your lungs. when you moaned too loudly he reached around and gave your cheek a light, playful tap with his palm—more of a patronizing pat than a anything close to a slap.
“poor baby,” he cooed, voice condescendingly sweet. “you can give me another one of those pretty sounds, can’t you? or are you already falling apart?”
“dick—fuck—slow down—”
he laughed again, the sound low and mocking and so hot it sent jolts straight to your cunt while he drilled into your pussy even harder, one hand traveling down your stomach and sliding between your legs to rub tight, mean circles on your clit. “slow down? but you were so needy before, hmm? ‘dick, i’m so wet just watching you’—remember that?” he mimicked your earlier teasing with a smirk you could almost hear. “take what you begged for, baby. that’s it… right there? god, you’re so precious when you’re crying for my cock.”
tears pricked at the corners of your eyes from the overwhelming pleasure. dick noticed immediately. he leaned over you, still pounding deep, and kissed the corner of your eye, tasting the salt with a satisfied groan.
“aww, look at you tearing up already,” he teased, his voice was voice husky and affectionate even as he mocked you like you were some slut. “such a whiny thing. can’t even handle how good i’m fucking you? poor girl.”
he pulled out suddenly, flipping you onto your back on the table and hooking your legs over his shoulders. he slapped his cock against your clit again rubbing it back and forth and watching your face, teasing the sensitive bundle until you whimpered and tried to close your legs. but he didn’t let you—strong hands spreading you wide as he pushed back in, fucking you deeper in this new angle.
“dick—too much—”
“too much is it?” he pouted and cooed, eyes sparkling with wicked delight as he repeated the same devastating thrust over and over. “you were practically humping my thigh on patrol. now you’re crying? make up your mind, princess.” he moaned loud and shameless right along with you, mirroring your desperate sounds to amplify them. “fuck, listen to yourself. so pretty when you’re ruined under me like this.”
his fingers found your clit again, rubbing fast and firm, never letting up even when you clawed at his arms with your nails digging into the fabric of his suit. he fucked you through another orgasm, grinning with all the pride he had in him when you shattered around him with a broken cry.
“that’s my pretty girl,” he praised, voice softening just a fraction as he kept moving, chasing his own release. “giving me everything i want. come on—clench around me like that. you can hold on till i cum too, yeah?”
when he finally reached his peak, buried deep and groaning your name, he stayed inside you for a few seconds, breathing hard like he didn’t just fuck the daylights out of you. then he pulled out gently and with a groan. he scooped you up over his shoulder like you weighed nothing (which to a guy like him, that’s not far from the truth) and carried you to the small bed in the corner.
he gently dropped you onto the bed and collapsed beside you with a sigh. he tugged you into his chest, arms wrapping around you tight. his fingers stroked through your hair as you both caught your breath, the condescension from earlier melting into something that’s softer now.
“you okay?” he whispered, pressing a gentle kiss to your temple. “i wasn’t too mean, was i?”
you shook your head, still trembling a little against him from the force of your orgasm. dick chuckled quietly, the sound more fond now, and tugged you even closer, one leg tangled with yours.
“good. because look at you,” he teased, all playful and loving as he sweat-soaked hair from your flushed face. “all teary-eyed and fucked out after acting like such a big tease on patrol. bratty girl turning into a sobbing mess the second i get my hands on her. adorable.”
you huffed against his chest, cheeks burning. “shut up, grayson.”
dick grinned, eyes twinkling with mischief as he pressed another kiss to the top of your head. “aww, don’t pout. you love it when i call you out. ‘dick please, dick it’s too much’—” he mimicked your broken moans from earlier in an exaggeratedly sweet voice, laughing softly when you swatted his chest. “what? it’s true. you were so confident whispering all that dirty shit in my ear, and now you can barely speak.“
“i said shut up,” you muttered, half-laughing as you hid your face against his neck.
his tone stayed light and affectionate, fingers tracing lazy circles on your back. “fine,” he sighed as he nuzzled into your hair, voice dropping softer. “i better not wake up to an empty bed.”
masochist!jason todd, who isn't afraid to ask you to hit him during sex
"baby- just, just slap me a little, you know ya' won't hurt me, angel"
"w-what?" you ask breathily, eyebrows furrowed in concern at his request, but the bounce of your hips on his cock never falters.
masochist!jason todd, who takes your hand in his, pressing it on his flushed cheek, urging you to rough him up a bit, no matter your confusion
masochist!jason todd, who moans whorishly once he finally convinces you and feels that satisfying sharp sting on his skin, the sensation going straight to his dick
"fuck! yeah ma, shit- do that again,"
masochist!jason todd, who can't shut the fuck up when you're hurting him, blabbering small thank you's and compliments as you choke him until his brain goes all fuzzy
masochist!jason todd, who lets you smack him and choke him for multiple rounds until his skin is a deep angry red and he's dizzy
masochist!jason todd, who leaves the bedroom with painful scratches, bites, and bruises littered all over his body
tags — 18+ minors dni | f!reader, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it), spooning sex, size difference, pet names (sweetheart & baby), dirty talk, creampie (0.6 wc)
the clock on your bedside table reads 7:14am and clark has you on your side, his body engulfing yours as his chest presses up against your back. with an arm wrapped around your front, clark holds you tight against him—rubbing slow, languid circles on your swollen clit.
a soft, muffled groan tumbles from clark’s lips as you slowly roll your hips back—his cock nestled deep inside your cunt, stretching you open. you desperately try to fight back your need for him, for his cock, knowing you have to get ready for work, but you’re practically begging for more.
his pelvis is snug against your ass—coarse curls beneath his navel brushing against you. you feel all of him, every ridge, every vein, every twitch as he rocks into your cunt. clark moves his hand to grip your thigh, his fingers sinking into the soft flesh as he gently hooks your leg over his thigh, spreading you wider.
the new angle drove him deeper, the head of his cock kissing your cervix with each thrust. the room fills with your breaths mingling together with the filthy, wet sounds of his cock sliding in and out of you.
just as quickly as it left, clarks hand returns to your clit and you instinctively clench around him, trying to pull him deeper as he ruts against you. clark’s breath is warm against the nape of your neck as he lightly bites down on the skin of your shoulder.
every roll of clark’s hips is with a little more tenacity each time, seeking that delicious friction. the pleasure is overwhelming, completely taking over all of your senses. you can’t think of anything else, except for clark, and how he's ruining you for anyone else.
“taking me so well, baby,” he mutters, kissing behind your ear.
you cry out, fingers clawing at the sheets, then at his forearm—your nails leaving crescent indents in his skin. he revels in the soft, needy moans you make with each shallow thrust. you move your hips in counterpoint, chasing the pleasure of his fingers and the fullness of his cock.
“I’ve got you, sweetheart, that's it,” he mumbles, his cock hitting that sweet spot inside you repeatedly.
an embarrassingly loud moan slips from your lips as you cum without warning. your body shudders hard against his—your orgasm crashing through you and taking your breath away. clark gently coaxes you through it, rocking his hips in a slow, gentle rhythm while pressing tender kisses along your shoulder and neck.
clark's hips stutter and his own orgasm catches him off-guard. he buries himself to the hilt, releasing thick, hot ropes of cum deep within your cunt—filling you completely as his cock throbs and pulses inside you.
you clench around him and clark hides his face in your neck with a weak, tired chuckle. his hand squeezes your hip tenderly as he slowly eases himself out of you. your cunt clenches around nothing, missing his cock already. you can feel his release leak from you and slide down your thighs but you pay no mind to it.
“good morning to you too,” clark says through soft pants.
“hmm, good morning indeed,” you hum, turning to face him with a small smile.
Warnings: Smut, Sexual Tension, the usual DUST shenanigans
A/N: Posting chapter two since it only has very minor changes. I had a great time reworking this chapter, it's still one of my favorites. Reminder that DUST is not a pure reader insert fic, and that the Girl is an original character with physical attributes.
Chapter One here.
*****
You think about his voice as you touch yourself that night.
It’s not something you sought out. It’s an intrusion of a thought, a sudden flood of memory as your body remembers the sensation of standing so close to a Mandalorian. It was fear, but it was also excitement, years of unspent adrenaline coursing through your veins all in one instant. And his voice… you decided you liked the low baritone of it, so deep it thundered across your chest.
The hand between your legs freezes. Heavy breaths ring out in your tiny, rented, room as you try to calm yourself—
You wonder what he’ll be like. As an employer, of course. You know he’s quiet, but how much of that was an act you can’t gage. You shouldn’t even be thinking of him. Yet the Mandalorian refuses to leave your mind, and so you refuse to keep going, tearing your hand away from your body, your jaw clenching when it takes more willpower than you expect. The lower half of you is wound tight with disappointment, your arousal festering the more you deny it. That’s the second time today you’ve been left high and dry, though you doubt the stranger from the cantina would’ve given you what you’re looking for—what you needed—had things been allowed to… proceed.
You roll over to lessen the temptation of sliding your hand back exactly where you want it. You’re not going to think about the Mandalorian like this—you’re not supposed to. You don’t know anything about him and his people; you’ve only heard the stories, but that’s all they’ve ever felt like—stories.
Tonight, you had tried your best to gather whatever information on the mysterious bounty hunter floated around Nevarro. All you got from the patrons of the cantina was a semblance of Mando’s ludicrous backstory, and even that confounded you deeply. A Mandalorian who could fight off twenty men… You scoff. The Guild… The Child… You had expected some useful intel, just a inkling that could shed light on the contradiction of him: a fighter clad in beskar cradling a baby. Instead your head was filled with useless hearsay and dizzy with cheap brandy. There has to be more. You wonder how he lives, how he fights, how he fucks—
You stop yourself from thinking of it again, your breaths still coming in desperate, little, pants despite your best efforts. Fuck, you had been close before he popped into your head. An unwanted intruder in your mind. You need a release so badly you could burst, and truthfully, you don’t even remember what you had been imagining prior to him. Pressing your cheek to the cool bedsheet, you think it must be the way he moves—besides his voice, of course. You’ve spent so much of your short life among the stars that you’re more familiar with how ships cut through air than how people move.
The Mandalorian could be green under the helmet. Or he could be human, like you. But there’s something different about the way he walks, the swagger of his stride under the weight of all that beskar steel. It reminds you of what he is. A warrior.
You shut your eyes, trying to catch a few hours of sleep before the sun rises.
*****
Mando wakes in complete darkness. The Kid is still asleep and it won’t be long until the Pilot arrives. He wasn’t prepared for her yesterday, a situation for which he blames Karga. When he found the Pilot in the back-alley of that blasted cantina, Mando had expected someone quite different. He remembers the cowering mess of a boy who stood by her, but mostly he remembers the determination in the Pilot’s eyes.
You’re looking for me.
Mando struggles in recalling all the finer details from yesterday, the sharp planes of her face or the olive color of her skin; he wants to figure out the exact reason why he’s so taken by her. And then there was that choker he glimpsed, flush to her slim neck and mostly obscured by a worn scarf. The necklace was made of a delicate metal, something that clearly had no place on the Outer Rim.
Mando feels blindly for the panel on the cot’s side, wincing as the muscles in his back stretch after another night in the cramped space. As the bright light of the Crest’s hold hits him, he studies the scars that litter his forearms—some still raised and angry, others fading into pale slivers. Mando's extremely quiet as he shuts the door and dons his armor. He shouldn’t wake the Child.
When he lowers the ramp, the Pilot’s already waiting.
He admires her profile against the dawn of the sky. There’s barely enough light for Mando to make out the outline of her, but through the visor he can see that she carries a small pack. There’s a blaster pistol, chunky and oversized, strapped to her right thigh. That wasn’t there yesterday.
“Mando.” The Pilot walks up the ramp without invitation. “I asked around about you last night.”
He pauses. He probably should have done the same for her, but he trusted Karga’s word. “And what did you hear?”
“That they call you Mando. And I heard about the Guild, the Child, how you’re good at killing…” Her voice trails off as she slides the pack off her shoulder. “But mostly I heard your ship was a piece of junk.” She dumps her pack unceremoniously on the ground. “Which I said I would be the judge of.”
She starts surveying the inside of the Crest. Most people keep their eyes on him at all times, forever wary of his reputation and the danger he presents; the Pilot doesn’t look at him at all.
When the Mandalorian offers her no reply, the Pilot doesn’t waste her time. Before Mando can stop her, she’s moving through the hold, pressing buttons and wrenching open panels. Random doors clumsily swing open, battering loudly against the sides of the metal ship.
“Hey.” His tone is sterner than he wants it to be. He’s springing into motion after her, deactivating the buttons she’s pressed, following the trail of chaos the Pilot leaves in her wake. She’s been on the Crest less than a minute and she’s already encroaching on his life—on his solitude. “Girl—"
She ignores him completely. Muttering to herself, the Pilot also ignores his weapons cabinet, the fresher and the small cot, opting to clamber up the ladder to the cockpit instead. “Hey!” Mando reaches up to stop her, but she’s unusually fast. His gloved fingers miss her ankle, slipping past it to fasten onto a metal rung. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“I’m doing my job.” She doesn’t glance back as he climbs up after her. She’s too occupied with flipping more switches, not even bothering to hide her disdain when she hears the initial rumble of the engine. Her fingers are nimble, moving impossibly fast across the mechanical dashboard and only pausing intermittently to push the dark hair away from her eyes. “You do know you don’t actually don’t need an extra pilot to fly this thing, right? I’ve never even touched one of these pre-Imperial ships before. With the credits you’re offering, you could buy a droid, a nice R2 unit—”
“No droids,” Mando says pointedly. He doesn’t like how easily she slides into the pilot’s chair—how comfortable she looks. It’s his space. She turns the chair, staring up at him.
“They also mentioned that you had a… droid thing.” He can’t believe the Pilot’s already working to undermine his authority. “I have bad news for you though, Mando. Your ship is a piece of junk.”
“I just got her repaired.“
“Well—” And then the Pilot shrugs. Shrugs, like Mando’s ship—the Razor Crest— is some throwaway piece of scrap metal she found foraging in a deadbeat junkyard. “It’s not what’s on the outside that matters. The inside is a mess too. The engine and the hyperdrive… don’t get me started. I haven’t even taken a good look and I can already tell that it’s not—”
“Enough.” He’s heard this all before.
She looks around, pausing when she notices the metal ball on top of one the levers is missing. She stares at it, cocking her head, but doesn’t stop talking. “I’ll work on it,” she decides. “While you’re out doing what you do. I’m not a mechanic or a miracle maker, but your ship can use a look.” She stares up at him again.
He waits for her to ask for more of the cut, but the request never comes. After a few moments, he realizes it isn’t coming at all. In his world, one that’s dictated by cold transactions and mercenaries, her silence is confusing. She’s just waiting for his reply.
“Alright,” he agrees.
She chews her lip and looks away. “Is the Child asleep?” Her voice is quiet when she asks about the Kid.
He nods.
They stay in a comfortable silence, her sitting and him standing. She tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear, offering him a small smile. It’s kinder than anything else she’s done so far, and though he doesn’t want to admit that he’s noticed… the Mandalorian knows the Pilot is pretty. Beautiful, even. A defined jawline, her face shaped like a heart; her bright eyes blink up at him, the juxtaposition of passion and innocence infinitely jarring. Tempting. He is curious. There are so many questions Mando wants to ask her. Where she’s from—why she’s on Nevarro when she looks like that—what she was doing with that boy yesterday.
He settles on the most harmless question he can think of: “How old are you?”
She starts at this, but recovers well. He memorizes the look on her face, the flash of uncertainty in her eyes right before she conceals it, hiding. “Twenty-five.” She doesn’t ask how old he is.
So young. Mando wouldn’t have guessed that from the way the Pilot carries herself. He counts the years back to the start of the rebellion. “You were young when you flew in the rebellion.” She doesn’t reply, doesn’t move. He regrets saying anything at all. “What did you do?”
“I was in a starfighter squadron.” She doesn’t hesitate to answer this time. There’s a weight to her response, a strange heaviness. Mando had guessed that she was a cargo pilot, or part of the crew on a command ship—not a pilot in a starfighter squadron. But now that she’s said it, it fits. The ferocity in her eyes, the determination. The hunger, threatening to consume him. The calmness and the nonchalance—the scrappiness. The false arrogance that she uses like a shield. It all fits. Now, Mando can’t picture her as anything else but a starfighter.
He also can’t think of a reply, but she cracks another smile. “Bet you weren’t expecting that.”
He wasn’t, and he wonders whether she can tell by the way he stiffens like a cornered creature. He feels a retort on the edge of his tongue, sharp and barbed—
—but the Pilot’s already spinning away from him, fiddling with the numerous knobs and levers on the dashboard.
She doesn’t turn around again.
At his side, Mando’s fist clenches. He turns and leaves her in the cockpit.
*****
You both fall into a routine faster than you anticipate, working side by side or sitting in the cockpit. Mostly, though, the two of you avoid each other like orbiting planets on opposite ends of a system. The whole “quiet-and-brooding-silent-warrior” thing wasn’t just an act of his, but a reality you’ve come to live with. After two weeks working with the Mandalorian there’s no more small talk—no more questions—and certainly no more banter.
You think your presence irritates him, though it’s impossible to know. Sometimes you sense his frustration even though you can’t think of what you did to possibly earn it. Maybe it was the teasing on that first day… Perhaps the Mandalorian is particularly sensitive about his ship. Even though it’s almost falling apart, the Razor Crest is classic—a ship with real character. You liked it. If you were being honest, you even admired his dedication to the Crest. Something about it felt so timeless, like him.
Maybe the Mandalorian didn’t understand these sentiments of yours. Guilt over your harsh words on the first day stings at the edge of your consciousness, and you wonder if it would be weird to apologize now, to say something to him about it—
Something grabs your leg.
“Oh hey there, Kid.” You stop looking at the panel you’re working on and stoop to pick up the Kid who’s hugging your leg with his little green arms. “What do you want?” You stare down at him and grin when he smiles back. You can’t help it. The Kid has a way of lightening your heart, even with all the tension that simmers between you and Mando. The Kid doesn’t know about it, and if he feels it, he certainly doesn’t care.
“Thought he was still in his seat, but he disappeared.” The Mandalorian’s gruff voice makes you jump. For someone so big and metal, he moves around the ship like a ghost, so stealthy that you can never tell when he’s right behind you. “He wants attention today.”
“Do you now?” The Kid babbles in reply and holds up the little metal ball from his favorite lever to show you. “And Mando wasn’t giving you attention?”
“What did I say about taking that out of the cockpit?” Annoyed, Mando steps closer to grab the ball out of the Kid’s fingers. The instant the ball leaves his hands, the Child’s face falls, his big eyes narrowing.
“Oh, come on.” You pluck the ball back from Mando’s gloved hand before he can stop you. “He’s just a kid.” You smile down at the tiny creature in your arms as you return the ball to him, ignoring how his father’s spine stiffens. He’s so tall;Mando always makes you feel tiny without even trying. Concentrating your energy on the Kid instead, you twist your features into a silly face, earning a giggle.
Mando just stands there. Your heart is racing—pounding in your chest—and you’re terrified, anxious that he has some kind of sensor out of the thousands in his helmet that can see that. Even if not, you’re positive that the goosebumps that erupted on your skin at his proximity are visible, dotting your bare arms and neck. You’re not scared of the Mandalorian anymore but he still makes you nervous, sending your stomach into a flutter. You don’t want to give a name to that. Not yet.
“What are you working on?”
It’s the first question the Mandalorian has asked you in weeks, the first acknowledgement of all the tinkering you’ve done on the ship since you’ve boarded. “Uh—just…” You struggle to gesture at the panel with the Kid in your arms. You’ve pulled out the metal covering and there’s a whole mess of wires showing. Not the best look. “I’m making it better, I swear.”
“I know.” The helmet tilts down.
All he had to say were two words in that low voice—I know—not even straightforward acknowledgement—and you’re floundering. You were always a sucker for praise. For someone who prided yourself on keeping your cool during missions, you’re a flustered mess now. “I… I’ve got some of the drives working at almost maximum capacity, but you’re not going to get it all the way there without replacement parts. This—what I’m doing now—is just so you don’t get a delay when you’re opening—” You trail on, just knowing that Mando’s eyes haven’t left your face. You don’t know how, but you feel his gaze on you, heavy like his armor. To make matters worse, you can feel a blush creeping across your cheeks. Just keep talking. “—I’m just having trouble with—”
All of the sudden, Mando reaches towards you. You flinch.
“Sorry,” he says. “The Kid.”
You look down to see the green baby asleep in your arms, ears twitching and mouth opening with his adorable snores. “Oh.” The bounty hunter takes the Child from you with one arm. You watch as Mando turns and takes the Child to the cot, tenderly resting the baby in his little swing.
You’re staring. You turn back to the panel quickly, the focus of your vision still blurry as you stare down at the wires. What were you doing again? The lights of the Crest dim for the Kid’s nap. Why are your palms so sweaty? You rip the tech jumpsuit you’re wearing off your shoulders, tying it around your waist. You use it as an excuse to reach down and wipe your hands before studying the wires again. It was a difficult task before, but with everything that’s happened (and nothing’s happened, really)—it now feels impossible.
“What are you having trouble with?” Mando’s beside you, stretching upwards to rest a gauntlet on the wall of the ship. He unintentionally cages you in as he stoops to try and get a better look at the wires you’re handling.
“Just…” Not daring to glance back over at him, you hold up the wires. “Just a really delicate set. I don’t have enough hands. If I was an Ardennian this would be easier.” It was supposed to be a joke, but you hear a quick rip of velcro and the slide of leather—
And then… his hands are in your line of vision. Ungloved hands. Real hands. His real hands.
They’re large and scarred, thick fingers with the nails cut short, but they’re human. “How can I help?” His voice is softer because he’s so close to you, and you think you can hear two layers to it: the mechanical modulated baritone, and just maybe—or maybe it’s your imagination—you can hear his very own breaths. His real ones. You try not to shiver. It’s the first time you’ve seen any of his skin, ever, and the tone of it is strikingly warm, only a minute shade darker than your own.
You’re staring again. You’re still refusing to look at his helmet, but you manage to swallow your surprise. “If you could hold these right here. I need to fuse them.“
“Okay.”
“Here.“ You hand him the wires, your fingers brushing his for a second. You take a deep breath. Keep it together. “Ready?”
“Ready.” True to his word, he stays still as a statue as you start fusing the wires, his hands comically large. You squint and roll out your stiff neck, starting to work.
The both of you stay like that. You’ve never been this close, never worked together like this. You take another deep breath, your exhale shaky as you try to level your heart rate.
It's so incredibly dim in the Crest’s hold. Only the electric sparks from your tools cast flickers of light on your face, on his hands, only the intermittent buzzing, a low hum, breaks the silence. When you finally find your focus, everything else but you and the Mandalorian seems to melt away. Not only that—all the anger, all the frustration you and him have felt about invading each other’s space—it all seems to vanish like it was never real in the first place.
You can’t hear his real breaths, you decide. They’re still modulated, but you’re so aware of the rise and fall of his armored chest, the movement only inches away from your bare shoulder. Even with all that beskar shrouding him, you can feel the heat of his body and see the hair on his hands, wonderfully dark and rich. You want to kiss them. It’s a silly thought, and so you bite back the instinct. You’re trying your hardest to not let the tremble in your own hands show, trying so hard not to think of him in the way you were the night before you boarded his ship.
You don’t know when Mando starts looking at you again, but it happens. You sense the minuscule shifts in his gaze; you feel his eyes on your face once more, on your neck, on your bare shoulders. Your blush deepens, and you hope he thinks it’s the heat. You would simply die if he knew he did this to you, made you blush with such a tiny sliver of his skin, of his attention. Two weeks on this ship and you’re so pent up, so desperate for his acknowledgement. You move your legs, feeling the arousal pool between them—
“Done,” you say. You pull away from the panel abruptly and he drops the wires. They’re fused, and you test them; even when you yank lightly with your little finger, they refuse to come apart. “Looks solid.” You grin and give his helmet a quick nod. It’s the first time you’ve mustered the courage to look at him straight since he put the Kid to sleep.
“Good job.” He tests the wires too, and you take the opportunity to ogle his hands again.
“No, thank you.” Your voice is shamelessly breathy. You look down at the floor to avoid the helmet and shake your head. Your hair falls in your eyes. Why are you so dizzy? “Thank you for helping, it made it a lot easier to manage—” Before you finish your sentence, you’re reaching up to brush your hair back.
Mando beats you to it.
His big hand comes up to tuck the hair behind your ear, and you freeze.
Maker, did he just… Did he…
You stare up at him, the both of you suspended in that precious moment for what feels like forever. His rough fingertips, warm flesh and blood, rest on the side of your neck.
You wait.
It’s him who steps back first, retracting his hand as if from a hot flame. You bite your lip as he tightens the same hand into a fist, promptly yanking his gloves free from his belt where he tucked them.
Without a word, Mando turns and walks away from you, striding towards the ladder to the cockpit. Your heart drops as you think he’s just going to just leave you again, leave you in this silence you’ve been living in—
But then he speaks. “I’ll be in the cockpit.” His voice sounds different. Strained. Even under the helmet. Even through the modulator. “Let me know if…” He stops talking then, letting his words die and blend into the hum of the Crest’s engine, into hyperspace. He starts to climb.
“Sure,” you say, but the Mandalorian is already gone.
*****
The Girl and the Kid are sound asleep by the time Mando locks himself in the fresher that night. She’s taken to sleeping in the cockpit most nights, her small figure curled up with a blanket in the chair of her choice.
She’s been driving the Mandalorian mad for the past few weeks. It’s not one thing or the other, but everything combined: the way she flies, calm and confident, eyes brimming with excitement as she moves the Crest through the stars; the care in the work she does fixing the ship, chewing her lip raw as she concentrates on the delicate wiring; the way she cares for the Kid, her expression softening as she cradles the baby. Mando didn’t expect any of it. The sum of it is maddening. Mando’s certain he’s never been jealous of an inanimate object (especially one in the state of the Razor Crest) or his own son before, but he is now. The Mandalorian craves the Girl, her looks and smiles, her attention—her laugh when the Kid does something cute.
The Girl’s hair is actually a dark brown, not black like Mando initially thought. He knows this because he’s spent hours staring at the back of her head, memorizing the curve of her shoulder and the graceful bend of her neck while she flies. She’s none the wiser. It’s one of the few times Mando’s been completely thankful for the helmet, if only so she doesn’t know how much time he spends just… staring. Mando’s a man, yes, but he’s ashamed of how many times he’s pictured her naked in the past day—or in the past hour. It’s getting ridiculous how easily he slides into that headspace, letting the lust take ahold of him. He’ll come down the hatch and see her on all fours tightening a screw and—yeah, he’s pictured it again. And again. It drives him mad that he doesn’t know.He doesn't know any of the finer details, and it's killing him.
He doesn’t know much about her at all.
He doesn’t even know her name. He didn’t bother to ask, and like so many others on the Outer Rim, she didn’t offer it. Names have never been important to Mando, at least in casual business exchanges. Because he never offers his own, because he keeps it to himself, he’s gotten used to assigning random pronouns to people like they’re objects passing through his fingers. The Kid. The Pilot—no—The Girl.
The singular mystery that’s been driving Mando wild with desire isn’t visual. She’s a good-looking girl, no one was denying that, but… Mando can’t get enough of how she smells. Before, in the absence of her presence, when he took off his helmet he was greeted by the stale chemical tang of recycled air, same as on most ships. Now the scent of her lingers everywhere. It greets him in the darkness when he wakes in his cot, and it’s the first thing that hits him when he takes off the helmet after a long day. It’s like sitting in a field of flowers, or smoking so much spice that his head spins with it. It’s delicious but diluted—just a trace of her—not even close to the potent fragrance it could be if he pressed his nose right into her bare skin. The possibility of it makes Mando’s mouth water. He’s never without her, not truly, never able to stop thinking, wondering, imagining—even when they’re in separate spaces, when they’re working in different rooms. She stays with him. What would she look like bent over for him? What would she smell like? How would she taste?
The Girl had never done anything to hint that she wanted him too—not until today. He made note of the spark of desire in her eyes after he brushed her hair back. So when Mando locks himself away in the fresher and takes off his helmet tonight, he knows what he’s about to do again. Especially after their interaction, if Mando doesn’t take care of himself, he’ll be distracted tomorrow. Or more distracted than he already is. She’s driving him—a Mandalorian, a warriorbound to an ancient, religious, creed—to distraction. And that won’t do.
He looks downwards, studying his own hands. She did seem to like those. His knuckles have lost their color from how tightly he’s gripping the sink. Usually (which is more often now she’s here), Mando would make quick work of his sexual needs. He would barely strip off the armor, rarely taking a second longer than required. Since she’s filled his head with these thoughts, however, he’s hungry for all the time in the world—time he doesn’t have. Already free from his armor, he tears off his shirt, leaning against the metal wall, keeping as quiet as he can. It’s a small fresher and sounds in this ship echo.
The Mandalorian gives his cock a good squeeze through the fabric of his pants, holding back a moan and waiting. The Girl would tease him. She would make him wait. It’s all the both of them do now, he thinks. All their fleeting looks through long lashes and beskar, all the missed opportunities disappearing into the vacuous silence of space. There’s so much he wants to do with her—he’s never been shy about how adventurous his sexual tastes run—but for now just the thought of having her, of just having her warm, wanting—waiting for him—is enough to drive him to unbuckle his belt.
“Fuck,” he hisses, running the rough pads of his fingers down his length. Mando wraps a loose fist around his cock, smearing the shiny bead of his precum around the throbbing head with a thumb. His wrist moves lazily, slowly, and he pictures the Girl’s hand in the place of his—smaller and softer. She’s sunken under his skin, and now the thoughts he lives with all day only burnish brighter within his imagination. He exhales softly through his nose, shutting his eyes, welcoming the blank canvas of his closed eyelids.
He’s imagining the Girl looking up at him from her knees, her pretty eyes latched onto his as he fucks her mouth. He’s thinking about how her face would look as she struggled to take him everywhere—if she could handle the size of him. It’s all depraved: his thoughts; the slow, steady, motion of his hand; the way he's locked in the fresher thinking of her while she’s asleep in the cockpit, oblivious to how he feels. Mando pictures the goosebumps on the Girl’s perfectly smooth skin today, his tongue darting out to wet his lips as he flatters himself, his chest swelling as he remembers that he did that to her. He lurches further into his own hand at the thought, whispering again. “Oh, fuck…”
Mando’s free hand leaves the sink, combing through the loose locks of his brown hair before tugging. The sharp pain of it grounds him, bringing him back from the edge. He loves how soft her hair is, and he wants to use it to play with her, to defile her, to pull her backwards as he sinks into her heat. Leaving his hair, the hand slides down to grasp the back of his muscled neck, trailing down his chest, his fingers trickling down the hard ridges of his stomach. What would the Girl do if he touched her? The hand on his cock stills, squeezing the base of it, his grip tightening as he resumes his strokes—slower… then faster, then slower again. He’s already so close. Stilling, he cups his balls as remembers the softness of her skin from today, the pulse in her neck beating a memory into his fingertips. And though he promised himself he would be quiet, Mando’s mouth drops open, his own sharp, quick, desperate, pants echoing out in the fresher, his head titling back to crash against the wall—
The Kid bawls in the next second, loud and clear.
Mando stops, hitting a fist on the side of the sink in frustration before tucking himself back into his trousers. Fuck. There’s a tremble in the walls of the ship as he hears the Girl awaken and dart down the ladder. So fast.
As he hurriedly dons his shirt and helmet, Mando hears her muffled voice as she calms his son. “Mando?”
“I’m here.” He opens the fresher door, almost bumping into her as she waits outside.
“Is—Is he ok?” The Child is quiet now, twitching in her arms, eyes closed. Back asleep. The Girl stares up at him, completely ignorant to why Mando’s been in the fresher so long.
“Yes.” He steps closer to look at the Kid, relishing how she inhales as he shifts closer. “The Kid has bad dreams sometimes.”
She nods. “Ok. I was just worried.” She holds the Kid tighter against her chest, a blanket still wrapped around her shoulders. “I’ll put him back.” Mando watches as she deposits the child back in the swing. It’s the most vulnerable Mando’s seen her; her hair is messy with sleep, strewn across her face with disarming innocence.
“You should sleep in the cot,” he tells her. “It’s more comfortable.”
“I’m okay, really.”
“Take it. I'm not tired yet.”
“No, it’s fine.”
He doesn’t understand. “You can’t sleep in a chair every night.”
“It’s ok.” She smiles, and her voice is still drowsy when she pipes up again. “If I sleep in the cot, you can’t. And if we take turns, then...” I can't see you. She doesn't finish the thought, but he knows.
His throat swells at her words, and he’s struck dumb. It’s like he can’t move, like he can’t even refuse the cot after that. The Girl smiles again and moves past him, towards the ladder.
“Girl.” She stops. “Goodnight.” He says it softly, almost like he’s afraid of her hearing. But she does hear, and she turns to him.
Mando allows himself to reach up, to brush the hair away from her face for the second time. On this instance he does it slowly, enjoying the feel of her smooth skin against his bare hand. And ever so slowly, she turns her face into his palm, pressing her lips to his calloused skin.
His only response is to stroke a thumb across her lips, his breath hitching.
“Goodnight, Mando,” she whispers.
*****
A/N: Thank you to everyone who has commented & sent messages of support! It is good to see so many familiar "faces" still around.
A/N: Hi everyone! I am officially returning to post DUST in its entirety. I’ve had a great year away and am excited to finally have this story up as a completed one. Thank you for your continued support. I will be reposting all the work I took down, and rebuilding my Tumblr from scratch.
Next Chapter here.
*****
The bite of the sun leaves as you step into the doorway of the cantina. No one bothers to look. With almost every inch of your small frame covered, you’re not interesting or intimidating enough to hold the patrons’ attention.
“You have anything from Alderaan?” Your voice is hoarse, bone-dry like the Nevarro desert you just trekked through.
“No. Nothing from Alderaan.” The droid, a beat-up C5 unit that has seen better days, betrays no emotion at your request.
“I can pay.” You slam credits on the table. Too many credits. Shiny credits. Heads turn.
The bartender’s metal arm pushes them back to you. “No.” You open your mouth in protest, but the droid cuts in first: “We do not carry wine from Alderaan. Not since it’s destruction in the year—”
“I get it, shiny-face.” Your scoff is muffled only by the thick fabric covering your mouth. You’re being childish but you can’t find it in yourself to care; it’s hard to care about anything after that piece-of-junk speeder decided to break down in the middle of a lava flat. You hastily gather the credits off the counter, the growing number of eyes on the back of your head sending pricks across your skin.
“Can I buy you a drink?” The man who stands next to you at the counter has a warm voice. He’s around the same age as you, his hair laced with sun and his palms streaked with grease. A local tech, you’re guessing.
You give him a few seconds before you reply curtly: “No.”
“You new around here?” Curiosity colors his voice and you decide to humor him. It’s been too long since you’ve had an actual conversation.
You tug away the cloth obscuring your face, feeling the metal kiss of your necklace. “What’s it to you?”
“I suspected you were pretty.” He cuts right back, smiling. A large part of you wants to cringe at his line, but you refrain. “You’re too small to be a bounty hunter.” You hate the way he says that, as if its a immutable fact.
He’s not your type at all. Even with dirt on his hands, this man is far too clean for your tastes. For starters, there’s a simple trust written all over his face; you two might be near the same age, but he hasn’t seen the things you’ve seen. He hasn’t done the things you’ve done.
“So,” you say. “Are we going to talk all day or are you going to buy me that drink?”
*****
The Mandalorian needs a pilot. It was too close a call on the last ride, too much for him to simultaneously watch the foundling and guide the Razor Crest through a crowded debris field. Having Imps in hot pursuit never helped.
Mando fingers the pucks tucked in his belt, counting them yet again. Five, all the highest bounties Greef Karga could offer during this stop in Nevarro. Mando didn’t want to resort to bounty hunting again, but with his credits this low and the Kid around there seemed to be no other option. It was all familiar, but meeting Karga in an office instead of the cantina was strange. Things had changed around here.
For this next run, Mando needs a pilot.
The Child doesn’t notice his father’s concern. Blissfully upbeat as always, the Child babbles as Mando cradles him in the crook of his broad arm. “I know, Kid.” The Child coos in response, unaware of how Mando’s baritone softens just for him. “I know.”
Many would argue that the cantina—though Nevarro was far more respectable now than ever before—was no place for a child. But wherever the Mandalorian went, his foundling went too.
Mando steps through the door, and every living being in the cantina turns to clock him. It’s a moment frozen in time, a snapshot of sheer awe before a ripple of fear shivers through the building. The Mandalorian hesitates before approaching the counter. The bartender is a droid.
A sentence wouldn’t hurt. “I was told I would find a pilot here.”
The machine stares at him with its beady eyes. “Pilot?”
“A small…” Mando’s voice trails off. Karga hadn’t given him much to go on. “A pilot.”
“Oh. If you’re talking about her…” The droid returns to polishing a glass so streaked with dust that Mando doesn’t know why it bothers. “She’s out back.”
Out back? The Mandalorian looks down at the Child, who is still fussing in his arms. She? He remembers Karga’s office, where the big man had bellowed out the pilot’s description: “The best pilot on-planet right now. Small… flew for the rebellion. Been living on the fringes of the city for the last few months. Very capable, but a bit rough around the edg— you know what? You two will get along just fine.”
The Child coos again.
“I know, Kid,” Mando repeats. He lets the Child play with the tips his gloved fingers. “It won’t be long now.”
*****
“What did you want to show me?” Your voice is blurred from the drink—the drinks—the nice man had bought you. It hadn’t taken him long to invite you out back. You lean against the wall, waiting.
The man stands near you but not close enough, shoving his hands into his pockets. He’s much taller than you, but you both know who holds the power here.
“I—” The man scratches at the back of his head, toying with his shaggy hair. “I—"
It takes all of your good will not to let out a groan of frustration. During the rebellion, everything had been urgent; people never wasted time on coyness. But the rebellion is over, you remind yourself. That’s why you were on a scummy Outer Rim planet like Nevarro in the first place. You look at the man. He’s still weighing his options as if they were some intricate life or death situation. The man takes a step forward—finally, when—
You hear it.
The echo of heavy footsteps to your side. Your face turns whip-fast on instinct. A Mandalorian of all things in the galaxy steps out the backdoor of the cantina, his shiny helmet turning towards you. His beskar armor glints silver, somehow untainted by the dust and dirt of this place. You stare up at the visor as he towers above you, the centerpiece a thin blade of black splicing his helmet in two. You wonder whether he’s there for your companion or… you.
Your companion—or whatever he’s been reduced to now—visibly quakes in the presence of the Mandalorian. The nice man steps quickly away from the both of you, his gaze ducked, only darting up to clock the long pulse rifle strapped to the Mandalorian’s back. The bounty hunter’s figure would be intimidating even without the armor; you can tell his frame is naturally tall and broad, but wearing the beskar he feels impossibly so. Unbreakable. A warrior of the ancient world.
The Mandalorian's cape billows with the next gust of wind that tunnels through the alley.
Despite yourself and all the things you’ve faced, you feel it too. The shimmer of fear. From all the stories you’ve read as a child, from the stories you still hear in rundown cantinas time and time again. You eye the blaster at the hunter’s hip. If the Mandalorian is hunting you, there would be no running.
“Can I help you?” You will your voice not to shake as you spill your question.
The Mandalorian pauses, the cold steel of his helmet completely unreadable. “I’m looking for the pilot.” His voice is deep and steady through the modulator.
Your companion starts to stammer. “I—I can fly—”
“You’re looking for me.” You try to find the warrior’s eyes through the visor, though the experience is disorienting; the confidence in your own tone surprises you. “I’m the pilot you’re looking for.”
After a few moments, the Mandalorian seems to accept this. He takes a breath, audible through the helmet’s modulator, which crackles pleasantly in your ears. “Then let’s speak in private.”
“I’ll just—” Your companion shuffles from foot to foot. He looks up at the Mandalorian as if to say something, but his body locks again in fear before he can. The helmet tilts and turns subtly towards the gaping mouth of the alley—go—and before you know it, the other man is running, eager to scamper away.
“It seems as if we’re in private.” You watch him leave without regret. “Do you have a ship?” You don’t want to sound too eager, but the mere thought of it—the possibility of finally getting off this planet—is dizzying.
“I do. She’s not much.”
“Whatever she is, she’ll do.” You nod. As long as it flies.
“Don’t you want to know the details?”
“Let me guess. Bounty hunter.” You push away from the wall, crossing your arms over your chest as if that’ll protect you. “Want me to pilot your ship while you go and catch the bad ones?”
The Mandalorian shifts. For the first time you notice how his arm is bent, almost like he’s shielding his satchel from your direct line of sight. The beskar helmet tilts down and back towards the tiny green being rocking in the bag. “Settle down, Kid.”
“Is that…” You shake your head. This must be a dream. “Is that a pet? Or a… baby?”
The Mandalorian doesn’t reply. Finally—slowly—he reaches into the bag, scooping the wrinkly baby up to rest on a thick forearm. “He’s part of the deal. My foundling.” You peek at the Child, only to see the edge of a large, fuzzy, green, ear. That's what was under the helmet? “I need to pick up a few bounties on the Outer Rim, and I need someone to help pilot the Crest. It won't take more than a few weeks. I’ll give you a handsome cut—”
“Done.” Credits didn’t concern you. You shake your head again. “Wait. Can I… Can I see him?”
There is complete stillness. Finally, the bounty hunter nods. And then, because you don’t move, he steps closer for you to see the baby. “This is the Child.”
The Child is adorable. Every maternal instinct you’ve jammed down deep inside of you flares back into existence at the sight of him, his big black eyes and large floppy ears almost compelling a girlish “aw” to slip from your mouth—almost. You swallow the sound, urging yourself to adopt the Mandalorian’s speech patterns, his dryness and brevity. “I see.” The Child reaches for you and you step back, your heart racing as you notice the Mandalorian’s helmet tilting down again, this time to study your expression. The bottom of your stomach feels like a Bespin Fizz. If the stories are true, then why does this Mandalorian cradle a Child tenderly?
“Let’s meet when the sun rises tomorrow.” The Mandalorian's low voice nudges you out of your stupor. “You’ll know the ship when you see it. Pre-Empire. Pack light.” The bounty hunter turns and leaves, the large rifle still strapped across his back. His cape swirls behind him, his stride sure and steady as he moves further away.
“Wait!” You call out before it’s too late. “I don’t even know your name.”
He hesitates only for a second before walking on, not even gracing you with a reply. You cross your arms again, displeased. Not even a name. It occurs to you that he hasn’t asked for yours either. So that’s how it’s going to be… As you watch him leave, all you can think about is the stars, the streaks of light painted across the darkness as you make the jump to hyperspace.
*****
A/N: Apologies for disappearing so abruptly last year; I deleted my accounts because unfortunately people were trying to breach my privacy. As much as it pained me to peace out the last time, there is no world where I will tolerate that.
I have a deep love for Star Wars, and DUST is purely a hobby for me! As many of you know, I write for a living and have a career, so all I ask is for readers to respect my privacy; writing DUST has let me explore in a way that reinvigorates me, and so even when I left, I kept writing. I’ve had quite a few people message me during my time away, all offering support and some even offering money! I’m flattered, but as always, if you like reading DUST, I will not be taking donations: I do, however, love comments and hearing about your reading experience. Even if there’s one person out there loving this story, it’s nice to hear that the sexy space western part of my imagination is appreciated.
Updates will be at my leisure this time around, which means that they’ll come a lot slower than they did in the past. DUST has been completed, which means you will have 100% of it by the time its over! There will be significant changes that I made from the previous version. Thank you to everyone who’s reading.
coming at you already with some more Sweet Girl and helmetless cuddly Din ✨ drawing armour gets boring and i love when they sleep on the floor of the ship
