warnings/notes: mention of trauma and abuse, Jason Todd isn't Red Hood, explicit content, smut, panic attack
summary: jason is a baker with cake, and y/n a horticulturist with a chance to sow her wild oats.
AO3
“And would you like that for here or to go?”
The streets of Gotham buzzed with citizens despite the imminent crime, visitors entering and leaving famous Zia’s, a bakery home to Gotham’s finest breads and pastry sweets. Inside the confined space displayed an array of baked goods, its floor littered with customers clutching their tong and red plastic tray.
In a rouge apron dusted with crumbs and splotches of icing and egg, Jason tended to the confectionery inventory, carrying a large metal pan holding marranitos (Mexican cookies baked in the shape of a pig) on one hand, and a smaller metal pan containing sourdough bread on his other. The dark, robust waft of molasses and ginger filled the air, catching the attention of some of Zia’s more loyal patrons.
“That fresh?!” one blurted.
Jason vaguely smiled behind him before attending to replacing the pan on its designated shelf. “Always.”
As much as Zia’s advertised its pastries, certain Gothamites - single ones with more time than they should have been allotted - spread merry news of eye candy in the shop, drawing more attention than Zia’s owner, Aurelio, expected.
One, a man named Ed, passed a whisper to y/n, who worked nearby at the Gotham Nursery as a horticulturist: “You know, y/n, if you’re ever looking for a snack for your sweet tooth, you could just stop by.”
His expression faltered, as if he was holding something back, but y/n disregarded it as she loaded his plants onto the trunk of his 4x4, and sent him on his way with a brief, “I’ll be sure. As always, thank you for coming, Eddie.”
She hadn’t given the recommendation much thought until on her lunch, when she stopped by Zia’s and stepped into the bumbling bluster of business. Then, as Jason emerged from the kitchen of the bakery with hands full of crumbly tricolor polvorones and loaves of rye bread, his bottom lip tucked in between his teeth in concentration and tee shirt sleeves rising up just enough for all to see his toned biceps, y/n understood Ed’s undertones.
“Excuse me.” a voice from behind snapped y/n’s attention, causing her to turn around to a stern, tight-lipped woman blinking at her. “Would you mind moving over so I could go in there?” she pointed to the shelves y/n blocked, her question seeming more of a kind demand rather than an inquiry.
Nodding feverishly as she stepped aside, y/n bumped into a sturdy tall figure, a string of apologies leaving her lips before her eyes met a pair of hazel, a mix of greens and grays swimming in his irises.
“I’m-I’m so, so, sorry.” y/n was captivated, distracted by the baker’s face shape as he stared down at her with an understanding grin.
“It’s okay, it happens all the time.” the man swiped loose sugar granules from his apron, prompting y/n to take her gaze away from his face and onto the mess of cinnamon sugar on the floor.
“Oh, jeez, do you need me to—”
The man waved a hand in y/n’s direction to calm her down. “Again, it happens a lot. Are you new here?” He used his free arm to catch Aurelio’s attention, who passed him a broom and dustpan to begin cleaning the faint piles of sugar.
Y/n shook her head. “Yeah, I’m not used to this kind of foot traffic.” She squatted on the ground and helped collect particles off the ground with her hands.
Brushing her pile into the maroon dustpan, he glanced at her work uniform. “I didn’t know that Gotham had a botanical garden.” He looked at y/n, his thick, pearl strands of hair falling from his hair net. Y/n felt the stare, and had to bow her head to hide the passing blush tickling her skin.
“You should stop by sometime.” Y/n shrugged when she and the man stood on their feet, disregarding the crowd staggering impatiently around them. “I could analyze your soil’s pH, or even recommend some plants depending on your living situation.”
Y/n watched the man’s adam’s apple bob before he spoke. “And what about a five-hundred square feet flat?”
“There are ways to accommodate the situation if you’re willing. It just takes the right pair of hands and mindset.” y/n gave the man a smile, to which he reciprocated, his soft skin forming ripples from it.
She swallowed the warmth she felt in her stomach, an unfamiliar sensation she whisked away as she followed the man to the checkout counter. His back turned to her, y/n was able to take in his other features: his broad shoulders, appearing almost heavy on his torso, and the merlot tee shirt lazily tucked under the waistband of his washed jeans, which were partially ripped along parts of his left knee and right ankle. Y/n blinked away her urge to follow the natural curvature of his legs up to his ass, though she would admit that her id was pleased with the crumbs of image it viewed.
“Do you think you could show me what I could do? Doc has told me that I need to, uh, spruce up my space.” The man rested his hands on the counter, marginally leaning over it to inch closer to y/n in flirtation.
Y/n couldn’t meet his hazel eyes, unwilling to be enchanted by whatever undertones he was trying to communicate; though, to her dismay, he did attract her, even with the hair net clumping his seemingly soft hair in place, and the poorly executed pun. So she obliged, just a bit. “I work today till six, if you’re able.” one of her shoulders bounced, as if she felt apathetic about his advances.
But he, unbeknownst to y/n, was stubborn. “I can manage.” he wrinkled his nose playfully at her, eyes flickering between her blank stare and her suppressed grin. “My name is Jason, by the way.”
Jason. Like the killer. “Nice to meet you. Here’s the address.” y/n slid a business card across the counter in Jason’s direction, back beginning to turn. “I’ll see you there.”
“Wait, I didn’t catch your name.” Jason called out across the store to her, unbothered by the several customers stopping to look for y/n.
With a hand to the door handle, pushing the heavy door open, y/n looked over her shoulder, said flatly, “I guess you’ll have to find out.” and left with a few strides, disappeared from Jason’s sight.
“I’m gonna find out alright.” Jason murmured, a corner of his lips turning into a grin.
—
The Gotham Nursery began winding down in visitors, employees cloaking its temperature-sensitive annuals with thick tarp as they prepared for the chilly night ahead. Y/n checked her watch, then the nursery’s entrance, a habit she built as the day passed. Was I too passive? She thought as she hauled mulch across the store lot. Did he forget about me? She mused as she jotted down plant observations in the greenhouse.
Y/n indulged the information about her encounter with Jason to her coworker, Xoe, who was more than enthused about it. Each passing hour, Xoe would cross paths with y/n, bugging her about whether or not she had seen Jason.
It wasn’t until five minutes until closing when Jason arrived, parking his sleek, rumbling motorcycle in a compact spot. A couple of the employees noticed him, and rolled their eyes in frustration, mistakenly thinking that he was a customer, not y/n’s visitor.
Y/n locked herself in the nursery’s greenhouse with her choi sum mustard leaves, using a dainty stick to lift the heavy leaves of the plant. She wrote down the subtle changes in the plant’s behavior, noting the thickness of the leaves after incorporating iron-rich soil.
“Y/n?” Xoe asked, peeking through the polycarbonate door, evoking y/n to look up from her work. “Someone named Jared is here to see you.” Xoe then gave y/n a wink, intentionally mistaking Jason’s name.
“Sure, he can come in. Thanks, Xoe.”
“No problem.” Xoe said, opening the door fully for Jason to allow entry, before throwing y/n a suggestive look and shutting the door.
Distracted by the array of plants both on the ground and overhead, Jason tread carefully through the path of the greenhouse. He raked his fingers through his hair as he stopped to observe the vine dangling from a hanging planter, avoiding touching it in fear that he would somehow kill the plant. Y/n gawped at his actions, amused by the conscientiousness of his every move in spite of his tall, muscular frame.
Jason, appearing diverted, used his peripherals to glance at y/n, who sat on a wooden chair on the other side of the greenhouse. Her attire was similar to their first encounter, except she rolled up the sleeves of her forest long-sleeved top, and wore patterned leather gardening gloves. He admired the contrast of her head to the overhead vines coming down around her, the hearty heart-shaped leaves forming a convex halo. She was breathtaking in her relaxed state, and it was clear to him that the greenhouse was a sanctuary, a treehouse she escaped to when she sought solace.
“Didn’t think you’d make it, Jason.” y/n held her notebook and pen in her hands as she spoke, still working at her scientific examination notes.
“Uh, yeah,” Jason mumbled, peering at a distant crimson flower in bloom. “I had to clean up after close. This is where you work?” He looked up at the opaque ceiling of the greenhouse, in awe of the varieties of plants with which he surrounded himself.
Y/n nodded. “Most of the time, yeah. It’s my job to basically make sure the plants are at an optimal growing point so that we could use the info to pass on to customers or vendors.”
Jason sensed the formality in her tone, humbling his ego before he returned, “And you like it?”
Y/n crossed her arms at the question, obviously peeved. “Of course. I don’t know why I would be here, or go through all the schooling, if I didn’t.”
Jason pressed his lips together, remorseful of the offense she took at his inquiry. “Sorry, I should have figured.”
“No, I…I get it all the time, honestly. People are so surprised when I tell them I like it, as if it’s some boring thing.” Y/n rambled, full of thought as she flipped through vague memories of conversations she had with others. “I’ve always loved nature, but not aesthetically, if that makes sense. It’s a science to keep these plants alive and thriving after all the damage we’ve done, and I don’t think I have to keep justifying it.” she clicked her tongue at the end of her statement, eyes looking off to the side in vexation.
Jason rubbed the back of his neck in discomfort. “I get the same comments about my baking. I mean, don’t get me wrong - it’s not nearly as lengthy as the schooling you went through - but I find happiness punching the fuck out of air bubbles in the dough.”
The joke emitted a chuckle from y/n, breaking the tension in the space that could have been otherwise excused by the high humidity. Humor was a strength of Jason’s, and he used it to his advantage in times like these when he found his foot in his mouth, or his tongue in a knot. He wanted to start over, rerun his words smoothly through his head so he could properly express himself without offending y/n again.
Instead, he offered baguettes. “I brought something we could both have in here, if we can have it.” he pointed to the backpack strap on his shoulder, and began to maneuver his backpack to his hands so he could unveil the crispy logs of cooked dough. He handed one baguette to y/n, who removed her gloves to accept the gift, before he took a bite out of one himself.
“You make these?” y/n asked, chewing on a piece. Mouth full of bread, Jason simply nodded. “I have to say, as much as I like plants, I think I would gain a lot of weight if I could bake this well.”
The compliment made Jason beam, squirreling chewed bread in his mouth causing his cheeks to round. After he swallowed, he responded, “Yeah, I get that a lot. Though I don’t think you’d look any bit different with more.” his eyes scanned y/n’s body evocatively.
Y/n’s cheeks tinted, covering her mouth respectfully as she spoke. “It’s really fresh for stale bread.” she gestured to an empty seat beside her. “You wanna sit here?”
Jason shook his head, plopping himself down on the seat before he turned his body to face her. “Oh, I made it before I left.” Jason remarked nonchalantly, taking another bite out of the bread.
Y/n stared at Jason as he ate his workmanship, giggling at him. He gave her a doe-eyed expression, confused by her mirth. “What?”
“Nothing, I’ve just never seen someone so passionate about eating bread.” Her eyes gleamed at him, smile radiant as she spoke. Jason’s chest burned when she passed him the look, mesmerized by her appearance. He grew accustomed to the constant comments about his looks from Gothamites - and the unfortunate harassment or assault that would take place by a select few - but he followed his instinct when he felt something different about y/n; whether it was the way she presented herself, or the way her eyes shaped into crescents as she smiled, he was absolutely enamored by her, and wanted to explore all that made her content so he could replicate it for her.
They sat together, knee to knee, gazing at each other. Y/n placed her bread on the table and her hands on her lap, drawing Jason’s attention away from her face. His eyes snapped up, though, unwilling to be perceived as perverted, or his intentions impure. Y/n suppressed her temptation to cave in to him, fingernails digging into the skin of her thighs as she desperately tried to keep them to herself.
But his skin was as firm as his voice, five o’clock shadow scattered across his cheeks and jawline; his skin creased as he grinned, even the slightest, a wrinkle forming along the edges of his mouth. Y/n wondered what his lips tasted like - were they as tender as they appeared? Or were his kisses all-encompassing, conveying what words couldn’t describe?
Y/n wanted to find out, but she hesitated: she didn’t want to hurt again; she didn’t want to wither at her roots like the neglected plants she studied, slumping over in her seat as she felt the remaining cells in her body seize. Had the encounter with Jason been years ago, y/n would have already been all over him, straddling his lap - she was much more daring then, naive of the darkness that could ensue.
Instead, she glued her hands to herself. Jason noticed her stare plummet from joyous to cold, her eyes glossy as she blinked away what dark thoughts laid behind them. He placed a hand over hers, thumb stroking the underside of her palm in an attempt to bring her back to the present.
“Sorry.” her voice sobered up, ignoring the display of affection Jason committed.
Shaking his head once, he responded, “Am I doing something wrong? I’ll scoot my chair back and keep my hand away if you want—”
“No, no.” y/n hastily said, unaware of what she presented with her response. “It’s not you, don’t worry.”
“Is it okay if I kiss you?”
The question caused y/n’s heart to rise, excited by the thought. She nodded and leaned forward, cupping his neck as they closed the gap between them and pressed their lips together softly, y/n’s nose filling with a mixture of the leather of his jacket and clean yeast from the bread. Jason instinctively brought his hands to y/n’s face, holding it as he sharply inhaled into the kiss. He was pleasantly surprised by the action, parting his lips as he wanted to deepen the kiss.
But y/n pulled away, and then turned her body from Jason, attempting to conceal the blush creeping up her neck.
Initially worried about crossing a boundary with y/n, Jason noticed the tint in her skin, and grinned, cupping her chin and turning her head to look at him. “You don’t need to hide from me, hun. I don’t know what you went through, but I won’t hurt you like that.” he assured y/n, tone warm and disarming. His thumb brushed her cheek, eyes distracted by her beauty.
“It’s y/n.” she informed him distractedly. “Sorry, I forgot to tell you.”
“Y/n.” he repeated, captivated by her eyes as she grinned softly at him. “I can make you a pinky promise that I won’t be a threat, but I’m not sure if a ten year-old’s logic resonates with you.”
It did. Y/n held her pinky out in between them. “I need something to ground me.”
Jason linked their pinkies, pulling them to his chest. “Y/n: I swear I won’t hurt you. Pinky promise.” y/n’s eyes searched for his other hand, which laid on his knee. No crossed fingers. Good.
“Can we go back to kissing please?” her brows furrowed, slightly embarrassed by her request. It was Jason’s turn to answer with a kiss, this time heated and impatient. His lips nibbled on hers before dragging a tongue along her bottom lip, evoking a moan from y/n. Jason’s hand held y/n’s as they deepened their kiss, mouths opening in an attempt for Jason to draw another moan from her. He used his free hand to tangle in y/n’s hair, pulling her closer than she already was.
When y/n mimicked his actions, she tugged lightly at his hair, causing him to groan and shiver. She tore her lips from Jason’s, noticing how his were already swollen despite the little contact she had with them. “You like that?” She quirked a brow.
“A little more than I should.” Jason smirked back, biting his bottom lip. He hissed when y/n tugged at his hair again, this time harder and deliberate. “Keep that up, doll, and I’ll have you bent over on this table.”
Y/n chuckled, allowing her id to take over. “Oh really? And what else would I have to do to be blessed with that opportunity?”
“I don’t think you want to know.” Jason pulled his bottom lip between his teeth, biting down hard. His eyes ran over y/n’s body slowly, taking in the view as y/n uncrossed her legs. He wondered if he should just take her here - an image of y/n in pleasure, her brows knitted and mouth agape, clouded Jason’s attention, blood rushing to his dick. It took a moment for him to notice that y/n’s hand was trembling in his hair, and when he did acknowledge it, the corrupt thoughts disappeared completely. “Are you okay?”
Y/n stopped herself, pulling her hand away from his hair and chewing on her lip. “Yeah, sorry. Dunno what got into me.” she laughed humorlessly.
“You know,” Jason started, hand rushing back to her cheek, “we could just go to my place and talk. We don’t need to do anything sexual, if you’re not up to that.”
The proposition nearly brought tears to y/n’s eyes. It was eons since someone considered her that much - she usually had to hold her ground herself. All she could release from her clogged throat was a faltered affirmation, and she rose to her feet, collecting her work and returning them to their designated area.
Extending an elbow for her to take, Jason guided them through the greenhouse and back outside, holding the door open for y/n as she strolled through. His eyes were glued to her, watching her reaction to all of the plant life around them; he was in awe of how much knowledge she had of them, informing him of pieces of trivia about random plants they passed.
When they reached his motorcycle parked in the lot, his shoulders slouched. “Sorry, I forgot to tell you that I ride.” Ride, y/n thought to herself, eyes examining the vehicle. “Do you still want me to take you, or do you want to take your car, or…”
Y/n wriggled her lips in apathy. “I take the bus, so I think this would be the more logical option.”
Without skipping a beat, Jason offered y/n his helmet, lifting a leg over the bike seat to straddle it and waiting for her to secure her helmet before seating behind him. She snaked her arms around his waist, locking her fingers together over his navel, the touch producing heat on Jason’s stomach. He looked back, waiting for a response from y/n; when she gave him a simple thumbs-up, he turned the key to the ignition and shifted into neutral, manually backing out of the parking space with his legs before taking off from the lot with a thunderous roll, the reverberation heard from miles away.
Although it was y/n’s first ride as a passenger on a motorcycle, she was tranquil, snug behind Jason with her fingers barely tracing what she assumed to be muscle lines along his abdomen; although it wasn’t Jason’s first time having a passenger on his bike, he was particularly cautious, downshifting early and even stalling his engine trying to do so.
Once they arrived at y/n’s apartment - with directions from y/n - Jason parked the bike on the street adjacent to the complex. He helped y/n off of her seat, and held her hand as she led them to her space on the second floor.
“And this is it.” y/n announced half-heartedly when she opened the door, entering into the kitchen of the grand apartment. Jason was silent as he inspected the decor, stopping occasionally at framed anatomical prints of plants. As he wandered into the living room, he spotted a wooden tube radio resting on the nightstand beside the couch. He observed its specifications, murmuring incoherently as he studied the device.
“You like it?” Y/n asked, handing Jason a can of sparkling water before she sat down on the leather couch.
Jason nodded. “I haven’t seen one of these in forever. Makes me feel kind of nostalgic, to be honest.”
Y/n tucked her legs under her knees, taking a sip from her can. “That’s why I bought it. M’not much of an audiophile, but I like the crisp sound of these. Plus, usually when guys are over, they think I’m some old lady, and eventually leave me alone.” Her final comment made her chuckle, and Jason grin.
“I guess we’re both old.” he added, winking back at her. Y/n patted the empty space beside her, offering him to sit. “Do you listen to a lot of music on here, or just the AM talk shows?”
Y/n’s smile widened. “A bit of both. If I have the free time, I prefer podcasts or audiobooks, which I can project through there, but y’know.”
“But what?” Seated next to y/n, Jason nudged her playfully.
She shrugged. “I dunno. Kinda gets busy sometimes.” her response was sad, as if she had no control over the time she spent, but Jason understood that it was relatively normal for an adult.
He dropped his grin in response, acclimating to the shift in tone. “I’m like that too. Though I don’t remember a time when I didn’t have a lot to take care of.”
Y/n’s forehead creased in worry. “What do you mean?”
“Well,” Jason breathed deeply, contemplating whether or not he should elaborate. “I didn’t really have the parents of the year growing up, and once I was adopted, I still had a bunch of responsibilities. When I think back to it, it feels like I missed out on a lot.”
Y/n nodded in agreement. “I get that. I…something happened, and I basically had to grow up quicker than some other people my age. I can’t really…” her voice trailed off, drowning in emotion. “It’s hard for me to feel normal.”
Hands beginning to tremble, y/n balled them into fists. Jason placed his hands over hers, squeezing them lightly to draw attention away from her thoughts. “Hey, I’m here. It’s okay.” he uttered, lavender softness in his voice. “Is it okay if I held you?” he asked, to which y/n nodded. Jason wrapped his long arms around her, pulling her tight to his chest. There, y/n felt guarded, safe, as if his arms were hardy tree branches that couldn’t be easily torn; she detached his heartbeat, steady but firm. Each of his features soothed her, rocked her back to the present, as he’d hoped.
He kissed her head, watering her otherwise malnourished body; Jason’s face focused on her, a tall, broad sunflower in need of nutrients facing the sun. She replenished him somehow, something neither of them could quite pinpoint, but enjoyed nonetheless.
Fingertips following the veins along Jason’s arm, y/n discerned a wanting similar to what she experienced at the greenhouse. She looked up at Jason, who was already gazing down at her, and gave him a look: please kiss me.
And for all that he could, Jason enthusiastically obliged, dipping his head to crash his lips to y/n’s. They both breathed into the kiss, hands fumbling to secure themselves in their embrace as their kiss rushed, tongues meeting briefly before disappearing again. Jason was the first to moan into the kiss this time, almost a whimper of desolate desire.
Y/n’s fingers spread, palms flat against Jason’s chest as she pushed him down onto the couch, readjusting to straddle his lap without breaking the kiss. His hands slipped underneath y/n’s top, nails grazing against her skin. He pushed the top up to her chest, breaking the kiss to allow her to pull it overhead and toss it aside.
Before returning to the kiss, Jason gawked at y/n’s chest, surprised by her bare breasts. “Holy shit.” he whined, licking his lips. He tilted forward to flick his tongue on her sensitive nub before kneading her breasts with his hands, occasionally leaning in to suck and lick her nipples. Y/n relaxed her shoulders and let out a soft moan and grind her hips against his, causing Jason to buck his up instinctively.
Their movements were restricted by their clothing though, and y/n knew that as she hopped off Jason to shimmy her pants off, panties down with it, and shook Jason’s jeans off as well before returning back to her stance on him. “Condom?” she murmured nervously.
Jason pointed to his jeans. “Here, lemme put em on.” he reached over to his pockets, pulling one out and tearing open the wrapper. Y/n watched, eyes dark with wanton, as he rolled the condom onto his thick, hard erection.
Y/n repositioned herself on his lap, lowering herself on him. She hissed at the contact, unfamiliar with the girth stretching her walls. When her hips were flush with his, y/n remained still, acclimating to the sensation; Jason, however, tremored underneath y/n, using all of his strength to restrain himself from thrusting up into y/n. He craved the noises she emitted, and anything that would drive her to ecstasy, but had to wait. His hands moved to her thighs, grasping at them and awaiting her signal for him to move.
Instead, y/n’s hips rose and fell, rocking slowly. They both moaned at the motion, unsatisfied by the gradualness of her hips. One of Jason’s hands moved to her ass, guiding her hips to angle itself perfectly.
“Oh, god.” Y/n gasped, the different angle granting Jason’s cock to brush against the base of her cervix. Jason’s grip on her thigh and ass tightened, letting out a guttural moan.
“Can I…?” Jason asked between pants, self-control wavering. Y/n nodded feverishly, barely containing herself as she steadied herself on Jason’s chest. He began thrusting up into her in the same angle, both hands gripping her hips as his pace quickened.
“Fuck, you’re so good.” Jason whimpered, eyes laser-focused on y/n. The sounds of skin-on-skin slapping, along with pants and intermittent, pornographic moans, escaped them and into the room. Jason wanted more, more, more as he continued to pistol his hips up, quickly popping a thumb into his mouth to moisten it before rubbing it on y/n’s clit in hasty yet intricate circles.
The motion evoked y/n’s orgasm, her core hot as she let out a silent scream. Her nails dug into the fabric of Jason’s shirt, sharp enough to leave marks on his bare chest, as he guided her through her high. Before she could calm down though, Jason picked up his pace, this time chasing his own high as he relentlessly thrusted up into her pussy. In moments, y/n was thrown into another orgasm, body tingling as she whined loudly into the air.
Her walls, like velvety petals, tightened around Jason’s cock, which was already begging for release. Every moan and word barely leaving her lips was as gospel to him, bringing him closer, higher, until-
“Y/n, I’m gonna come, fuck.” Jason sobbed, neck red and forehead covered in beads of sweat. His hair stuck to his head, stray strands bouncing with his thrusts as they grew sloppy, desperate, frantic for him. “Y/n, y/n,” he repeated as hell broke loose, his vision blurring as he sharply thrusted up into y/n, coming with a loud cry. His hips stuttered, grip on her hips loosening.
Y/n rode the high with him, watching as his brows furrowed, eyes fluttered shut, and swollen pink lips form into an ‘o’ shape. Each profanity that left his lips were a secret he could no longer hold, and she was so happy to indulge in them.
Minutes passed before Jason picked y/n up, laying her on the couch as he stood up. “Do you know where the bathroom is?” he asked innocently, cheeks azalea. After y/n pointed to the nearest ajar door in the hall, Jason disappeared for a moment before returning, towel in hand and condom disposed of.
He kneeled beside the couch, gingerly patting the towel on y/n’s thighs, cleaning up any residual juices that were released. The sight of her wet pussy made his cock twitch again, but he knew better than to entertain the thought, gently wiping away the wetness on the crevices along her ass and thighs. Y/n glanced down at him, heart warm as he finished cleaning up. “Is there anything I can get you, hun?” Jason smiled, eyes glistening. If her legs weren’t tired, y/n would have sat up and smooched him right there.
But she shook her head. “I think I’m okay. Thank you.”
Jason took her hand in his, holding it up to his lips before he placed a tender kiss to her knuckle. “Of course, Princess. You’re a flower, too, y’know.”
The compliment made y/n blush, skin rising with goosebumps. She hadn’t been pampered like this…ever. It was foreign, and the realization triggered a sympathetic nervous response.
Y/n sat up in worry, drawing her hand quickly from Jason. He frowned at her, apprehensive that he caused any offense. “I’m sorry - do you need some space? I can get going, if you need to.”
First waiting for a response, Jason noticed y/n’s eyes darting from side to side, spiraling into the dark trench. He scooted closer, pulling y/n’s head to his, their foreheads pressed together. “Deep breath, doll.” he cooed, “I’ve got you.”
And he did. His hands held y/n’s delicately, thumb brushing her skin as they breathed together in the apartment, his voice shining light onto her focus like a spring sunrise after a seemingly interminable winter.
The words pollinated her soul, bringing her to life in ways she hadn’t felt before. Jason’s skin was calloused, wrinkled, with scarring near the knuckle and palms, but y/n felt comforted by them. And she emerged from the dark trench, opening her eyes to find the sunflower staring back at her with a soft expression and a softer grin to welcome her.
Warnings: Smut; possessive and rougher Peter, oral sex (f! receiving), love bites, an abundant use of pet names and dirty talk, bit of pain kink going on?, you wear Peter’s hand like a necklace like always, semi-public sex (its in a bathroom, no one can see but...they’re just down the hall), Dom Peter (when is Peter not a dom in my fics?), breeding kink at the end cause I have a problem, overstimulation (Peter’s out here wringing as many orgasms from you as he can tbh), massive amount of praise, there’s praise kink all over the shop in anything I write, little bit of angst at the start
Summary: You just wanted to go to a party, wear that dress that Peter loved so much, and show off your boyfriend. Spider-Man gets in the way, but Peter makes it up to you, after showing everyone that you're his.
Notes: I never expected this fic to get this long (11k words), but you’re welcome. Hope you enjoy, let me know what you think.
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Parties…they’re not usually your thing or Peter’s. Neither of you were big partiers and big crowds of strangers weren’t always your favourite to be in and amongst, especially when alcohol got involved. Usually something insane would happen that you weren’t mentally equipped to deal with, that or too much vomit. But a colleague from work, Jessica, had invited you to her party, some big event she’d booked a whole bar out for, a bar with a notoriously good view of New York’s skyline, and you felt like dressing up for once and trying to be social. You rarely had an excuse to get out your pretty dresses. You just wanted to get dressed up and go to a party with your boyfriend, to see that look cross face when he saw you for the first time. Where his pupils would widen and that little smirk would tug at the corner of his mouth, a sort of half-grin that always showed his teeth and made him look absolutely feral, like he wanted to eat you up. You’d even convinced Peter that the police could handle a few robbers and petty criminals for one night and if they struggled, he’d be there the next day to mop up the mess…or so you thought.
“Peter, we need to get rea-” You’re stumbling out of the bathroom in your robe to tell Peter to start getting ready when you spot him, already in his Spidey suit by the window, mask in his hands. He gives you a sad look and you know before you even ask that he’s got to go…that there’s something important he has to do. It doesn’t stop your heart breaking just a little bit. You really thought you could have one good night…one really good night. Fucking New York City strikes again. You want to be angry, but you know he wouldn’t do this if he didn’t need to. Peter had been very good throughout your relationship at only missing plans if he knew the police couldn’t handle it, if some sort of disaster or crime needed Spider-Man and his particular set of skills. He’d been trying so hard to maintain some sort of balance between the two sides of his life and his relationship with you.
“Peter…” He hates it, hates the way your face drops at the sight of him, how your voice dips down in disappointment, the way your hands clench in the fabric of your robe. He crosses the room quickly, hands cupping your cheeks and his thumbs rubbing against the skin there. Your eyes are already filling up with tears and he feels like the biggest asshole on the planet. His beautiful girlfriend just wants to spend actual time with him and he’s going to leave her alone to go deal with a bunch of weirdos in costumes. It hurts because he knows you just want to go to a party and wear a pretty dress and make him wear a tie for once in his life. That you just want him there and don’t want to go on your own, but he’s about to give you no other option. He feels like he’s standing you up…what sort of boyfriend does that? Fuck.
“I have to go, you know I have to go, baby…” He presses a kiss to the tip of your nose, to the apple of each cheek, the divot in your chin. You can tell by the shine in his big doe eyes that he hates this, hates disappointing you and it makes it even harder to be angry with him when you know he’s already beating himself up about it. As if a party is more important than saving people. You know he doesn’t have much of a choice and it’s that goodness in him, that desire, that need to help others that you love so much about Peter. To stop him from doing this would be to stop him being the man you love.
“You said you’d be there with me…”
“And I will be, okay? I promise, I'll be quick and then I'll go straight there, just think of it like you’re surprising me with whatever cute dress you decide to wear. If I'm here it’ll ruin the surprise, pretty lady.” His half-grin is forced and he knows it's a lame excuse. That it won’t feel like you're surprising him, instead it’ll feel like you're waiting on him, hoping he’ll arrive, unsure whether he will or not. He knows people will ask where is, give you those looks, the pitying ones and he wishes, for just one moment, that New York could sleep, just rest for a couple of hours so he could take his girlfriend out to a party. Like you deserved.
“Pete…” You know he can’t actually promise to be quick, to be there. He has no way of knowing how long it’ll take him to deal with whatever situation requires his attention. Maybe it’ll be quick, maybe he’ll be there, but who knows?
“I know, but, this time…it’s serious. It’s not just…” It’s not just some robber, or some random thug. It’s serious. Peter moves within your orbit, pressing his forehead against yours, his nose nuzzling against your own.
“Are there kids involved?”
“Yeah.” He watches your face fall, watches how you resign yourself, steel yourself to the facts. There are kids involved and it doesn’t matter if he doesn’t make it to the party because his other job, it’s life or death, it’s important, it’s the priority. You cup his cheek and look him dead in those big brown eyes of his, accepting the situation, no matter how badly it hurts. No matter how much you want to be selfish.
“Okay. They need to be your priority.” Peter hates that you’re so good at this. At accepting that something, someone else has to take priority over you. He hates that he can’t make you that priority all the time, like you deserve. Hates that you don’t scream at him, don’t shout and call him an asshole, that you accept it…because it makes him love you more, makes it harder to do the right thing by you and let you go, instead he holds onto you tighter. Even when he can’t give you everything you deserve. You’re so deeply under his skin, so deeply part of him that he couldn’t ever let you go, even if it was in your best interests.
“Baby…” He wants to say you’re his priority, and you are but…but still Spider-Man has to come first, those people have to come first. You know this and any attempt to soften the blow will only make things worse, he knows that. You don’t want false promises. You’ve only ever wanted him to be open with you, honest, something so incredibly hard when he desperately wants to protect you even from himself.
“Pete..it’s okay, really. Go be my favourite hero…Just, please try to turn up, or Jessica will think I’ve been lying about my handsome boyfriend.” You try to play it off as a joke, but it falls flat, not funny and…too close to home. The last thing you want is to be alone at a party where you only know a couple of people, and none of them you know very well.
“I promise. I’ll be there, my suit and tie are in my backpack and all, baby. I’ll be there.” He kisses you long and hard, it’s a promise that you still matter and you melt into it like butter on toast. You watch through lidded eyes as he pulls away and hides his face behind the mask.
“I love you.”
“I love you too. Be careful?”
“Always.” You watch him go, follow him to the window and watch until he swings out of sight. Then you make your way to your shared bedroom and begin to get ready for the night, even if it’s going to be lonelier than you previously thought.
You try to remember his words, to think of it as a surprise for him. That makes it easier as you pull on that dress, the one he loves so much; the red velvet one that hugs tight to your hips and leaves your shoulders bare. It makes it easier to swipe your lipstick across your lips and style your hair. It makes it easier to grab your bag and coat and leave the apartment on your own.
But easier still isn’t easy.
─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───
“C’mon guys! I have a date to get to! Could you stop trying to kidnap little children for five minutes?” It’s frustrating and it’s ridiculous that of all the nights for a group of villains in stupid costumes to decide to kidnap children from an orphanage to use in some weird experiment to make themselves younger, they chose tonight. Peter really wasn’t feeling it tonight. Not when he had a van full of screaming and crying kids, a girlfriend to get to, and a bunch of weirdos in costumes trying to stab him. He hated knives and he hated the idea of you at a party alone.
“Awww, has the ity bity spider got a date? How sweet.” Mocks the big one in the stupid scarecrow outfit, straw poking out of his hat. He’s gesturing with his hands, twisting them over his eyes, as if Peter’s going to cry and it just serves to piss him off further. He shouldn’t be here right now, he should be dancing with you at the party or making you laugh at his stupid jokes about your coworkers.
“Wow, you’re gonna mock me? You look like a cheap attempt at a scarecrow! Where did you get your mask from? The dollar store?” Peter is quick to webb the guy's hands in quick succession to a nearby wall, dodging out of the way of a guy dressed as the Tin-Man who comes at him with a knife.
“Hey, no knives!” He knocks the knife from the man’s hands, “I can’t be bleeding tonight, she’ll kill me!” This guy is smaller than the last, he takes one hit to the head and collapses like a sack of potatoes while Peter shakes his hand in pain.
“Shit, ow! Was that really metal? Idiot!” The Cowardly Lion makes his way forward, Dorothy on his heels and Peter can’t help but think this is the weirdest crime he’s ever had to stop. He misses Dr Connors. At least he was an actual lizard man and not dressed up as one.
“But, seriously, guys, what’s with the Wizard of Oz costumes? You’re not really pissed off actors are you? No? Okay, so just a bunch of weirdos then, huh.” Peter’s eyes flick to the clock tower nearby, shit, you’ve been at the party nearly an hour by now and he’s still dealing with these assholes. Other than the police being slow to turn up, he’s starting to think they could have handled it without him. That makes him feel worse.
“Says the man in a spider costume!” Dorothy is an old lady with a terrible brown plaited wig on and bright glittery shoes that she can barely walk in. She’s also wielding a walking stick as a weapon. He feels a little bad, beating on an old lady, but…she was trying to murder some kids so…fair’s, fair, right? He’s pretty sure respecting your elders is made irrelevant when said elder has murderous intent.
“Whoa, calm down, Dorothy! I’m not the one trying to steal little kids to put in some ‘magic potion’ to make myself young again! What happened to Toto? You steal his youth too?”
“Don’t. Talk. About. Toto!” With each pause Dorothy swings her walking stick at him and he’s quick to dodge out of the way each time, ducking underneath the ‘paw’ or rather fist of the Cowardly Lion, just missing getting a black eye. He can’t get hit in the face either today. He can’t turn up looking like some bum who gets into fights all the time, even if he does get into fights all the time.
“Oh, whoa, lady, didn’t realise Toto was such a sore spot for ya!” The next swing of the walking stick catches him behind the legs and Peter falls prone on his back with a groan, there goes his middle back again. You keep telling him to watch out for it, but he’s pretty sure the universe hates him.
Looking at the clock face again, Peter wonders if he’ll ever make it to the party. All he knows for certain is this’ll be a hell of a story to tell you.
─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───
An hour in and you’re already pretty eager to leave, but part of you won’t, can’t. There’s this little seed of hope that Peter will make it tonight and another part of you doesn’t want to leave only for him to arrive and find you gone. He’s bad at checking his phone like that, and to see him turn up to a party of strangers all alone? Only to find his girlfriend gone? No, no, you can’t do that. So you stay, nursing the same drink you’ve had from the start of your night and standing by the door to the balcony, out of the way enough you hoped to go unnoticed. Like many things tonight your hopes and plans were not going the way you wanted them too. You’re starting to wonder if the universe has a vendetta against you today.
“So, where’s the ‘boyfriend’?” Jessica siddles up to you, wine glass in hand, holding it just so to show off that massive rock on her finger from her fiance. She’d been parading him and the ring around all night, despite having been engaged for well over a year. You were pretty sure at this point she was just rubbing it in your face, to remind you that you were here alone.
She’d never seemed to believe you when you mentioned Peter, you weren't sure why, but she seemed to be under the impression that you’d made him up. Despite showing her photos of the two of you together on multiple occasions as well as the calls he often made to you while you were at work.
Jessica was…confusing. She could be lovely but also incredibly bitchy and you never really knew how she was going to behave…it made things…interesting to say the least. She definitely wasn’t your favourite person in the world, especially not tonight.
“Oh, Peter’s just running a little late, he had an emergency to deal with. He’ll be here.” You couldn’t actually guarantee that though, your eyes flicking to the clock on the wall. It was an hour into your arrival and over an hour since Peter left to tackle the next big problem in New York. You were starting to think he might never arrive and it seemed like Jessica felt the same way. You weren't just eager to see him because you wanted him here for the party, either, you were worried about him. You had no way of knowing whether or not Peter was okay. He wasn’t the best texter in the world, especially not when it came to his Spider-Man business. You loved him, but God, you hated how often you were kept in the dark.
“Sure…well, if you ever get lonely, David’s single.” She points to a guy in the corner who’s been staring at you all night. You give her an unimpressed look.
“Peter, my boyfriend, is just running a little late, Jessica. Why don’t you go find your boytoy? I thought I saw him with Leighanne by the coats.” She has the audacity to gasp as if she didn’t just suggest you cheat on your boyfriend with a guy who can’t seem to even have the maturity to look at your face and not your tits.
You take a long drink and sigh, “Please be okay, Peter…” You whisper it underneath your breath, fingers tapping anxiously against your glass.
─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───
“Finally, y’know, I'm getting too old for this. I have a girlfriend, okay? and she’s waiting for me to go to a party. You need to keep your crazy antics during work hours and week days, y’get me? Sheesh…” The group of weird goons dressed ready to perform the Wizard of Oz are all webbed up to the same lamppost, so tightly jammed together that they groan from behind the webs across their mouths. Peter is thoroughly fed up, running so incredibly late for the party and knowing that you are probably having a crappy time waiting for him. That’s if you’re still even there.
On top of that is the deep desperation to see what you look like, what dress you chose and how well it fits your body. To run his burning gaze across your skin and take you in. There’s never a moment that Peter doesn’t truly want you, you’re the most breathtaking person in his life, but god, he loves it when you have an excuse to get dressed up and wear something fancy. You always pick something that shows off your hips, always, a little tease to him. You know how much he loves your hips, the shape of them, the curve, the dips, the divots.
Peter’s drawn out of his thoughts of you to the sounds of sirens and the sight of police cars, they stop and he recognises Detective Morris as he steps out of his squad car. By this point Peter’s familiar with quite a few of the local police officers and they’ve long since stopped calling him a criminal, he’s now just some guy in a mask who helps them out and makes their job a million times easier than it was before.
“Hey, thanks, Spider-Man!”
“No problem, guys! Just make sure those kids get back safe?” Peter waves them towards the van, where a bunch of kids are sitting at the opening, waiting to be taken back to the Orphanage they came from. Kids are always a hard one, he still remembers Jack on the bridge, the fear that he might not be able to save him. It always makes him work that little bit harder, that little bit more determined to make sure they’re okay.
“That’s our job.” Peter’s phone goes off in his backpack and he’s quick to fish it out, your text lighting up his screen. “You got somewhere you need to be?” Detective Morris asks him, pointing to Peter’s phone.
“Yeah, yeah I do. My girl’s waiting on me. I hope she’s not too pissed with me…” Your text just reads ‘Where are you?’, no kisses at the end, no smiley faces or hearts. It’s hard to tell with such a simple message whether you’re going to be upset with him for taking almost two hours to get this done.
“She hot?” Peter can’t help but let out the loud and sudden laugh at the question, yeah. Yeah, you’re definitely hot. It’s the thought of you at the party, all pretty and dressed up and probably fending off all the men and women around that has him shoving his phone back in his backpack without even replying to your text.
“Detective Morris, she’s the most beautiful woman you will ever lay your eyes on. Not quite sure why she picked me, but hey! I’m not gonna look a gift horse in the mouth!” He’s already walking towards the nearest building, backpack swung over his shoulders, knowing full well that the police can handle the weirdos now they’re subdued.
“Have fun! Hope you’re not in the dog house, Spidey!”
“Thanks, Morris!” It’s with that, that Peter swings away from the crime scene. Dropping down into an alleyway near the bar where the party is held he’s quick to change into the suit he’d packed in his backpack. Spidey Suit thrown in the bag haphazardly.
The suit is a little rumpled and the creases aren’t going to come out anytime soon, but he’s not got any new bruises or any new cuts this time and his hair is…somewhat manageable he thinks as uses the reflection in a dark shop window as a mirror. He even ties his tie properly, neat and proper, the way it’s supposed to be, a stark contrast to his usually more relaxed appearance. He’s quick to rub away a patch of dirt from his cheek and after a second glance, he’s pretty sure he looks presentable for once. He, at least, won’t completely embarrass you in front of your work colleagues, not that you’d ever call him embarrassing anyway.
Peter stops in a shop on the corner, picking out the last bouquet of roses they have. They’re a little wilted, but a beautiful red almost the same colour as his Spidey Suit. It’s better than showing up empty handed and late.
Now he just needs to walk to the bar, find you and sweep you off your feet. He’s not figured out if it’ll be figuratively or literally yet, maybe both. Both seems like a good idea to him.
There’s a new found pep in his step this time, knowing he’s about to see you and he’s not breaking his promise to turn up. He’ll be there, like he said he would and with flowers in hand. God, he can’t wait to see you.
─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───
Two hours in and you’re still not quite sure why you’re waiting for Peter. The lack of response to your text message convinces you that he’s still in the middle of whatever mess he left you for. Yet, still you wait. You’ll probably wait until the party ends because he promised he’d make it, he promised he’d be here and Jess is still giving you that look of pity and mocking that makes you want to see her proven wrong so desperately. You can’t wait to see her face drop when she sees Peter, your boyfriend. Your boyfriend who’s hotter than her fiance, nicer than her fiance, smarter than her fiance, all around better than her fiance. Her fiance who’s spent half the night chasing other womens’ skirts and pretending he hasn’t been. It’s petty, but it’s hard not to be when she’s spent the evening stirring the pot and convincing David that you’re unhappy in your relationship and looking for a bit of fun. Something that is most definitely not the case and any man with half a brain cell might have noticed. Not David though. He had one eighth of a brain cell at best.
David had made his way over five minutes previous and couldn’t quite seem to take a hint. It was starting to grate on your nerves, even more so as he took another step towards you, invading your already limited personal space like he belonged there.
“Have I told you you look beautiful tonight?” He thinks he’s charming, you can see that. The smile he puts on is overconfident and cocky, but not in the way that Peter’s can be. When Peter teases you, when he’s a little arrogant, it makes your cunt throb and your mind spin. Peter would have had you whining for him by now. David wasn’t Peter, he wasn’t even comparable. Maybe had you never met Peter Parker he might have been of interest to you, but Peter had ruined every single man for you. It was simple. Peter was your end game, your ride or die. You had no intention of being with another person for the rest of your life and David needed to get the hint.
“Yes. Multiple times. Have I told you about my boyfriend, Peter?” You stress the word through gritted teeth, pulling back from his hand reaching for your bare shoulder, his fingertips just grazing your skin.
“Where is he?” The disbelief is starting to really wear you down. Do people think you’re sad enough to lie about your boyfriend? As if that was something people regularly did!
“There was an emergency.” Your tone is clipped, gritted teeth and a solid glare at him that should have put him off continuing to pursue you. It didn’t. You were starting to think he was either completely idiotic, oblivious or so arrogant that he couldn’t comprehend the idea that a woman wouldn’t be interested in him and his gelled back hair. Who even uses that much gel in their hair anymore? It made him look like a boy band reject from 2002.
Peter had spotted you before anyone or anything else, it was his goal after all, to find you amongst the crowd. The first thing he noticed about you wasn’t how you were dressed or how gorgeous you looked at that moment, but the look of disdain on your face and the man leering towards you like some sort of creep, his eyes staring down the top of your dress.
The man’s words travelled easily to Peter’s ears, enhanced hearing a handy talent, his voice grated on Peter, his clear interest in you an annoyance even more so with how uncomfortable you clearly were. He wasn’t exactly happy to find another man trying to make a move on his girlfriend. Peter set his jaw, and set his sights on you. His strides were confident as he dodged around each guest at the party.
David huffs out a laugh, “Not a very good boyfriend if he leaves a beautiful woman to attend a party alone, I’d never do that to you, sweetcheeks.” The leer has you stepping back and into a warm chest behind you.
“You’d never have a chance.” A familiar and most welcome voice causing your shoulders to relax. It’s sarcastic and unfriendly, the latter rather unusual for your boyfriend. You turn to see him behind you, glare centred on David.
“Pete!” You’re so excited to see him that you throw your arms around his neck and pull him down to you by the back of the neck. His lips press against yours roughly, more so than normal and you melt into his kiss. Opening your mouth to the coaxing of his tongue without protest, one of his hands falling on your arse in a way you would normally be self-conscious of and tell him off for. But, given there’s an unwanted man attempting to get in your panties, you’re not going to dissuade the possessive hand across your arse or the way he seems to want to suffocate you with his kiss. Peter’s teeth bite your lip and you moan into his mouth before he pulls back with that little half grin of this, the one that’s near enough a smirk, where his brown eyes look at you half-shut and tempting.
“Hey there, my pretty lady…” He nuzzles his nose against yours, eyes flicking briefly towards the other man with a hint of a smirk, before pulling back from you just enough to offer you the red roses, “These are for you, sweetheart, sorry I’m late, I got held up.”
“Oh, baby! You didn’t have to!” You take the flowers from him and press a kiss to his lips, it was supposed to be a chaste one, but Peter presses back against you roughly, pulling your bottom lip between his teeth before letting you go.
“Of course I did, I’ve gotta make sure my baby feels loved, don’t I? Now, let me have a look at my baby, mmm?” You feel warm under his attention, he’s not behaving as sweetly as you expect. This is the sort of Peter you usually get in the bedroom, the sort of Peter who convinces you to try and see how many times he can make you cum in one night, the sort of Peter who wraps his hand around your throat and squeezes till the blood rushes in your ears and you can’t form words.
Still despite the warmth in your face and the heat in your cunt you step back from him, David barely a thought as Peter’s eyes look you up and down slowly from head to toe. His eyes trail from your face and the lipstick you only ever wear because you know it drives him crazy to see it smudged, to see it mark his skin, down to your bare shoulders. He follows the line of your body, the dress…the dress, that dress, it’s his favourite one. The red one, that pops out at him whenever you wear it. The red one that shows off your shoulders and sticks tight to the curves and dips of your body. The red one that shows off your hips, the hips that you know he loves so goddamn much. Fuck, he loves your hips, how they curve, how he can dig his fingers into the meat of them, the way bruises look against your skin there, how they sway when you walk.
His eyes are anything but soft and gentle when he scans you. This is not the Peter who tells you he loves you sweetly and washes your hair and you’re not mad about it. You’re not mad about the heat behind his eyes, the way he watches you with hooded eyes and licks his lips like he might just devour you.
It takes everything within him to acknowledge the man who had tried so desperately to flirt with you. He doesn’t want to, but still his eyes flick towards him, the fire stays but shifts from lustful to possessive, assessing the other man as if he’d ever be competition.
Peter wraps his arm around your hips and pulls you tight against his side, pressing the whole length of his body against your own as he turns to David. His smile is tight and forced, his usually friendly demeanour definitely not reserved for the man trying to flirt with his girl. You relax into Peter, just happy for him to be with you, for there to be a deterrent. You watch him more than David, taking in the way the suit fits Peter, tight across his shoulders, a few wrinkles he clearly hadn’t been able to get out by smoothing them with his hands. His jaw is tight and it only exaggerates the cut of it, he’s so beautiful and you don’t even want to stay at the party anymore. You just want him to drag you home already.
“Who’s this?”
“Oh, one of Jessica’s friends, Daryl was it?” You know his name’s David really, but it’s a petty little attempt to remind him that you’re not interested in him and that he should find another pretty girl to try his moves on.
“David.” He corrects tersely, Peter shouldn’t find it enjoyable, the way the other man seems to deflate. He knows his uncle Ben would have told him off for it, for the way he was behaving, but for once he didn’t care. You were his, he was yours. David was an unnecessary and unwanted tag along. He also had way too much gel in his hair.
There’s an uncomfortable tense silence as Peter and David stare each other down before Peter turns with you still wrapped up in his arms. He doesn’t even say goodbye to David, just turns, openly dismissive of him as he ushers you towards a quiet corridor leading to the bathrooms. He urges you to shove the roses into his backpack as you walk, once a sweet gesture, now an inconvenience to his plans.
His grip is tight on your hip as you walk, and it only grows more forceful as he presses you against a nearby wall, hands landing on either side of your head, caging you in. Nothing about it is aggressive or nasty, just lacking in his usual softness and control. You know you’re not getting the overly sweet and tender Peter tonight, it’s exciting to see this side of him.
“Did you like him flirting with you, baby? Did it make you feel special?” His voice is rough and low in your ear, warm breath tickling over the shell of your ear. His thigh makes its way between your own, pressing firm against your cunt and you can’t help but roll your hips against the intrusion. Dragging yourself across his leg in an effort to find some sort of friction, some sort of relief from the beginning desire that burns in your stomach like white phosphorus..
“No, no, Pete. Only you, only want you, baby…” Your breath stutters at the feeling of your clit dragging across his thigh, wetness pooling in your panties as Peter trails kisses down your neck, teeth nipping and biting at the skin as he goes. He’s rough enough that you know there will be bruises across your neck, clearly placed hickeys that show you’re taken. You think that’s the point, something about David’s attention has set Peter off and you’re not complaining.
“Mmm, I’m the only one that can make you feel like this, baby girl?” Peter kisses along your cheek, lips hovering over your own as his hand reaches for your neck. He squeezes just so, thumb pressing into the underside of your jaw, tilting your head for him and you can’t help the whine that falls from your throat as you press your hips against his thigh. The fact you’re in an open corridor is a distant worry, barely a thought as your eyes flutter closed.
“Answer me, sweet girl.” His voice is firm, you force your eyes open to look at him, the way his brown eyes stare into yours as his lips brush against your own, nose nuzzling against yours. Even like this he has this gentleness, a tenderness that reminds you that you are in safe hands. Peter has you and nothing bad will happen, not even with your co-workers just down the corridor.
“Only you…only you make me feel like this, not him, no one else.” It’s a babbling mess that causes Peter to smirk because you’re so pretty like this, rutting against his thigh, skin warm and neck littered with small bruises that you won’t be able to hide tonight. He’s barely started and you’re desperate for him, and fuck, if he doesn’t love seeing you like this for him. Like he’s the only man in the world that can make you lose your sharp wits and ability to speak.
“There’s my good girl, my sweet girl…” Peter’s hands slide to your thighs gripping them tight and pulling them from the floor, wrapping them around his hips for you as he presses you into the wall. Your arms wrap around his neck instinctively, this scene having played out time and time again as Peter often takes advantage of his superhuman strength.
He moves you while you lazily press kisses across his jaw, what little skin on his neck is exposed is sucked and nipped as you occupy yourself with him. He thanks whatever deity looked kindly upon him, for this bar to have those individual unisex toilets, lockable and with such heavy doors that the sound is muffled and almost non-existant from outside.
Peter lets one arm drop from underneath your arse as he closes and locks the heavy door behind him, you’re placed roughly on top of a cold marble sink countertop, your thighs resting just on the edge of it. It’s so cold against your heated skin that it causes you to shiver. Peter, despite the mood he’s in, rubs your legs instinctively to warm you up.
“Pete…baby…”
“What do you want, sweet girl? Y’gotta tell me so I can help you out, you gotta use your words for me, sweetheart.” His smirk is teasing and teethy, eyes dark, practically black as his pupils take over most of his iris. Peter knows you can barely form a coherent sentence right now, and can very rarely ever form a coherent sentence when you’re fooling around together. Peter enjoys teasing you, enjoys seeing you struggling to form words, your lips moving as if sound will come out a few times before you finally manage it. He loves that he can do this to you, completely pull you apart without really even touching you.
“Need you, baby…” It’s pleading and sweet, your eyes half lidded as you try to tug him closer to you and he resists your pulling, his own hands grazing lightly at the skin of your thighs sending shivers over your spine. You shift your hips forward, but Peter just pulls his hands back a couple of inches, nearing your knees instead of following your silent urging.
“Where do you need me, sweetie, mmm?” His voice is so sweet compared to his actions, the voice he uses when he’ll do whatever you want, but he’s not doing what you want right now. It’s frustrating and delicious and you can’t help the shifting of your hips as if you’ll find relief from the empty air.
“Pete…” You whine bashful and embarrassed, knowing he wants vulgar and crass words to fall from your lips in an unfamiliar display of crudeness from you. A bluntness that you’re not used to around sex, you’re never the direct one, Peter is.
“C’mon, baby girl, where do you need me?” His voice is firmer, less soft and sweet, less pandering this time. It’s an order, a directive. If you want anything tonight you’re going to have to play by his rules. His rules are deliciously unfair, you think as your belly burns and your clit throbs unattended.
“I…” You toss your head to the side, face and ears so hot you feel feverish with delightful embarrassment, Peter is the only person you could ever feel so safe with like this, “I…want you to…want your lips on me, baby.” You know your words are too vague the moment his grin widens and he drops his lips to your shoulder, pressing an open mouthed kiss there, teeth grazing across your heated skin.
“Here?”
“Nooo…Pete!” You whine and throw your head back in frustration, hands reaching for his head as if to guide him, but he’s already moved onto the hollow at the base of your throat, pressing a kiss there as you squirm.
“Here then?”
“Pete!” Your hands shove his shoulders down, trying to urge him between your thighs like you want but he just smirks up at you all teeth and sin and control.
“Y’gotta tell me, baby, I'm Spider-Man, not a mind reader.” His lips continue to trail over your exposed skin; your collar bone, your throat, your arms and shoulders. Each time he kisses and licks and bites and you know you are going to walk out of this bathroom littered with love bites that your coworkers will see, that Jessica will see, that David will see.
The idea of everyone knowing you’re Peter’s, and he’s yours, that he looks after you so well, takes care of you properly, that’s what spurs you to say the words you’ve been so reluctant to.
“On my…on my cunt. I want your lips on my cunt.” You close your eyes and tilt your head back. Peter can’t resist the length of your neck and one last kiss to it before he gives you a sweet reward for your obedience.
“There, that wasn’t so difficult was it, sweet girl?” It was, you think. It was so difficult and yet his attention makes you want to squirm, making it worth the difficulty.
Fuck, you’re so pretty like this he think as he rucks up your skirt around your hips and slides your panties down your trembling legs and into his pocket. Your lips parting as you gasp and whine for him to just touch you while you tremble and shake for him. Your perfectly done hair is already a mess from being pressed against a wall, and your skin is littered with love bites from his mouth. A monet painting across your skin of various shades of purple and red. He can’t wait for David to see you like this, on his arm, can’t wait for everyone to know you’re his.
He takes a step back for a moment just to admire you and the distance has your head snapping up to look at him with a frowny little pout on your face. He’s scanning you again, head to toe, a slow trail of his gaze burning across your skin as Peter licks his lips and grins at your frustration.
You contain your desire to tell him you hate him, knowing he’s in the mood to stop and draw this out. That saying it will only result in him torturing you for longer and you’re much too riled up already for that. There’s a distant thought that you can’t believe Peter’s about to eat you out in a bar bathroom with your co-workers a few meters away. Another part knows he’s the only person who could ever convince you to do this.
“Pete, baby, touch me, please”
“Well, since you asked so nicely, honey.”
He drops to his knees so roughly that you wince at the sound of the impact as his knees meet the tiled floor of the bathroom. His hands slide up your ankles, a delicate little touch that has your skin twitching as he reaches the backs of your knees and drags you forward on the countertop until your arse is on the edge. His hands slide up to your hips to hold you securely in place, flexing fingers digging into the flesh there tightly enough to leave bruises, a reminder that he has you and a reminder of what sort of night you’re in for.
He presses close between your legs, throwing them over his shoulders as he holds you close and for all his teasing there is no preamble here. You whine as Peter licks from your slit to your clit in one fell swoop. Your hands slide into the dark brown strands of his hair and tug harshly, getting a groan from him at the pain. Shit, he loves pleasing you, could probably do this all night if you wanted. He pulls back just enough to look at you.
“You taste so good, baby, my sweet baby, is this all for me?” Peter’s hands tighten on your hips as you squirm, wetness pooling between your thighs and coating the inside of them with slick. You’re so wet that he has half a mind to ask if you’ve been thinking about him all night, if you were thinking of him when David tried his moves on you.
“All for you…all for you, baby.” Your legs twitch over his shoulders, a pathetic little attempt at urging him forward again, never able to win a battle of physical strength with Peter, no matter how hard you try. He’s steady as a rock, only moving when he wants and how he wants.
“Who does this cunt belong to, sweetheart, mmm?” His voice is so goddamn low and gravelly at this point that it goes straight between your legs.
You’re pretty sure your brain short circuits, Peter’s words combined with his mouth dipping back between your legs and his lips wrapping around your clit and sucking has you throwing your head back so hard that Peter’s quick to reach a hand up and place it between the back of your skull and the bathroom mirror. He saves you from cracking your head as casually as he licks at your cunt and shit, Peter still having that much awareness and control causes more slick to gather underneath his tongue. He’s so goddamn competent and you love it.
“I asked you a question, baby.” His lips turn to the inside of your thigh, licking up your tangy wetness that has dripped there, biting into the meat of your thigh and laving it with his tongue while he waits for an answer. He’s being cruel and he knows it, normally he’d give you everything you want without question or much teasing, but tonight is different. It doesn’t matter that he’s rock hard in his dress pants, all that matters is reminding you that you belong to him and showing you no one else could love you this good. As if that was ever in doubt.
“Yours, baby, it’s your cunt, yours.”
He rewards you by diving back into you, tasting you on his tongue as he presses into you and surrounds himself with you, nose nudging at your clit as he licks into you and allows your hips to buck against his face. He can tell you’re close from the way you thrash, how your legs tense over his shoulders, but he knows you well enough to know you need more than just his lips on you.
Peter wraps his lips back around your clit and sucks at the same time as he presses a thick, long finger into you. You moan and twist, but it’s not enough, you feel so decidedly empty. Peter watches you from between your thighs, eyes looking up at you, at the puff of your cheeks as you hunt for a breath of air. Your hands tug at his hair with each suck and lick of his mouth.
Peter’s quick to press a second finger into you, curling the two of them just so against that spongy little spot inside you that has you crying out his name and gasping for air. His hand is still the only thing saving you from giving yourself a concussion. He’s downright relentless as he thrusts his fingers into you, curling against that spot each time, lips sucking and licking around your clit like a lollipop.
It’s a third finger stretching you open, eased by the sheer amount of wetness that you drip with, and the subtlest graze of his teeth against your clit that has you cumming. Your legs wrapping so tight around Peter’s head he worries he might suffocate, at the same time as thinking that would be the best way for him to go out. Dying between your thighs seems like a pretty good way to go.
You whine his name so loud that he’s not even sure the heavy door can muffle it. Your body tensing and relaxing with the waves of your orgasm as Peter works you through it, lips pulling away from you, but fingers still pressing into you, more gently this time. “There you go, baby, look at you…so pretty for me. Prettiest woman I’ve ever seen…look at you…”
He lets you push his hand away when it’s too much and pulls himself to his full height, slipping his fingers into his mouth and sucking you from his skin. You lean into him, pressing your cheek into his shoulder as Peter rubs circles into the back of your neck. Still soft, still tender as he waits for you to catch your breath and come back down from it all.
“You okay, baby?”
“Mmm, more than okay, Pete…fuck, you trying to ruin me?” You lean back and finally look at him. Your lipstick is smudged, eyeliner running, hair an absolute mess. You look wrecked in the best sort of way and he knows it’ll be obvious what you’ve just done when you walk out into the bar on the way back to your apartment, but that’s what he wants. Wants them to look at you and him and know.
“You just look so good like that, baby.” Peter’s hand wraps around your throat and your eyes roll back, already finding yourself getting worked back up again. He’s still so pristine looking, tie still in place, the only things rumpled are his hair and the lipstick marks across his lips and jaw. Compared to you he looks barely touched.
Peter’s lips press against your jaw, kissing up to your ear, “think it’s time we went home now, don’t you, baby girl?”
You nod rapidly, unable to find the words as Peter helps you slip off the counter and pull your dress down. He never returns your panties and you know he’s not in the mood to give them back. Asking would be pointless. You look wrecked but don’t even care as Peter slips his arm around your waist and walks you back out to the party.
You have to walk through the other guests to reach the exit, before Peter can swing you home and fuck you into the mattress. You smirk at Jessica as you pass by, her annoying face the picture of shock at the love bites and mussed hair you sport, at the specimen of a man wrapped around you in a black tie.
Peter does much the same to David, a challenging lift of his brow, a reminder he never had a chance with a woman like you. It’s petty on both your ends, possessive and silly, especially considering you should be embarrassed about being eaten out in a bar bathroom, but it fills you with a sort of confidence that sways your hips more.
He doesn’t really waste time; Once you’re out of the building and into an alleyway Peter’s tugging his mask in place and lifting you into his arms, eager to get you back to your shared apartment and out of your dress. He loves that dress on you, but right now, it’d look better on the floor.
There’s no faffing about as you land on the fire escape and Peter urges you inside, backpack and mask thrown on couch as he presses into you, lips smothering your own in a heated kiss. You move backwards with him, trusting him to guide you through the apartment and not lead you into a wall. His kisses twist from your lips to your jaw as you make it into the bedroom, nipping down your neck and over your sternum.
There’s very little talking as Peter turns you around and unzips your dress, pulling the red fabric from your body and letting it pool to the floor at your feet. Your strapless bra is next, unclipped and thrown to the side until all you are wearing are your shoes. You stand as patiently as you can, squirming on the spot as you wait for Peter’s next move.
“Fuck, baby, you’re so hot and all mine, right?” His fingertips skim over your shoulders, down your bare arms to twist with your own as he presses his front to your back. His excitement, hard and solid against you, as he presses kisses over your spine.
“All yours, Pete.” You sigh it out, head dropping back against his chest behind you as he nips across your skin.
“Promise?”
“Promise, only ever yours, I don’t want anyone else.” You’re pretty sure Peter Parker has ruined you for other people at this point. You’re pretty sure you’d only spend your life comparing them to him, if you can’t have Peter you might as well not have anyone.
“Mmm, me neither, baby…you’re my baby, I don’t need anyone else” It thrills you to hear it from him, that it’s just you. That other women, other men, other people don’t interest him. Peter’s all yours and it’s all you want and all you need.
He twists you in front of him, lips pressing down your chest and capturing a nipple between his teeth. The harsh tug causes a shaky breath to leave your throat as his fingers reach for your other breast.
You’re urged backwards towards the bed, stepping out of your dress and heels as he licks, bites and sucks at your chest, leaving an innumerable number of love bites over your body, to the point you’re sure someone might start worrying about you. You love it though, the purpling evidence across your body of his devotion to you, evidence of his hunger for your skin.
You gasp as he pushes you back to land on the bed with a bounce, before Peter covers you with his own body. He is warm and broad over you, all encompassing as he lifts one of your legs up to his hip. Still fully clothed you whine against him as he rocks into you, far too many layers separating the two of you.
“Pete, too many clothes!”
He tuts at you, “Oh no, you’re going to cum on my fingers before I get out of this suit, baby, think you can do that for me?” He wants to push you tonight, see how many orgasms he can wring from you before you’re tapped out and exhausted, till your cock drunk and unable to speak. Needs to make it up to you for that two hour wait, needs to make up for the fact he dragged you from the party after barely being there twenty minutes and the embarrassment you’re likely to feel later when you realise everyone at work saw you post-orgasm.
You shake your head no, but your lips form the word ‘yes’ over and over. Peter urges your hips up as he slides a pillow underneath them to prop them up. His fingers trail down your stomach, before his hand cups your cunt and two fingers press into you without hesitation. You’re still so wet and warm from before that he has no problem sliding them inside you as you grind against his palm. Heat wells in your belly and twists itself in delicious knots. Your skin feels hot again, like you’ve caught the worst sort of fever and there’s a corny joke somewhere in the back of your mind that just about avoids your lips.
“Baby…”
“I’ve got you, you know I've got you, sweet girl. Always got you.” He croons to you, lips hovering over your own, watching the way your eyes flutter shut as he presses into you and seeks out that spot again, thumb coming to circle your clit. Your hands grip his shoulders tight, without the layers of clothing your nails would be digging into his skin and he wishes he could feel it, the lash of pain across his back as you dig crescent moons into him, mark him as your own.
You twist in his arms when he finds it, that spongy spot that makes you keen and throw your head back into the mattress. Peter sits up on his knees to find his balance, fingers still pushing in and out of your cunt, thumb still pressing circles across your clit, just up and to the left where you’re most sensitive. His free hand wraps around your neck, finding its home there like so many times before. It’s careful, but firm as he presses onto the sides of your throat and feels you moan under his palm, the light pressure causing blood to rush to your ears, intensifying the feeling building in your belly and the slick against Peter’s fingers.
“There we go, baby. Look at you…so pretty, my pretty pretty baby.” He’s always like this, even when he’s teasing and rougher, Peter always croons praise at you like a song, a mantra. His words are sweet even as he pulls you apart from the inside out, a reminder that there is love and trust between you, that he loves you.
“Pete…” You’re not sure what you want to say, eyes opening halfway to watch him as he grins down at you, dimples pushing against his cheeks. He looks so hot like this, hand around your neck, still dressed to the nines, your lipstick smudged across his mouth like some sort of abstract painting.
“C’mon, baby girl, I know you can do it, cum for me, c’mon…I got’chu.” Peter increases the pace of his fingers, rougher, harder, faster, as he tightens his hand around your throat and watches as your eyes roll back into your head, body shaking as you cum for him. Your toes always curl when you cum, and your legs kick out, one knocking into his side roughly.
You shove his hands away from you for a moment, too sensitive for him to continue right away and watch as Peter brings his fingers to his mouth and sucks you from his fingers like his favourite dessert.
“Mmm, you always taste so good, baby, don’t you agree?” His mouth presses to yours soon after the question is posed, your mouth prised open by his tongue as you taste yourself on his lips. You moan into his mouth and chase his lips when he pulls back.
It doesn’t matter that you’ve cum twice tonight, you’re not satisfied, eyes trailing over his fully clothed form to stop on the bulge in his pants. Fuck, you want him inside you so bad, he’s drawn it out tonight, a tease.
“You want something, sweetheart?”
You nod your head vigorously, leaning up onto your elbows as he steps back from the bed, smirking at you. “You. Want you, Pete…”
“Want me where?” You watch as he grabs his tie in one hand, loosening it from his neck. You’re not sure when removing a tie became so attractive, but Peter makes it so. Even more so as buttons begin to be opened and his freckled skin begins to be revealed with each of them.
“In me. Want you in me, Pete.” Whatever embarrassment and bashfulness you had earlier has wilted and died along the way, two orgasms in and all you really want right now is his cock in your cunt as he leans over you with a hand around your throat.
“Mmm, think you got one more in you, baby?”
“Yes, yes…”
“Good girl, just be patient for me, mmm?” You nod your head and watch, squirming in place but patient as you watch Peter shrug his jacket from his shoulders and toss it unceremoniously across the room.
He’s slow as he unbuttons the cuffs of his shirt sleeves and finishes opening the buttons of his shirt. The white cotton slides from his shoulders like silk as it flutters to the ground. Your eyes follow the breadth of his shoulders, the lines of his torso, catching on familiar scars and freckles that you’ve kissed time and time again.
“You’re so handsome, baby.” You watch the warmth reach his face, red shadows across his cheeks and ears, always unused to a compliment, but that’s why you always took the time to make them. “You’re so hot, Peter…fuck…” Your voice breathy and in awe of this man, this man who loves you and fucks you and needs you, wants you.
“You that needy for me, sweet baby?” He’s tugging at his belt buckle, sliding the leather through the loops even with his dark eyes focused on you and he knows what you’re doing. You’re pushing back just a little bit. He’s teased you this entire time and now you’re trying to push back with your own, to get him to move quicker, it’s cute that you think you have any control here.
“Mmm, always needy for you, Pete.” You wriggle a little in place, the movement of your hips catching his eye and stopping his hands in their tracks as they reach for the fly of his pants. He takes a moment, letting you stew in the realisation that he's only slowed down and not sped up.
Your comments stop then, breath held as you return to patient silence, stilling your body even as your toes curl in anticipation. He begins again once you’re settled, trouser button popped and fly pulled down. Shoes kicked off before Peter steps out of his dress pants and boxers, bare before you.
He lets you get a good look in, your eyes trailing over his tall form, the slimness of his waist, his cock weeping against his stomach, hard and wanting. He’s been hard since the bathroom at the bar, Peter’s patience and self-restraint always astounding to you. You don’t have it in you, you’re always needy and impatient when it comes to him and your desires.
“You sure you’re up for one more, baby?” He asks as he makes his way to settle over you, arms on either side of your head, muscles bulging deliciously. He’s giving you an out, not that he’d ever continue anything without your permission. You know that about Peter intimately, he could be a second away from cumming and still he would pull out of you if you no longer wanted to keep going. It was that ability to trust in him that made it all so easy.
“Mmm, yeah, Pete, need you,”
“You got me, you got me, sweet girl.” Peter urges your legs up and around his hips, cock dragging through the slickness of your cunt, once again glad you're on the pill and the lack of barrier between the two of you. You’re so warm and wet that it takes him a moment to compose himself, the head of his cock teasing your clit as your fingers dig into his back. Your body burns in the best sort of way, the slide of him against you sending tingles up your spine, so sensitive at this point that even just the touch of him to your clit has you contorting.
Then he slides home, an easy slow thrust that has your hips lifting and nails carving crescent moons into his skin. Peter hisses at the tight clutch you have around his cock and the slight pain in his back, delicious and brilliant. He knows this is the last one, his restraint at the end of its tether.
“Fuckkk…you’re so wet, baby…” His forehead drops to your shoulder, hips beginning to rock into your own, the slow drag of his cock against your walls drawing a long moan from your throat. “This all for me?”
“Mmmhmmm, all for you…” You’re not sure your brain works anymore, if you’re being honest. You feel like you’re swimming in sensation, your brain a little hazy, senses only focused on Peter. The drag of him through your walls, the touch of his lips to your neck, the smell of his shampoo in your nose.
“You okay?” He chuckles at the way you look up at him a little dumb smile on your face, eyes half-lidded and hazy. He’d be worried if I hadn’t seen that look on your face before. This is definitely the last orgasm he’ll wring out of you tonight, anymore and it’d be pushing you past your breaking point. He can tell already.
“Mmm?”
“Just a little cockdumb, huh, baby? You like me filling you up?” You know he’s laughing at you, but you can’t really complain as he thrusts harder and surer with each rocking of his hips, can’t really complain when his hand is at your throat again, thumb pressing underneath your jaw and tilting your head to look at him. His eyes are so goddamn soft and warm, and fuck, he’s so handsome above you.
“Mmm, so good, Pete…not…”
“Not what, baby? Mmm, use your words for me.” You rock back into him, legs hiking further up his hips, dragging him deeper into you. The head of his cock hitting that spot in you as his hand slides down your body to your clit.
“Not gonna last, so close, baby.” You jerk in his arms, feeling overwhelmed, so sensitive and so, so warm as you clench around him at his fingertips circling your clit.
“You gonna cum for me? Where do you want me, sweet girl? Mmm? Where do you want me?” He’s close too, can feel the tightness in his stomach, but needs to know where you want him. Sometimes you don’t want the sticky feeling between your legs and sometimes you want him deep inside you. He has thoughts on it tonight too. Wants to cum in you and claim you, the only one to ever get to do it again. Not stupid men like David, they’ll never get the privilege, because it is a privilege to have you like this, to have your trust and submission to him.
Your gasping for air, body burning so bright that you can barely keep your eyes open and on his own. “Cum in me, please, please Pete, fill me up…baby…”
Thank fuck, Peter thinks, thank fuck you’re on the same page. His hand tightens around your throat, the other pressing roughly into your clit and rocking as deep as he can, barely pulling out of you, not wanting to miss this, miss cumming in you like you want, like he wants. “Mmm, want me to fill you up? Want me to fuck a baby into you? Our baby, huh?” Fuck, it’s a way off, he knows that. Knows you can’t get pregnant, knows that you need to get married first, get a bigger place, but shit if the idea doesn’t appeal to him. Taking you, filling you up with him, making a baby with you, your stomach round, tits growing. Fuck…He should be ashamed, but you’ve never let him feel bad about any impulse of his.
“Yes, fuck, yes, Pete..” It doesn’t matter that you’re on the pill, that you’re not going to get pregnant, it’s the thought that counts, the idea of him claiming you, being yours totally and wholly. Having a piece of him with you. Of a family with him, a baby with his eyes and that impossible ability to get in trouble.
“Gonna fill you up, baby, mark you up, make you mine, mmm? Wanna be mine?”
“Yours, only yours, Pete…” You kiss over his neck, sucking a mark, deep and purple into his skin. A little sad knowing it’ll disappear within a few hours, healing before you can truly enjoy the sight of it on his skin.
“Then cum for me, sweet girl” He lowers his mouth to your ear, whispers it low and sweet so close that it feels like you’re the only two people in the world, his hand around your throat tightens and you’re falling, tumbling, diving over your third end of the night. Cumming around him, you grip him so tight that it doesn’t take long for him to follow, stilling as he cums in you, filling you up like you both wanted.
The two of you gasp for breath, heaving chests as Peter lowers himself down onto you for a moment. The weight of him is a comfort as he softens inside you. Your hands trail over his back in soothing circles, the two of you just taking a moment to come down from it all.
“Need to get you cleaned up, baby…” Peter speaks first, pulling out of you, the discomfort of his spend slipping from your body made obvious by your grimace. He gets off of you and tucks his arms underneath you, lifting your body from the bed and making his way to the bathroom.
You’re both quiet as you stand under the warmth of the shower, taking turns to wash the other, soothing hands over bruise marks and broken skin. Hands washing the spend from your thighs and pressing soothing kisses to the marks on your hips, even as he smirks up at you, proud of himself, too proud.
You’re warm and lax when you finally curl up in bed with Peter, the covers cool against your skin, and Peter’s heartbeat solid beneath your ear.
“Sorry I was late…you did look beautiful tonight though.” You cuddle deeper into him. Not the least bit concerned about his lateness. You knew he’d be late, but he’d made it and in the end the look on Jessica’s face was worth the two hours waiting…so were the three orgasms.
“Think you more than made up for it, Pete…” You laugh at him, pressing a kiss to his chest and closing your eyes.
“Yeah?”“Mmm, I think I might not be able to walk tomorrow…”
“Good thing it’s a Sunday.” Good thing it’s Sunday indeed.
You find the roses he brought you two days later in Peter’s backpack, wilted and crumpled, neglected in favour of his lips on your cunt and hand around your throat like an obscene necklace.
Warnings: Reader menstruates, use of she/her/feminine identifers, periods suck okay? but Peter’s pretty great.
Summary: Periods, as natural as they are, suck and Peter being the wonderful boyfriend that he is, only wants you to feel good, safe, and comfortable. You’re his number one priority.
Notes: I’m coming up for my period and like always I just wish I had someone to hold me tight and give me love and affection, something I think Peter would be very good at. This ended up double the length I thought it would...
It’s not the way that you want to wake up on a Saturday morning at…You squint at your phone screen in the dark, the bright light temporarily blinding you…three in the morning. Waking up to a pain in your stomach reminiscent of being drop kicked was never fun and you groan as you sit yourself up, holding a hand to your stomach as if that was some miraculous cure for cramping.
Your back twinges with the movement and there’s a gush of wet discomfort between your thighs as it becomes very clear to you that your period has decided to make an appearance. You’re emotional at the best of times, but this really takes the cake, you can already feel frustrated tears welling in your eyes at the prospect of peeling back the covers and seeing some sort of crime scene exposed.
Because when you do, you see the one thing you don’t want to deal with at three in the morning. You’ve bled through your clothing, all the way to your sheets, a pool of bright red fresh blood welling underneath your legs and staining the white fabric. The only relief you have is that Peter hasn’t managed to turn over in his sleep and roll into it, you’re not sure you’d be able to cope with that right now. You can’t help it, things have been kind of shitty lately and it’s just another thing added to the bundle, so you really can’t help it when you start to cry.
You pull your knees to your chest, pressing your face into your legs and just let it out. It’s not pretty and you try to keep it down, to not wake your boyfriend who had a rough night dealing with an oversized slime roaming down the streets of New York. He didn’t need to be bothered by you, not when he was always so tired after patrolling the city.
You’re clearly not quiet enough because before you know it Peter’s up and wrapping his arms around you. A big frown furrowing his brow and causing the corners of his lips to turn down.
“Hey…what’s wrong? Hey, it’s okay…it’s okay” His cheek pressed into the top of your head as he shushed you, rocking you back and forth in his arms. You feel gross and it makes you cry harder and the knowledge that he’s seeing you like this, touching you when you feel this gross.
It’s not something he expects to be woken up by, the sound of you crying, but he’s glad he woke up. He never wants you to cry alone, to deal with things by yourself if you don’t have to. He catalogues the scene as he wraps his arms around you, the metallic smell of blood in the air, the pool of it beneath your legs, the way you flinch and twinge as if a muscle is spasming in your back. It’s clear you’ve started your period and that it’s decided to make a shock appearance when you least expected it.
“I’m sorry, you can go back to sleep! I’m sorry.” You sound hysterical and his heart breaks a little for you because it’s no big deal, it really isn’t. He doesn’t mind waking up for you. He doesn’t mind helping you out. He certainly doesn’t think you have anything to apologise for when you can’t help your body doing something so entirely natural and fundamental. He wasn’t an idiot, he knew about periods and menstruation and it really didn’t bother him. He was twenty five years old, for fucks sake. What twenty five year old couldn’t deal with his girlfriend having her period?
He doesn’t even care that he’s going to get blood on his boxers as he pulls you firmly into his lap and cups your cheeks, forcing you to look up at him. Your eyes are bloodshot and puffy but you still manage to be so utterly beautiful that he momentarily forgets what he was going to say. “Hey….it’s okay. Please…please don’t apologise, it’s okay, baby.”
“I’m going to get blood on you…” You’re sniffling and trying to get off his lap, as lovely as it is to be held by him, the thought of getting blood on him makes you want to cry even harder. But, Peter just holds tight, rubbing the back of your neck and your lower back in small circles, shushing you as he does so. It calms you down somewhat and you press your face into the crook of his neck, taking in that familiar smell of his, the deodorant he uses and the cologne you brought him for Christmas mixing together in a way that is distinctly Peter.
Whatever buzzing exists in your chest, begins to calm at the comfort of him and you start to take big, deeper breaths as you get ahold of your emotions. Peter has alway had a calming effect on you, a safe person to cling to when things get rough. This morning is no different.
“That’s okay, I don’t mind, you can get blood on me any time, pretty lady. Besides, how many times have I gotten blood on you, huh?”
“...a lot.” You admit, thinking back to how many times you’d had to scrub blood from underneath your nails or that time your favourite white shirt was ruined because you’d had to help carry him into your apartment. It seemed so silly now, that you’d worry about a little bit of blood when your boyfriend was Spider-Man. Was there ever a week when he didn’t come in bleeding?
“Exactly. It’s okay, beautiful. It’s okay.” He chucks you under the chin with a sweet smile, glad to see the tears drying up, “Why don’t we get you cleaned up, baby? Does that sound good?”
“Yeah…yeah, I feel…I feel gross.” The thought of a warm shower really does sound amazing, especially given how icky you feel at that moment. Not only are you covered in blood, but you feel sweaty and just disgusting as well.
“Well, luckily for you, even if you're covered in blood and tears, you’re still the most beautiful woman I've ever seen.” He means, it’s ridiculous, that he sees you looking your worst and still has to catch his breath even after all this time. You’re so beautiful even when you don’t feel it.
“You are a liar, Peter Parker.” There is absolutely no way he could find you beautiful right now, no matter what those big doe eyes of his try to say. You’re gross and you know it. You glance away from him, focusing on a point across the room, at the stupid little Spider-Man figurine you brought him as a joke gift that he ended up loving.
“I am not, hey, look at me.” He’s cupping the back of your neck in one hand, thumb stretched across your jaw as he gently turns your face to look at him, that thumb brushes back and forth across your skin. “I would pick you, covered head to toe in blood, out of every other person on this planet. In a heartbeat.”
There’s a pause, you almost aww-ing at how sweet he can be, when he has to come in for the punchline because if he didn’t he wouldn’t be Peter Parker. “Then I'd hose you down outside, but still!” You wack him across the top of his arm, rolling your eyes but not being able to help the little smile that’s wormed its way onto your face.
“You’re the worst.”
“And you’re simply the best, better than all the rest.” Despite appearances Peter’s singing is actually really good, and despite your groaning and grumbling as he teases you, you do love it and you do love him. You love that he always tries to put a smile on your face.
After he’s done, he wraps an arm underneath your legs and another behind your back lifting you with ease (that super strength really comes in handy sometimes). The walk to the bathroom is short, but Peter doesn’t put you down until he has the water for the shower running to get hot.
There’s a comfortable silence that falls between the two of you as he helps you strip from your clothes and you do the same for him and his boxers, before you’re both piling into the shower. It’s something you adore about Peter, about your relationship with him. He revels in non-sexual intimacy, he doesn’t make crude jokes or touch you inappropriately, instead he’s careful as he helps you wash. Just because you're naked doesn’t mean he tries to start anything, he knows now is not the time and he just wants to make you feel better.
His hands lather your shampoo through your hair, taking his time to massage away the tension in your scalp, before running your conditioner back through it. He’s careful of how sensitive you are as he helps wash blood and sweat from your skin.
“Jesus, your back’s tight…” It feels like a firm mattress, so taught he’s not surprised you’re in pain right now.
“Mmm, it hurts…” Your muscles always seized up every time your period hit and it never failed to be a literal pain. You lean your forehead against the shower wall, taking a couple of deep breaths.
“Mmm, I think I can help with that.” Peter Parker has magic fingers, that’s decided the moment he places his hands on the back of your neck and rubs firm circles into the tight muscles there.
You can’t help the moan that leaves you because there is nothing more relieving in that moment than the feeling of that tension drifting away, your neck feeling boneless as his warm hands move down your back. He manages to pin point every little tight spot and ache within your muscles and relieve them. You’re not sure where he learnt it, but you don’t care at that moment because his fingers just seem to know what spots to press on and which to leave.
Peter can’t help but smile as you go a bit boneless, each relieved sigh and groan of gratitude puffs his chest up with pride at helping his girlfriend, making her feel better. You hold so much tension in your body and it's a privilege that he gets to relieve it, that you trust him to be here, completely naked with you, and just look after you. There’s so much trust and it reminds him of how deeply he loves you.
He presses a kiss to your shoulder, leading a line of kisses over and up your neck, behind your ear. Soft, sweet, there’s no heat there, no expectation. “Wait here. I’ll go get you some clothes and a pad.” He presses one last kiss to your temple before leaving you under the warm water.
The next minutes go by in a quiet sort of intimacy. Peter doesn’t let you lift a finger as he dries you with a towel and helps slide your underwear up your legs, a pad already there to keep you from getting messy again. He’s careful as he helps you step into your pajama bottoms, pressing a kiss to your knees as he slides the trousers up and over your hips, another kiss placed there too, just so, soft and lingering. He helps you slide one of his larger, oversized t-shirts over your head. The one he brought solely so you could steal it once he wore it once, stolen clothes always felt better after all. If it was suspiciously in the right size to fit you comfortably then you never questioned him on it and he never mentioned it.
“I’ve got to strip the bed off, c’mere,” Peter pats his thighs and you know by now to jump up and wrap your legs around his hips. He holds you so carefully as he carries you out to the living room, pressing kisses to your cheeks, nose, forehead, lips before laying you down on the sofa. He’s not gone for long before he’s grabbing your stash of blankets and wrapping them around you.
You feel sleepy and warm, your eyes half shut as you watch Peter come and go from the bedroom to the washing machine, then to the linen closet to grab the spare sheets. He doesn’t complain not once. He doesn’t complain that you’ve woken him up at three in the morning, or that you’ve got blood on the sheets or that he had to help you clean up. He just does it, and every time he spots you on the sofa, he smiles and tells you you look beautiful.
You want to marry him. You know you do. It doesn’t matter that he comes back covered in cuts and bruises more often than not, or that he’s often late to things because of the latest threat to the city. He’s not perfect, but he’s perfect for you and to you and that…that’s what matters. He cares so much, he treats you right and you’d marry him even if he turned up late to your wedding.
“I love you,” You croak it out across the apartment from where you’re curled up. Your voice is soft and tender and god, you’re such a simp for this man. He looks at you, stain remover in one hand, a measuring cup for detergent in the other and a pair of heart boxers low on his hips, and grins.
“I love you too, baby.” He does this voice, you don’t ever point it out afraid that he’ll stop, but whenever he tells you he loves you or how amazing he thinks you are, whenever he’s being soft, he has a voice he uses. It’s sweet, and low and takes on this almost airly soft quality that makes shivers run up your spine. It's so, so affectionate that it makes your chest ache and you never want him to stop talking to you like that, ever.
─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───
“Okay, washing is on. Stain remover is in, check…bed’s made, check…” Peter goes through the list of to do’s before he’s content that at the lovely time of nearly five in the morning it’s all sorted. When he walks back to the sofa you’re asleep, wrapped in all the blankets, mouth half open, the tiniest bit of drool running out the corner. He wipes it away gently with a quiet chuckle.
He’s careful not to wake you as he lifts you back into his arms and carries you to bed, pulling back the covers he joins you, turning out the light and pulling you close to him. His face presses into your hair, it’s still wet but he doesn’t mind so much. You’re warm and soft and you twist in your sleep to face him, snuggling deeper into him.
Peter knows that Spider-Man is needed, he knows the city needs that side of him, but you make him feel needed. Peter Parker. Not Spider-Man. You want him, you need him, just as he is and none of the superhuman stuff really matters because it’s just that, just stuff. He loves you and he’s not good at hiding it.
He presses a kiss to your temple and closes his eyes. In a few hours he’ll be awake again, off to take photographs for some company so they can advertise some irrelevant product, but until then he just breathes you in and enjoys feeling needed. Important.
─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───
Peter leaves that morning with a long kiss and reminder not to push yourself too hard. There are painkillers on the table laid out for you and a stack of pancakes that you know he made in a rush because they’re haphazardly stacked and the smiley face he made in fruit is a little bit wonky.
Still it makes you smile through the cramps and you do as he suggests, spending the day catching up on the show you've been watching wrapped in blankets on the sofa. He comes home around five and you know he’ll stay just long enough to eat something with you for dinner and ask about your day before he leaves to patrol the city for a few hours.
“Hi, baby.” He kisses your forehead where he finds you in the kitchen. The cramps are under control right now, painkillers working miracles, although you’ve taken the last of the ones you have in the apartment. “Is that your famous mac n’ cheese?” He knows the answer already, but you smile and hum at him as you make dinner. It’s not anything too hard or time consuming, but Peter loves your mac n’ cheese.
You feel his hands on your hips as he siddles up behind you, pressing a kiss to your shoulder, watching you work. You hate most people watching you cook, hate them even being in the room, but it’s different with Peter. He never questions you or tells you to do it differently or makes weird noises or faces. He’s just content to be there with you.
“Ugh…” You stop temporarily, a wave of pain in your abdomen hitting you. You lean your head back on Peter’s shoulder and his fingers move towards your stomach, rubbing circles there to relieve the pain.
“You okay? I can take over if you want? Won’t be as good, but I don’t want you to push yourself, pretty lady.”
“Just..just hold me for a sec?” It’ll pass, it alway does, but Peter’s warm hands always make it a little easier.
“Always.” He rubs circles on your stomach and holds you close as you make dinner, every time you stop because of pains he gives you little kisses and tells you he loves you. He stays a little longer than he normally would that evening, making sure to put the dishes away for you and get you comfortable on the sofa.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to stay? I’m sure the city’ll be fine for one night.” He’s not so sure about leaving for patrol today, you’re in pain and he knows the first few days of your period are always the worst. He’d rather cuddle with you all night than go take down some amateur robber or idiot with a knife, but you shake your head at him with a smile.
“I’m fine, Pete! Really, go help keep the city safe, webhead.” Sure, your stomach hurts, the painkillers are wearing off, but you’ll be fine for a few hours. You know how important being Spider-Man is to him and you knew when you continued to date him that it’d always be a part of your life.
“You know you’re my priority, right?” He kneels down next to you, leaning his head on his arms which are crossed over the arm of the sofa. “I’d drop everything for you. You come first, so if…if at any point you need me to come home, just give me a call, okay?”
“Pete, it’s my period. I’m not dying.”
“I-I…I know that I…I just-” You cup his cheek in your palm and brush your nose against his. This close you can count the freckles across his skin, the ones you adore so much. God, your boyfriend is so handsome. You love his eyes the most, they’re big and brown and when he looks at you like that, like he currently is, all soft and loving, it melts you.
“I know…you worry about me and I love that about you. You care so much. But I'm okay. Go be my favourite friendly neighbourhood Spider-Man, okay?” You press a kiss to his lips, lingering just a little.
“I love you.” After Gwen…he makes sure he always says it. Every time he leaves he tells you he loves you. Without fail. Every day he phones his Aunt May even for a minute, just to tell her he loves her. He never wants to regret not saying it enough to the two people he truly, deeply cares about.
“I love you too.” He presses a kiss back to you, his is longer and there’s more passion hidden in it, to the point you start to giggle at how far he pushes you back against the sofa. You watch him go, tight spandex perfectly framing his arse and showing off his arms. You’re less of a fan of the mask, a necessity but you always miss his face when he hides it.
He clocks the empty packet of painkillers and the way you’re holding your stomach as he leaves. A mental note to stop by the corner shop on his way home after patrol.
Home…he loves calling it that. It’s not so much the apartment that’s home to him, as you. You could live anywhere and as long as you were there when he got back, he’d consider it home. He wouldn’t care for it if you weren’t there. It’d just a box, a place to rest his head.
─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───
Patrol goes simple enough for Peter. A couple of small-time crooks, but nothing too serious. He doesn’t even have any cuts or bruises this time, all of the so-called ‘bad guys’ unable to land even a single hit in. He swings by the local corner shop in full Spider-Man getup. The guy behind the counter is used to him at this point and doesn’t really blink an eye as he wanders through the shelves with a basket. This has become a regular occurrence.
First on his mental list is painkillers, a couple packets land in the basket before he spots the heating pad on the shelf and grabs that too, one of those electric ones that he knows will do wonders for your cramps. Better than just waiting for the painkillers to kick in at any rate.
He picks up the pads you use, some tampons in case you decide you’d rather use those too, he’s dated you long enough to know the gist of what to buy…the first time you asked him, he was pretty clueless, he ended buying one of almost everything. You had claimed he was just too sweet and a little bit clueless and had promptly given him a lesson on sanitary products. It wasn’t his finest hour, but, hey, you said he was cute so that’s what mattered.
Then he looks for snacks. He knows your appetite fluctuates during your period, but usually the first few days you’re constantly craving something and so he grabs your favourites off the shelves. Your favourite potato crisps, your favourite chocolate bar, favourite sweets and even your favourite fizzy drink. Maybe it’s overkill, but he just wants you to be happy and spoiled and looked after.
“Sup, Spidey?”
“I’m good, how’re you, man?” They do this at least once a week. Peter never comes in the corner-shop out of the Spidey suite, he’s certain the guy would know his voice by now. So you go instead when he’s not coming back from dealing with something.
“Yeah, not so bad, business is good!” The cashier, he knows as Big Joe, starts ringing up his purchases and pauses on the sanitary products like it’s some sort of bizarre mystery. There’s a little grin on his face when he looks back up at him, “Yo, is there a Spider-Wife?”
Peter groans a little. It could be worse he guesses, he could be asked again if he’s secretly Spider-Woman, despite his title clearly being Spider-Man. But, ‘Spider-Wife’, is a little lame of a moniker, really…“Uh, she’s my girlfriend…S-spider-girlfriend…she’s not actually..um…y’know…a…yeah.” It’s awkward and weird and he knows without a shadow of a doubt that you would be laughing your arse off at him right now, full body laughing, doubled over at the fact he’s stood in a shop, buying period products, in spandex while being asked about his ‘spider-wife’. By Joe of all people…
“But, she’s wifey material, right man? I mean she’s gotta be, if she’s dating you, huh?” Your face pops into his head for a moment and…he can’t stop grinning underneath the mask. Yeah, you’re definitely wife material, he’d marry you in an instant. You’re…so good to him. You’re understanding, caring, kind, smart, funny. Even when you’re mad you’re reasonable and you just…you get him. And you get the otherside of him too. He even likes how stubborn you can be sometimes and how you drool in your sleep when you’re having a really good night's sleep.
“Yeah…yeah, she is. She’s pretty awesome.”
“Bet she’s smokin’ hot too, huh?” You are, Peter can’t deny that, he thinks you are the most beautiful, sexiest woman he’s met. Maybe others wouldn’t agree, maybe they’d not see it, but you’re his type and you stun him every day. He pities the fool who doesn’t see how beautiful you are. “Maybe, you should make like that Beyonce song and put a ring on it, Spidey, before someone else snatches her up.”
“Yeah…don’t worry, I will, but uh, probably not when she’s craving sugar, crying, in pain and bleeding from her uterus…but, yeah, some other time.” He’s not so sure you’d be happy if he proposed to you right now. You’d probably still say yes, but…he wants to do it right, take his time, make it romantic and when you’re not in pain.
“Oh, yeah, totally, choose your moment, dude. I mean, you’re Spider-Man, she’s not gonna say no, right?”
Big Joe finishes scanning his purchases and Peter hands over the cash, he always uses cash when he’s in his Spidey suite. Can’t have people seeing his legal name on a credit card, now that would be stupid.
He shoves the whole lot in his backpack and swings it over his shoulders, waving goodbye to Joe as he makes his way to the door. “Night, Joe. Stay safe.”
“You too! Tell the missus Big Joe said hi, will ya?”
“Sure thing, Joe!”
─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───
You’re curled up on the sofa still when he gets in. It’s gone eleven o’clock but you’re still up, curled into a little ball underneath the blankets. He can hear your erratic breathing, pained and uncomfortable, the moment he gets to the fire escape and knows you’re not feeling your best. Definitely not the time to propose.
You don’t even look up when he comes in, just whimper a little bit. Peter removes his mask and backpack in quick succession. Hand brushing your hair from your face and rubbing circles into your cheek as he kneels down next to you. “Hey, baby…not feeling good?”
“No…painkillers have worn off.” It feels like you’re being punched in the gut, repeatedly. Maybe, it’s what Peter felt like some nights. You could sympathise a little.“Sit up for me, beautiful?” You do it with his help, despite the pain coursing through your body and nearly cry when he pulls out more painkillers from his back and hands you your favourite fizzy pop to wash them down with.
You know they won’t help immediately but even knowing that in the next half an hour you’ll feel better makes things seem brighter. Your favourite drink also helps to lighten your mood.
“Big Joe says hi.”
“Oh, did you stop in and see him?” You watch as Peter starts to rummage around in his backpack.
“Mmm, got you some things, nothing major.”
“Some things?” You raise an eyebrow at him as he empties the contents of his backpack on the coffee table. You can see all your favourite snacks laid out and it reminds you of Harry Potter buying the whole sweet trolly in his first year at Hogwarts . Peter grabs the heating pad from the pile and unboxes it, finding the nearest plug socket to plug it in.
“Figured this might help with cramps, stand up for me.” You do and he fiddles about with getting it in the right place for you, strapping it to your stomach and turning it on. The moment it begins to warm up you melt into him, arms wrapping around him with a relieved sigh. The warmth helps, so, so much.
The two of you stand there for a moment, just holding each other as you feel your pain ease. He loves helping you like this, he feels good helping you and it’s a different sort of good from helping strangers. He feels like a better man, knowing he takes good care of his girlfriend.
He helps you lie back down, wedging himself between you and the sofa so that his warmth rests on your back, one arm firm around your waist, the other underneath your head to cushion it. The heating pad relieves the cramps in your stomach, while the weight of him helps with some of the pains in your back. You press back into him, lifting a leg back and over his hip, locking the two of you together. You lock your fingers with his hand that’s over your stomach and accept that you really did miss him this evening, as much as you love him being Spider-Man.
Peter presses his face into the crook of your neck and breathes you in, he’s exhausted and he knows you are too. Can tell by the way your head falls to the side, almost like you’ve lost the ability to lift it. “Mmmm, we should probably go to bed…” It’d be the smart thing to do, rather than sleeping on the sofa…
“Or we could sleep right here?”
“Sounds nice…mmm.” He presses a kiss to your neck, your shoulder, your cheek. It really would be nice, Peter thinks, as he pulls the blanket from the back of the sofa and over the top of both of you, wrapping you in a warm cocoon.
“Mmm, I love you.” You have just enough energy to bring the back of his hand to your lips and press a kiss over his knuckles, soft and sweet and it reminds him to start looking for a ring you might like.
“I love you too, baby.”
Sure periods suck, sure you’ve been in pain, but falling asleep with Peter Parker, like this? It kind of makes it worth it. Or at least less of a chore.
Summary: You’re one of the newest history lecturers and Indiana turns up to watch your open lecture on the Cult of the Beautiful Dead
Notes: I love Angela’s Secret’s Out Saga, i’m happy that I get to send her requests and see the amazing things she writes for it and lately i’ve been getting the urge to write something for the world/au/series.
This is a homage, a tribute, to it, obviously none of this is canon unless Angela says so.
This is set before Indy and the Reader are dating.
All facts come from an essay I did at university on the Cult of the Beautiful Dead, which I also did an hour long presentation on.
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You were relatively new to the history department at Marshall College and were somewhat of a novelty to students and staff alike having only been there for a few months. Being one of the few female professors and on top of that specialising in some more taboo or ground breaking historical takes on the history of gender and sexuality, you had successfully caused quite the stir.
The majority of your colleagues were accepting, happy to have you and generally interested by your studies and research. Despite being relatively new to academic teaching they were supportive, although there was a small subsection of the humanities department who, in typical old man fashion, talked down to you, treated you like a coffee girl and disrespected your expertise. You had taken to stealing their students from their modules and attracting them to your modules instead as a passive form of fighting back.
Students were clamouring to be taught by you, to get onto the list for your modules or to get to see your open lectures. You were the only member of the faculty who talked about the more riveting elements of history such as prostitution, sexualisation, and even ghosts. In comparison to the same lectures on Anglo-Saxon England and the Civil War, you were significantly more interesting to the student population. That did not, however, remove sexism within the student population. While female students actively enjoyed your lectures, got involved more so than in other modules, and felt a sense of comfort in a more female friendly space, you found that a small portion of the student male population tried at every turn to either explain your own specialism to you or to discredit you. You had long since taken to finding it rather amusing, especially when most of those individuals were failing your course.
You had been asked many months ago to prepare an open lecture on the history of surgery and medicine, the faculty head had told you to pick any topic you wished so long as it was well researched and you could put on a good lecture for the student population. For some it might well be their first ever history lecture, for others it was just an addition to their usual workload, nonetheless you’d chosen a topic that was of interest to you and that you felt confident presenting.
Standing before a podium in a large lecture hall, you push your glass further up the bridge of your nose and flick through the pages of notes in front of you to temporarily distract yourself from the crowds of people that were slowly making their way inside and to seats. It was a large hall, one that could hold upwards of 200 people and despite years of public speaking under your belt there was always an anticipation, a sense of nerves, before you began a lecture or presentation.
You checked the microphone on the podium, happy to find it in working order and smiled at a few familiar faces in the front row, some of your students who had apparently decided to spend their free period listening to you talk some more. Checking the time you waited a few more minutes before choosing to start, letting the last stragglers find a seat or for those unlucky enough to stand at the back after all seats were filled. It was a large turn out and you could feel those nerves buzzing in the pit of your stomach as you cleared your throat and picked up your notes.
“Good morning, everyone! Thank you for coming despite your busy schedules to hear me drone on once more about dead people,” Light laughter and small chuckles filled the space as you began, your students looking at each other with a shake of their heads. “Today i’m going to be talking to you about something called the Cult of the Beautiful Dead in Victorian medicine. Specifically surgery.”
You find yourself drifting from the podium, pacing across the stage even as this requires you to speak louder without the microphone. There is a familiar energy in your body that demands you move as you speak, to expend it in some physical way. “The Cult of the Beautiful Dead pervaded the world of art within the 18th and 19th centuries. It has been defined as ‘a subjective fascination with idealised images of the deceased in such a way that permanently embalmed bodies and stable images displace and replace impermanent reality’, but I would characterise it within medical and surgical art somewhat differently.”
You stop briefly, give yourself time to breathe and them time to process your words, in that brief moment your eyes glance across the crowd and spot a familiar face that makes your cheeks warm and your heart stutter. Professor Henry ‘Indiana’ Jones Junior.
Professor Jones was known throughout the history and archaeology department for his digs, his finds, and his immense knowledge, that and his good looks and charming persona. He was friendly, enticing, handsome, and treated you as an equal. While you could not consider yourself friends, you did have a healthy respect and rather decent crush on the man. In fact, the only reason you weren’t friends, you suspected, was your inability to talk around the man without stuttering. He had no reason to be at your lecture, but he’d come anyway, in fact it looked as if he were the only member of the archaeology department present.
You forced yourself to tear your eyes away and continue, “It is the idealised image of the female body on the dissection room table or the surgical bed with her flowing hair, her soft, pale skin, her perfect, unharmed nature and her sexualised passivity which characterises the Cult of the Beautiful Dead within medical art. On your seats you would have found copies of a painting by Henri Gervaux and an illustration by Hasselhorst, I will be talking today about these pieces of art and how they fit in with the realities of the dissection room.”
You move across the stage again, wait as they find out their papers and find yourself looking over at Dr Jones again. He is intent in his observations of the papers in his hands, interested, actively engaged and that is a bigger compliment than anything you think. It would be heartbreaking, you decide, if he were bored by or disinterested in your lecture. While you don’t need his approval, you are an academic in your own right, you do desire it.
You continue on when he looks up, shifting your eyes away quickly, “In the 19th century women were less likely to be patients of surgeons than men and even when they were operated on they were by no means symbols of the Cult of the Beautiful dead. See Before the Operation by Henri Gervaux,” You wait for them to find the print of the painting, “It is a portrait of Dr Pean, a French Surgeon, and depicts the moment before an operation on a young woman and fits into the ideal of the Cult even though the woman is anaesthetised and not dead.”
In this fashion you continue your lecture, moving across the stage discussing the sexualisation of the female body in medical art and the realities of surgery in comparison. You’re highly aware of Dr Jones’ eyes on you as you move across the stage, to the point that you stumble at points in your oration. As time goes on you find yourself relaxing under his gaze, accepting that he is here purely out of interest, not to judge you or pass criticism. His active engagement with your lecture, the notes you can see him scribbling down in a notebook, is rewarding and reassures you that he is enjoying himself even on a topic so far removed from his own studies of ancient civilisations and centuries old artefacts and skeletons.
You reach the end of your lecture, returning to the podium and straightening your skirt, “Are there any questions?”
Hands pop up across the room, but it is one in particular that you are drawn to. You don’t expect him to ask questions, you don’t expect him to have any, but you are a little scared to hear what he has to say. It shouldn’t scare you, this active academic engagement, the meeting of minds, but you so desperately do not want to make a fool of yourself.
“Dr Jones?” You gesture for him to go on and ask and he stands in response. Tugging at the tweed waistcoat and adjusting his glasses on his nose.
He smiles at you as he begins, “Dr Y/L/N,” He addresses you by your title, formal and respectful. You are reminded, once more, that he has never failed to treat you as an equal. Unlike some of the other male professors, “I was just wondering what your opinion was on the eroticisation of death in this period?” You let out a little laugh, for no reason other than a little relief at the ease with which you can answer that question.
“Thank you for your question Dr Jones, well art such as Hasselhorst’s helped to eroticise death in the 18th and 19th centuries, death became equated with beauty, even if the reality of the dissection room failed to live up to the standards of the Cult of the Beautiful Dead. What we see is death portrayed often as a young woman. She is often portrayed as beautiful with long flowing hair, a fair face, a soft pale body, naked, open to the eye and most importantly passive. The dead woman in this period is a passive object, dead, yet sleeping, immortally captured at her most beautiful and unable to object to any sexualisation or objectification. She cannot talk back. Death is an obsession of the Victorians and it’s prevalence in medical art like Hasselhorst’s shows just how deeply connected death, beauty and the erotic became at this time.”
“Do you think we’ve continued that desire for passivity today? The way in which we expect women to act?”
“What do you think, Dr Jones?” You turn the question back on him, eager to hear his opinion, knowing that your own certainly sees the way 1930s society demands passivity from women even if death is no longer eroticised in the same way.
“I think we’ve perpetuated that desire for passivity from women within our society, demanded they hold their tongue, keep themselves in check and in place and as objects of desire, but not too much or else they’re no longer respectable. I think we expect women to be passively sexual, unknowingly so, innocently so, yet they must be attractive else their worth is diminished. An outspoken or intelligent woman is demeaned, pushed out from academics or workplaces. Don’t you agree?”
“I do.” You take a moment, give him a smile before answering the next question and the next and the next. You expect him to leave like many of the other members of the audience once his question has been answered, instead he stays, listens to your responses to each question and pays you rapt attention.
You find yourself even more interested in Dr Jones than you were before. His acknowledgement of the treatment you and other women have faced when attempting to make a name in a career or in academics is refreshing and his engagement with your lecture is enjoyable and endearing. You curse him a little for making your crush, your infatuation deeper simply by coming to your lecture.
You find yourself packing up your notes at the end, listening to the sound of feet leaving as you grab your notes and stuff them into your leather satchel. A tall shadow falls over you as you heft the bag onto your shoulder and you smile up at Dr Jones as he stands before the podium notebook in hand, he folds the glasses off of his nose and pockets them.
“How did you enjoy the lecture, Dr Jones?” You run an anxious hand through your hair and twist your wide hips in a nervous movement, always finding yourself a little flustered when one on one with the man. There’s a part of you that worries about coming under scrutiny from him, the part that has so often been judged in life for your gender, your area of study, and your weight. Years of nasty comments, suggested diets and family obsession with the size of your body had created a paranoia almost, a sense of expectation. You were just waiting for the scrutiny to be voiced.
“It was one of the most interesting lectures I've had the pleasure of watching. You should write a book, it might be a worthy next research project and please call me Indiana.”
“Only if you call me by name. I think we can both drop the doctor? I wasn’t expecting to see you here, I...I didn’t think the Victorians would interest an archaeologist.” In truth the idea of Indiana Jones wanting to learn about people not long dead, a period which rarely requires archaeological excavation and has few true mysteries, had never crossed your mind.
“In all honesty?” There’s a pause as he looks away from you with a charming smirk before turning back to you, teeth showing through his smile. “You interest me. I’ve read all your books, all your papers, every time you lecture I stop at the door and listen. You’re a compelling orator.”
“You listen to my lectures?” You can feel warmth flooding your cheeks, your neck, your ears at his admission. Feel a familiar sense of butterflies flapping about in your stomach. You look down briefly, smiling at the ground before meeting his blue eyes again.
“When I have time, surprised you haven’t noticed me hovering in the doorway. You really are one of the best academics I've ever met.”
“I...thank you.” You’re a little lost for words, you have barely shared more than a few polite conversations with Indiana, too intimidated to talk in depth with him and yet here he is extolling your values and praising you.
“Don’t let Dr Carr convince you otherwise.” He taps his fingers in a rhythm on the wood of the podium, looking away from you and towards the door where you can see the much older Dr Carr standing waiting impatiently for you to leave the room for his next lecture.
“You heard...the other day.” You think back to the argument you’d gotten into with the old professor over his sexist attitude towards you, his constant demeaning comments. You had thought it had been a private argument, but it seems not. You were still rather angry about the whole thing in truth.
“Yeah, look he’s old school. Doesn’t think women should have degrees or PhDs, ignore him. You’re a better academic by far and he’s just angry that he’s been passed over for the chair again. He’s a washed up old academic, he’s only still got a job because the Dean feels bad for him.” He says the last part loudly, on purpose you’re sure, loud enough for Dr Carr to hear and turn a glare on him. You know he won’t say anything to him though, Dr Jones was the university’s prized archaeology professor, he brought in more artefacts than the other’s combined and more students. Dr Carr wouldn’t say a bad word against him. Couldn’t. It was enjoyable to watch the old fuddy professor go red in the face and huff at the doors.
“I don’t know what to say. I...Thank you. I know we don’t...we don’t really talk, but thank you, I. It’s been hard joining the faculty, it’s a very masculine environment and I...it’s nice to know there’s someone in my corner.” You think to your Grandfather telling you that academics would make you barren, cause you to go insane, think to your mother telling you to find a nice husband and settle down, that you should desire the life of a housewife alone. It has been very difficult simply getting this far and to know you have him in your corner, someone in your corner means a great deal, in a new city, a new job, a new career.
“Always.” The two of you stand there in silence, just staring at each other, despite the impatient noises being made at the door by Dr Carr. You grip the satchel strap tighter over your shoulder and tuck your hair behind your ear.
“Would you like to get some coffee?”
“Now?” You don’t have any more lectures for the day, just your office hours later to answer any student questions, but the offer still surprises you.
“Yeah, I don’t have a lecture until later and...if you’re free I have more questions.” He holds up the notebook, little post notes coming out of the side, it’s thick from writings and usage. It flatters you that he’s so interested in what you have to say, in your mind. You think it might be more of a compliment than anything physical.
“So it’s entirely professional then, Dr Jones?” You’re not sure where the confidence comes from to cause the words to fall from your lips, to cause a little smirk to lift at them as you look at him over the top of your glasses. Flirtation is one area you are not confident in, despite it all.
“Well, I wouldn’t say entirely, sweetheart...I’d like to get to know you better.” He’s utterly too charming for his own good you think and too charming for your poor little heart, but despite any concerns you have, any worries about his intentions you still find yourself agreeing. You’ve wanted to get to know him better for so long, too scared to talk to him in more than passing that you can’t let this opportunity pass you by. Refuse to.
“That sounds...lovely.”
“Shall we?” He offers his elbow out to you and you take it, wrapping your arm through his and pulling yourself to his side. He is taller, broader, and warmer than you. He smells woodsy and a little like black coffee and everything about this moment has your heart skipping a beat.
“We shall.”
You take great pleasure in the dissatisfied sneer on Dr Carr’s face as the two of you walk arm in arm out of the lecture hall.
Putting Down Roots aka Western AU Din Djarin x Reader fics. This isn’t so much a series as a collection since there’s no concrete plot or there’s no intention for there to be a concrete plot, but all these will take place in one Alternate Universe with Din Djarin and the reader who’s the local school teacher. Din starts as a bounty hunter but becomes the Sheriff of your small town since no one else will take up the job.
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School House Blues - Din Djarin walks into your small mining town. At first you think he’s just another bounty hunter come to collect his pay, but when he settles in and begins helping you rebuild the school house and wrangle your students it seems he’s putting down some more permanent roots for himself and his adopted son, Grogu.
Firewood - You were certain your old school headmistress would give you a clip round the ear and drag you off to teach you a lesson about propriety and ladylike behaviour if she saw you. Fortunately, she wasn’t there to distract from the sight that had caught your attention.
Painting of Sheriff Din from this particularly part by me on my art blog
Never Mess With a School Teacher - He curses himself for getting so complacent, soft, it shouldn’t be this hard to chase down a thief. The thief should never even have made it to the steps of the schoolhouse, let alone inside. Luckily for your kids, an angry school teacher is worse than a pissed off sheriff.
Of Bruised Knees and Climbed Trees - He has always been gentle with the little one’s but it is nothing compared to the sureness with which he climbs the tall tree and gentleness with which he reassures one of your students that they can in fact make the climb down and they’ll be okay.
How Longingly I Look Upon You - Valentine’s Day is a holiday you love, for it’s celebration of tenderness and appreciation. It matters very little that you never have a partner to share it with. This Valentine’s Day the Sheriff offers an opportunity, a potential, something you never thought he’d do.
Summary: Valentine’s Day is a holiday you love, for it’s celebration of tenderness and appreciation. It matters very little that you never have a partner to share it with. This Valentine’s Day the Sheriff offers an opportunity, a potential, something you never thought he’d do.
Notes: This took me way too long to finish thanks to work, but I hope it was worth the nearly 2 month wait!
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Mando’a Translations:
Ba’vodu - Aunt/uncle
Cyar’ika - darling/sweetheart (with Paz, i’m using this informally in a way you’d call your friends babe or love as a term of endearment but non-romantic)
Ne shab’rud’ni - don’t fuck with me
Cyare - beloved, loved
Mesh’la - beautiful
Cabur’ika - Lit. Little Guardian, but Din’s term of endearment for reader after ‘Never Mess With a School Teacher’ because she is a true guardian of her kids.
Mandokarla - having the ‘right stuff’ basically being truly mandalorian in spirit.
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Valentine’s day was a holiday you actually quite enjoyed. It was a day to celebrate love, whether Eros, romantic love, Agape, unconditional love, Philia, affectionate love, or even Philautia, self-love. For you it had always been a day to celebrate the people in your life and while certainly you’d never had a suitor or a courtship during Valentine’s day, that hadn’t mattered so much. You filled your life with love for your family, even if they were now gone, love for your friends, and love for your students. It mattered very little in the end, Valentine’s day was a day for love in all its forms and for you, it was a joy. A joy to teach your students about the day, about the significance, to watch them create cards for their families, and see the red faces and giggling laughter when one of your students braved the walk across the classroom to hand a gift to another. Rather than dwell on what was missing, you chose to focus on all the joy that the day brought.
Today was no different, you had gone into your school house the day before. Spent your Sunday afternoon hanging red and pink bunting, crafty paper hearts and cupids. You wanted every holiday for your children to be worthwhile, to feel like a special day and part of that was decoration. The school house looked like a Valentine’s dream and the lessons for the day were to centre around the same theme. You would cover the history of Valentine’s day and St Valentine, work on mathematical problems in a Valentine’s context, create Valentine’s cards and write stories about great romances and read some of the best love poems that great poets had produced.
You had even gone with a colour scheme of red and pink for your outfit that day, despite your mother often saying you shouldn’t mix the two. Your dress was neatly ironed, almost gaudy in its Valentine’s nature, but fun. Your mother would have no doubt said that the lace and frills, the large puff sleeves, were all a bit much. Much too gaudy for you, a simple school teacher to wear. You wore it anyway because that was how you wanted it. Gaudy, happy, joyful, and overly extravagant for a day teaching. It was flattering, following your silhouette and grazing the ground gently. You had placed little delicate pink flower pins in your hair, surrounding your high updo. You had even rouged your cheeks, something which you rarely did anymore, usually much too busy.
You’re at the schoolhouse door smoothing down your skirts when you see the first of your childrens making their way down the main street. Lunch pails are flying behind them, skirts and ribbons whistling in the wind as they run. You greet each of your children with a bright smile and a ‘Happy Valentine’s day!’, like clockwork, as part of their routine they hang their coats, scarves and hats on the coat hooks by the door and settle into their seats, pulling out slates, books, pencils and chalk. They begin to chat amongst themselves as they wait for you and the lesson to begin. You had them well trained and so allowed them the time to chat knowing they’d listen up the moment you called for it.
Little Grogu is the last to arrive, running on little legs beside Din who always walks him to school in the morning before beginning his day as Sheriff. The little boy wraps his arms around your legs in greeting before wandering in with a wave to his father. While he can speak and you’ve witnessed it more and more, he is generally mute, preferring to use other forms of communication. You’ve noticed this little quirk of his, but don’t mind. If he would rather not speak that’s fine, so long as he’s progressing in his school work then you have little to worry about.
“Happy Valentine’s day, Din.” You tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ears, a little nervous to wish him a happy Valentine’s Day, oddly enough. All these months of knowing him and he still makes you nervous, not in a bad way. It had gotten worse since that kiss in the school house, the nerves of wanting him but not being sure if that kiss had truly meant more to him causing you to become shy when near him. You feel completely and utterly safe with Din, yet at the same time feel that bubble of excitement and nerves in your stomach, that roiling sensation you’ve not felt since you were a child with a crush. You wanted him to see you as more than just Grogu’s teacher but as a woman, an unmarried woman, a woman he could potentially see himself with. A future wife. While he’d expressed interest in courting you that day, nothing had happened since whether he’d changed his mind or the busyness of life had taken over, you weren't sure. You had never thought much on the prospect of marriage, despite your mother’s many warnings, you had simply not cared all that much. You had decided to live your life on your terms, as much as possible, but Din...Din was a man you could see yourself marrying.
It had grown over the months of knowing him from an objective enjoyment of his features, an acceptance that he was an incredibly handsome man and kind as well, into what you could only describe as longing. The beginnings of something greater, something akin to love. Din was everything you could ever want in a prospective husband, prospective father of your future children. He was handsome, so much so that you were ashamed of the thoughts that on occasion, usually in the quiet of the night, ran through your mind. He was kind and caring, a surprisingly gentle man despite his broad shoulders, large hands, and more violent profession. Ex-bounty hunters weren’t known for their softness and yet that was the only way to describe how he treated you and the children. He was gentle in voice, never raising it around you, never shouting or yelling, he chose his words carefully. He was soft in the way that he allowed the children to sit in his lap as he told stories or helped them down from trees when they got stuck. He was kind in that he was always caring for you, whether making sure you were given adult company during the school day or ensuring you ate after a long day without stopping. He was protective, but not overbearing. Kind and soft, but not weak. He would make a wonderful husband, that is something you were utterly sure of and you knew that you were not the only unmarried woman in town who’d turned their gaze to him.
So it made you nervous to wish him a happy Valentine’s day because on a day of love, he was someone you wanted to celebrate and yet found yourself too nervous to do so. It wasn’t becoming, it wasn’t ladylike to take that first step, that first plunge into the unknown world that was love. Despite that spontaneous and daring kiss you found yourself thinking of your mother and shying away from making another attempt. Your mother, God rest her soul, had always made it a notable detail, a finer point in the plan of your life. You would be approached by a man, not the other way around, and you would ultimately make the decision as to whether you wished to be courted by him with the intent to marry or whether you did not. Despite breaking tradition in the way you taught your children, this was something you didn’t have the courage for. Not again. While Din had expressed interest in you all those months back, the time between had seen nothing but his usual friendly behaviour. It made you conscious of your behaviour and the risk of getting hurt. If Din had an interest in you as a potential spouse, a riddur as he told you once, then he would have to make the next move.
Now standing before you with one hand behind his back and the other holding his hat by his stomach he looked infinitely more nervous than you expected for simply dropping off Grogu to school. There was a hint of red to his cheeks, the tips of his ears, his deep brown eyes darted around, from the floor to your own, before looking over your shoulder. You hadn’t truly seen him like this, this nervousness was unusual for him and you could have sworn he’d combed his hair with some pomade, an attempt to neaten the unruly dark curls that you thought were quite dashing on him.
“Happy Valentine’s Day, Miss Y/N,” You frown at the formality, confused as to why he isn’t calling you cabur’ika like he usually does. The formality of calling you miss had dissolved almost the moment you met him and it was strange coming from his lips after so much familiarity between you. He has only ever called you miss when talking to the children about you.
For Din, he has never felt quite as nervous as in this moment. Perhaps it’s the time that’s elapsed that does it. When he kissed you he meant it, he meant his intent to court you, but his job had become busier over the months after...and in truth, he had doubts about his worth. He was unsure if he was truly enough for you. He felt ungentlemanly, improper, too rough. For months he’d been struggling with whether or not he was good enough for you, he knew you wanted to be courted by him, but was it the right thing for you? After months of soul searching, a healthy dose of want and longing every time he saw you with the children or whenever you smiled at him, he’d decided that it was your choice to make. He wanted to be with you and maybe he wasn’t damn good enough, maybe he wasn’t the man that should get to be with you, but if you wanted him then he wasn’t strong enough or selfless enough to or cold enough to do anything but love you.
“I...I have something for you, it ain’t much but I…well…” The flush to his cheeks grows deeper, a bright beaming red that screams against his bronzed skin. From behind his back he pulls his arm, hand outstretched towards you. He knows there’s a subtle shake to his arm, nerves at bearing his heart open, however, subtly, racing through his blood. More adrenaline than he’s felt anywhere but in a gunfight.
There, clutched tight between the fingers of his left hand is a beautifully bound book, green leather cover and gilded words, tucked between the pages you can see an envelope just peeking out at the top. You gently take it from his hands with your left, the meaning of that burned into your memory from lessons with your mother. To give and receive a gift with the left hand is to recognise and accept an active interest in oneself. The weight of it has your heart pounding in your chest, almost violently so against your ribs. You read the cover, ‘The Complete Poetical Works of Walt Whitman’, the tears gather in your eyes before you have any time or thought to stop them. There’s a blind panic that fills Din’s chest, like the blaring of a ship’s foghorn in his mind, at the sight of tears collecting in your eyes. There’s a moment of genuine fear, that he’s somehow messed up, that he’s caused you to become upset.
Walt Whitman was the poet you used to read with your father every evening after he finished a long day of work, his works are some of your favourite, some of the most important to you, but you’ve never been one to spend money on yourself. You often spend your wage, what little of it you have, on items for the school, books for the children, a globe, an anatomical skeleton. You have a small copy of his works, old and worn, some pages missing. This book means more to you than you think Din knows. Afterall, Walt Whiteman is a well known poet and books are one of the few perfectly acceptable gifts to give to a woman that you are not married or engaged to. It was presumptuous to assume that the gift had any added meaning behind it. Foolish your late mother might have even said in her damning indictment of romance.
“How did you know?” You clutch the book tight to your chest, heart aching with happiness and longing, that this man had given this to you, on Valentine’s of all days. It brings burning heat to your cheeks, a stutter to your heart, a dryness to your mouth. This is a step that you had dreamed, hoped of, that move towards something more. This was confirmation that he meant it all those months back, that he intended to court you and hadn’t had a change of heart.
“You...he’s the poet you mention the most when you’re teaching the little ones, cabur’ika” You realise what this is, what this all means. He isn’t just a kind sheriff or your friend, he’s an unmarried eligible man showing you that he’s paid attention to you, that he’s interested. There’s a shift, a shift from the easy friendship to a new undercurrent of tension at the unspoken understanding between the two of you, at the prospect of courtship that he’s extending towards you. It’s not a marriage proposal, it’s not marriage, but it’s an offer to begin on the road towards that. It is confirmation that the kiss you’d shared hadn’t been a mistake, a whim, something fleeting and insubstantial.
It makes your heart flutter in your chest at the prospect that Din Djarin is putting his foot forward, extending a possibility, an opportunity, a potential future. That out of all the unmarried women in town Din was actively showing interest in you. He could have picked any number of beautiful, intelligent, eligible women to show interest in, to potentially court, but he’d chosen you. The weight is added at the prospect that he’s not just offering you a marriage, but a family, because little Grogu is part of his world, part of his life and you would never want anything less.
“Thank you, Din...I...Thank you.” You feel a little lost for words, they’re stuck in your throat, knowing that there are so many things you wish to say but so many things you can’t say.
“I should leave you to your teaching, Miss Y/N. I…” There’s a pause as he thinks over the words in his mind, and stops himself. Din is a fool for you, that he is certain, but the last thing he wants at that moment is to make a larger fool out of himself. So he places his hat back atop his head and says, “Happy Valentine’s Day.”
You watch as he says a sweet goodbye to Grogu, kneeling briefly on the ground to touch his forehead to the boy’s before reminding him to ‘be good’ for you.
The envelope is a temptation, sticking out from the top of the book, it calls for you to open it in that instant. But, you don’t, smiling at Din as he walks down the street towards the sheriff’s office, you turn back to head inside, Grogu walking with you to his seat, ready for you to teach the class. Despite the nagging desire to see what letter, what words lie in that envelope, you place the book atop of your desk and begin your day of teaching. You attempt to put the letter to the back of your mind, to keep the thoughts of being courted by Din at bay so that you can effectively teach, but you know you are distracted.
The children are just as unfocused as you, the day goes both fast and slow with dramatics abound. Jonah receives at least 5 love letters, Grogu catches a frog for little Mary-Beth and your entire class takes time to gift you with a drawing by themselves of you and the entire class.
Despite a whole class to distract you, you find it hard to teach, your eyes drifting back to your desk. That unassuming little envelope poking out from beneath the pages of a little poetry book that means more to your soul than you can possibly put into any sort of words. You find yourself thinking ahead, of the future, of Din. If he did indeed wish to court you, to go down that path of potential and intended marriage, then he was truly to be part of your future, he and Grogu.
There was no doubt in your mind that you’d accept such a proposition, that you wanted him in your future. Din was your friend, something that had taken very little time in truth. From the moment you’d met him and his son, he’d managed easily to worm his way into your affections without even a thought to do so. He was kind, competent, caring. He was good with children. Respected you, your intelligence and your authority in your classroom. While he happily joined you to tell stories to the children he would always defer to you and respect your right to dictate what happened inside your school house. He helped when you needed it, but never jumped so eagerly to help that he took over when you did not need it. While he was certainly quiet, had a temper hidden beneath it all and a danger to him that you’d seen on the few occasions he felt the town or it’s occupants were in danger, he had never made you feel anything but safe and secure. He had proven himself competent the moment he stepped into town, arranging your school house to be built and demanding the respect of every inhabitant. He had done more for you in the months you’d known him than anyone else had done in years.
He, in truth, captured your attention unlike any other person you’d ever met. You had always had an abstract desire for love, marriage, a family. But, no one had ever caught your attention, no man had ever been thought of as a potential father to your children or life companion. Din from the start had you take notice, you couldn’t quite comprehend the idea that he wanted to potentially marry you of all people.
He had his fair share of admirers, in a small town like your own, he was the man that stood out the most and one of the most handsome. He had a lot of eyes on him at all times and you assumed that he knew it, some were less subtle and ladylike than others. You knew he’d received a few propositions, something your mother would have been horrified at, but he’d yet to accept a single offer. To receive one from him, meant that out of all the people lined up outside the sheriff’s office begging for his attention, he’d chosen you. Something which excited you.
It’s on your lunch break, the children running around outside, that you finally have time to pull the envelope from its resting place between pages of inked words and sit with it. When you retrieved it from between pages of poetry, you had found yourself faced with little dried and pressed flowers between the pages of Walt Whitman’s works. A little additional that made a smile crawl across your lips. You’re sitting on the front steps, watching the kids play, one eye on them, the other on the unassuming letter in your hands. Grogu has come to join you, toddling up the steps on little legs before plonking himself down next to you, leaning his chubby cheek into your arm.
“Shall we see what your buir has written, mm?” You ask the little boy, he grins up at you at the mention of his father, he’s missing a couple of his baby teeth right at the front and the gap adds to the sheer adorable nature of the boy. You don’t know how much he knows, but Grogu has always seemed to know more than he let on, to understand the world around him better than most. There was always an intelligence behind those big eyes that made you think he knew more than either you or Din.
The envelope is unassuming, just a cream coloured piece of paper, neat cursive writing along the front spelling out your name. You’ve never seen Din’s handwriting before and it speaks of someone who received a decent education, hours of being drilled on the correct way to hold a dip pen, how to form each letter. There’s a hesitation to the writing that speaks of someone who hasn’t had reason to write in a while, a little judder to the letters. You trace a fingertip over your name, how it looks in his hand, black ink stark against cream paper. It looks pretty when he’s writing it, you think.
You turn over the envelope and slide a finger underneath the lip of it, careful to open it and not tear the paper in your haste. You glance up briefly at the sound of a yell, seeing that Jerome is fine and just laughing with the others, red in the face from receiving a kiss to the cheek, you turn your gaze to the folded letter that you pull from it’s confines.
It takes everything within you to keep your composure as you read the letter. There is a girlish part of you that wishes to giddily squeal, throw the page into the air and run around in circles to express the sudden burst of energy that fills you. Instead, you sit there calmly, fingers and hands shaking as your eyes dart across the page following each line, hungry for the next.
Dearest cabur’ika, Y/N,
In truth I do not know how to write this letter to you, but it felt less forward and presumptuous to put my thoughts onto paper than to speak them to you clearly and in the open where the town gossip would get involved. I do not want you to feel forced to return my affections or embarrassed by them. While we’ve shared a kiss and i’ve expressed my intent towards you in the past, it has always been private, quiet and anything but bold. It has always left room for doubt, uncertainty and movement. You deserve surety.
I have never been nor will I ever be a poet or a writer. I am a former bounty hunter, a sheriff, a mandalorian. I was raised to fight, to defend, not to write poetry or put down my thoughts and feelings into prose. I apologise if this letter is less than you dreamed of. If it fails to live up to lofty expectations or childhood dreams.
I wish to make it plain and clear to you that I find you to be beautiful. Not just in form, or face, but in soul. You are a protector, a guardian, a caregiver and teacher. From the moment I met you you treated myself and my son with a kindness that I doubt I will ever forget. You have enchanted me in body, soul and mind. When I kissed you in the schoolhouse it was not on a whim, nor was it a false promise. I had and have every intent to court you, to one day marry you. I apologise that I have been distant or allowed room for doubt to grow.
I am eager to see but a glimpse of you in the day, to make you smile or offer you some respite. I am eager to hear your voice even as you talk about topics I have no interest in. I am eager to be in your presence, to see the kindness with which you treat each of your children and the sweetness of your smile, the fierceness of your nature when called upon to protect your class. In the words of Walt Whitman, ‘you do not know how longingly I look upon you’.You are mandokarla, built with the soul of a warrior, the kindness of a mother, and the mind of a teacher. Perhaps my words are too strong or forward, perhaps you do not share my feelings, but I wish to lay my intentions at your feet. I do not wish to presume you return these feelings, perhaps that kiss was a moment of weakness, perhaps your feelings have changed. But I cannot in good conscience go on as we have.
I wish to step out with you, I wish to court you for the town to see, to one day marry you. If you ever allowed me such an opportunity I think I might be the luckiest of men, to have you join me in equal partnership as my riddur. To wake each morning to your smile, to raise our children and Grogu with you. To help you at your weakest and stand and watch you at your strongest. I long to build a life with you.
I ask, will you allow me the great honour of courting you?
If you do not feel the same then I shall end my pursuit, I shall respect your feelings or lack thereof and we shall be friends, as we have been. But, please, consider my words. I would be blessed if you ever saw me worthy of you, you would not just be an excellent riddur, but a loving buir to Grogu. If I did not feel seriously about you I would not make this offer. But, the choice is yours and I shall respect it no matter what your decisions may be.
Yours with love and affection,
Din Djarin
The shake to your breath comes from a good dose of shock and giddiness that collide together inside of your chest like two wagons that haven’t been watching where they were going. It’s not a proposal, but it is a proposal at the same time. There is a giddiness that fills you knowing that Din wishes to step out with you, that he wishes to show the town his intention to one day marry you, that he has affection past that of friendship for you. It’s the giddiness that comes from returned affections, shared interest, you no longer feel as if you are the only one gazing at the other, that your feelings are unrequited. It feels as if all that worry, all that doubt had been for naught, simply a foolish girlish thing to do. How had you ever doubted his intentions towards you?
“Miss, it’s time for history…” It’s Annie standing in front of you, hands on her hips to remind you that you need to call the children in, that has you hastily folding the letter and pocketing it, picking Grogu up and resting him on your hip as you rise. You, as most teachers, do not have the time to be giddy or dwell on love confessions during the school day.
The day drags on in its last moments. Your desire to return home, to write a carefully crafted response, to find some sort of gift in addition, has you counting the seconds, minutes, and hours as they slowly tick by. Your children can tell you are unfocused and they become incredibly distracted as a result, but despite this you can’t find it in yourself to be frustrated or irritated, not today of all days when your patience with them has been extended by your supernaturally good mood.
When Din collects Grogu at the end of the day you give him your sweetest smile and thank him earnestly for the letter. He isn’t sure what it means. It’s not an outright rejection or acceptance and despite the burning desire in his chest to receive an answer, he knows how to be patient, tipping his hat at you and offering to walk you home as a gentleman does.
It isn’t unusual for Din to walk you home after the school day ends, even on nights where you stay late at school he often comes back with Grogu to walk you as the dark sets in. He has never been anything but a gentleman when it comes to making sure you get home safe even in a small town where very little happens and you know everyone. Still, you’ve always appreciated the gesture and you do now, even if wrapping your arm through his and walking side by side takes on a new tension, a new feeling.
There’s a little thought in the back of your mind, niggling, that you can’t quite get rid of. The thought that this is what your little family could look like if all goes well. That you, with your arm wrapped through Din’s, hands in the crook of his elbow, and him, with Grogu on his hip, little arms wrapped around his neck, could easily be a future image of a family. Not just the Sheriff, a single father, walking the school teacher home because he’s polite and gentlemanly.
“Thank you again, for the letter and the poetry book. I...you don’t understand how much it all means to me, Din. I...I want to respond properly, take my time….I.” The air is cold, as it always is in early February, but your entire body feels warm as you try to explain that you’re not rejecting his offer. You don’t want him to doubt for a second that you intend to say yes, but it doesn’t feel right to say it. There’s a desire to take your time, to write a heartfelt reply, to ensure that the time he took for you, you take in return.
“You ain’t gotta tell me right away. It’s okay to take your time, mesh’la.” The reassurance has your shoulders dropping, a sense of relief, the removal of pressure. Any fear you had that Din would grow impatient dissipates and you're reminded once more of how safe you feel with him. Both physically and emotionally. He is a calming, solid presence. There is nothing fickle or finicky about Din and that is a relief when so much of your social world is confusing to navigate.
“Thank you.” You tell him earnestly, drawing closer to him as you walk. Your side pressed fully into his, hip to hip, arm to arm. You cannot truly comprehend Din Djarin, the many elements that make him a better man than most, but you don’t think you have to fully comprehend him to enjoy being around him, to find comfort in him. Perhaps it will take years for you to fully understand who he is, but you like to believe you’ll get the time to do so. To learn him just as well as he seems to have learnt you.
Your home isn’t particularly large. When you first came to town the Mayor had informed you that the post of teacher came with a small lodging. It was small; a separate bedroom off of the main living area, a water closet out in the back garden, enough room in the kitchen and living area for your tub to be placed in front of the fire when you need to wash. It was, however, homey, something Din had admired from the first.
You ensured that blankets and pillows, knick knacks and trinkets covered the space. That it felt like a lived space, a place filled with love and warmth.
He’s reluctant to leave you when he reaches the top step to your door. There’s a part of him that rarely wants to part from you, that enjoys your company even if it’s silent. You are comforting and familiar, he feels like he can be himself around you. There’s an implicit trust between the two of you. He trusts you with his son, he trusts you with his safety and protection, he trusts you with himself and even his heart, something he has protected ever since the death of his parents at the hands of bandits and thieves. He would be happy so long as he is in your presence and it is that fact that makes him certain about his decision to propose courtship, there is no one he would rather spend the rest of his days with. Terrifying, overwhelming, massive, but he can sense how entirely worth it it will be.
“Goo-”
“Hav-”
The two of you go to say goodnight at the same time, stopping short and laughing under your breath. You tug at the fabric of your skirt and shift, feeling a wave of embarrassment at talking over each other, an odd feeling when neither have done anything to be embarrassed of.
Grogu shifts on his father’s hip, leaning forward a hand reaching out to wave at you. You begin to smile, waving back at the little boy, your smile only grows wider when the usually mute boy giggles out “Goodnigh’!” at you with a large smile on his face.
The boy manages to break the tension with a simple word and smile, once again you wonder if he knows more than he lets on. That this six year old is, perhaps, wise beyond his years.
“Goodnight, Grogu. Goodnight, Din.”
“Goodnight, cabur’ika” There is a pause from Din as if he wishes to say something, before stopping himself, turning and walking down your stairs. You wait there at your door, watching him leave until your eyes can no longer follow his figure as he disappears around a corner and out of sight.
Your home feels empty, unusually so, with their presence gone, but you decide to put your energy and longing into a response. The first part is your famous spiced cookies. You know that Mandalorians prize spiced foods highly, a cultural aspect that your teacher Atin’a Caivass had shared with you as a child.
The recipe was hers, one thing she gifted you, shared with you, and entrusted to you. So you get to work, mixing together flour, butter, sugar, egg. Adding spices that are one of the little luxuries you deign to spend a little extra on. They’re the sort of cookies that have a lovely mixture of sweetness and kick, they hit you in the back of the throat just enough to make your mouth tingle. The coco powder in them balances out the heat nicely,
Once the cookies are on the side cooling you hunt out your letter writing items. You haven’t had reason to write a letter since the passing of your parents many years ago. But, you know, in your organised way, where your things are. You collect your writing paper, envelopes, dip pen, ink. You find out your sealing wax, the stamps you haven’t used in years. You lay out each item on your kitchen table with care, feel a thrill go through you that you haven’t felt in years. You always enjoyed writing letters, taking your time to put thoughts and feelings into words onto paper.
You take up your pen, dip the metal nib into black ink and bring the tip to cream, clean, fresh paper and begin to write.
Dearest Sheriff Djarin, Din.
There are few words in the expanse of the dictionary that could truly describe how I felt upon reading your letter. Ever since the kiss we shared I had worried, doubted. I was scared that perhaps you had changed your mind, decided that I was not worth your time, that I was not of interest anymore. When to me you had only become further ingrained in my dreams and wants. I was scared that I had made a terrible fool of myself.
To know that those feelings are returned, that you can see a life and a future with me means the world, it means everything. Grogu and you have become an inextricable part of my life, a part I would never wish to do without. You and that sweet boy make my soul sing and as Walt Whitman once aptly put ‘I am to see to it that I do not lose you’.
You enchant me and thrill me to no end and perhaps that is not ladylike to say, perhaps I should write a quick acceptance of your offer and leave it at that, but I feel that such honest and open words should be returned in kind. I adore you.
I adore the crinkle in your brow, the blinding smile when you drop your guard. I adore the kind, gentle nature you have around children, the ease with which you cause them to smile and laugh. I adore the respect you have for me, the respect you have for my authority in the classroom. I adore the curls of your hair, the hook of your nose, the patchy beard that grows on your jaw. I find there is very little I do not adore about you, Din Djarin and that is both a terrifying concept and one that I too adore.
There was a time I thought little on marriage. I was told I should marry, but what of it? Why would I? You have, for the first time, made me truly desire marriage, a husband, children, a life of pure domesticity and family.
To put it plainly, and I hope my feelings are not off putting or too forward, I would be glad, happy, ecstatic to one day call myself your wife and to call you my husband, my riddur.
You asked if I would allow you to court me and my answer is yes, a hundred, a thousand times yes. I would love nothing more than to step out with you, to hang on your arm and begin to take steps towards a life together.
I wish to make it equally as clear that Grogu matters to me. That I understand that he is part of this, part of you, and that I would never wish for you to part from each other. If you one day saw me as worthy of becoming his mother then I would take that responsibility on with pride and with love. He is a little angel, he captured my heart from the very first day I met him, even with his mischief and I would never wish to part with the two of you or come between your aliit, only to join it. I understand that he is as much your son, your child, as any child born of your own blood.
I accept your offer of courtship and I knowingly enter into it, and all that it entails.
All my love and affection,
Y/N Y/L/N
You wait for the ink to dry, in the meantime you take some muslin and begin to wrap the cookies carefully in the fabric. The twine you wrap around you knot into a bow. Redoing it multiple times until you're happy with its shape. There’s no real need for a knot of twine to be perfect, but you want it to look perfect, to be perfect, for him.
The ink of your letter is dry and you’re careful as you go through the motions of folding the pages, slipping them into a crisp envelope and weighing down the lip. You’re selective in your choice of wax and seal, careful as you melt the wax, pour it and stamp it. There’s a quiet calm about it all, sealing your words behind wax and paper. Knowing that the next time they’re revealed the one person they’re meant for will be reading them.
You place the times together on the side with care, ready to be collected in the morning as you leave for the school house. You take a few moments to think about when it would be best to deliver them, deciding that as much as it pains you to wait, the evening, after school, is better than the morning. It would simply distract you more, you have little time to do it, and the evening gives you that time to talk, to enjoy the change in your relationship.
You go to sleep that night with thoughts of Din’s smile, the one he gives whenever he tells a story to your class, soft, gentle, filled with contentment. Thoughts of the way his hair curls over his ears and his neck moves as he swallows. Thoughts of how he had come into your little mining town of Navarro and shaken everything up in the best sort of way, put to right all the wrongs, solved problems and brought forth solutions.
When you wake the next morning you’re extra particular about what you choose to wear, how your pins look in your hair and how much rouge is on your cheeks. You know, deep down, that Din could care less about the way your hair is pinned or how much rouge is on your cheeks, but it’s something to occupy your hands and mind in the morning before you get to the school house. Once you’re teaching you know you’ll have little time to worry or think about the response you intend to pass on to Din at the Sheriff’s office that evening, but in the meantime you busy yourself with your daily routine.
The day seems to drag, your smile and good morning to Din as he drops Grogu off for school is filled with tension and unspoken words. Your lessons seem to take forever to teach and where you’d normally be enthused you find yourself more eager for the day to end than anything else.
Paz is the one to come by and collect Grogu at the end of the day. The large man had settled into town as the deputy not a month into Din’s stint as sheriff. You knew that Paz and Din were close, practically brothers, having grown up together in the covert and that had been the main reason for you warming to him so quickly. Without Din’s presence you would have likely shied away from Paz. He was large, if you’d thought Din was broad shouldered, then he had nothing on Paz, who was a veritable giant. His size and his resting scowl made him intimidating, but his interactions with the children and women of town showed his character instantly. Like another Mandalorian you knew he’d been gentle and sweet, respectful, despite his size and intimidating demeanor. You liked Paz, even if he seemed to enjoy embarrassing you around his brother.
“Hey there, Little One!” You watch Paz crouch down, arms open as the little boy barrels towards him as fast as his little legs can go. Grogu absolutely adored Paz, he was his uncle, his ba’vodu, and the little boy loved being swung about, hefted to and fro by the giant man. It was the tenderness with which Paz always encompassed Grogu in his arms, lifting him gently to his shoulders, that reminded you of the soul inside Paz. The cover of his book was intimidating, scary, tough, the face of a mercenary and bounty hunter, but his inner pages, his soul was just as soft as Din, just as caring. You were happy to call Paz a friend.
“Hello, Paz”, You smile up at the man, Grogu now sat about his shoulders, arms wrapped around the top of his head with a little smile. The man in question smiles down at you, “Good evenin’, cyar’ika”, You smile wider at the familiar endearment, happy to see your friend even if the nerves from your impending visit to Din buzz in your stomach and chest.
“Is Din working late?”
“Yeah, the kid’ll be at mine for the night, Din’s working the graveyard shift so to speak.” You’re, in truth, glad that Paz is watching Grogu for the night, that Din is working late. It gives you the privacy to give your response, without either the watchful eyes of a child or any other sort of audience.
“Well, have a good night, Paz”
“Not as good as yours i’m sure” It’s said with that teasing glint that Paz often gets in his eye and a smirk that twists the shape of his beard. It causes a sort of panic to fill you, at the thought that Paz knows, that he knows what’s going on even if it’s completely believable and acceptable that Din would tell his brother about his intentions towards you. Your body feels warm all of a sudden and you're sure there’s a look of panic in your eyes because Paz’s glint softens down to something kind and gentle as he nods a goodnight to you and walks away.
You force yourself to go about your normal routine, spending a few hours at the school house marking books, organising the next day’s lessons, tidying up and generally making sure you were ready for all your children the following morning. You may spend a little too much time rearranging the items on your desk and sharpening pencils that don’t really need to be sharpened.
It’s as the sun begins to dip low in the February sky, and people begin to light lamps in their houses or, for those with enough money, turn on their electric lights that you finally decide enough is enough and grab the parcel and letter from your desk. You march with a strange sort of determination, that hides the mess of emotions you are inside, across the street and to the Sheriff’s Office. It doesn’t matter that Din had already shared his feelings with you, you were still nervous of his reaction, had you responded well enough? Was it romantic enough? Would something in your letter be off putting for him? Was it too forward? Not clear enough?
He is leaning back in his chair, legs crossed on top of his desk, heels of his boots digging into the wood of the table. The warm light from various gas lamps bounces across Din’s features, accentuates the sharpness of his cheek bones, the curve of his hawkish nose, the shadow from the brim of his hat.
His chair makes a sharp screech across the floorboards as he rushes to stand at the sight of you, feet falling to the floor as he bounces to them. The hat is swept off his head, politely removed to show the curls of his hair as he, dare you say nervously, tugs at his waistcoat and checks his attire. It’s somewhat relaxing, the endearing nerves with which he greets you, the quick attempt to perfect himself, to show you the best of him, even if you would have happily been greeted by him even if he were covered head to toe in mud.
“Cabur’ika…” He’s a little breathless and it causes a flush to reach his cheeks. He’s embarrassed that he sounds like a school aged kid, that he isn’t standing before you behaving like a man, an adult. But, you take the breath out of him. You’re frazzled looking after a long day teaching, the hair of your up-do frizzy and falling out in places, chalk across your cheeks and skirt, wrinkles in your clothes that he was sure weren’t there that morning, but you still looking breathtaking, you still make his heart jump a beat.
“Din…” You’re breathless yourself, it feels like your nerves have a hand around your throat, a tight grip keeping the breath from leaving your lungs. You fumble a little as you step towards him, tripping on a loose floorboard but catching yourself. Your hands nearly drop the precious cargo they’re carrying and you clutch tighter in response.
“I...uh...Here.” You had the parcel and letter to him, as he reaches for the envelope first you panickedly say, “The parcel! Open...open the parcel first?” He can see the nerves in you, the way you twist your fingers and bite at your bottom lip, in an effort to ease them he nods with a smile and puts the envelope on his desk, focusing on the package of muslin and string.
He’s careful as he opens it on his desk, pulling apart the perfect bow you’d tied and unravelling the package with careful hands. His fingers are too delicate in that moment for such large hands, for hands that have choked men unconscious and lassoed bounties, that have held guns. It’s odd for him, how easily he has fitted into the domesticity of town, odd, but not unwelcome.
The wrappings fall away and he’s greeted by the sight of warm brown cookies, irregularly shaped, although somewhat circular. They’re delicious looking, but what gets him the most is the smell, it reminds him of winter nights in the covert, of his adopted parents and warm cookies and milk, spices that he’s almost forgotten about. He should really ask before grabbing one and tucking in, but he can’t resist the urge to find out if the spices are the ones he remembers from his childhood.
The cookie is moist and soft as it crumbles away easily onto his tongue, he can’t resist closing his eyes at the taste. He recognises the spices, the taste taking him back to fond memories and warmth, a familial bond between him and those who had taken him in, protected him, given him a purpose, a life. He finishes the whole thing without really realising it.
You watch on, anxious to see if he likes them. It had been a risk, spicing the cookies, you hoped the significance to his culture was a good thing and not bad. You found yourself second guessing your decision as his brow furrowed, eyes closing, but then he took the next bite, and the next, until the cookie was no more and Din’s chocolate coloured eyes opened and blinked over at you with the lightest sheen of tears.
“How did you know?”
“I...I had a mandalorian teacher, remember? She...she always liked spiced cookies, I…are they okay? Was...should I not have?” You feel the worry bounce through you, at the thought that you’d crossed some invisible line, some sort of boundary not meant to be crossed.
“No, no! They’re lovely, thank you. They...they remind me of home, Mesh’la.” He’s quick to reassure you, a warm hand reaching out to give one of your own a quick squeeze, just long enough to comfort you, but no longer than appropriate.
You watch him turn back to the envelope, picking it up with care before glancing between the seal and you, eyes darting back and forth as if he is unsure if he is allowed to open it, to read it. “Open it.” You force the words from your throat, nervous for him to read your words, your thoughts and feelings put to paper, but knowing that the relief once he has done so will outweigh your current anxiety.
You stand and watch, a lump in your throat, your hands twisting into your skirt as he opens the envelope. A careful finger pulling the seal free and gently easing the pages of your letter from it’s confines. You wait and you watch, eyes intent on his features as his own carefully trace across the curvature of your words.
He can feel his heart pounding in his ears, feel the tears well in his eyes as he reads further throughout your letter. It is not just your open acceptance of his offer that has his emotions rising within his chest, but the clear admiration of him and the openness with which you accept his son. Grogu was his child, you were right, as much as any child of his own blood would be, and he had, in truth, stupidly worried that you might not accept the boy as your own. Your excitement at the prospect of one day being a mother to him causes his heart to ache in the best sort of way.
Din was purposeful as he placed the letter down and strode up to you, the toes of his boots touching the hem of your skirt. He invades your personal space in a way that sets your skin aflame, yet it is not uncomfortable. You welcome his presence as much as it causes your heart to beat rapidly and your throat to swallow.
“May I kiss you?” He asks, his voice soft and gentle, the southern twang just under the surface. He’s so close you can feel the warmth from his skin. You nod, letting out a shaky breath as his hands come up to cup your cheeks. So large they enclose you so well, make you feel secure even as your heart tries to stutter out of your chest. It matters little that you’ve kissed before, that was quick, this was slow, your attention undivided, your thoughts completely encapsulated by him and his entire being. His hands are warm against your cheeks, thumbs brushing back and forth in gentle strokes as he gages your reaction, eyes focused on your own. He’s slow as he moves forward, as if giving you time to back out, to pull away, but you don’t.
He tastes like spices and sugar, the cookie lingering on his tongue long after it had melted away. He is soft, but not so gentle, the gentle, delicate nature of your last kiss is replaced by depth of emotion, passion and fire. His lips firm against yours, a large hand cupping the back of your neck to pull you closer, while the other falls to your waist. His beard scratches against your skin pleasantly and you think you could happily grow used to this. You think little of propriety, of politeness, when you open your lips to his and meld yourselves closer together, think little of it as you clutch at his shoulders and breathe him in, as your fingers come up to tangle in those chocolate curls and tug incessantly, as his tongue tangles with your own. There is no fear of it going too far, of Din pushing you for more, of demanding more because you both know the lines that must not be crossed, because you trust him implicitly and because you know he respects you enough to not risk your reputation or livelihood for something carnal or baser, even if he desires it. Even if you desire it.
The lack of fear is what allows you to get swept up in the kiss, in the feeling of his hands and lips on you, the warmth of his skin, the smell of his soap. It allows you to forget that the world outside exists, that you are not in your own private world, but in the easily accessible space that is the Sheriff’s Office.
The spell is broken by the sound of the door slamming open and heavy, booted footfalls on the floorboards. You pull apart with a gasp and Din is quick to stand in front of you, as if to protect you from view, scowling at his deputy in the doorway. Not even the little boy on Paz’s shoulder can take the frustration from Din, he is frustrated at the interruption, embarrassed for you, that you were caught in a compromising position, and irritated by the smirk that’s heavy on Vizsla’s lips.
Paz hadn’t meant to interrupt, in truth he hadn’t expected to find you there, lips locked to his brother, but Grogu was being fussy. Refusing to eat his dinner and then outright refusing to be put to bed. Paz had decided the kid just needed to see his buir, he hadn’t expected Din to be...in the middle of something.
“Am I interrupting something, Djarin?” He’s teasing and he feels a little sorry when he sees how embarrassed you look, but it’s worth it for the glare he gets from Din. His smirk widens as Din practically growls at him, teeth clenched tight.
“Vizsla, don’t make me shove my boot where the sun don’t shine. Ne shab’rud’ni.” He softens a little at Grogu grinning at the two of you, but he still wishes the interruption had never come. He knows it was inevitable, he has a young son, the chances of romance going uninterrupted are slim, still…
“We’ll be outside, Vod. Don’t take too long” Paz says it, still with that smirk attached to his face. He’s gracious enough to give Din a little more time with you, before demanding the man take his son home and tuck him in bed.
The door closes softly behind him, the moment he’s out of sight Din turns back to you, sighing out an apology, “I’m sorry, cyare…”
He presses his forehead to your own, hands smoothing across your waist and back in gentle motions. As if trying to soothe the embarrassment from you, bring you back to a sense of peace that had since been disrupted.
You push your forehead back into his and nudge his nose with your own, “Don’t be. He’s your son.” You mean it. As embarrassing as being interrupted is, as frustrating as it may be, you understand. His son is massively important, and he’s young, there are bound to be interruptions. It’s okay.
“So, we’re really doin’ this, huh? Haven’t changed your mind yet, Mesh’la?”
“Not at all…” You press forward, a soft, sweet little kiss to lips before pulling back, “You should go...Grogu needs you. Wish him a goodnight for me?” You pull away slowly, untangling yourself from his arms despite your own reluctance. You want to stay there, warm and safe forever, but Grogu needs his father and you do not have the heart to deprive him.
“Always.”
Din doesn’t want to leave you, but you make the decision for him, grabbing his hat and carefully plopping in atop his head before ushering him out the door. You watch as he takes Grogu from Paz, putting the boy onto his shoulders and walking with the man down the street.
Warnings: Violence, oh my god, the violence. Also swearing, derogatory language. Threat of violence towards kids, but no actual violence, all violence is actually centred on the adults.
Summary: He curses himself for getting so complacent, soft, it shouldn’t be this hard to chase down a thief. The thief should never even have made it to the steps of the schoolhouse, let alone inside. Luckily for your kids, an angry school teacher is worse than a pissed off sheriff.
Notes: Someone said they wanted angst...well, I have delivered angst and fluff, hurt and comfort in one piece.
Archiveofourown
Generally speaking Din’s job as sheriff had been pretty quiet and tame. An easy job. Navarro did not get a lot of crime and generally speaking the only people in his cells were the few regulars at the saloon who always got a little bit too indulgent with their alcohol and then started fighting over whichever girl they’d both decided they wanted that night. He hadn’t dealt with a murder, rape or assault his whole time here. He hadn’t dealt with major crime, not even horse theft. His life had become relatively...domestic and safe, compared to his previous. He’d gone from hunting down some of the most dangerous criminals around to simply wrangling a couple of drunks on a night and the occasional robber who tried his hand at a petty crime.
He liked to think he was a competent sheriff, that part of the reason for the quiet was that he was just that good, the truth was in a small mining town nothing much happened. So he’d never had to worry, not about Grogu or about you or about the little ones you taught or any member of town. You were as safe as you could be. Navarro was probably one of the safest places around, it made his job as sheriff a damn sight easier that’s for sure.
“Osik! Kolar! Get over here!” Which is why he’s feeling a little more winded than he used to when he runs through the centre of town after a lousy thief waving a gun in one hand and a bag of stolen credits from the mayor’s office in the other. He can feel a stitch pulling in his side and his knees don’t feel like they used to.
He hasn’t had to run like this in a couple months, not since moving into town and perhaps he should have been going on daily runs because he’s feeling his age all of sudden. It shouldn’t be this hard to catch up to the guy, he’s not even that fast and he runs like a donkey’s shebs, all arms flailing about and no sense of his own centre of gravity. If he could just reach him then he’d be easy to tackle to the ground. Din was at least twice his size and even with that damn cattleman revolver being waved about he’d be easy to take on. But, of course Din’s getting old and of course he’s been complacent, not been working himself as hard as he should have been. Of course he feels like he’s about to bust a lung just from running for 5 minutes. He feels older than his years all of a sudden and can’t understand how he used to chance criminals down all the time with success.
He pushes his legs even harder when he realises the direction the thief is going in, “Haar’chak!” He hasn’t sworn this much in months, but he recognises the path towards the school and it’s the middle of the day. School is in session and he wants to just grab the guy before he causes more trouble. He has images of you standing at the front of class, radiant and warm, turning to fear as the man storms in. The thought makes him try harder.
“Get you’re fucking no good ass back here! Boy, don’t make me shoot you!” He’s reaching for his gun at about the same time as the schoolhouse comes into view and Din can feel all the blood draining from his face, fear gripping his heart tighter than any lasso at the thought that you’re in there, the little ones are in there and this di’kut is about to go storming in with a goddamn gun.
“I said don’t make me shoot you!” He’s got the gun out now, his trusty pistol, not his preferred rifle, but he’d left that in the sheriff’s office in a rush after hearing yelling and a commotion he wasn’t used to. He’s never leaving it behind again he decides, this has been a wake-up call, he’s gotten lazy, complacent, too soft. This town has damn near domesticated him. He needs to keep himself in shape and his wits about him if he wants to be a decent sheriff. Maybe he’ll telegram Cara, get her to come back him up as deputy or Paz, whichever wants the quiet town life more.
He hesitates because of his recent domestication, his increased softness of heart...because if he shoots he’ll put a bullet in your schoolhouse and he knows it could go straight through, could hit one of you inside. But, mostly because he knows how much you care about that damn schoolhouse and he can’t bring it in him to damage it knowing you’d be devastated. Paz would laugh at him if he saw him now, tell him he needed to pull his trousers up and get on with the job. He’s never been very good at that. He curses kicking a rock nearby as the thief runs straight through the schoolhouse door with you inside.
He’s panicking, he can feel it well in his chest, clutching at his throat and he’s not sure what to do. If he storms in it’ll be a mess, little kids and you, all at risk, but if he stays outside he can’t do a damned thing. He can’t begin to imagine how you’re feeling in there, probably panicking, the kids are probably scared, that’s soon confirmed by the terrified little screams he can hear. There’s a panic inside and it just swells his own until he feels like he’s choking.
“Come out! Leave them the hell alone, boy! Do not test me!” They’re empty words because he can’t do a damned thing, but if that thief lays a hand on any of you he isn’t going to bring him in warm, he’ll be in a jail cell, cold, waiting for the coroner to come and collect him. That he’s certain of, a single hair out of place, a single bruise or mark and that man won’t be breathing for much longer.
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“It’s a well known fact that we’re all acted upon by a force we call gravity! Now gravity-” The door to the school slams open with a supreme force that shocks you so hard that you jump from your place at the front of the class, chalk falling from your hand in a perfect demonstration of the force you’d been discussing. The children react in an instant, jumping from their feet then all clamour towards you like a stampede of panicked animals and it is all you can do in that moment to grab the yardstick you use in mathematics and occasionally in science and hide it behind you.
He’s wild looking, the man who storms into your school. Bulging big eyes roaming over the lot of you with a snarl, almost foaming at the mouth with aggressive energy, gun clenched tightly in one hand. He’s red in the face, huffing and puffing from running from god knows where. You can hear Din outside, he’s cursing and blinding, you can hear the panic, you can taste your own on the back of your tongue like a sour candy, like cough candy, the ones your father used to love and you used to hate so desperately.
“Now, sir, I-”
“Shut up!” It’s in this moment you realise that you cannot deescalate this situation, this man is like a wild dog, he is ready to bite at the slightest sound or provocation and the children are your main concern.
Panic gives way to anger, that bitter resolve, that feeling of indignation at this man’s brazen act. That he felt he could come into your domain, your space, that he could threaten you and your children. That he could point a gun in their direction. It’s the gun that angers you the most, it’s not pointed at you, like any sane person would do, it’s not pointed at the one adult in the room, but at Jerome who is shaking so hard you can hear his teeth clattering together. He’s barely a boy of fourteen, not a threat in the slightest.
You wait, wait as he takes steps closer and closer, drown out the sound of Din’s panic outside, drown out the sounds of your own children, the adrenaline making you feel like your skin is buzzing, like you’ve touched an electric circuit, but there’s no electricity in the schoolhouse at all. You’re shaking, that’s just how much energy is buzzing within you, you’re shaking like a leaf on a windy November day and you can’t physically contain it, stop it.
When he’s mere feet from you, you lift your chin defiant and angry, mouth opening in a tirade of angry words, as you rush forward in what you’re sure would be a stupid act if you weren’t so desperate for him to ignore the children and focus on you.
“How dare you come into my school and threaten my children!” It’s almost a scream, you’re so angry, so scared, that you don’t even think when you pull the yardstick from behind your back and swing with both hands for the hand holding the gun. It connects and for a moment he fumbles, you’re sure the gun will fall from his hands, but he catches it at the last second.
His hand comes up, “You bitch!” and clocks you across the face with the butt of his gun. One hit, hard enough for your ears to start ringing. You can feel blood drip from your lip which stings as it splits itself open, your teeth clatter together and by some miracle you stay on your feet, swaying back and forth. The children have begun to cry behind you and you can hear the sounds of roaring anger from outside. Din’s voice, clamouring louder than you’ve ever heard it.
“You lay a hand on her and you’ll wish you never came to this town!” It’s too late for that you think, he’s already laid that hand and if Din doesn’t get to him first you’re determined to deal your own blows.
The yardstick is ripped from your palms and you’re sure for a moment that he’ll simply throw it away, out of reach but he doesn’t. Whatever anger he is feeling boils over and the slab of wood hits you in the stomach, the ribs, the back. A hit to the face has your nose bleeding, your jaw feels like it might be broken and your only thought is ‘stay up, stay standing’. Your only relief is that the attention is on you now and not the children.
“Nar’sheb!” You spit it out, the pronunciation is awful, but the one insult that Din had taught you tumbles from your lips, hoping to keep his attention on you, hoping the provocation gives Din some time to think, to plan. Even, if you feel like he might actually kill you, like he’s capable of it.
“What the fuck did you just say to me?”
“I said shove it, you filthy nerfherder!” It’s enough of a push for him to grab you by the front of your blouse and pull you forward, one arm coming underneath your neck, hand gripping your jaw painfully tight, especially with how broken it already feels, no doubt his fingers are going to leave bruises, while the gun is pressed to your temple.
The fear comes back in full force this time as you hear the children crying louder at seeing you being abused, seeing a gun to your head. But you know you have to be strong because they are your children and you have to protect them, that’s your job, it’s your duty. So you’re almost relieved when he spits at you.
“Let’s go see that sheriff of yours, huh? He seems mighty concerned for you.” It relieves you because you’re beginning to move inch by inch towards the door and you know the older kids will take the younger ones out the back door, usher them quietly out of the schoolhouse and to somewhere safe. You can breathe easy because even if you die today those children are going to be safe, you’ll have done your job. The most important one. Keeping them safe.
He sees you first, you’re blinded by the light blinking at the midday sun, but, Din? He can see you clear and bright and he has never been so angry in all his life. Your lip is busted open, blood running down your chin, staining your white blouse, there are bruises over your jaw, your nose is leaking more red and he can see by the way you carry yourself that your ribs hurt. The thief’s dirty hands are on you, one clutching your jaw so tight that he can see the indentations his fingers make even from a distance away, the other holding that damn cattleman revolver to your head. It makes him want to beat the guy black and blue, forgoing guns, just give him his bare hands and he’ll ring the guy's neck. Just let him go absolutely feral on the man, let him tear him apart. Din clenches his hand tighter around his gun, the other tightening into a fist, he widens his stance. If it is to be a fight then that’s fine, so long as you’re not in the middle of it.
He looks scared. That’s the first thing you think when you see Din. He looks scared and angry, his gun is pointed but you know he won’t trust himself to shoot it, his brow furrowed, wet eyes, and teeth biting into his lip hard enough to bleed. He looks raging and scared and wild. This is a side of Din you have never seen, you are so used to the calm, the quiet, gentle Din. But, this Din doesn’t scare you, it fuels your fire again, that this man would make Din feel like that, that he would make this kind man scared and angry. You can feel that rage welling up, shaking you physically. He thinks you’re scared, you can tell by the laugh and little comment ‘oh don’t be scared now’, that he whispers into your ear, his breath hot against your skin, making you shy away in disgust. It crawls over your skin in a most unpleasant way.
“Now, Sheriff, i’m going to make you an offer that I wouldn’t refuse, not if you want this pretty little thing to come out in one piece that is.” That name angers you even more, how dare he condescend you, how dare he call you that, it’s worse than being called a bitch or a cunt or any other number of derogatory names.
You don’t even give him the chance to make his offer. You slam the pointed heel of your boot into his foot, hard as you can, before bringing an elbow back into his stomach and using what little you know about the centre of gravity to off balance him and shift him over your head and in front of you. The gun goes flying and your hands reach for the heavy metal pail you keep in front of the school house for collecting water, thanking God that you’d decided a cast iron one would do better than tin as you heft it over your head and across his face with a ringing smash and a crunch of bones.
You stand over him, chest heaving, “You come near my children again and I will kill you, do you hear me! I’ll show you what a pretty little thing like me can do, sir!” For good measure your swing the pail down again, the man groans and far from being disgusted with your show of violence, you feel better than you have all week at knowing the threat has been dealt with.
You look up breathing heavy, blood dripping from your lip to see the children had made it outside, watching you with wide eyes, almost as wide as Din’s, but not quite. The gun is slack in his hand and he is watching you with a heat you’ve never seen before, it makes you swallow hard.
Din’s sure he’s in love. That’s what he thinks it feels like as he watches you, your chest heaving in anger, your features twisted from their usual soft and delicate countenance. This is love, this feeling like you’ve reached into his chest and grabbed his heart in your bare hand. You are the picture of a mother bear protecting her cubs and that part of him that is deeply Mandalorian cries out for you, cries out to grab you and hold you close. You are in that moment more Mandalorian than he is, mandokarla in every sense of the word. You have the spirit of a true mandalorian, the spirit of a mother, strong, brave, prepared to do what needs to be done. Undefeated. The man beneath your feet groans and it spurs him to action.
Pulling handcuffs from the back of his belt, Din closes the gap between himself and the thief. He’s rough as he rolls the man onto his front, pulling his arms far behind his back and locking them together. He knows he’s rougher than he needs to be, but the man’s lucky. Lucky that he can’t bring himself to hurt him more with you stood there.
“You’re lucky I don’t put a bullet in your head right now, osi’kovid. I should kill you for what you’ve done.” He means it too, he wants to just do it, but he knows it’s not right. Not when the man is incapacitated, unable to defend himself. Not when the little ones are watching on, many of their parents having made their way through town at the sound of the disturbance, clutching at the little ones with relief and shock.
“Then why don’t you, big bad sheriff?” Din hauls him to his feet roughly, presses his mouth close to the thief’s ear not wanting the others to hear him.
“The only thing keeping you alive right now is the woman standing in front of you. If she wasn’t here I'd tear you limb from limb. You’re lucky she’s there.” He means it too. He won’t hurt him, not like this, because he knows you wouldn’t approve, because he knows no matter how angry you are you’d never be okay with him hurting an unarmed, handcuffed man. But, god if he isn’t close to snapping. All that panic has turned into anger, anger which he focuses on the man as he roughly drags him towards the cells.
You think you weren’t supposed to hear it, the threat, but you did and it is both scary to see him like this and a mite attractive. Your gentle sheriff is showing a harsher side than you’ve ever seen and it should shake you to your core, make you distance yourself, but it doesn’t. Did you not just show the exact same side of you? Did you not just consider beating the man to a pulp yourself? All because you loved your children, wanted them safe. You think this anger from Din is a reflection on how much he cares for you and the children, how scared he had been and it warms something inside of you. Your chest aches with a longing that you don’t understand as you watch him roughly walk the man away.
“Are you alright, Miss!” It’s Mr Hewitt, concerned for your welfare, but you just wave him off and make your way to the children, hand clutching at your ribs.
“I’m perfectly alright, Mr Hewitt, don’t you worry about me!” The children, for the most part are with their parents, all of whom have congregated after commotion drew their attention and word spread quickly through town. They’re crying into their mother’s skirts and their father’s trouser legs and it breaks your heart. They should never have had to witness or experience that, it should never have happened.
“Children!” Their heads snap up instantly, ever attentive to your teacher's voice; they watch you with focused eyes even while they hiccup and sniffle. “I think we’ve earned the rest of the day off, don’t you? Go home, rest, play and I shall see you bright and early tomorrow morning!”
Truth is you need to sit down. You can’t even begin to think about teaching right now. So sending them home seems your only option.
Parents smile at you, wish you well, tell you to look after yourself as they escort their children home. The only little one left is Grogu who runs towards you with panicked eyes, and despite the pain you kneel on the ground in front of him. The little one wraps his arms tight around your neck before pulling back, little hands patting over your cheeks and hair, as if imitating an adult checking your injuries. It brings tears to your eye because in that moment you’re reminded of what could have happened, what could have been lost. It’s not fear for your own life that has tears falling, but fear for him, for all the little ones and their youthful innocence.
“Cabur...cabur” It’s said to you, little hands framing your face, big brown eyes serious as he looks up at you. It isn’t a word you know, mando’a you are sure, and it’s not a word you’ve ever heard leave his lips before. A quiet child he had only recently begun to start talking and often in one or two words only.
That’s how Din finds the two of you. You’re kneeling in the dirt, skirt stained probably beyond repair, blouse bloody, face bruised and cut. Grogu is in your lap, your arms wrapped around his little chubby body, his hands cupping your face as he says it over and over again. ‘Cabur’. Guardian. Protector. It warms him from the inside out, that his ad, his son sees you as such, that his son cares about you so much and that you care about him just the same. He has no doubt that you were prepared to die for those children and it scares him and warms him in equal measure.
You hear his footfalls, dirt and gravel crunching under well worn boots, spurs clinking lightly as he comes to crouch next to you. Warm fingers reach out to gently graze your jaw, taking in the dark mottled bruising and deep swelling.
“What does it mean?” Wide eyes turn on him and he can’t help but smile softly at you, moustache twisting upwards at your curious nature, always so eager to learn, always wanting to engage more with the world around you.
“Protector, guardian, cabur’ika.” You wince slightly when he presses around your nose, checking to feel if it is broken. It’s not, but it will swell and bruise along with most of your face. The blood has stood spilling from it and that reassures him that it isn't too serious. It still hurts to see you like this, to see you hurt in any way.
“Ika?”
“Little.” He can already see your brows furrowing, lips setting into an offended scowl as you glare up at him. At the diminutive suffix, not fully understanding the nuances of mando’a yet.
“Little!”
He laughs at your offence, not because it’s funny because it does not mean what you think it means, “It’s a...a familiar term. It’s not because you’re little.” He hopes he makes sense. He doesn't call you a little protector to make fun of you or tease you, but because it shows familiarity, closeness. You are becoming part of his clan without realising it and the familiarity feels good to show. Just as when he calls Grogu, Gro’ika.
“Oh.” The annoyance metals from your features as quickly as it came and he continues his prodding of your skin, carefully assessing your injuries. Your jaw isn’t broken, he tells you, but it is badly bruised and he tells you to talk less in class, although he gives you a look that says he understands that is unlikely to happen. A gentle finger pulls your lower lip from between your teeth, you hiss, but he’s gentle as can be when looking at the split lip. Badly split and still bleeding red over your chin and blouse.
Din rises to his feet, offering you a hand, “Let’s get you clean up, cabur’ika”. He helps you stand, Grogu letting go and sliding from your lap to instead hold your skirt hem as the three of you walk.
Din wraps a strong arm around your waist to help you walk, your pace is slow, careful and it takes longer than it really should to get across town to your small house. It’s not much, just 2 rooms; the main living area with your kitchen, wash basin, tub and a bedroom separated from the rest. But it is home. Cosy, he thinks, like you. It screams home, lived in, a place to live, not just rest your head.
He eases you onto your settee, propping up pillows behind your back as he urges you to lay down. He even plumps a few in his hands like a mother hen, clucking around you as he unlaces your boots and gently pulls them off to make you more comfortable, grabbing a throw and tucking it around you. He’s filling a washbowl with water from your tap, the one luxury you have, being a plumbed-in kitchen sink.
“Din...you don’t have to do this.” He should be dealing with paperwork, probably writing a telegraph for someone from a local prison to come and collect the man currently in the jailhouse. He shouldn’t be here with you, he has better things to do.
“Yes. I do. Someone needs to look after you, cabur’ika.” You watch him grab salt from the side mixing it in with the water, just enough to help keep your wounds clean. Watch him decide which cloth on your countertop is the best to use. He feels the fabrics, which is too abrasive, which is softest, gentlest, before deciding on one and dropping it into the washbowl.
Grogu is sat by your fireplace watching as his buir shifts you slightly so he can sit on the edge of the settee, washbowl placed on the ground. His fingers are gentle as they rest underneath your chin and urge you to look up at him, calloused but soft on your skin, careful of any pressure that might hurt you.
The salt water stings, but the cloth is soft and he hushes you quietly at every hiss or groan of discomfort you make. Carefully cleaning your wounds, wiping the dirt, sweat and blood from your skin.
“It’s okay, Cyar’ika. I’m sorry….i’m sorry.” It’s more than just a sorry for the temporary pain of cleaning your wounds, it’s more than just sorry that I am causing your wounds to sting. There is a deep pain in his voice that strikes you to your core and you shift, hands wrapping around his wrist as you sit yourself up despite the pain in your ribs.
“You don’t have anything to be sorry for, Din. Listen to me,” you tug on the wrist, pull it towards you and hold him to your chest, urge him to look you in the eye. You can feel the guilt rolling off of him in waves, “You didn’t do anything wrong. It’s not your fault.”
“You wouldn’t be like this if I was better at my job...I got complacent, lazy, I should have been able to catch him before he even got near the schoolhouse! You shouldn’t have ever been put in that position, you and the little ones…” It’s the break in his voice, the tears welling in deep brown eyes that has you wrapping your arms around his head and pulling him to rest his cheek on your chest. Rubbing circles in the back of his neck, twisting dark curls between your fingers.
“You did everything you could. You are not at fault and I will not have you blame yourself for something you had no control over. You are a good sheriff, Din. You are so good. Please don’t blame yourself for this, darling.” You scratch careful circles into his scalp with your nails, rub soothing lines over his neck and under his jaw, whisper gentle reminders that he is the best thing to happen to this town. That he provided you with a school. That he has made this town safe. That he is not at fault for this. But, you know, deep inside you that he will carry this moment with him, that he will not forget what happened and what could have happened. This guilt will weigh heavily on him, and will follow him.
“You could have been killed. The little ones could have been hurt.” He has always been a man of emotions, quiet emotions, but emotions nonetheless. You’d known from the start that he had a protective streak, that that extended especially towards children. That the mandalorian in him, his upbringing, urged him to keep them safe as much as your own duties did.
“But they weren’t. Keeping them safe is my job, Din. Don’t add it to your worries.” But, they weren’t his responsibility. When they were in your schoolhouse they were yours. The last thing you wanted was him to take that responsibility onto his shoulders when he already had so much, that guilt. It was your responsibility to protect them and while scared and shocked, none of them had a hair out of place or a scratch on them. They were okay.
“You could have died, cabur’ika. You could have died.”
“I know. I know,” It hits you. Like being trampled under horse hooves and the wheels of a carriage, like the yardstick to your ribs, full force and winding as you finally understand. You could have died. You could have died.
It is your turn to cry as your breathing becomes uneven and your mind tries to make sense of the fact you nearly died today, just doing your job, just in your schoolhouse. That there is so much you have not achieved, so little you’ve seen or done and you could have lost the chance to ever do. “Din…” You’re clutching at him, fingers digging in his back as he pulls you tighter to him.
There is a moment where he worries that you cannot breathe, that the force of your tears will choke you in his arms and so he holds you tighter, barricades you in his arms. Walls shielding you from the world. He brings a hand to the base of your neck cupping it to tilt your head up as he presses his forehead to your own. A comforting gesture, a keldabe kiss, he wants you to feel safe again. Wants to impress upon you your importance in his life even if he is not ready to say it yet.
He can feel your breath evening out with the gesture, your lungs relaxing as his presence comforts you. It pleases him to know he can calm you. He is the only thing present in that moment, not what happened, not the wild eyes of your assailant, not the fear, not the kids, not the room around you. Just him. His warm forehead pressed into yours, gentle, but firm enough to ground you. Large hand cupping the back of your neck, the other arm wrapped entirely around you to keep you close.
It is a little movement behind your back and two small arms wrapping around your back, unable to truly wrap around you fully that bring you back into the present.
It’s a little voice saying ‘Cabur’ into the fabric of your blouse, little hands gripping at you, trying to soothe you that makes your heart ache in an entirely different way. You pull back from Din, enough so that you can reach around you and pull Grogu into your lap, between the two of you, shielded by you both. It should scare you, how it feels like you have your entire world on your settee, how it feels like family. It should scare you what you would do for Din, for Grogu. What you would do to keep them safe, happy, healthy. Instead it warms you, to know that you’ve found somewhere to belong that isn’t just a schoolhouse and a classroom.
“It’s okay, Ad’ika. I’m okay. I promise.” You run a hand through his dark curls, boop him on the nose to make him smile and feel a true smile creeping on your face even if it hurts. You’re not lying either. You’re okay. You will be okay. With this little child who cares for you deeply, with his father who is always there to look after you, you know you are okay and will be okay.
“Ori'haat,” Din says to you, lifting your eyes back to him and the soft little smile playing at the corners of his mouth, “I swear. You said you wanted to learn more.”
“Or-e-haht?” You are back to your little game. The one where he tells you a new word and you try to pronounce it, but the unfamiliar words twist wrong in your mouth, coming out butchered to his amusement. He enjoys it, you know he does. It is easy to see because his eyes always twinkle with humour and his face softens, some of the harsh lines fading away.
“Oh-ree-haht.”
“Oh-e-haht?” You always concentrate hard and it is this fact that makes your mispronunciations cute, copikla, rather than frustrating. He does not mind you making mistakes because you try earnestly to correct them and always practice the words till you have it right. He enjoys teaching you because he enjoys hearing his language from another person, enjoys the familiarity, the homeliness of it.
“Oh-ree-haht!” This time it’s Grogu who announciates it, loud and clear with a little grin on his sweet little face as he looks between you and his buir as if waiting for praise.
“Very good, Gro’ika,” Din ruffles the boy’s curls before turning his eyes back to you. The boy preens under the praise, little grin growing in size as he sits between the two you. How he always manages to get it right on the first try you don’t know, you’re a little envious of the boy's knack for seemingly everything. He is a quick learner in school and out of it.
“Oh-ree-haht?”
“Jate, good.” You smile proud of your efforts and shift a little in your seat, ribs pulling and causing you to let out a pained breath. It's going to be sometime you think before you are fully back to how you were, without pain or bruises. You have yet to look in a mirror but are sure that you look terrible.
“Would you like to stay for dinner?” You extend the invitation, knowing you don’t want either of them to go just yet, even though Din probably has things he needs to do and it is selfish to ask him to stay when he has his duties to get on with.
“You’re not making dinner, cyar’ika. I’ll make it.” He untangles himself from you, grabbing the washbowl to empty in your garden. The view of you with his son cuddled up to you makes his heart warm, even with the mottled bruising and cuts across your features.
“Din…”
“I will not argue about this with you, i’m taking care of you and you will rest, cabur’ika.” His tone brooks no argument, demanding for the first time, truly, that you listen and do not fight him on this. You should be resting, not standing cooking dinner. You are in too much pain and he would sooner tie you to your bed then let you hurt yourself in an effort to be the hostess.
With a heavy sigh, you conceded defeat. “Okay, but I’m not happy about it, Din Djarin.”
“I know.” He says with a smile.
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Mando’a Translations:
Nar'sheb - contemptuous comment, like saying shove it.
K'olar! - get over here!
Cabur - guardian, protector
Cabur’ika - lit. little guardian/protector, but the ika shows familiarity, making this more of a pet name, friendly term.
Haar’chak - damn it
Shebs - butt, ass.
Di’kut - idiot.
Mandokarla - having the *right stuff*, showing guts and spirit, the state of being the epitome of Mando virtue
Osi’kovid - shithead
Ori'haat - I swear
Cyar’ika - sweetheart, darling
Jate - good
Copikla - charming, cute, typically not used for women, but for animals and children. But honestly, I think the reader wouldn’t be offended like a typical mandalorian might by being called copikla.
Warnings: Sexy, sexy thoughts, but we all know that Sheriff Din is a proper gentleman who would never sleep with you before you’re married. But, a girl can look.
Summary: You were certain your old school headmistress would give you a clip round the ear and drag you off to teach you a lesson about propriety and ladylike behaviour if she saw you. Fortunately, she wasn’t there to distract from the sight that had caught your attention.
Notes: Oh, hello, is this another firewood chopping fic? Yes. Yes it is. Do I have a thing for big, strong men chopping wood? Yes, apparently so.
Jeans were invented in 1873 so yes, Sheriff Din, 100% can wear tight jeans to show off that fine butt.
Archiveofourown
You were certain your old school headmistress would give you a clip round the ear and drag you off to teach you a lesson about propriety and ladylike behaviour if she saw you. Fortunately, she wasn’t there to distract from the sight that had caught your attention.
Every stove and every fireplace in Navarro was wood burning, gas was still a new fangled thing and hadn’t reached your little mining town yet. The metal log burner in the centre of the schoolhouse was no exception and it was on this particular Saturday, when working on marking some of the childrens’ books, that you noticed your store of firewood was rather shoddy. Something that while not an immediate concern would grow to be as the weather began to turn colder and the snow piled up outside. The children would need to be kept warm, otherwise they just simply wouldn’t learn right.
It had been something you mentioned in passing to the sheriff that morning, you hadn’t expected him to do anything about it and certainly not immediately. Just made small talk when he’d popped in to check on you and mentioned that the wood store was getting a little low and that you'd need to sort it soon before the weather turned. You should have known that Din, the mother hen, caring and considerate man that he was, would have taken it upon himself to correct the problem and quickly.
Had you known that that wasn’t just going to the general store and buying more logs, but instead cutting down a couple of trees near the school house and proceeding to cut them into fire logs, then you...well, you would have definitely still mentioned the problem to him. After all, the sight was definitely an enjoyable one. Not that you’d admit that to anyone. You were supposed to be a respectable lady. A school teacher. You shouldn’t have had any thoughts on Din Djarin and how he looked chopping wood.
It’s how you found yourself looking out one of the large windows of the schoolhouse, lip bitten between your teeth and chin resting on your hand as you watch Din lift a large log over his broad shoulders and to a tree stump he’d designated for wood chopping. He managed to make carrying the heavy load seem easy, like it barely phased him, he simply redistributed his weight and stance to make the walk easier.
He’d forgone his many layers. His hat had been placed off to the side, his usual button-up was off, now only stood in a grey union suit unbuttoned, indecently so, showing off pronounced collar bones and dark chest hair and the sleeves rolled up to his elbows displaying his thick forearms. His suspenders dug delightfully into his wide shoulders and the wide planes of his chest were captured fetchingly in the clinging fabric of the undershirt.
Your headmistress most certainly would have clipped you around the ear you think. It was unbecoming, unladylike, most certainly not decent to watch him with thoughts of how easily he could lift you over his shoulder. How nicely it must feel to be pulled into those arms and rest your cheek against his chest. How strong his palms look and how delightful the muffled grunts he let out sounded. Most certainly unladylike, improper and you shouldn’t have sat there and watched, but you couldn’t bring yourself to tear yourself from temptation.
There was just something, something about the way his shoulders tensed as he brought the axe back over his head before bringing it down with a sure stroke, cleaving the log in two. Something about the strength of those thick forearms, the scars that littered them from bounties he’d collected and a life of hard graft. Something about the sweat that beaded on tanned skin, that caught your eyes as you followed in down his prominent nose to his perpetually pouting lips.
As Reeva would say, Din Djarin was a whole lot of man and you thought perhaps a king among men. He could capture your attention just with a change to his stance or a look, you were sure every unmarried woman in town would happily marry him. He was incredibly handsome, but what made him something special you decided was his nature.
He was unfailingly kind, sweet and gentle, he always made sure to look out for others. Every act of service was a sign of his devotion and appreciation to his community, of who he was. He would get birds out of chimneys, sweep the porch for elderly citizens, hunt down a missing pet or build a schoolhouse. You knew that you never had to worry with Din around, the moment you mentioned a problem or difficulty he would be there offering to help without asking for anything in return. A king among men indeed.
A grunt brought you out of your thoughts and back to the view before you. Large palms and dexterous fingers twisted around the wooden handle of a heavy axe, feet planted wide to give him a better stance, jeans tight against his hips. Did the man have to own such tight trousers?
“Oh, Miss Adams, I’m terribly sorry.” You can’t help but mutter as warmth floods your body, your skin feeling too warm in your heavy skirt and blouse. A itch settling deep in your stomach. Your headmistress would have made you go to confession if she knew, forcing you to admit that your eyes and mind had sinned oh so terribly for gazing so covetously at the sheriff, at Din.
You couldn’t help it. You wondered what it would be like. To be married to him, to lie besides him on a cold night, those large palms sliding soothingly over your hips, your belly, your thighs. Wrapped so tightly in him that it would be impossible to figure out where you ended and he began. What would that deep, soothing voice feel like rumbling against your skin.
A breathy sigh leaves your lips at the thought and you wonder how you’re supposed to ever talk to him again without thinking about how he looks in that exact moment as fabric clings tight to his body and his dark hair begins to curl at the edges from sweat and the humid air.
You decide in that moment that he can’t ever know. It’s as simple as that. He simply can’t find out about these feelings you have or the power he holds over you. It just wouldn’t do, wouldn’t be proper. You shall simply go out there and thank him for cutting more wood for the schoolhouse, offer him a drink of water and be done with it.
You rise with determination, hands brushing your skirts smooth before grabbing the glass you use during the school day. The outside water pump is a handy little thing, you think as you fill the glass with cold, clean water. Despite the children often using it for mischief at break times, it does everyone a world of good to have easy access to water at the school.
“You look mighty thirsty, sheriff” You call out to him, one hand lifting your skirts to help you walk over the uneven ground, the other holding the glass of water out in front of you.
When you reach him you offer the glass, he takes it with a thank you and you try not to stare too hard as he throws his head back and gulps the water down fast. His neck extended, Adam's apple bobbing with each swallow.
“You know you didn’t have to do this...I could have bought some wood for the fire.” There was a small school fund for that sort of thing, the mayor had reluctantly set it up so that you could buy chalk and other things that the school would need and have to replace over time. While wood was certainly not a cheap item, it was something you budgeted for every single year.
“Cyar’ika, there’s no way I'm letting you spend good credits on firewood when there are plenty of trees for me to cut down. Besides, I’m not busy.”
“Din…” You want to protest, remind him that he has better things to do that cut firewood for you. Mostly because you worry that you’re taking advantage of his kindness. What possibly could you offer in return to a man who was capable of doing everything himself?
A hand reaches out, thumb brushing your cheek briefly and gently, “Just let me help you.”
It’s the gentle touch and the quiet plead in his voice that has you admitting defeat. There was no use fighting his nature and asking him to stand by if he noticed you in need of something. It just wasn’t in him and it was something you liked greatly about him.
“Thank you. You’re always looking out for us.”
His hand drops from your face to the back of his neck, rubbing it in a gesture you were beginning to recognise as a sign that Din was uncomfortable or nervous. More often than not when it came to feelings of any sort. “Well, I gotta keep my eye on you, make sure you’re doin’ alright.”
“I...have you...have you ever thought that you deserve someone keeping their eye on you too? To look out for you, I mean.” You rush through that last part to take some of the possible innuendo from your words. Not that your eyes had been anywhere but on Din as of late, but...you didn’t mean it like that. You could feel an embarrassed warmth radiating up your neck and into your face at the implication of your words.
There’s a tug at the corner of his mouth, “Oh, I noticed you’ve been doin’ a mighty fine job of that yourself, cyar’ika.” It’s unusually playful coming from Din and it has your mouth drying up as you swallow harshly. Had he noticed you watching him cut wood? Or the other day when he helped carry some of Mr Hewitt’s goods into the general store?
“I’m...I’m just looking out for you. Is all.”
He hums, clearly not quite believing you, but lets it slide. You’re a proper lady and he knows if he teases too much he’ll scare you away. Maybe one day he’ll let you in on the secret that he caught you peering out of the school window watching him. But, today he lets it go, lets you walk away back into the school house with the excuse that you have more books to mark.
If he decides to roll the union suit down to his waist and continue cutting wood with his torso free of clothing, then that’s not to tease you at all, it’s just because the weather’s gotten mighty hot lately. If he happens to notice you at the window again watching him then he doesn’t mention it and it means nothing, nothing at all.
